Read Online Lionel Asbo: State of England by Martin Amis - Free Book Online
Authors: Martin Amis
Ads: Link
open now and are they coming in? You too soft on them, Des. You like a girl when it comes to the dogs. And don’t change the subject.’
The subject. Night after night Des faced moody and repetitive interrogation on the subject of Rory Nightingale. Tensions glided under the fluorescent tubes at the same speed as the shifting silks of Lionel’s cigarette smoke. With a Marlboro Hundred in one hand and a fork in the other, he broodingly consumed great quantities of the only dish he ever consented to cook (or at least heat up): Sweeney Todd Meat Pies. And these pies, these quantities, were not without significance. Des was too close in to see the pattern clearly, but Lionel’s appetite always climbed sharply when he was readying himself for something fairly bad.
‘So he’s clever,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. Mr Tigg reckons he’d be very clever if he tried. But he’s never there.’
‘So he’s always after everyone for money,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s always after everyone for a couple of quid. Trying it on.’
‘So he’s a chancer. Like Ringo,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s a bit like Uncle Ring. In that respect at least.’
‘… Tell me, Des. Do girls like him? Or just old boilers? … Come on, Des, you hiding something. I can tell. I can always tell.’
‘Well, yeah, Alektra says they’re all mad for him. But he likes them older. He says when it comes to sex, kids are crap.’
‘Continue, Des. Let’s have it.’
‘He – he’s always saying he’s bi. I’m adventurous, he says. I’m a sexy boy.’
After an intermission (chewing, smoking, nodding), Lionel said, ‘Nah. I won’t lay a finger on him. Wouldn’t demean meself. I wouldn’t demean meself, Desmond.’
‘… What’ll it be then, Uncle Li? Warn him off?’
‘Warn him off? Warn him off what? He’s already done it! Round there again last night. Gran must think I’ve gone soft in me old age.’ He licked his lips. ‘Sexy boy, is it. I’ll give him sexy.’
This was on the Thursday. On the Friday, who should show up at Squeers Free but Rory Nightingale.
10
IT WAS THE kind of morning that the citizens of this island kingdom very rarely saw: an established and adamant clarity, with the sun pinned into place, as firm as a gilt tack; and the sky, seemingly embarrassed by such exalted pressure, kept blushing an even deeper blue … Dark and gaunt, like his shadow, Desmond (to whom lovely skies always whispered of loss and grief) stood on the patch of sandy astroturf beyond the gym. Rory Nightingale was here. And Des made the call. He failed to see what else he could do.
Three fifty-five. Crisply dressed, with his face half-obscured by a copy of the Diston Gazette , Lionel sat waiting in the open-fronted bus shelter across the street. Des approached.
‘He’s in detention. Got an hour’s detention.’
Lionel gazed out from his solarium of dust-stippled glass. ‘Better,’ he quickly decided as he took out his phone and thumbed in a message (it consisted of one digit). ‘We’ll get this rubbish out of the way a bit quicker than we thought.’
‘Well I’ll be off home then. You can’t miss him.’
‘No, Des. You sit by here.’
The school emptied, the blazered figures unenergetically dispersed, the thin traffic grew thinner and thinner …
‘There he is.’
‘Get to you feet. Call him over – call him.’
Lionel flung an arm round his shoulder and Des felt a prehensile tightening at the back of his neck.
‘Here, Rory! Ror!’
With a kind of lolling wariness the boy crossed the road. For an instant his lip ring gave off a molten gleam.
‘Let you out in the end, did they?’ said Lionel. ‘And on an afternoon like this. Teachers, they a load of losers. Now you know me – I’m Des here’s uncle. And listen. I got a pal, I got a pal, he’s a uh, an amateur photographer. Fashion. With more money than sense, eh Des? Named Rhett. And he
The subject. Night after night Des faced moody and repetitive interrogation on the subject of Rory Nightingale. Tensions glided under the fluorescent tubes at the same speed as the shifting silks of Lionel’s cigarette smoke. With a Marlboro Hundred in one hand and a fork in the other, he broodingly consumed great quantities of the only dish he ever consented to cook (or at least heat up): Sweeney Todd Meat Pies. And these pies, these quantities, were not without significance. Des was too close in to see the pattern clearly, but Lionel’s appetite always climbed sharply when he was readying himself for something fairly bad.
‘So he’s clever,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. Mr Tigg reckons he’d be very clever if he tried. But he’s never there.’
‘So he’s always after everyone for money,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s always after everyone for a couple of quid. Trying it on.’
‘So he’s a chancer. Like Ringo,’ Lionel would say. And Des would say, ‘Yeah. He’s a bit like Uncle Ring. In that respect at least.’
‘… Tell me, Des. Do girls like him? Or just old boilers? … Come on, Des, you hiding something. I can tell. I can always tell.’
‘Well, yeah, Alektra says they’re all mad for him. But he likes them older. He says when it comes to sex, kids are crap.’
‘Continue, Des. Let’s have it.’
‘He – he’s always saying he’s bi. I’m adventurous, he says. I’m a sexy boy.’
After an intermission (chewing, smoking, nodding), Lionel said, ‘Nah. I won’t lay a finger on him. Wouldn’t demean meself. I wouldn’t demean meself, Desmond.’
‘… What’ll it be then, Uncle Li? Warn him off?’
‘Warn him off? Warn him off what? He’s already done it! Round there again last night. Gran must think I’ve gone soft in me old age.’ He licked his lips. ‘Sexy boy, is it. I’ll give him sexy.’
This was on the Thursday. On the Friday, who should show up at Squeers Free but Rory Nightingale.
10
IT WAS THE kind of morning that the citizens of this island kingdom very rarely saw: an established and adamant clarity, with the sun pinned into place, as firm as a gilt tack; and the sky, seemingly embarrassed by such exalted pressure, kept blushing an even deeper blue … Dark and gaunt, like his shadow, Desmond (to whom lovely skies always whispered of loss and grief) stood on the patch of sandy astroturf beyond the gym. Rory Nightingale was here. And Des made the call. He failed to see what else he could do.
Three fifty-five. Crisply dressed, with his face half-obscured by a copy of the Diston Gazette , Lionel sat waiting in the open-fronted bus shelter across the street. Des approached.
‘He’s in detention. Got an hour’s detention.’
Lionel gazed out from his solarium of dust-stippled glass. ‘Better,’ he quickly decided as he took out his phone and thumbed in a message (it consisted of one digit). ‘We’ll get this rubbish out of the way a bit quicker than we thought.’
‘Well I’ll be off home then. You can’t miss him.’
‘No, Des. You sit by here.’
The school emptied, the blazered figures unenergetically dispersed, the thin traffic grew thinner and thinner …
‘There he is.’
‘Get to you feet. Call him over – call him.’
Lionel flung an arm round his shoulder and Des felt a prehensile tightening at the back of his neck.
‘Here, Rory! Ror!’
With a kind of lolling wariness the boy crossed the road. For an instant his lip ring gave off a molten gleam.
‘Let you out in the end, did they?’ said Lionel. ‘And on an afternoon like this. Teachers, they a load of losers. Now you know me – I’m Des here’s uncle. And listen. I got a pal, I got a pal, he’s a uh, an amateur photographer. Fashion. With more money than sense, eh Des? Named Rhett. And he
Similar Books
