Read Online Lionel Asbo: State of England by Martin Amis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Martin Amis
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… Hang on. Here he is now.’
A sleek and muscular saloon pulled up, and out climbed Marlon Welkway. Marlon Welkway – his glistening quiff, his ironical squint, his matinee smile.
Des felt himself dismissed with a push, and off he started, trying not to hurry. A minute later, as he made for the first sidestreet, he turned his head – and it was all right, it was all right, the boy was walking away in the other direction, the two men were poised to duck under the car’s glossy carapace, and the three of them were waving airily, and Marlon’s pink shirt pulsated in the breeze.
The weekend passed quietly.
‘Be gone all night,’ said Lionel, with resignation (it was Saturday evening). ‘Cynthia. It’s her birthday. And I hardly ever miss her birthdays. Well. Never two in a row.’
On Sunday Lionel again took his leave at dusk, stern and silent (all business), and again wasn’t seen until morning. So the weekend passed quietly – indeed for Des almost inaudibly. He couldn’t say why, quite, but he seemed to have re-entered the plugged world of the deaf.
‘Ah, Des. Little Des. How’s the lad this morning?’
They had collided on the landing of the twenty-first floor, Des going down, Lionel coming up. At Avalon Tower, the lift was now terminating on the twenty-first floor.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Des. ‘Not so bad.’
‘Mm. Well this’ll put a spring in you step. That matter with the boy. Problem solved.’
‘What you go and do?’ said Des sullenly. ‘Smash him up?’
‘Desmond! No. No. Nothing of that nature. You can’t smash up a kid … Des. You say you friendly with his mum and dad. Well. They need never know. Need never know how he come to bring this on hisself. There … We’re due a celebration, Des. Tonight – let’s have one of our usuals. Deal?’
Beyond, through the pillbox window, you could see the tallowy sky of London, like thin snow on a field of ash. Turning, Lionel gave out a soft snort and said,
‘I thought you told me he was clever … ‘
The word hung there, as Lionel went on up, and Des went on down.
‘Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee .’ Lionel’s voice wasn’t that loud, but it had the defiant, white-lipped force of a football chant. ‘Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee .’
They lowered their trays, and sat facing each other over a ledge of zebra-patterned laminate, unzipping little sachets of ketchup, mustard, sweet relish; they sampled their Sprites through the fat straws, and started on the chips and the Kentucky-fried chicken.
‘Don’t say I don’t look after yer.’
‘I’d never say that, Uncle Li.’
‘… I reckon you doing all right, Des. Since I took you under me wing. Gaa, the state you were in when I come to you rescue. Crying youself to sleep at night. You was … you were always brushing up against me for a hug, like a cat. And I’d say, Get off, you little fairy. Get off, you little poof . I’d say, If you want to ponce a cuddle you can go round to you gran’s . But now,’ he said, ‘you doing all right.’
‘… Yeah, I’m okay.’
‘Oy. You not eating you dinner. Eat you dinner. Eat you dinner.’
Desmond ate. Ate the chicken, fried just as he liked it, Kentucky-style, the way Colonel Sanders himself prepared it, and normally so answeringly luscious to his taste. But now … He thought of the only time he ever had a tooth filled, four or five years ago, and afterwards, as promised, Cilla took him to the caff for his favourite, mushrooms on toast, and his mouth was full of novocaine and he couldn’t distinguish anything more than a presence on his frozen tongue – his tongue, which he then caught in his jaws without even feeling it, and there was blood on his chin but no tears on his cheeks …
‘You know, Des,’ said Lionel, with unusual thoughtfulness (with unusual difficulty in his worked brow), ‘Sunday morning. I’m lying there Sunday morning. I’d just had this dream about Gina
A sleek and muscular saloon pulled up, and out climbed Marlon Welkway. Marlon Welkway – his glistening quiff, his ironical squint, his matinee smile.
Des felt himself dismissed with a push, and off he started, trying not to hurry. A minute later, as he made for the first sidestreet, he turned his head – and it was all right, it was all right, the boy was walking away in the other direction, the two men were poised to duck under the car’s glossy carapace, and the three of them were waving airily, and Marlon’s pink shirt pulsated in the breeze.
The weekend passed quietly.
‘Be gone all night,’ said Lionel, with resignation (it was Saturday evening). ‘Cynthia. It’s her birthday. And I hardly ever miss her birthdays. Well. Never two in a row.’
On Sunday Lionel again took his leave at dusk, stern and silent (all business), and again wasn’t seen until morning. So the weekend passed quietly – indeed for Des almost inaudibly. He couldn’t say why, quite, but he seemed to have re-entered the plugged world of the deaf.
‘Ah, Des. Little Des. How’s the lad this morning?’
They had collided on the landing of the twenty-first floor, Des going down, Lionel coming up. At Avalon Tower, the lift was now terminating on the twenty-first floor.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Des. ‘Not so bad.’
‘Mm. Well this’ll put a spring in you step. That matter with the boy. Problem solved.’
‘What you go and do?’ said Des sullenly. ‘Smash him up?’
‘Desmond! No. No. Nothing of that nature. You can’t smash up a kid … Des. You say you friendly with his mum and dad. Well. They need never know. Need never know how he come to bring this on hisself. There … We’re due a celebration, Des. Tonight – let’s have one of our usuals. Deal?’
Beyond, through the pillbox window, you could see the tallowy sky of London, like thin snow on a field of ash. Turning, Lionel gave out a soft snort and said,
‘I thought you told me he was clever … ‘
The word hung there, as Lionel went on up, and Des went on down.
‘Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee .’ Lionel’s voice wasn’t that loud, but it had the defiant, white-lipped force of a football chant. ‘Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee . Kay Yeff Cee .’
They lowered their trays, and sat facing each other over a ledge of zebra-patterned laminate, unzipping little sachets of ketchup, mustard, sweet relish; they sampled their Sprites through the fat straws, and started on the chips and the Kentucky-fried chicken.
‘Don’t say I don’t look after yer.’
‘I’d never say that, Uncle Li.’
‘… I reckon you doing all right, Des. Since I took you under me wing. Gaa, the state you were in when I come to you rescue. Crying youself to sleep at night. You was … you were always brushing up against me for a hug, like a cat. And I’d say, Get off, you little fairy. Get off, you little poof . I’d say, If you want to ponce a cuddle you can go round to you gran’s . But now,’ he said, ‘you doing all right.’
‘… Yeah, I’m okay.’
‘Oy. You not eating you dinner. Eat you dinner. Eat you dinner.’
Desmond ate. Ate the chicken, fried just as he liked it, Kentucky-style, the way Colonel Sanders himself prepared it, and normally so answeringly luscious to his taste. But now … He thought of the only time he ever had a tooth filled, four or five years ago, and afterwards, as promised, Cilla took him to the caff for his favourite, mushrooms on toast, and his mouth was full of novocaine and he couldn’t distinguish anything more than a presence on his frozen tongue – his tongue, which he then caught in his jaws without even feeling it, and there was blood on his chin but no tears on his cheeks …
‘You know, Des,’ said Lionel, with unusual thoughtfulness (with unusual difficulty in his worked brow), ‘Sunday morning. I’m lying there Sunday morning. I’d just had this dream about Gina
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