Read Online Lionel Asbo: State of England by Martin Amis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin Amis
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Drago. And she was all dark and uh, glowing . Beautiful. Then I open my eyes and what do I see? Cynthia. Like a dairy product. Like a fucking yoghurt. And she says, What’s the matter with you? You had a nightmare? And I said, No, love. It’s just me guts playing up . Because they all got feelings, haven’t they, Des. All got feelings. God bless them.’ He swiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Kay Yeff Cee , Kay Yeff Cee , Kay Yeff Cee .’
From KFC they went on to the Lady Godiva.
‘ Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits-fixed-for-the-boys!’ sang Lionel. ‘ Get yuh tits fixed For the boys – OOH … Attend to the performance, Desmond. I paid a fiver at the door for yer, and you not watching. Attend to the performance.’
A visit to KFC traditionally entailed a visit to the Lady Godiva. The boozy hues of amber and mahogany, the hangings of mirrored cigarette smoke. The shallow stage, and the listlessly undulating dancer. Des’s whole being hated it here (the worst bit, for him, was when the girls went round with their collection bags for the tips, and the customers felt them up for an extra fifty pee). But tonight he was hardly aware of the Lady Godiva – just as, earlier on, he was hardly aware of KFC, with its bank of illustrated edibles above the service counter (each plateful, it seemed to him, in a different stage of garish putrefaction), and the presiding icon of Colonel Sanders himself, like a blind seer.
‘Ten years I been with her – Cynthia. Ten years. More. And I don’t even … I reckon something must’ve put me off skirt. Something in me childhood. Everyone else is at it. Why aren’t I? Eh?’
‘… You’re too busy, maybe,’ said Des with a gulp. ‘And you’re away a lot.’
‘That’s true. Anyhow . Let’s not spoil the celebration. The scales of justice, son. The scales of justice. She’s had it coming for years. Grace has. Now, Des. I know you slightly concerned about uh, young Rory. But it doesn’t matter what happens to Rory. That’s immaterial. Totally immaterial. What matters is putting the right fucking wind up you gran. Besides,’ he said with a grunt and a smile, ‘Rory’s adventurous. He’ll try anything … Hang on darling, here’s a quid for yer. All right? I won’t touch! Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits fixed. GET yuh tits fixed For the boys – OOH .’
Now all this began to take on shape and form in the world of the manifest.
As early as Wednesday morning Des passed the corner shop and saw a familiar face staring helplessly out at him through the sweating glass: Have You Seen This Boy? The same sign was tacked to the door of the sub-post office. At school, a greatcoated police officer stood at the gates and, within, there were eager rumours about the two plainclothesmen who were questioning everyone in year ten. Des sat bent at his desk beneath his personal thunderhead; but nothing happened, and Wednesday passed. On Thursday there were stickers gummed to every other lamp post in Carker Square – plus a filler in the Sun (Another Diston Lad Missing). And in Friday’s Gazette there was a report, on page twelve, entitled ‘We Are At Our Wits’ End’. Already on Tuesday morning , Joy Nightingale was quoted as saying, I knew something terrible had happened. I felt it here in my throat. Because he always calls in, without fail. No matter wherever he is, he always calls in . Two photographs: Rory between his parents on a park bench at Happy Valley, smiling over a cloud of candyfloss; and Joy and Ernest at home, on a low settee, and hand in hand. If anyone knows anything, then please, please, please …
‘He’s standing there at the door. I hadn’t seen him in five years. Five years. Not since he smashed up poor Toby. And he says, Hello Mum. Here. Hold this . And he’s put this sticker on my face, this thing sticking to my face … And my knees went and I sank down. I sank down, dear.’
Entirely unadorned, entirely undisguised, Grace was
From KFC they went on to the Lady Godiva.
‘ Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits-fixed-for-the-boys!’ sang Lionel. ‘ Get yuh tits fixed For the boys – OOH … Attend to the performance, Desmond. I paid a fiver at the door for yer, and you not watching. Attend to the performance.’
A visit to KFC traditionally entailed a visit to the Lady Godiva. The boozy hues of amber and mahogany, the hangings of mirrored cigarette smoke. The shallow stage, and the listlessly undulating dancer. Des’s whole being hated it here (the worst bit, for him, was when the girls went round with their collection bags for the tips, and the customers felt them up for an extra fifty pee). But tonight he was hardly aware of the Lady Godiva – just as, earlier on, he was hardly aware of KFC, with its bank of illustrated edibles above the service counter (each plateful, it seemed to him, in a different stage of garish putrefaction), and the presiding icon of Colonel Sanders himself, like a blind seer.
‘Ten years I been with her – Cynthia. Ten years. More. And I don’t even … I reckon something must’ve put me off skirt. Something in me childhood. Everyone else is at it. Why aren’t I? Eh?’
‘… You’re too busy, maybe,’ said Des with a gulp. ‘And you’re away a lot.’
‘That’s true. Anyhow . Let’s not spoil the celebration. The scales of justice, son. The scales of justice. She’s had it coming for years. Grace has. Now, Des. I know you slightly concerned about uh, young Rory. But it doesn’t matter what happens to Rory. That’s immaterial. Totally immaterial. What matters is putting the right fucking wind up you gran. Besides,’ he said with a grunt and a smile, ‘Rory’s adventurous. He’ll try anything … Hang on darling, here’s a quid for yer. All right? I won’t touch! Get yuh tits fixed, Get yuh tits fixed. GET yuh tits fixed For the boys – OOH .’
Now all this began to take on shape and form in the world of the manifest.
As early as Wednesday morning Des passed the corner shop and saw a familiar face staring helplessly out at him through the sweating glass: Have You Seen This Boy? The same sign was tacked to the door of the sub-post office. At school, a greatcoated police officer stood at the gates and, within, there were eager rumours about the two plainclothesmen who were questioning everyone in year ten. Des sat bent at his desk beneath his personal thunderhead; but nothing happened, and Wednesday passed. On Thursday there were stickers gummed to every other lamp post in Carker Square – plus a filler in the Sun (Another Diston Lad Missing). And in Friday’s Gazette there was a report, on page twelve, entitled ‘We Are At Our Wits’ End’. Already on Tuesday morning , Joy Nightingale was quoted as saying, I knew something terrible had happened. I felt it here in my throat. Because he always calls in, without fail. No matter wherever he is, he always calls in . Two photographs: Rory between his parents on a park bench at Happy Valley, smiling over a cloud of candyfloss; and Joy and Ernest at home, on a low settee, and hand in hand. If anyone knows anything, then please, please, please …
‘He’s standing there at the door. I hadn’t seen him in five years. Five years. Not since he smashed up poor Toby. And he says, Hello Mum. Here. Hold this . And he’s put this sticker on my face, this thing sticking to my face … And my knees went and I sank down. I sank down, dear.’
Entirely unadorned, entirely undisguised, Grace was
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