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Authors: Martin Amis
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the course of his work, Norman was called on to do the odd homicide. Perhaps he really did pull capers in his lunch-hour. Had he mown down a file of schoolboys in his Cortina, lured a blinkie into the Bayswater Road, stolen the heirlooms of a dying Jew? Had he poked a switchblade into an enlightened student (for Norman was passionately right-wing) ? Had he jumped up and down on a squealing Pakistani (for Norman was passionately xenophobic: wogs began, not at Calais, but at Barnet or Wandsworth Common, depending on what direction you took from Marble Arch)? Perhaps —
yawn - she just meant that he was ""murdering"" her love for him.
The sound of what could have been a forearm slam came from above, then a muffled crash, as of a body making speedy contact with the floor.
I blew my nose on some lavatory paper and thought hard about Rachel. I wished Geoffrey would get a move on and puke in my bed; then Sue and Anastasia could carry him off, and I would be alone. Nip up to the sitting-room for a glass of Norman's cherry brandy ? No: he might revive Jenny in order to beat her unconscious again. Instead, I hawked confidently into the basin, and returned with Geoffrey's water. Upstairs, all was quiet now.
Geoffrey had indeed been sick, not in my bed, but, rather, over the floor, walls, sink, towel-rail and lavatory of the next-door bathroom. Anastasia was there, an arm round his waist. Geoffrey turned to me diffidently when I joined big Sue in the doorway.
'Sorry glug,' he said, throwing his head back to accommodate a fresh mouthful which he then channelled into the bathtub.
That's all right. But, Geoffrey?'
'Yeah?'
'Remember: I'm a country slicker, you're a city bumpkin. Okay?'
'Right.'
Between the three of us we cleaned Geoffrey up and gave him, in succession, an apple, some water and a cigarette. When asked, he said he felt cool. I mentioned something about a taxi but it turned out - amazingly, I thought, for one of her youth - that Sue had a car. We put Geoffrey in it and they drove off, with me asking for the telephone number of and trying to kiss neither of the two girls.
I watched them go, shaking my head a couple of times in the normal way, and walked back to the house. In the darkening kitchen, with a few glasses of water I worked the shirt-button-sized Mandrax down my throat. It was already brightly moonlit and for a while I gazed out at the navy-blue sky. Unasked, I could feel, gradually playing on my features, a look of queasy hope. And why not? I had someone to think about, no matter how fretfully; I had a face looking over my shoulder, no matter how snottily equivocal its expression. At least it wasn't my face.
There was little to admire outside, apart from the sky: just a smooth high wall, on which glittered a thousand chips of broken glass, placed there to deter the burglars over twelve foot tall who couldn't be bothered to use the back-garden door. They looked neutral enough now, though.
As I turned I saw Jenny on the chesterfield in the adjoining room, curled up on her knees, haggardly smoking a cigarette. I stepped towards her, but as I did so she made a movement, hardly perceptible, a shrug or a wave of the hand, which told me that she was content to be alone. I closed the door behind me, and went to bed.
Thirty-five minutes past eight: The Rachel Papers, volume one
Over by the window now, I effortfully uncork the second bottle of Chateau Dysentery. Red spots fly over my twentieth-birthday present from Rachel, the new Longman's Blake. It's very dark outside, so it seems appropriate to ask out loud:
Can delight Chained in night The virgins of youth and morning bear?
On my desk, a sea of pads, folders, envelopes, napkins, notes, the complete Rachel Papers stand displayed. Four-eyed, I indent subject-headings, co-ordinate footnotes, mark cross-references in red and blue biros.
We have to begin with a tolerably even development, characterized though it is by chance meetings, botched preparations,
yawn - she just meant that he was ""murdering"" her love for him.
The sound of what could have been a forearm slam came from above, then a muffled crash, as of a body making speedy contact with the floor.
I blew my nose on some lavatory paper and thought hard about Rachel. I wished Geoffrey would get a move on and puke in my bed; then Sue and Anastasia could carry him off, and I would be alone. Nip up to the sitting-room for a glass of Norman's cherry brandy ? No: he might revive Jenny in order to beat her unconscious again. Instead, I hawked confidently into the basin, and returned with Geoffrey's water. Upstairs, all was quiet now.
Geoffrey had indeed been sick, not in my bed, but, rather, over the floor, walls, sink, towel-rail and lavatory of the next-door bathroom. Anastasia was there, an arm round his waist. Geoffrey turned to me diffidently when I joined big Sue in the doorway.
'Sorry glug,' he said, throwing his head back to accommodate a fresh mouthful which he then channelled into the bathtub.
That's all right. But, Geoffrey?'
'Yeah?'
'Remember: I'm a country slicker, you're a city bumpkin. Okay?'
'Right.'
Between the three of us we cleaned Geoffrey up and gave him, in succession, an apple, some water and a cigarette. When asked, he said he felt cool. I mentioned something about a taxi but it turned out - amazingly, I thought, for one of her youth - that Sue had a car. We put Geoffrey in it and they drove off, with me asking for the telephone number of and trying to kiss neither of the two girls.
I watched them go, shaking my head a couple of times in the normal way, and walked back to the house. In the darkening kitchen, with a few glasses of water I worked the shirt-button-sized Mandrax down my throat. It was already brightly moonlit and for a while I gazed out at the navy-blue sky. Unasked, I could feel, gradually playing on my features, a look of queasy hope. And why not? I had someone to think about, no matter how fretfully; I had a face looking over my shoulder, no matter how snottily equivocal its expression. At least it wasn't my face.
There was little to admire outside, apart from the sky: just a smooth high wall, on which glittered a thousand chips of broken glass, placed there to deter the burglars over twelve foot tall who couldn't be bothered to use the back-garden door. They looked neutral enough now, though.
As I turned I saw Jenny on the chesterfield in the adjoining room, curled up on her knees, haggardly smoking a cigarette. I stepped towards her, but as I did so she made a movement, hardly perceptible, a shrug or a wave of the hand, which told me that she was content to be alone. I closed the door behind me, and went to bed.
Thirty-five minutes past eight: The Rachel Papers, volume one
Over by the window now, I effortfully uncork the second bottle of Chateau Dysentery. Red spots fly over my twentieth-birthday present from Rachel, the new Longman's Blake. It's very dark outside, so it seems appropriate to ask out loud:
Can delight Chained in night The virgins of youth and morning bear?
On my desk, a sea of pads, folders, envelopes, napkins, notes, the complete Rachel Papers stand displayed. Four-eyed, I indent subject-headings, co-ordinate footnotes, mark cross-references in red and blue biros.
We have to begin with a tolerably even development, characterized though it is by chance meetings, botched preparations,
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