by Martin Amis
It is. It is. But Gran. Think. He’s on to you and your new friend. Uncle Li knows!
Oh yeah? He doesn’t give a monkey’s about his mum. I haven’t seen him this century! And what’s he going to do about it? If this gets out, who’ll suffer more? Him! What’s he going to do? What’s he going to do?
9
Lionel had a lock-up or godown on Skinthrift Close. You approached it crunching on a snowfield of shattered glass, and skirting your way past scorched or smouldering mattresses and swamps and copses of outlandish junk and clutter, including a wide variety of abandoned vehicles. Scooter, camper, tractor; there was even a dodgem, clog-shaped, its electric pole like a withered shank; and a lifesize rocking horse, with the eyes of an ageing barmaid … Des was summoned to this address by mobile phone: his sixteenth-birthday present had been brought forward, in response to the general emergency (and issued to him like a piece of military equipment).
“I’m in here!”
The shop, as Lionel called it, was not looking its best—partly because Lionel had just finished smashing the place up. It comprised a double garage (housing the sooty Ford Transit), a congested office, and a chilly cubicle containing a deep sink and a cracked toilet. Des heard the jerk of the chain; and now a singleted Lionel emerged, mopping himself down with a length of kitchen towel. He said equably,
“I’m over it now.” He pointed to his left: a broken chair, splintered racks and brackets, stoved-in tea chests. “Because this isn’t a time for anger, Des. It’s a time for clear thought. Come in here.”
Lionel’s office: heaps of jumbled drawers full of watches, cameras, power tools, game consoles; a low bookcase full of bottled drugs (for bodybuilders—synthetic hormones and the like); a fruit crate full of knuckledusters and machetes. All of it swiped, blagged, hoisted … How intelligent was Uncle Li? Even the most generous answer to this question—which had bedevilled Des since the age of five or six—would have to include a firm entry on the debit side: there was no evidence whatever that Lionel was any good at his job. He was a subsistence criminal who spent half his life in jail.
“Gran. Christ. I know it’s Town,” he said, “but this is ridiculous.”
They faced each other across a raw table strewn with knocked-off jewellery and sold-on credit cards. Without warning Lionel gave one of his tight little sneezes: it sounded like a bullet fired through a silencer. He wiped his nose and said,
“There’s been a sighting. It’s a schoolboy, Des. Purple blazer. The Squeers blazer. She’s doing it with a schoolboy.”
Des tried to look surprised. Because he wasn’t surprised. This was the Distonic logic of it: he was fifteen years old—and Gran had passed him over for a younger man. Lionel said,
“Dud saw him. Purple blazer. Dud saw him taking his leave.”
Feeling an unfamiliar latitude, Des asked, “Sure it wasn’t me?”
“He said it wasn’t you. He said, And not you spearchucker nephew, neither. Squeers Free. So, Des, you’ll be lending a hand with me enquiries.”
“What d’you reckon you’ll do, Uncle Li?”
“With such a matter as this, Des, you got to consider you objectives.” He sat back. “Which are. One. Put an end to the nonsense with the sexual relations. Obviously. Two. Keep it quiet. Fucking hell, I’d have to emigrate. The States, I suppose. Or Australia. A paedo for a mum? A nonce for a mum. Nice … Three. Ensure, beyond doubt, that nothing of this nature happens again. Ever … It’s like—like a puzzle. A labyrinth. You consider you objectives. Then you turn to you options.”
From experience Des half-subliminally sensed that something fairly bad was on its way. Lionel’s linear style, his show of rationality, even the modest improvements in his vocabulary and enunciation (“labyrinth,” for instance, came out as labyrinf, rather than the expected labyrimf): whenever Lionel talked like this, you could be pretty certain that something fairly bad was on its way. Now he reached for a torn pack of Marlboro Hundreds, on which a clump of capital letters had been grimly scored.
“Long black hair. Wears a lip ring. And cowboy boots. And shorts. Who is he?”
“Uh, let me think.”
“Ah come on. How many kids wear cowboy boots with they shorts? I ask again. Who is he?”
Des had no doubt: it was Rory Nightingale. It could only be Rory Nightingale … Rory was a chronic truant (and just fourteen), but everyone at Squeers Free was aware of Rory Nightingale. Shapely-faced, and sidlingly self-sufficient, and far more than averagely wised up. He always reminded Des of the youths you saw behind the scenes at funfairs and circuses—in their own sphere, with their own secrets, and with that carny, peepshow knowledge in the thin smile of their eyes.
“Yeah, I know him.”
“Name?”
“Name?” The window of latitude—of air and freedom—was already closing. “Uh. Uh, put it down to your influence, Uncle Li. But this is like grassing someone up. You know. Playing Judas.”
Lionel arched his eyebrows as his gaze rolled slowly ceilingward, and he joined his hands round the back of his neck (revealing two vulpine armpits). “Fine words, Des. Fine words. But you know, son, life’s not as uh, straightforward as that. Sometimes, sometimes you high ideals have to … Okay. How often’s he go to school? Cowboy boots and shorts. Lip ring. I can pick him out meself.”
“About once a fortnight.”
“… Well I’m not going to stand there at the gates for a fucking fortnight, am I. Think of the effect that’d have on me temper … Listen, Des. I want to put you mind at rest. I’m going to do this neat. Clean. And I won’t lay a finger on him. All right? So next time he shows up, you give me a call on you nice new phone. Will you do that at least for yer own uncle? Bloody hell, boy. She’s you fucking nan.”
A rough-edged wind frisked him down as he made his way back up Skinthrift Close. The dumped rocking horse, the dumped dodgem. And now, in just the last half-hour, a consignment of dumped kiddies’ dolls, heat-damaged, in a gummy pink mass.
The new development entailed a new perplexity. Although Des very seldom engaged with Rory Nightingale, he happened to be on friendly terms with his parents—with Ernest and Joy. It was nothing out of the way: Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale used the corner shop, under the shadow of Avalon Tower, and they first hailed Des simply on the strength of his Squeers blazer. And so it went on—greetings, small talk, encouraging words …
Rory himself was on the very tideline of the modern, but his parents seemed to have waddled out of the 1950s. Both about forty-five, both about five foot four, and both unprosperously but contentedly tublike in shape. You never saw them singly; and on the streets they always walked in step, and hand in hand. Once, as he ate an apple that Joy had just given him, Des watched the Nightingales negotiate the zebra crossing. Halfway over, a dropped handkerchief and a passing truck contrived to separate them; Ernest waited attentively on the far curbside, and then off they went again, in step, and hand in hand. And Rory (Des knew) was their only child.
How’s it going to go? he wondered as he approached the main road. Ahead of him a succession of white vans flashed past. There were many white vans in Diston, and many white-van men—and they were white white-van men, too, because Diston was predominantly white, as white as Belgravia (and no one really knew why). Lionel had a white van, the Ford Transit. Amazing, thought Des, how all the white vans wore the same thickness of soot, just enough to coat them in a shadow of grey. Clean Me, a wistful finger had written on the Transit’s smudged breast.
“I left the door open—just a crack. Half an inch. First Jeff has a go, then Joe has a go. They’re mashing their noses in the gap. And ten minutes later they’re inside!”
“There. You condemning youself out of you own mouth. Would they do that if I was in here? It’s wide 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 … 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 had ever 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 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.
