by Martin Amis
“Silly doggies,” he said, stepping back. “I think, I think the doggies want to cool down.”
Quickly and carefully he filled a tall glass with cold water. He watched the door give an inch, give an inch and a half. One long stride and the jerked splash gave him the moment he needed. He secured the latch and tested it with all his strength.
“There. Goodnight, doggies,” he said. “And now, miss. Now you go down.”
He changed Cilla for the last time. “You can sleep just like that.” She lay in her basket on the trestle table—the plump brown figure in the plump white loincloth. He rinsed her drinking cup. “A little agua for you.” He positioned the fan (it would sweep grandly past her every five seconds) and dimmed the lights. “Now you’re going to dreamland.”
It was nearly eleven and she wouldn’t go down, she couldn’t quite go down. She continued to smile, continued to gaze up at him with tender eyes—but all was not right in her baby cosmos, and she couldn’t quite go down.
“Mummy’s coming back tomorrow. Your lovely mummy’ll be here in the morning.”
A subliminal memory told him that what sent small beings to sleep was the discreet assurance that larger beings were still awake (the complacent murmur of the grown-ups, even that rhombus of carlight as it went across the ceiling and slid down the wall). So, humming, he tidied up: he processed the dinner things, and wiped all the surfaces, and stacked the newspapers in the rubbish bag and dropped it in the tank.
“I’ll be asleep before you are! If you’re not careful …”
He kept expecting her eyes to tire and dip, but they declared their helpless roundness. When he smoothed her forehead he found that his fingertips were moist with sweat. He applied a dampened cloth to her face, and slipped the thermometer into the crease of her armpit: ninety-nine point two. As midnight neared, and as he felt his own bearings start to loosen, he capitulated. The infant’s opiate—the syrupy suspension of the purple paracetamol. She took the spoonful willingly. In less than a minute her head rolled back, and she was gone.
And Des looked away with burning eyes. He felt that she had been wronged, somehow, had been gravely wronged. At the same time, as he presided over Cilla’s sudden sleep, he was presented with a tabulation of everything he loved in her. This had to be assimilated, all in an instant, and he did the work of it with burning eyes.
Friday was over. Des locked up. Seven times he tried the balcony door. He didn’t look out. He tried the balcony door for the eighth and last time.
Stripping to his undershorts, he sought out the bare sheet. From the kitchen, her cotside lamp cast a frilly yellow semicircle on Desmond’s wooden floor; and his daughter lay almost within his line of sight. His tiredness, he realised, had a smell: the thick-air smell of ozone and the warmed sea. No, not this wave, that one, yes, that one—that one will carry me ashore.
Saturday
In the dead of night he lay dreaming.
He lay dreaming, not of a ladder that rose up to heaven … He lay dreaming of a chamber of varnished pine and white marble and boiling mist where he sat with his mother’s brother and six or seven ginger dogs and piebald foxes, some of which were stuffed (by the taxidermist, Mr. Man). He and his uncle were engaged in invisible and mysterious exertions, but there was nothing to breathe and nothing to breathe it with. So he awoke.
… “Ah. Here we are,” he said, and moistened his tongue. His mouth was working (he could hear it click and scrape), and yet his eyes were gummed shut. He raised a reluctant hand and freed his dried lids. The air around him was as black as liquorice.
Someone or something had closed his bedroom door.
Through various thicknesses a muffled but complex sound now chose to present itself for his consideration. A solid thud, followed by two further and fainter impacts, the crackle of basketry and a pneumatic sigh, then the desperate snorting and scrambling of muscular beasts.
Time now slowed. It would in fact take him precisely 2.05 seconds to get from his bed to his destiny. But it seemed longer than that to Desmond Pepperdine.
0.10 seconds. His legs did it. With one arching bicycle kick he was out and upright on the mat. The plywood door had swelled in the heat, as if its glue had wept and oozed, and precious, priceless milliseconds were lost while he tugged on the handle and tugged again.
0.50 seconds. The kitchen door was also shut. He could clearly—and, it seemed, slowly—hear the snuffling, the rootling, the low growling, the slobbering. An entire centisecond passed by as he tried to identify the strange animal in the passage. Was it a porcupine? No. It was the cat. Between one tug and the other on the sticky handle he had time to feel the unearthly size of the quivering deep-sea wave he would now have to pass through. He stepped into it.
1.45 seconds. He threw on the light and in a voice hugely amplified by the chemicals in his brain he shouted out something—an ancient howl. He stared into the rustling, tinkering neon tubes as the deep-sea wave swept by him, and he listened to the click of canine nails on the sanded boards.
2.05 seconds. He looked down. The trestle table lay on its side, the empty basket had tumbled to a halt, four feet away, and now leaned, still swaying, against the leg of a kitchen chair. He fell on his hands and knees and scrabbled about like a beast himself.
The electric fan continued to patrol its space.
There was no blood, and no baby.
Tuesday
Kee you, kee you, kee you. Wicky wicky, wicky wicky. Zhe-zhe diddum eet. View-cha view-cha view-cha. Payee, payee. Tuseetz, tuseetz. Kee you, kee you, kee you. Wicky wicky. Wicky wicky …
The two great drapes, the two giant strips of bulging black velvet, remained tightly drawn, but you could hear, outside, the multitudinous chaos—the rasps and ricochets—of enraptured birdsong. In the expanse of the four-poster a contorted figure gasped and stretched.
“Mao!” it seemed to shout. “Mao! … Jesus Christ. MAO!”
Mal MacManaman opened the door a crack. “Yes, boss.”
“Go and tell them fucking birds to shut they—don’t shine that bleeding light in me eyes!”
Mal’s shape withdrew for a moment, and then more vaguely reappeared. “You called, boss.”
“Mal. Mal, mate. I’m dying.”
“… Should I get Sir Anthony, boss? Put you back on the oxygen. And the dialysis.”
“I’ll give you fucking dialysis … Oh, Mal, heal me, mate. Heal me.”
“… What can I say, boss? All the cures are old wives’ tales. I was looking online. The Romans tried owls’ eggs. And fried canary.”
“Fried canary?”
“In Iceland they eat rotten shark. Keep a rotten shark on the balcony.”
“Where’m I going to find a fucking rotten shark? See this pillow? Go on—put me out of me misery. I won’t struggle.”
“Sorry, boss, but what you need’s a drink. You’re in withdrawal. It’s your only hope, boss. Hair of the dog.”
“… Say that one more time and I’m sacking yer. Hair of the dog. Say that one more time and you sacked.”
“Some morphine, boss.”
“Yeah. Go on then. Just a drop. Like a pub treble … You know, Mal, I reckon she poisoned me. That sort up in Scotland—she poisoned me … No. No. Bollocks. This is Lionel Asbo, this is. This is down to Lionel Asbo. I don’t need a doc. I need a priest! A uh, a fucking exorcist is what I need … Mal. Is he coming?”
“Yeah, boss. He’s coming.”
Wednesday
His fellow passengers saw nothing unusual about the young man on the train. He was six foot one, and of mixed race; he wore black chinos and a white shirt; he wasn’t reading, he wasn’t looking out of the window at the streaming, bending, leaning English countryside. His face was without expression. But there was apparently nothing unusual about him.
The shrunken old lady seated at his side was methodically reading the Sun. Gunman Nicked by Grappling Grandad. I Murdered Down’s Baby—Mum. Duane Went Berserk When Wife Cried “Harder, Chris!” Dear
Daphne. I had fling with banker but he lost interest. Trapped in a man’s body. Hubby’s six-year cybersex with my best pal. Dear Daphne, I’m having an affair with an older woman. She’s a lady of some sophistication, and makes a refreshing change from the …
Wheezing, slowing, the three-carriage train felt its way into the station called Short Crendon. A recorded voice told our young traveller to collect all his belongings and to mind the gap. He got out and walked through the suspended village.
At the house he crossed the deserted picket line, pressed the buzzer, and announced himself. He was told to wait. After three or four minutes, the tuxedoed butler and a plainclothes security man were making their way down the drive. The electrified gates opened up and let him in.
“Mr. Asbo is slightly indisposed,” said Carmody as they passed the Bentley “Aurora” and the Venganza and approached the front door. “May I offer you some sustenance, sir, while you wait? The other visitors are enjoying a selection of beverages and a cold collation. Mr. Asbo does know you’re here.”
Three knights in armour gazed out mournfully at the round table, at the high-winged saddles of the chairs, at the steel chandelier, many-bladed, like a medieval propeller. The dining hall contained eight people, including Desmond Pepperdine.
“I’m owed,” “Threnody” was saying. She replenished her glass of white wine. “I’m due. It’s only right. I’m owed.”
“But surely this won’t affect sales,” enthused Jack Firth-Heatherington. “To the contrary, I’d have thought … I suppose it’s too late to relaunch it with a different title?”
“As it is I’ll be a laughing stock, won’t I.” She had a slim paperback in front of her, face down. Two other volumes were on display, standing upright, as on a table in a bookstore: My Love for Azwat and Reaching Out to Fernando. By “Threnody.” She said, “Danube’ll be pissing herself.”
Seeking confirmation, she turned to the youngish man on her left. His colouring was Levantine: this was presumably Raoul. He removed his toothpick and said (pronouncing the i-sound as an ee),
“Pissing herself.”
“They all will. I’ll be a laughing stock. A mere figure of fun. So I’m due, Jack. Come on. I’m owed.”
“Threnody,” Raoul, Jack Firth-Heatherington—and who else?
Lord Barcleigh (the famous face, the famous girth) sat in an armchair with a tray on his lap. Facing him was another learned-looking gentleman, in an open shirt (with white cravat). They talked in regretful whispers. Sebastian Drinker, with solemn nods, was writing on a yellow pad.
At the other end of the room, in profile with folded arms, stood a woman in a white veil. She was looking out through the far window.
“I’m owed. I’m due.”
Time passed.
“I’m due.”
“… Mr. Asbo will see you now, sir.”
Carmody gracefully gave way to Mal MacManaman, who was waiting in the hall.
“Desmond,” he said, and offered his hand.
At a meditative pace they started up the stairs.
“Your uncle,” he said, “your uncle had a bad reaction to the death of his mother. Up in Scotland there. Funny, isn’t it? He didn’t seem that attached, I thought. But with these things you never know. Anyway, he went and did himself a bit of an injury. To his brain. That’s what they reckon. And then there’s all this other trouble. I wonder if you’ll find him changed. Here.” He reached out and dimmed the light. “Go on in. You’re expected.”
The room was the colour of beetroot, thickly dark but with a shade of mauve in it.
“Wait. Wait till you eyes adapt …”
Des could see a slowly glowing throb in the middle distance. It made his body remember the lighthouse on the northern shore; it made his body remember the sound of his daughter’s heart.
“See anything yet? Come on, Des. Come and sit by here.”
He felt his way past heavy furnishings, then crossed a spongy expanse of rugs or hides. In the manner of an usherette in an ancient picture house, Lionel used his cigar to illuminate the bedside chair.
“… I can’t eat. Can’t drink. Christ, I can’t even smoke. Tastes horrible. But it’s something to do. I can cough. I can retch. I can scratch. There’s a word for it, Des. Hang on. Formication. You feel you flesh is covered in ants.” He took a long drag, and the coal swelled and grinned like an evil eye.
“Who let the dogs in?”
“Oh. First things first, is it.” Lionel tried and failed to shoulder himself higher on the pillows. He sank back. “Un.” In a tranced voice, with a long lull at every period, he said, “I was under the doctors in Scotland. Little bit the worse for wear, Des. On the Monday I come back and shut meself up in here. I could’ve made a phone call. But I didn’t. Decided to wait for Tuesday and me Diston Gazette. Superstitious if you like. I went through it with a pencil torch to spare me eyes. And it was just the usual stuff. Knifings and that. Blindings. No report, no report of the uh, the very sad tragedy at Avalon Tower. And you won’t believe this, Des, but you know what I thought? I thought, I thought, Maybe I’ll live.”
“Who let the dogs in?”
“All right,” said Lionel, and raised a palm. “Some might say I uh, overreacted. Went a bit over the top. Pass us that tin, Des. And don’t come it all innocent with me.”
The gold Zippo flared but cast no light.
“So, Des, satisfy me curiosity. Uh, what went wrong?”
He was like a dog himself—down on all fours, the whirring limbs, the famished whimpers. He was under the table, under the couch, behind the basket, beyond the chair. There was no blood, no blood, and no baby. There was no baby.
With jagged effort and difficulty he got himself upright. He strode towards the balcony, he closed and locked the sliding door. The dogs were swiftly circling. And wait. He would now have to rip Jak apart, rip Jek apart—his hands in the wet jaws, forcing, splitting. He turned to face the unfathomable room.
Then his eyes settled on the burnished cube of the tank. The lid was down. Yesterday the lid was up—and now the lid was down. He went to the thing and threw it wide …
Cilla lay on the half-filled rubbish bag, in her nappy, her chest rising and falling … He pictured it (and again heard it): Jek’s first bound, Jak’s first bound, the toppled table, the twirling girl, and the tank snapping shut.
He kissed her eyes until they opened. They opened, and her eyes beamed up at him.
“Well well. Huh. So it come in useful, did it. In the end.”
Des stood. He took a few steps forward, a few steps back. He sat, he stood, he sat.
“Easy, Des. Easy, son. Gaa, hear them birds? … Okay. Cape Wrath. You know, Des, when I woke up Saturday morning. I wasn’t in that suite. No. Just in a normal room. And it looked like about thirty blokes’d got pissed in there the night before. Bottles everywhere. All empty. And me poor old DILF. Dear oh dear. With two black eyes and lying in her own dinner. And Jesus Christ, Des, the state of you Uncle Li you wouldn’t fucking believe. And I’m standing there. I’m standing there thinking about you kitchen floor. And I did not feel too clever. I did not feel too clever.”
“Who let the dogs in?”
“Not in,” he said, and swiped a raised finger. “You don’t let them in. You open the door a crack and the dogs do it theyselves. Acting on they own initiative. Not in.”
“Who?”
“I was elsewhere, you honour. Up in Scotland with me DILF.”
“Who? Who?”
“Marlon,” said Lionel in momentary defeat. “The Floater. But that’s a uh, a technicality. Think, Des. Did Marlon let the dogs in? Did I let the dogs in? No. You let the dogs in. You let the dogs in … You fucked my mum. And you me nephew.”
“And? And?”
“Well. We’ll have to see, won’t we. The fact remains. Des, the fact remains. You can’t go round giving you uncle’s mum one. Giving you own gran one. No.”
“All right.”
From his back pocket Des took a
white envelope and placed it on the quilt.
“There’s a sealed copy of that in the safe at the Mirror. There’s a sealed copy of that in the vault at the bank. There’s a sealed copy of that in the editor’s desk at the Diston Gazette.”
“Go on then. What’s it say?”
“What’s it say? Everything. Gran and me.” And at this point Des actually thought that he need go no further. It was enough: Gran and me was enough. Lionel was already flapping a limp hand in the air as Des pressed on. “Gran and Rory Nightingale. Rory and you. The envelope at the Mirror’s got something else in it.”
“Yeah?”
“Rory’s lip ring. With the dried blood. Rory’s blood.”
Lionel positioned a fresh cigar. Again the gold Zippo with its flabby flame. Now you could see the rusty stubble on his chin and cheeks, the wildly mobile eyes in the crimson mouths of their lids.
“So. If anything happens.”
“Yeah yeah yeah.”
“Anything at all.”
“Yeah yeah yeah yeah … Nice effort, Des. Typical. Finking youself out of it. Anyway. Truth to tell, son—truth to tell, I’ll be going away for a bit as it is.”
“What you go and do now?”
“Mm. The DILFs’re acting up. Not her in Scotland. Not yet. But once one starts, they all … These two Mayfair DILFs. Yeah, it’s been building for a while, this has, Des. Be all over the papers in a minute.” He coughed, scrapingly, scouringly (you could hear the meshing threads of phlegm in his chest). “See, with them other birds, you can bat them around a bit and then settle out of court. But you DILF—she’s got some self-respect. Worse, she’s got some fucking money …”
Des stood to go.
“That’s what happens when you got a slag for an old lady. Every time you do the other, you find you full of rage. And what’s you next port of call? Prison. Well. Prison ain’t that bad. You know where you are in prison.”
