by Martin Amis
‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I do apologise.’
Victoria hugged her robe to her. Plainly she was heading for the cavernous bathroom which the three of them shared (along with the rabbits and the archery sets). He expected, as he focused, to find her poetically pale, as pale as the weak dawn that was now almost upon them. But she wore an uneven flush and a roseate brocade on her upper lip and septum – she had not been well, was not well, was of course not well, this Christmas, this long January …
‘Oh never mind,’ she said, and stepped round him. At the corner she bent and turned, saying, ‘Brendan – you know there’s only one thing he can do.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am?’
She flipped a hand in his direction, and was gone.
An hour later Brendan was still muttering into his pillow … How did it go again? Oh yes: work. That’s all you were doing. Making ‘headway’, was it? And rousing yourself from the enforced torpor of Ewelme … Working is what they’re doing and that’s why they look so old: old in the eyes. Is pornography just filmed prostitution or is it something more gladiatorial? Those hospitalic condoms: they don’t keep them on at the end. And the face has holes in it … Gladiators: were slaves. But could win their freedom. What exactly has happened to you? he asked himself. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body … Tori Fate turned seventeen on January 3. Princess Lolita was begun on January 12 and released on January 19, the day after the Victoria story metastasised. So hard upon – it followed hard upon. And thus the phenomenon explained. At the back of the common mind, for reasons fair or foul, was a virgin princess. A fifteen-year-old girl – but the most brilliant edition.
* * *
3. Apologia—2: Keith the Snake
‘Did you dear? Did you dear? Ah. I trust me wreath was in its proper place? Ah. Did you dear? Did you dear? Ah. He’s coming is he? Handsome. Yes dear. God bless.’
Joseph Andrews put down one instrument and picked up another. Click.
‘Going through what I done so far, I think I could’ve give the wrong impression. You must think I’m a stubborn sort of so-and-so – a bit too stubborn, sometimes, for me own good! And it could be you ain’t that far wrong. On the last day of me eighteen months for [click] Jesus. Oh yeah [click] for uh, for Affray, some bloke come up to me and says, “Fancy a run at the wall, mate?” They had a uh, refectory table in the yard – must have been fifteen feet, we’ve reckoned, on its end. So I said I’d be absolutely delighted. I fancied it the more as they’d already give me me civvies. In a pillowslip. Lob it over – up and away. As it was we was only gone half an hour. And of course, when they’ve dragged you back in, they lay about you with a will. Course that: does the bear do its business in the woods? They’ve stuck me with the eighteen months again plus another six for the break, plus another year for what we done to the couple whose car we’ve took. Now I’ve said at the time that having a run at the wall was the right thing to do and I’d do it again. You got to keep on having a go at them. You got to keep – kicking up, we call it. But then it comes over you that … that prison is like the sea. You can be the strongest swimmer there ever was and you can keep kicking up, and kicking up, and kicking up, like grim death with all you got till your very last gasp. But the sea is the sea. It’ll stay where it is and it’ll never tire. [Click … Click.]
‘So when I come out from doing me eight I threw in me lot with Tony Eist and Keith the Snake. Import-export business on the Costa del Sol. Me and Tony’ve gone back a way, through Wormwood Scrubs, Borstal, Detention Centre and Approved School. But this Keith the Snake was a new one on me. And you know what? Don’t ask me why, but there was something about Keith the Snake that I didn’t quite … Call it a sixth sense, if you like. I couldn’t put me finger on it, but there was something about Keith the Snake that come over a bit offo. Lovely dresser, Keith the Snake. Not flash. Smart. Always beautifully turned out.
‘What we was doing was we was … Now I liked a drink, in them days, but I’ve personally never held with drugs. Offer me an aspirin and I dash it from your hand. And drugs – they pose a danger to the young. Then again, you got to adapt and move with the times, as you yourself know fully well, and you can’t keep clinging to the past. We had eighteen powerboats shifting two ton of heroin through Puerto Banus per month. What we was doing was we was making runs, twice a night, to Algiers, where the gear come in from the Pakis and the Afghans. We had it going up the coast and flooding into Europe through Marseille. It was a highly lucrative trade – but then there’s always the human element …
‘Now we was none of us model citizens, but Tony Eist … he just wasn’t normal. In the old days, he’d have himself committing crimes even in his alibis. He’d go: “I was never in on the Brink-Mats lark. I was busy flogging this condemned Argie beef.” Or: “How could I have been in on the Waterloo jewellers? I was up West, demanding with menaces.” A very dishonest man, Tony Eist. So one day Keith the Snake come up to see me in me villa. He’s said he’s done his sums – and Tony’s been hiving off millions for hisself! Well I wasn’t having that now was I.
‘I’ve gone over there and we’ve had it out. And I’ve done him. Then, not content with that, he’s got hisself mangled up in his lawnmower. Diesel. Two-seater. And his wife, she hasn’t done the sensible thing and said she’ve run him down by accident. She’s gone and shopped me to the Spaniards! [Click.] Go on then. [Click.] See, there was complicating factors. I’m not about to go banging on about the Other or the Urge or whatever you want to call it. For me, there’s too much of that kind of thing as it is. But we’re talking man to man, and, well, I’ve been giving Tony’s wife Angie one. If I did have a regrettable habit, back then, it was that: giving me mates’ wives one. [Click.] And they daughters and all, in them days. Little Debbie. And she’s gone and grassed me up to Angie! [Click.] So a bit of malice there, I’d reckon. Oh yes, a little bit of spite. The Spanish coppers was all bent as arseholes of course, but what could they do, with that bloody great swamp on the front lawn and no Tony? Me and Keith the Snake’ve grabbed what we could and roared round to Alicante, flogged the boat, and hopped on a tanker to Belfast.
‘[Click.] Go on then. He’s no different. Him? … Goo on. [Click.] Regarding the matter of uh, giving your mates’ wives one. Now in them days that’s considered not on. Something you don’t do. See, you can only do it if you … if you fear no man. Because all right, it’s naughty – but what’s the blokes going to do? Come round and have it with me about it? No. They gives their wife a biff and otherwise, and that’s it. End of story. Which they thoroughly deserve. That’s a female weakness, that is. Weakness for power. Weakness for strength … I never was married but I got engaged the twice. By an unfortunate coincidence, both of them’ve gone and took they own lives, for reasons best known to theirselves.
‘During our time in the uh, “Emerald Isle”, Keith the Snake and me’ve come to London the once. I had a bone to pick with a bloke who’d taken a liberty with me, years back, in Strangeways. Fella name of Mick. I should’ve just done him, shouldn’t I. [Click] Should’ve just taken a chopper to the cunt … [Click.] But no. Fancy a fair fight instead. I’ve gone over to his yard [click] with me lapels lined with razorblades [click] and called him out. Told him a home truth or two and all. What a ruck that was. I don’t know who’ve come off worst. Still, I’ve remained active even from me hospital bed. And that was the only crime I committed on British soil that I never paid me debt to society for. I mean the matter of the gold bullion and the VAT. Me and Keith the Snake was convinced we’ve found a genuine loophole, as there’s no VAT on the coins we melted down and sold back to the Bullion House. Customs and Excise begged to differ. That would be about seventeen million in today’s money. And to that I’ll come back to.
‘So Keith the Snake and me’ve transferred our endeavour to Dublin, and made a totally fresh start. I asserted meself and encountered no difficulty whatsoever. Them Irish in the south, I don’t know what
they think they’re thinking of half the time. Too much of the Danny Boy, I don’t know. They couldn’t believe Keith the Snake and me, and the measures we was prepared to take. All in all we had seven very happy years in Eire. Then we come to this business with the IRA, and the extremely unfortunate parting of the ways with Keith the Snake.
‘Now me I never wanted no publicity. People prominent in the underworld, they’ve got this terrible weakness for it. I seen publicity do for face after face. You know, you got power, you want it noticed. We all want to be top dog, mister big, king bastard. But it can’t work like that down here, see, where everything moves the other way … What happened was, I was driving along in me Merc and lost me concentration. Next thing I know, I’ve gone and injured a young woman, who unfortunately soon died. Pregnant and all. Well there was no end of a song and dance about that – though it’s perfectly legal to give someone a spill if you’re sober, and me lawyer said there’s definitely something a bit iffy in me breathalyser report. And then it’s come out who I am and what I’m worth. And the IRA think: eye-eye.
‘I’m still on bail and I heard there’s a kidnapping planned. Which is a joke. As a Cat-A prisoner I’ve marged me bread with all their top boys, and there’s no way in this world they’d’ve fancied me for a nab. But by then Scotland Yard’s sticking its nose in, and I’ve reckoned it’s time to move on. I’ve said to Keith the Snake, “Keith mate? It’s time to move on.” And he’s gone, “I never ploughed into no pregnant sort. You move on.” Fair enough. “Fine by me, mate. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” [Click.] And that – and that’s his idea of loyalty … [Click.] So I’ve started making me arrangements to emigrate across the water.
‘Come the very sad conclusion of me friendship with Keith the Snake. It started off foolish really: just one of them things, I suppose. I’ve had a drink and I’ve gone and done him. I go in to visit and I’ve said, “Keith mate. I sincerely apologise. I bitterly regret what’s occurred, and can you find it in your heart to overlook it.” So we shake and that. I know it’s going to take time for the rift to heal. Then of course he’s barely out of hospital and I’ve gone and done him again. Carved up all his suits and all. Lovely materials. Only the best … That was me weakness in them days. I’d get uh, argumentative in me drink. And he kept getting on me nerves. Same stupid talk. I says, “Why you always off with them brasses? Why don’t you have a proper bird?” “What, so’s you can stuff her? Why d’you stuff your mates’ birds?” “Well I always do that.” “Yeah but why?” “I always stuff me mates’ birds.” “Yeah but why?” “Because I always do.” [Click.] “Hey Jo. You want to stuff my bird so you can pretend you’re me?” “Oi!” “Hey Jo. You want to stuff my bird so you can pretend you’re her?” … Well it was all off then. [Click.] One of them uh, circular arguments. Blah blah blah.
‘So now I’ve done him the twice. And here’s what we done. I’ve let him strap me to the paddock wall (this is in me farm near Balbriggan). First thing he’s done, he’s told me it was never Tony Eist who skanked me off in Spain. It was Keith the Snake all along! So I’ve gone, “That’s water under the bridge, that is. Now do your worst, mate. But no tools. Done?” And Keith the Snake’s gone, “Done.” And what’s he gone and done? He’s gone and done me with the fucking scythe. There he is in his underpants, screaming his head off. And left me wallowing in me own blood. I’ve had more than two hundred stitches in me chest alone. One stripe come down from me ear, across me cheek, under me nose, over me mouth, along me jaw and into me neck. [Click.] He’s had a go at me privates and all. That’s how low he’s stooped. Ah, Keith mate … What happened, boy? [Click.] Well, after a liberty like that, why he never finished the job I’ll never know. Was he barmy or what?
‘After a short uh, sojourn in Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil, I’ve pitched up in Southern California. And if me name rings a bell from the newspapers it’s because you’re thinking of an old geezer sitting round a swimming-pool in Rio with a glass of champagne and a halfcaste brass on his lap. That’s me brother Fred, and no icecream’s ever had it easier, with the pension I give him. Me record here in Southern California is absolutely stainless, and I’ve uh, amassed another fortune in the home-video industry. Totally legitimately. [Click.] And if you want to see a beauty-queen with her head up a giraffe’s arse, or otherwise, I’d be delighted to oblige. [Click.] I’ve done uh, extensive fundraising work for charity, and I hold the post of Treasurer at the local Citizens’ Community Association.
‘See, I’m not such a bad bloke really, when all is said and done. Me, I’m the nicest fella in the world – in the car like, you know, after you, darling. In the shops: “Morning all” and “God bless”. I’ve lived me life by me own rules – and, yes, and woe betide anyone that breaks them. I am who I am. Jo is Jo. It’s just the road I went down. It’s just the game I played. It’s just the game I played.
‘Now to business.’
A musclebound horsefly materialised on the spotted knuckle of his right hand. He reached slowly for the holster with his left.
‘You didn’t like that, did you mate …’
He leant forward to drink in the full fragrance of the propellant. Like a cut-price air-freshener – the negative essence of all the smells it was meant to conceal. His eyes moistened: takes you back.
It was like the choking sweetness of some new cell they’ve just flung you in. Scented detergent, fighting a lost battle against another man’s fluids, another man’s fear.
4. Yellow Tongue
Clint Smoker sat, for now, in a milk bar on Ignacio Boulevard. He typed: ‘So some so-called 15-year-old is crying “rape” after a bit of fun in a ditch with an older lad.’ He deleted this: got to pace yourself … Clint was expected, ninety minutes from now, at Karla White Productions on Innocencio Drive … No, it had to be admitted: he was having the time of his jounalistic life, was Clint Smoker. That morning he had interviewed a pimp named DeRoger Monroe in the Lovetown Greyhound Station, and filed an admiring profile. Emptying sachet after sachet of sugar into his Coca-Cola, DeRoger had told him how it worked: you tell them to go out there and be superstars, while, in the meantime, you do hard drugs with other pimps. Then when the birds are down to their last tooth, you ‘take them to Florida’: give them a final pasting and then boot them out the door … Soon, Clint would be meeting with Karla White. And, later, there was the mouthwatering prospect of an hour with Dork Bogarde.
Nor was it merely Clint’s reportage. What about the editorials, the think-pieces, the ‘virtual cult’ (as Strite had put it), back home, of Yellow Dog. He typed:
• So some grasping icequeen is seeking compensation for ‘sexual harassment’, having left her job after a bit of harmless horseplay round the water cooler.
She’s already had a few quid for her ripped clothes and the dental work.
And now it’s for ‘emotional distress’ that she’s taking those nine lads to court.
Well she’s not going to come clean, is she?
She’s not going to say: I f**king loved it!
All the girls Yellow Dog’s worked around go batty at the thought of a proper goose.
And don’t tell me there’s one of them, when you’re alone in the lift, that doesn’t like her nip being given a healthy twist.
Hallo, here comes old Marge, grunting and sighing with her mop and her pails.
She’s down on those shiny red knees, moaning and groaning, with her great fat arse in the air.
Look lively lads – where’s the office cattleprod?
Clint paused, and mused. Karla White: best norks in Lovetown. It’s well known. Dark glasses? Check. He mused, and paused, and worked on:
• So some old boiler in Hammersmith got smacked about a bit by a couple of lads while they were relieving her of her pension.
Now that’s well naughty, boys, and don’t do it again.
But spare us the violin, okay.
Spare us the clock-stopping photos of the biddy with the black eyes.
She
’s only 77—a child in this day and age – and she can f**king well take her chances like anybody else.
Besides, she’s been stinking up the place for long enough, hasn’t she?
When they get like that they’re better off dead.
So get well soon Gran – if you must.
But leave out the f**king whinge this time. Alright?
A little light told Clint that he had an e in, which he now shared:
dear 1: o, it all went 1 derfully, 1 derfully – with dad. i was always his favourite, u c. when i was a child he worshipped the very ground i walked on; 4 him, the sun shone out of my* … he was as punctual as ever, & as gallant, with the bouquet of 4sythia and the creamy chocol8s. always the perfect gent 2 me, full of amusing stories about his girlfriends. i prepared his favourite dinner (tripe & brains), with 40fied wine, in the candlelite. Then the bombshell, the utter c@astrophe: my father has been diagnosed with: cancer. i am absolutely devast8ed. k8.
Poor little thing, thought Clint. Still, that can work to a man’s advantage. You get credit for not being dead.
For once in your life.
‘Fucktown,’ began Karla White, ‘in its current phase, which could be ending around now with the Princess Lolita phenomenon, might as well be called Hatefucktown. That’s the dominant form: Hatefuck. But let’s go back a bit.’
‘I’ll just see if this …’ said Clint, giving his tape recorder a malevolent stare.
