Lionel Asbo: State of England by Martin Amis Read Free Book Online Page A

wives, the many boys who loved the feel of women’s clothing: all this, but nothing about a fifteen-year-old and his nan. Eleven days had passed since he posted his letter. Why hadn’t Daphne printed it? Was it too terrible? No (or so a part of him still wanly hoped): it was too trivial.
    Des closed his eyes and saw himself in the granny flat at the age of thirteen. He was, as usual, weeping into his sleeve – while Gran stroked his hair and softly hummed along with that emollient melody, ‘Hey Jude’. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad, Take a sad song And make it better . The hugs, the hand-clasps, the vast and trackless silences. Gran said that grief was like the sea; you had to ride the tides ( So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin ), and then, after months, after years …
    Now in the sidestreet two hammer drills revved up, atomising his thoughts. And just then an old janitor (the one with the ponytail and the dented cheeks) stuck his head round the door.
    ‘Why you not in school?’
    ‘Got a project,’ said Des. And reapplied himself to his Sun .
    International news. Slaughter in Darfur. N. Korea’s breakout N-test? Dozens slain in Mex drug clash … After a look over his shoulder, he reached out an unsteady hand for the Independent (which was at least recognisably tabloidal in size). He expected the spidery print to exclude him. But it didn’t; it let him in … Des read all the international news in the Independent , and then moved on to the Times . When he looked at his watch it was half past four (and he was keenly hungry).
    He had spent eight hours in the place called World.
    ‘I’ve been reading the papers.’
    ‘What papers?’
    ‘The proper ones. The Guardian and that.’
    ‘You don’t want to read the papers, Des,’ said Lionel, turning the page of his Morning Lark and smoothly realigning its wings: Hubbie Nabbed Over Wheelie Bin Corpse Find. With a look of the sharpest disappoval, he added, ‘All that’s none of you concern.’
    ‘So you don’t follow it – all that … Uncle Li, why are we in Iraq?’ Lionel turned the page: Noreen’s Lezbo Boob Romp Shock. ‘Or don’t you know about Iraq?’
    ‘Course I know about Iraq,’ he said without looking up. ‘9/11, mate. See, Des, on 9/11, these blokes with J-cloths on they heads went and –’
    ‘But Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11!’
    ‘So? … Des, you being very naïve. See, America’s top boy. He’s the Daddy. And after a fucking liberty like 9/11, well, it’s all off, and the Daddy lashes out.’
    ‘Yeah, but who at?’
    ‘Doesn’t matter who at. Anyone’ll do. Like me and Ross Knowles. It’s the moron theory. Keeps them all honest.’
    Lionel turned the page: Knife Yobs Dodge Nick, Proves Probe. Des sat back and said wonderingly,
    ‘When it started, Uncle Li. I mean don’t we have allies in the region? They can’t’ve been too happy about it. The instability. Our allies in the region.’
    ‘Allies?’ said Lionel wearily. ‘What allies?’
    ‘Uh, Saudi Arabia. Turkey … Egypt. I bet they weren’t too pleased.’
    ‘ So ? Jesus Christ, Des, you can’t half bang on.’
    ‘They’re our allies. What did we tell them?’
    Lionel dropped his head. ‘What d’you think we told them? We told them, Listen. We doing Iraq, all right? And if you fucking want some, you can fucking have some and all .’ He levelled his shoulders. ‘Now shut it. I’m reading this.’
    And Des entertained the image of a planet-sized Hobgoblin at twelve o’clock on a Friday night. This was the place called World.
    ‘Gaa. Look, Des. More GILFs.’
    The cat was there again. The cat was there again – at the end of the tunnel that led to Grace. Hairless and whiskerless, as bald as a white hotwater bottle, with its soft, ancient, ear-hurting cry … He pressed the bell, and heard the fluffy pink slippers padding towards the mat (as the tape played ‘Dear Prudence’).
    ‘Gran,’ he was almost immediately saying. ‘The