London Fields

by Martin Amis

  'How nice.’

  'We need one.'

  'What? A holiday in Yugoslavia?'

  'A marvellous young man.'

  'It says here that tourists are advised not to visit comecon countries. Idiots. They're deploying QuietWall. Darling,' he asked, 'how was it? Did you get any sleep at all?'

  'Some, I think, between five and five-fifteen. Lizzy boo relieved me. He was terrible.'

  Hope's sleep was a sacred subject in this house — more sacred, possibly, more hedged with wonder and concern, than the subject of Marmaduke himself. Guy had recently come across a scientific description of the amount of sleep Hope got, or claimed to get, during her nights with Marmaduke. It arose in speculation about the very early universe, nanoseconds after the Big Bang. A Millionth of the time it takes the speed of light to cross a proton. Now that really wasn't very long at all ... On the alternate nights when Guy did Marmaduke, he usually got in a good three-quarters of an hour, and frequently dozed while the child wearily belaboured him or beat his own head against the padded walls.

  'Poor you.'

  'Poor me. Guy,' said Hope. She held a waxed document in her hand. 'What', she asked, 'is this shit?'

  Guy went on reading, or at least his eyes remained fixed to the page. In the last month he had given £15,000 to charity, and he was feeling terribly guilty.

  'Fifteen grand?' said Hope. 'Save the Children, huh?' She herself had given a similar amount to charity in the last month, but to galleries and opera houses and orchestras and other repositories of social power. 'What about our child? Who's going to save him?'

  'Marmaduke', said Guy, 'will have plenty of money.'

  'You've seen how he gets through it? Eighteen months old and already it burns a fucking hole in his jeans. In his Osh Kosh B'Gosh! You need therapy, Guy. When this whole thing started I begged you to have therapy.'

  Guy shrugged. 'We're rich,' he said.

  'Get out of here. You're giving me cancer.'

  After a deft and speedy bowel movement Guy showered, then shaved: the French soap, the cut-throat razor. He dressed in an assortment of profoundly expensive and durable odds and ends, hand-me-downs some of them, clothes worn by his father, by cousins, eccentric uncles. His closet was a City of business suits - but on most days now his clothes no longer needed to say anything. The outer man was losing his lineaments. Soon there would just be an inner one, palely smiling. A flowingly tailored tweed jacket, shape­less khaki trousers, a bright blue shirt, the thumping shoes (Guy's feet were enormous). As he came down the stairs he met with a rare sight: Marmaduke calmly ensconced in his mother's arms. Hope held him protectively while denouncing a nanny, a brawny Scandin­avian whom Guy had not seen before. In his left fist he clutched his bays: a posy of long blonde hair.

  'And where do you think you're going?' said Hope, turning from one defendant to another.

  'Out. Out.'

  'Where to? What for?'

  'See some life.'

  'Oh. Life! Oh I get it. Life.1

  Reflexively, but with all due caution (and a shrewd glance at Marmaduke's free hand), Guy bent trimly to kiss his wife goodbye. Then everything went black.

  He was in Ladbroke Grove by the time his vision returned. The sloped length of Lansdowne Crescent had reeled past him in the sun, popping and streaming in gorgeous haemorrhages; and only now at the main street, with its man-made noise and danger, did he feel a real need for clear sight. The eye-fork again: the first and second finger of Marmaduke's right hand, searchingly poked into Guy's candid orbits. Wonderfully skilful, you had to admit: such timing. He shook his head with the respectful admiration one knows before a phenomenon, and thought of the six-foot nurse he had seen the other week running down the front doorsteps, not even pausing to sue, with a bloody handkerchief pressed to her nose. Personal-injury suits were another way Marmaduke had found of costing Guy money. None had so far proved serious, but there were now quite a few pending. Marmaduke, and his permanent tantrum; the only thing that silenced him was a parental tantrum, one that left the adult actors still shaking and weeping and staggering, long after Marma­duke's original tantrum had resumed . . . Guy came to a halt on the street and blinked twice with his whole forehead. He raised a hand. With two soft pops he freed his lower eyelids, and waited for the sluicing tears. He had begun to enter the world of duplicity. He was passing through the doors of deception, with their chains of lies. And all London swam.

  What kind of man was this? How unusual? Guy gave money to charity. For every other man in his circle, charity began at home. And ended there too. Or not quite: charity continued for a mile or so, into the next postal district, and arrived at a small flat with a woman in it. These men winced at their wives' touch; they jerked up too soon to kiss them hello or goodbye. And Guy wasn't like that.

  The thing was, the thing was ... he was straight arrow. His desires described a perfect arc: they were not power-biased, they were not perverse. He may have had at least two of everything, but he had only one lady. Hope was it, his single woman. When they met at Oxford — this was sixteen years ago — there was something about Guy that Hope liked. She liked his curly-ended fair hair, his house in the country, his shyness about his height, his house in Lansdowne Crescent, his habit of hooding his eyes against a low sun, his title, his partiality to cherries (especially ripe ones), his large private income. They lived together during the last academic year, and studied together at facing desks in the double sitting-room ('Is Samson Agonistes epic or tragedy?' 'What were the long-term effects of Pearl Harbor, as opposed to those of Sarajevo and Munich?'), and slept together, vigorously, in the small double-bed. They had both been unhappy at home, had both felt underloved; now they became each other's family. So marriage, and London, and the City, and . . . Hope's social ambitions took Guy by sur­prise. The surprise wore off after a while (during the thousandth dinner party, perhaps), which was more than could be said for the social ambitions. They didn't wear off: they shone with a gathering brilliance. One of their effects was that Guy naturally came across many beautiful and accomplished and dissatisfied women, at least a dozen of whom propositioned him, in secluded corners, in crush bars, towards the end of masked balls. Nothing really happened. These advances were often sufficiently subtle to escape his notice altogether. True, every few years he secretly 'fell in love'. The redhaired wife of the Italian conductor. The seventeen-year-old daughter of the computer heiress. It was like an illness that passed after a couple of weeks; the love virus, efficiently repelled by a determined immune system. Most worrying and dramatic by far was the case of Lizzyboo, Hope's big little sister. Hope knew something was up the minute she found Guy in the visitor's room weeping over Lizzyboo's ballet pumps. Lizzyboo was sent away that time: seven years ago. All forgotten now, or not even forgotten: a scandalous family joke. Hope herself normally retained several menfriends (a partygoing philosopher, a dandy architect, a powerful journalist), but she was so strict and impeccable that it never seriously occurred to Guy - no no, nothing of that kind. For himself, the world of other women shaped itself into a great gallery, like the Hermitage, crammed with embarrassments of radiance and genius, but so airless, so often traversed, so public — a gallery where Guy sometimes sauntered for an hour, or where he sometimes hurried, looking straight ahead (squares of sublimity moving by like passing cars), or where he was sometimes to be found, though not often, standing before a blazing window and wringing his hands . ..

  Marry young, and a melancholy comes over you at thirty, which has to do with thwarted possibilities. It was worse for Guy. Hope was a little older, and had had her fair share of guys at Oxford, earlier on, and at NYU, and for that matter in Norfolk, Virginia. So a new adventure: they overcame their ecopolitical anxieties and decided to go ahead and have a baby. Even then there were difficulties - Guy's difficulties. A process that began with him equably switching from jockey pants to boxer shorts ended up with him out cold and his legs in stirrups while a team of Japanese surgeons and a particle-beam laser
rewired his nethers. Thus, after half a decade of 'trying': Marmaduke. For years they had worried about the kind of world they were bringing their child into. Now they worried about the kind of child they were bringing into their world. The gap or hollow that the baby had been meant to fill — well, Marmaduke filled it, and more; Marmaduke could fill the Grand Canyon with his screams. It appeared that from here on in a mixture of fatigue, depression and incredulity would be obliged to keep them faithful. Most of the psychiatrists and counsellors agreed that Hope's unreasonable fear of getting pregnant again might soon start to fade. Their last attempt at lovemaking had featured the pill, the coil, the cap, and three condoms, plus more or less immediate coitus interruptus. That was July. This was September.

  But he wasn't about to stray. He was straight arrow. Divagation, errancy - to Guy this spelt humiliation. It would be disastrous, and inexpiable. No second chances. She'd kill him. The girl in the Black Cross with the extraordinary mouth - he would never see her again. Good, good. The flu, the malaria she had given him would be gone in a week. The thought of his life with an absence where Hope now stood (or wearily reclined) was enough to make him stop dead in the street and shake his hair with his hands raised and clawlike. He walked on, steadily. He would never stray.

  'I mean — that's life,' said the young man. 'You can't argue with it. It's just one of them things.' He paused, and without fully straight­ening his body leaned forward and spat through the open door into the street. 'Okay,' he resumed. 'I got into a fight, I came out the wrong side of it, and that's life. No complaints. Fair enough. That's life.'

  Guy sipped his tomato juice and stole the odd glance over his broadsheet. Good God: so that's life. The young man continued his tale. The two girls he told it to listened in postures of mild sympathy.

  'I was out of order. Got taught a lesson.' He shrugged. 'That's it.'

  Conversationally, philosophically, and often pausing to hawk blood into the street, the young man explained how this very recent altercation had cost him a broken nose and cheekbone and the loss of nearly all his top teeth. Guy folded his newspaper and stared at the ceiling. The rapidity of change. Anyone in Guy's circle who sustained equivalent damage would have to go to Switzerland for a year or two and get completely remade. And here was this wreck, back in the pub the very next morning, with his pint and his tabloid, his ruined face, and the occasional pbthook! through the open doors. Already he had changed the subject and was talking about the weather, the price of beer. The two girls thought no less of him for it, particularly the scarred brunette; if he was lucky, and assuming he had one, he might get to take her home. Life goes on. And this was life, it really was, uncared for, and taking no care of itself.

  Keith came in, causing the usual low pub murmur. He saw Guy and pointed a finger at him, then wagged his thumb backwards, indicating John Dark: John Dark, the corrupt policeman — the bent copper, the tarnished badge, the iffy filth. Dark was short and well-scrubbed, of that no-hair-but-good-teeth mould of man, and a horrid-jumper expert. He was the only regular in the Black Cross who looked at Guy with critical inquiry, as if he (Guy) really should know better. Dark's own position was ambiguous. He had a certain standing; but nearly everyone treated him with theatrical contempt.

  Especially Keith . . . Guy inferred that Keith would be with him in a minute. And sure enough, after a few words with Fucker about the Cavalier (Fucker being the pub car-expert), Keith came over and leant forward seriously on Guy's table.

  'You know that skirt who was in here? Nicola?'

  'Yes, I know who you mean.'

  'She wants you to . . .' Keith looked around unhappily. With impatience he acknowledged the salutes and greetings of Norvis, Dean, Thelonius, Curtly, Truth, Netharius, Shakespeare, Bogdan, Maciek, and the two Zbigs. 'We can't talk here,' he said, and suggested they repair to the Golgotha, his drinking club, and discuss things over a quiet glass of porno, the drink he always drank there (a Trinidadian liqueur). 'It's a matter of some delicacy.'

  Guy hesitated. He had been to Keith's drinking club once before. The Golgotha, while no more private than the Black Cross, and no less noisy, was certainly darker. Then he found himself saying, 'Why not come back to my place?'

  Keith hesitated. It occurred to Guy that the offer might seem offensive, since it was an invitation that Keith could never return. A one-way offer, unreturnable. But Keith glanced at the pub clock and said cannily, 'Good one.'

  They moved together through the activity of the Portobello Road, Guy tall and questing in the sun, Keith stockier, squarer, his hands bunched in his jacket pockets, his flared trousers tapered and throttled by the low-flying wind, his rolled tabloid under his arm, like a telescope. Out on the street they couldn't talk about Nicola Six because that's what they were going back to Guy's place to talk about. As they turned into a quieter avenue their own silence grew louder. Guy chose a subject which had often helped him out in the past.

  'Are you going to the match?'

  Both men supported Queens Park Rangers, the local team, and for years had been shuffling off to Loftus Road on Saturday afternoons. In fact they might have come across each other earlier, but this had never been likely: Guy stood in the terraces, with his pie and Bovril, whereas Keith was always to be found with his flask in the stands.

  'They're away today,' said Keith through his cigarette. 'United, innit. I was there last week.'

  'West Ham. Any good?’

  Some of the light went out in Keith's blue eyes as he said, 'During the first half the Hammers probed down the left flank. Revelling in the space, the speed of Sylvester Drayon was always going to pose problems for the home side's number two. With scant minutes remaining before the half-time whistle, the black winger cut in on the left back and delivered a searching cross, converted by Lee Fredge, the East London striker, with inch-perfect precision. After the interval Rangers' fortunes revived as they exploited their superiority in the air. Bobby Bondavich's men offered stout resistance and the question remained: could the Blues translate the pressure they were exerting into goals? In the seventy-fourth minute Keith Spare produced a pass that split the visitors' defence, and Dustin Housely rammed the equalizer home. A draw looked the most likely result until a disputed penalty decision broke the deadlock five minutes from the final whistle. Keith Spare made no mistake from the spot. Thus the Shepherd's Bush team ran out surprise 2—1 winners over the . . . over the outfit whose theme tune is "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles".'

  Keith's belated sigh of effort reminded Guy of the sound that Marmaduke would occasionally emit, after a rare success with some taxing formulation like more chips or knife mine. Guy said, The new boy in midfield, Neil . . . ? Did he do all right?'

  'Noel Frizzle. He justified his selection,' said Keith coldly.

  They walked on. Guy had of course been friendly with people like Keith before: in the City. But the people like Keith in the City wore £1 ,000 suits and platinum wrist-watches and sported uranium credit cards; at weekends they sailed yachts or donned red coats and mounted horses and went chasing after some rabbit or weasel; they collected wines (at lunch they crooned over their Pomerols and Gevrey-Chambertains) and modern first editions (you often heard them talking about what New Year Letter or Stamboul Train might nowadays fetch). They weren't poor, like Keith. Keith had his fistfuls of fivers, his furled tenners and folded fifties; but Keith was poor. His whole person said it. And this was why Guy honoured him and pitied him and admired him and envied him (and, he sometimes thought, even vaguely fancied him): because he was poor.

  'Here we are,' said Guy.

  He assumed his wife would be out or sleeping. She had been OUt, and would soon be sleeping, but Hope was right there in the hall when Guy showed Keith Talent into the house. It went quite well, considering, Guy thought. When he introduced them, Hope put considerable energy into dissimulating her astonishment and con­tempt. And Keith confined himself to an honest nod (and a not-so-honest smile); he didn't look at all uneasy until Hope said that Lady Bar
naby was downstairs, saying goodbye to Marmaduke before gallivanting off to Yugoslavia.

  'If you got company ..." said Keith, edging back towards the door.

  From below came a harsh shout of childish triumph, followed by an unforced scream. Lady Barnaby sprinted up the stairs and appeared holding her forehead in one hand and her spectacles in the other. Urgently Guy moved forward, but Lady Barnaby seemed to recover very quickly.

  'Perfectly all right. Perfectly all right,' she said.

  'If you're sure? Oh, Melissa, I'd like you to meet Keith Talent. A friend of mine.'

  Keith did now appear to be quite overwhelmed by the occasion. Perhaps, it's the title, thought Guy. It's a good thing he doesn't know about mine.

  Lady Barnaby blinked up gratefully, raised her glasses to her eyes, and slowly nodded towards the hatstand.

  'Oh my God,' said Guy. 'This is awful. Did Marmaduke do that? How? You simply must let us pay for them. Not with his fingers, surely.'

  A nanny now stood at the top of the stairs. Resignedly she explained what had happened. Lady Barnaby had come ill-advis-edly close to the highchair to feast her eyes on the boy. Marmaduke had cobwebbed both lenses with a skilful stab of the sugar-tongs.

  'Have you got another pair?' asked Guy. 'Whoops! Darling, I think perhaps you ought to see Melissa home.'

  In the drawing-room Keith asked for brandy, and was given one. He drank that, and asked for another. Guy, with whom alcohol did not always agree, poured himself a derisory Tío Pepe. They sat down facing each other on broad sofas. Guy felt that his instinct had been sound. Good to hear this in your own house: there could be little harm in it now.

  'It's like this,' said Keith, and hunkered that little bit closer. 'I went round there, okay? See if I could help her out with anything. I do that. It's like a sideline. Nice place she got. And I thought, in addition . . .'Keith tailed off fondly.'Well, you know what I'm like.'