London Fields by Martin Amis Page B
Authors: Martin Amis
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Contemporary, Mystery, London, Performing Arts, Screenplays, Unread, Modern, City and Town Life
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the bar with his unreliable smile. Guy watched in wonder. Keith said,
'No danger. They don't sell French fags here, darling. No way. Here? No danger. Carlyle!'
A black boy appeared, panting, triumphant, as if his errand were already run. Keith gave the instructions, the mangled fiver, then turned assessingly. Death wasn't new in the Black Cross, it was everyday, it was ten-a-penny; but tailored mourning wear, hats, veils? Keith searched his mind, seemed to search his mouth, for something appropriate to say. In the end he said, 'Bereavement innit. God? Get her a brandy. She could use it. Nobody close I presume?'
'No. Nobody close.'
'What's your name, sweetheart?'
She told him. Keith couldn't believe his luck.
'Sex!'
'S- i -x. Actually it's Six. '
'Seeks! Relax, Nicky. We get all sorts in here. Hey, cock. Guy . . . '
Now Guy moved into her force field. Intensely he confirmed the line of dark down above her mouth. You saw women like this, sometimes, at the bars of theatres and concert halls, in certain restaurants, in aeroplanes. You didn't see them in the Black Cross. She too looked as though she might faint at any moment. 'How do you do?' he said (in his peripheral vision Keith was slowly nodding), extending a hand towards the black glove. 'Guy Clinch.' His fingers hoped for the amperes of recognition but all he felt was a slick softness, a sense of moisture that perhaps someone else had readied. Little Carlyle exploded through the pub doors.
'You must let me pay for these,' she said, removing a glove. The hand that now attacked the cellophane was bitten at the five tips.
'My treat,' said Keith.
'I suppose,' Guy said, 'I suppose this is by way of being a wake.'
'Weren't family?' said Keith.
'Just a woman I used to work for.'
'Young?'
'No no.'
'Still. Does you credit,' Keith went on. 'Show respect. Even if it's just some old boiler. Comes to us all as such.'
They talked on. With a violent jerk of self-reproof, Guy bought more drinks. Keith leaned forward murmuring with cupped hands to light Nicola's second cigarette. But this was soon finished or aborted, and she was lowering her veil and saying,
'Thank you. You've been very kind. Goodbye.'
Guy watched her go, as did Keith: the delicate twist of the ankles, the strength and frankness of the hips; and that concavity of the tight black skirt, in the telling underspace.
'Extraordinary,' said Guy.
'Yeah, she'll do,' said Keith, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand (for he was leaving also).
'You're not –'
Keith turned, in warning. His gaze fell to the hand, Guy's hand (their first touch), which lightly held his forearm. The hand now slackened and dropped.
'Come on, Keith,' said Guy with a pale laugh. 'She's just been to a funeral.'
Keith looked him up and down. 'Life goes on innit,' he said, with most of his usual buoyancy. He straightened his windcheater and gave a manful sniff. 'Dreaming of it,' he said, as if to the street outside. 'Begging for it. Praying for it.'
Keith shoved his way through the black doors. Guy hesitated for a moment, a pub moment, and then followed him.
That night in Lansdowne Crescent, at 8.45, his twelve-hour tryst with Marmaduke now only minutes away, Guy sat on the second sofa in the second drawing-room with a rare second drink and thought: How will I ever know anything in the middle of all this warmth and space, all this supershelter? I want to feel like the trampolinist when he falls back to earth and to gravity. To touch the earth with heaviness – just to touch it. God expose us, take away our padding and our room.
I watched them go.
Keith followed Nicola out of the Black Cross. Guy followed Keith.
I wish to Christ I'd followed Guy, but those were early days, before I was really on the case.
A promising routine is forming around me. I can finish a chapter in two days, even with all the fieldwork I have to go out and do. Every third day, now, I do more fieldwork, and wince and gloat into my notebook. I write.
'No danger. They don't sell French fags here, darling. No way. Here? No danger. Carlyle!'
A black boy appeared, panting, triumphant, as if his errand were already run. Keith gave the instructions, the mangled fiver, then turned assessingly. Death wasn't new in the Black Cross, it was everyday, it was ten-a-penny; but tailored mourning wear, hats, veils? Keith searched his mind, seemed to search his mouth, for something appropriate to say. In the end he said, 'Bereavement innit. God? Get her a brandy. She could use it. Nobody close I presume?'
'No. Nobody close.'
'What's your name, sweetheart?'
She told him. Keith couldn't believe his luck.
'Sex!'
'S- i -x. Actually it's Six. '
'Seeks! Relax, Nicky. We get all sorts in here. Hey, cock. Guy . . . '
Now Guy moved into her force field. Intensely he confirmed the line of dark down above her mouth. You saw women like this, sometimes, at the bars of theatres and concert halls, in certain restaurants, in aeroplanes. You didn't see them in the Black Cross. She too looked as though she might faint at any moment. 'How do you do?' he said (in his peripheral vision Keith was slowly nodding), extending a hand towards the black glove. 'Guy Clinch.' His fingers hoped for the amperes of recognition but all he felt was a slick softness, a sense of moisture that perhaps someone else had readied. Little Carlyle exploded through the pub doors.
'You must let me pay for these,' she said, removing a glove. The hand that now attacked the cellophane was bitten at the five tips.
'My treat,' said Keith.
'I suppose,' Guy said, 'I suppose this is by way of being a wake.'
'Weren't family?' said Keith.
'Just a woman I used to work for.'
'Young?'
'No no.'
'Still. Does you credit,' Keith went on. 'Show respect. Even if it's just some old boiler. Comes to us all as such.'
They talked on. With a violent jerk of self-reproof, Guy bought more drinks. Keith leaned forward murmuring with cupped hands to light Nicola's second cigarette. But this was soon finished or aborted, and she was lowering her veil and saying,
'Thank you. You've been very kind. Goodbye.'
Guy watched her go, as did Keith: the delicate twist of the ankles, the strength and frankness of the hips; and that concavity of the tight black skirt, in the telling underspace.
'Extraordinary,' said Guy.
'Yeah, she'll do,' said Keith, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand (for he was leaving also).
'You're not –'
Keith turned, in warning. His gaze fell to the hand, Guy's hand (their first touch), which lightly held his forearm. The hand now slackened and dropped.
'Come on, Keith,' said Guy with a pale laugh. 'She's just been to a funeral.'
Keith looked him up and down. 'Life goes on innit,' he said, with most of his usual buoyancy. He straightened his windcheater and gave a manful sniff. 'Dreaming of it,' he said, as if to the street outside. 'Begging for it. Praying for it.'
Keith shoved his way through the black doors. Guy hesitated for a moment, a pub moment, and then followed him.
That night in Lansdowne Crescent, at 8.45, his twelve-hour tryst with Marmaduke now only minutes away, Guy sat on the second sofa in the second drawing-room with a rare second drink and thought: How will I ever know anything in the middle of all this warmth and space, all this supershelter? I want to feel like the trampolinist when he falls back to earth and to gravity. To touch the earth with heaviness – just to touch it. God expose us, take away our padding and our room.
I watched them go.
Keith followed Nicola out of the Black Cross. Guy followed Keith.
I wish to Christ I'd followed Guy, but those were early days, before I was really on the case.
A promising routine is forming around me. I can finish a chapter in two days, even with all the fieldwork I have to go out and do. Every third day, now, I do more fieldwork, and wince and gloat into my notebook. I write.
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