Lionel Asbo: State of England

by Martin Amis

  “Lionel Asbo? Jack Firth-Heatherington.”

  “Excuse us, would you, Dallen? We going to have a little chat. About cash streams. And uh, me portfolio.”

  Des was in the kitchen, with Jon on his lap. Dawn sat opposite, with Joel on her lap. That day’s Sun lay between them, open at pages four and five: a bullet-point retrospective of the whole career, with more photographs, including two mugshots (full face and profile) of Lionel at the age of three. Dawn said,

  “Ring rang. Again. He’s all on pins. He said, How much d’you reckon he’ll be giving away? How much should I ask for?”

  “Ask for? Ask Lionel for? Ringo’s off his nut. You never ask Uncle Li for money. He’s been that way since he was a nipper. You ask him for money and he’ll smash your face in.”

  “… Ooh, Mean Mr. Mustard. And you say you love him. He’s a truly dreadful person. And you love him.”

  “Dawn, he’s worse than you know. But I can’t help it. It’s like you and Horace. He’s a truly dreadful person too—and you love him. You can’t help it either.”

  “Yeah, and I wish I could. Help it.”

  “Look on the bright side. No more of them bleeding dinners up Jorliss.”

  Horace Sheringham?

  It’s nothing personal, Desmond, he would typically begin as he settled down to his bowl of Heinz tomato soup (to be followed, invariably, by Birds Eye fish fingers), but you see, you and Dawn have different brains.

  Oh come on Dad, groaned his daughter.

  Please love, don’t start, groaned his wife.

  Different how, Mr. Sheringham?

  And Horace, who was an unemployed traffic warden (in Diston—where traffic wardens were in any case unknown), would patiently proceed. Well. Your brain’s smaller and a different shape. Whilst hers is normal, yours is closer to a primate’s. Nothing personal, lad … Oh, I see. I can’t even state a scientific fact. In my own home.

  Horace’s home was a low-ceilinged flatlet above an electrics shop on Jorliss Parkway. After a few months of this Des started saying,

  What about your brain, Mr. Sheringham? Is yours bigger than mine too?

  Course it is. Stands to reason. It’s why you’ve got such a childish face.

  Horace’s face was dark red, and twisted and seized, a crustacean face (with nose and chin shaped like a claw), and tiny black eyes.

  You see, Dawn, he’s different from you and I.

  You and me, said Des.

  Pardon?

  You and me. You wouldn’t say, He’s different from I, would you?

  Of course not. But you and me’s rude.

  It’s not rude. It’s right. How’s your French, Mr. Sheringham?

  My French?

  Oui. Ton français, c’est bien? How’s your Italian? Puedes hablar español?

  Whatever is he going on about? No more of your mumbo-jumbo, Desmond my lad … Well then. Thank you. Thank you very much indeed. There’s my dinner ruined.

  So after the business in Metroland, it was all very simple. Des was not a witness to that climactic scene—Horace scrawnily gasping and coughing and falling over as he bundled great armfuls of Dawn’s clothes and books out of the first-floor window, Prunella Sheringham weeping on her knees …

  Off! I’m disowning you, my girl. Go and live with your darkie. In jail! That’s where you both belong. Go on. Off with you. Out!

  Des sipped his tea and said, “He’ll look more kindly on me now. Now there’s a millionaire in the family.”

  “Seriously, Des. We’ve got our pride, and we’re not coming cap in hand. But seriously. He’s got to give you something. He wouldn’t have won a penny piece if it wasn’t for you! … Look at this. Okay. He can keep the hundred and thirty-nine million. He can keep the nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand. What about the nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds fifty! … It’s only right, Des. You filled in the numbers.”

  This was true enough. On one of his prison visits, a month or so earlier, Lionel said, Hang on to this for us, Des. Load of bollocks. I’ve signed me name and that. And Des, looking at it, said, It’s the new one, Uncle Li. You got to fill out the numbers and post it in. After an affronted moment Lionel said, Well fill it out youself, Des. Yeah. Nah, wouldn’t soil me hands. You fill it out. It’s a fucking mug’s game, the Lottery. If you ask me.

  “Well you never know with Uncle Li. And I’m still in his bad books.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Eh. You don’t say whatever. You just say what. It’s like while and whilst. Sorry.”

  “No. No, Des, keep doing it.”

  “… He didn’t like my statement in court.”

  “Your statement was better than his statement. I solemnly swear, under oaf …”

  “You don’t understand the criminal mind, Dawnie … And the other matter. The dogs.”

  “Mm. The dogs.”

  “Dawn, never mind the money. It’s … we shouldn’t think about the money. Just look at it this way. We’ve got a whole extra room.”

  “We could take in a lodger!”

  “… No. No. We’ll make it a nice study for the two of us. Like a library.”

  “Yeah … It’s not right to think about the money.”

  “And one day, Dawnie—maybe a nursery and all.”

  “Oh, Desi. The things you say.”

  “A whole extra room. He’s got no use for it now. He won’t be coming back here. Will he.”

  5

  After agonising about it for a couple of weeks (and after many grave discussions with Pete New), Lionel undertook to cover the eight hundred and eighty-five k (Jayden Drago making up the difference). Then progress was swift.

  The hideous envelope (windowed, dun-coloured, and spitefully undersized) came by second-class post, in late June. It contained by far the longest literary effort that Des had ever seen from his uncle’s pen (MILK and TOILITPAPER and TUBASKO—this was the kind of thing he was used to). Lionel’s letter was in block capitals and unpunctuated, like a telegram without the stops. Des and Dawn took another look at it on the bus on the way to Queen Anne’s:

  DES BE AT NORF GATE ON SATDEE JULY 11 TWELVEFIRTY BRING ME DRIVE-IN LISENSE ME BIRF STATIFICAT ME BLAK SELL FONE AND ME CUMPEW UH [the last four words were crossed out] AND THE DOGS PEDDYGREES BE THERE SO NO MINNIE CABIN FOR YOU THAT SATDEE TELL SIMFEA ALRIGHT LIONEL

  “Jesus,” said Des. “He’s winding me up. Simfea! Why didn’t he sign it Loyonoo?”

  “He’s taking the piss. Simfea.”

  “Simfea. You know Simfea’s mum and—Christ, you know Cynthia’s mum and dad both call her Simfea? Amazing, that. You give your daughter a name of—seven letters. And you can only pronounce four of them!”

  “They can’t pronounce it,” said Dawn. “But I bet they can spell it!”

  “And the only bit he got right was the a! Computer—look at that glottal stop. He’s taking the piss.”

  But the letter had an atmosphere: Lionel had hated writing it, and the words themselves had hated being written. Even the paper had hated the pen. With a frown Des said,

  “I can’t work him out, Dawnie. Never could. I mean, he’s clever when he wants to be. Last time I was there he said something really good. Very acute, I thought.”

  “Go on then.”

  “Well there was this bloke in the prison caff. Who was obviously off his chump. Dribbling and gibbering away to himself. And Uncle Li said the bloke’d get off light. Diminished responsibility. And Uncle Li said it was all crap, diminished responsibility. They get these experts in, and ask them, Did the defendant know what he was doing, and did he know what he was doing was wrong? Uncle Li says that’s all crap.”

  “How’s he work that one out?”

  “Well he’s right. There’s only one question the law needs to ask. And Li goes, Oy, nutcase! To the psycho. Oy! Mental! Would you have done that old lady if a copper’d been watching? And the psycho shakes his head … Uncle Li’s right. Would you do it if a copper was watching? That’s the question, and
never mind all the other stuff. I thought that was very acute.”

  “… Just a few hundred would be brilliant,” said Dawn. “He wouldn’t even notice it. Don’t worry, love. You filled in the numbers. Lionel’ll do the right thing.”

  “Yeah,” said Des.

  Outside the north gates of Stallwort Prison, at noon, on Saturday, July 11, Desmond hung back, taking note of the thirty-odd reporters and photographers, the TV crew, and the white limousine with the two men leaning on it—the chauffeur in his serge uniform and peaked cap, and the city gent in pinstripes and a bowler hat. Saturday was sunless but intensely humid, and the redbrick building dankly gleamed in its sweat, looking like a terrible school for very old men.

  At half past twelve Lionel was punctually escorted from the inner gate to the outer, wearing the clothes he’d had on when he went inside—the mauled grey suit, the ripped and bloodied white shirt, and the slender rag of his dark-blue tie. He signed a form on a clipboard while the guard busied himself with the locks.

  In the course of his thoughtful reply to Lionel’s prison letter, Des offered the following advice (of course, I wouldn’t know, but this seems to make sense): try to establish a cheerful and (even though it might go against the grain) respectful relationship with the media crowd, because (like it or not, Uncle Li) they’re going to play a part in your immediate future. And remember—they’re just doing their job. A bit of common courtesy, that’s the thing. What would it cost you, after all? And Des recurrently imagined his uncle, frowning in his cell as he pondered these words …

  “Some questions, Mr. Asbo!”

  “Fuck off out of it,” said Lionel with a convulsive shrug as he pushed himself through.

  “Mr. Asbo! How will you—”

  “Fuck off out of it. You know what you are? You the fucking scum of the earth. Here, Des. Away from these fucking slags. Come on, boy.”

  “Desmond! One question!”

  “Goo on. I told yuh. Fuck off out of it!”

  The chauffeur opened the rear door. Lionel paused. Then, while the cameras flashed and mewed, he unleashed a surprisingly cosmopolitan flurry of obscene gestures: the V-sign, the middle finger, the pinkie and index, the tensed five digits, the thumbnail flicked against the upper teeth; and then he smacked his left hand down on the biceps of his right arm—whose fist shot skyward. Finally, as he bent to enter the car, Lionel reached for his anal cleft and lingeringly freed his underpants.

  “Des?” he said as he settled, and took a can of Cobra from the ice bucket. “Don’t never talk to the press. See, Des, they’ll distort it. You say one thing—and they go and print another! Uh, excuse me uh, Mr. Firth-Heatherington.” Mr. Firf-Hevrington. “Hello!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” And, with the stolidity of a man who had never in his life travelled by other means, Lionel pressed the necessary button, and a glass partition slowly surged towards the roof. “Want a quiet word with me nephew.”

  “Of course, Mr. Asbo.”

  • • •

  Des drew in a chestful of breath and said, “Well, congratulations, Uncle Li. It’s like a fairy tale. Magic.”

  “Yeah, and tomorrow it’ll all disappear. The market’s gone and wanked itself out, Des. The banks’ve sploshed it all away and they kiping on us now! What can you trust?”

  They rode on. After a while, to fill the silence (it was a new kind of silence), Des said mildly, “Gold. I was reading that it never drops in value. Gold.”

  “… Oh, you was reading, was you. You brought me stuff?”

  “Course.” And Des handed him the plastic bag.

  “No computer!”

  “You crossed that bit out, Uncle Li. I thought you crossed that bit out.”

  Now the whirring white machine was up on the London Orbital. A motorbike drew level, fell back, drew level. A goggled face peered in.

  “What’s this?”

  “The glass, it’s tinted, Uncle Li. He can’t see you. He’s just a snapper. A pap.”

  “I’ll give him fucking pap!”

  Lionel lowered the window with one hand and reached for a full can of Cobra with the other, but before he could fling it Des yelled out—“No! No, Uncle Li! They’re provoking you. Don’t! Don’t give them the satisfaction …”

  Over the next two minutes Lionel’s eyes calmed and cleared.

  “You got to be careful, Uncle Li. Make allowances. You’ve had a shock to your system.”

  “Shock?” Shoc-kuh?

  “Yeah. Your whole life’s changed. Make allowances. You’re a public figure. With a hundred and forty million quid.”

  “Mm. Huh. More like thirty-nine. After them bloodsuckers been at it.”

  “Uncle Li, you’re not going to be yourself for a week or two. You got to be cool.”

  “I am cool.”

  Then silence. The new silence.

  “Where you off to now then?”

  “The Pantheon Grand.” The Pamfeon Grand. “Till I sort meself out. Christ, there’s no end to it. Sign this, sign that. Sign this, sign that. Sign this, sign that.” For a while Lionel railed against red tape—and bent MPs. After another silence Des said,

  “Dawn’s moved into the flat. Bit tight in the single but we manage. You aren’t bothered, are you Uncle Li? See, her—”

  “Gaw, don’t tell me.” And for the first time Lionel smiled. “Don’t tell me. What’s he called, the old arsehole? Horace. Don’t tell me. Horace found out about her night in the nick. And if you ever darken me door … So she’s in. You got you Uncle Li to thank for that, Des Pepperdine.”

  In the private street off St. James’s that served as the driveway to the Pantheon Grand Hotel there were more reporters, and more obscene gestures, and more choice anathemas (plus a momentary flurry of raised fists). Lionel shouldered his way through the revolving doors—and into the ancient hangar of the atrium. With his head down he followed Firth-Heatherington to the check-in bay, and rocked to a halt, breathing harshly and wiping his upper lip on his cuff. Round about, small groups of sleek metallic seniors murmured and milled.

  “The items you requested are in your suite, sir. The toiletries and so on.”

  Lionel grimly nodded.

  “And the outfitters and whatnot, they’ll be coming to you at three. If that’s convenient.”

  Lionel grimly nodded.

  “Will you be dining with us tonight, Mr. Asbo?”

  “… Yeah, girl. It’s booked. Seven-thirty. Table for six.”

  “Ah, so it is. And may I take an impression of your credit card?”

  “Course you can.” Lionel nodded his head sideways. Firth-Heatherington snapped open his valise. “There. Take you pick.”

  “And would you like a newspaper tomorrow morning, sir?”

  “Yeah. Guiss a Lark.”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Jesus. Guiss a Sun.”

  “I hope you have a nice stay with us, sir.”

  They stepped back.

  “I was just thinking, Mr. Asbo, that you—”

  “Call me Lionel. Jack.”

  “I was just wondering, Lionel, if you wouldn’t be happier elsewhere. There’s a far more—”

  “What’s that mean?” said Lionel with abrupt and inordinate menace. “What’s that mean? Is this, or is this not, the dearest hotel in London?”

  “Well yes it is. But it’s slightly fuddy-duddy here. And there’s a place near Sloane Square, a new place called the South Central, where I think you’d feel … more at home.”

  “More at home? More at home? What, it’s council flats, is it? I’ve had enough home. Okay? I’ve had enough fucking home.”

  Des looked on as Lionel’s face began to swell (he had seen this before). It was the size of a carnival balloon when he said, in a froth of fricatives,

  “I’ll be thoroughly at me ease in the Pantheon Grand thanks very much Mr. Firth-Heatherington.”

  Heads turned—then dropped … Everyone waited for the break
, this fissure in the order of things, to close and heal.

  “Well,” came the whisper as Firth-Heatherington backed away. “Please ring me at any time, Lionel.”

  “Call me sir. Jack.” He loosened his tie with a gasp and a violent hoist of the chin. “You can run along and all, Des. Oh and listen.”

  “Yes, Uncle Li.”

  “I’ll be round in a day or two. Uh, Desmond, I intend to relieve you financial situation. And that’s a promise. On me mother’s life.” He smiled and said, “Oh yeah. How is the old …?”

  “Poorly, Uncle Li.”

  “Mm. Well. I’ll take care of Grace. Once and for all. On you way, boy.”

  “Uncle Li, seriously. That lot,” he said, jerking a thumb towards the forecourt, “they want you back inside! It’s envy, Uncle Li, that’s what it is. Don’t let them work you up. All right?”

  “Ah, but you fears are unfounded. I’m in full control.”

  And Des left him there on the other side of the glass at the Pantheon Grand. The shorn crown with its twinkling studs of sweat. The ripped suit, the bloodstained shirt, the thin blue tie. The new silence. The eyes.

  “Just out of interest. Has your dad got an actual grudge against black people? Or was he just born that way?”

  “Well,” she said cautiously. “He does sometimes go on about how they ruined his profession.”

  “His profession? Ha—that’s a good one! Since when’s being a parking warden a … No. That’s unkind. Forget I ever said that, Dawnie.”

  She was lying on the bed with Joel and Jon (while Des climbed into his minicabbing gear—old trainers and sweats). What she liked to do was—she’d slide the dogs’ ears between her toes. Said it felt like silk. Mmm. And whenever they got the chance Joel and Jon would give her feet a furtive, reverential lick.

  “I’m tense. About Uncle Li.”

  “I’m not. Not any more. If he does something for us, that’d be nice. If he doesn’t. Well.”

  Dawn worked four nights a week—teaching English to foreign students. And the minicabbing? What Des minded, in the end, was the inanition. He kept asking himself: Is there anything stupider than sitting and staring at a red light?