Lionel Asbo: State of England

by Martin Amis

  “Ask him to clear his room.”

  “Well not yet,” he whispered back.

  Des used the toilet and splashed his face with cold water. Behind him the kitchen waited and glared.

  “Peace at last. Relax. I’ll be chewing you arse off, Des, in due course. But for now you can just uh … kick off you shoes. After you hard day’s toil.” He was leaning on the fridge with his hands in his trouser pockets. “It’s different round here. A woman’s touch, if you like.”

  Dawn’s touch: cushions of eye-pleasing colours, framed reproductions on the walls, a spray of scarlet poppies in the glass vase, and, in general, a different standard of order and cleanliness and with something like the promise of confectionery in the air. Lionel took a cigar from its gunmetal tube and lit it with a kitchen match, saying,

  “Oy. Where’s me TV?”

  “Uh, we traded it in. The picture got even hazier. To make anything out, you had to go and sit halfway up the passage … This one’s still your property, Uncle Li.”

  “Well put the kettle on. I don’t read that rubbish.”

  He was referring to Saturday’s Daily Mirror (page five), where Lionel was to be seen signing autographs outside the South Central Hotel.

  “I run me eye over it. See, Des, I’ve hired me own PR team. Megan Jones Associates. Of Acme Talent. Bit steep, but I don’t mind paying for the uh, for the expertise. Sounds funny, Des, but what you got to do is—I know this sounds mad, but with the press what you got to do is, you got to show them a bit of respect. You know, be friendly! And when you think about it, what’s that cost you? Listen, lads. You got you living to earn. I got me life to live. Fair do’s. All right? They good as gold now. Get on me nerves and that, but … See, Des, they was trying to provoke. They wanted me back inside!”

  Des said, “And why was that, Uncle Li?”

  “Envy! Would you credit it. Anyway. Pressure’s off. I found meself a decent hotel at last. Not like them other dumps. In this place they know how to let a man breathe.”

  The Lotto Lout coverage was in any case easing off. Lionel was safely installed in the South Central, and never went out except on business. So. A photograph of the Westminster townhouse Lionel had made an offer on; a photograph of the yacht Lionel was supposedly thinking of buying; a photograph of the Threadneedle Street boardroom where Lionel was introduced to his investment team. And there was occasional stuff from the past. A jocular piece about John, Paul, George, and Ringo (but not Stuart); references to (and photos of) Marlon and Gina Welkway (on the day of their wedding), to Des himself, and to the precocious matriarch Grace Pepperdine …

  “Oh yeah. Be sure to pop in and say goodbye to you gran.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I’m slinging her in a home,” he said. “Just been round there. I told her, Mum? Pack you nightie. They coming for her in the morning. Two nice male nurses.”

  Des had seen Gran as recently as Friday afternoon. It was a visit well caught, he felt, by the musical accompaniment—the jaunty, wonky rhymes and chimes of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.” She was in her chair by the window, with a Silk Cut in one hand and the Kwik crossword in the other—and with a kitten on her lap (a gift from old Dudley’s granddaughter). The kitten, tiny Goldie, was so young it could hardly open its eyes. Isn’t she gorgeous, Des? Mwa. The crossword, he ascertained, was all filled in; but the answers were just alphabet soup.

  “A home, Uncle Li? Where?”

  “Up a bit. North.”

  “How far north?”

  “Scotland.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Cape Wrath.”

  Cape Roff. Des happened to know that Cape Wrath, a famously desolate spot, lay on the kingdom’s topmost left-hand tip. “How’d she take it?”

  “Oh, you know. On come the waterworks. I’ll miss me sister! All this. I said, Woman—you forty-two. You can’t fight the march of time! … She’ll love it once she’s there.” Lionel went on expansively, “See, Des, there’s something new in my life. A new uh, dimension. And it’s—what? What?”

  “The money?”

  “No. The future! The future, Des. See, before, it was just day by day. The proverbial wing and a prayer. If you like. No thought of the morrow. The future? What fucking future.” (Whoff fucking future.) “Nothing weighed anything. Everything just uh … So Gran—Gran, she ain’t that bad now. But what’ll she be like in a year or two? Eh? Eh?”

  “Worse.”

  “Worse. Let’s face it, Des. Her bonce is going. And when you bonce goes … I had a long talk with the bloke who runs the home. He’s a uh, specialist. Specialist in old people. And he reckons she could be coming down with that German disease.”

  “Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yeah. That German lurgy that rots you brain. And if she’s got that, then it’s all off. They start babbling, see. And we can’t have Gran babbling, can we Des. Can’t have her babbling. Might say … something she’ll regret.”

  Lionel turned and strolled out on to the balcony. Des joined him. Diston, in the gritty shimmer of late July, with its slopes and tiers.

  “But Uncle Li, she won’t have anyone to talk to up there.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “You had a look at the place?”

  “Why waste me time? The prices tell they own story. She needs skilled care, Des.” Lionel rinsed his mouth with saliva before saying, “It’s … pathetic.” Puffeh ic-cuh. “She repeats herself. Says one thing. Says it again. You repeating youself, woman! … This home, Des, it’s like a five-star hotel—but with doctors. Okay, four-star. She’ll be as happy as a pig in shit up there. Mum. Where’s me tea?”

  As Des warmed the pot Lionel’s eyes settled on the burnished metal tank. “As for that,” he said wearily, “open now, is it?”

  “Yeah. Shut for weeks. Then it opened … Better open than shut. Once it shuts, you can’t open it.”

  “You been sitting—”

  “No I never.”

  “… Oh. Oh. So this is the way he talks to his own uncle now, is it? His own uncle. Who raised him. Take a seat there. There.” He reached out for the yawning lid (serrated, like the upper jaw of some black-gummed deep-sea fish) and smacked it shut.

  “There,” he said. “On the tank.”

  8

  Before making its drop over the shoulder of the next block along, the sun took a last look at 33F Avalon Tower—the balcony with its litter tray and water bowls, the sliding glass door, the kitchen and the two silent silhouettes …

  Lionel stood; he tasted his tea; with an unusually graceful movement he slipped off his jacket; he reversed his chair, and sat. He placed a thick-fingered hand on his nephew’s nape. He spoke softly.

  “You tense, Des. I can feel you tension. Crouched behind that wheel. Diston traffic. That’s a killing job, that is. Even for a young man. You do that and you be dead by thirty. You shouldn’t be out there, boy. Should be studying. With you books. Jesus. You shoulder’s like rock. You neck—there’s no give in it … The dogs, Desmond. The dogs. They never had a chance. You fucked them up when they was just pups.”

  Des could feel Lionel’s newly metallic breath on his cheek.

  “I go away for a while. I return. And they both lying on they backs and wagging they tails! They like poodles … I only asked you to do three things. One, two, three. One. Two. Three.”

  Tabasco. Special Brew. Harsh and regular use of the training tools.

  “Uncle Li, I tried. But it’s not—it’s not in my nature.”

  “… Your nature? What about they nature? They meant to be hard. That’s why they were born.”

  His fierce gaze never wavering, Lionel reached to his right and swung open the cupboard door. There for all to see: the untouched case of red-pepper sauce, the untouched six-packs of malt lager, the untouched training tools—break stick, lunge pole, the ethnic mannequins.

  “You was saying?”

  “… You don’t need them hard any more. You’re not going to be out
collecting debts now, are you.”

  “Ah, but that’s to be wise after the event. You flash little cunt. And I’ll always be needing hard dogs. For why? For me security.”

  “All right. I’m very sorry, Uncle Li.”

  “All right. You sorry about that. Try being very sorry about this. You statement in court. I died a thousand deaths as those words left you lips. A thousand deaths.”

  “Which bit?”

  … I have known Lionel Asbo all my life. And after my mother passed away, when I was twelve, he became more like a father than an uncle. He has always treated me with kindness, understanding, and generosity. I took my mother’s death very hard, and I think it’s fair to say that I wouldn’t have got through it without Uncle Lionel’s love and care … Everyone knows that Uncle Lionel has a dry sense of humour. And all right, his speech at the wedding reception could be regarded as contentious. But I confirm, under oath, that Lionel Asbo did not land the first blow.

  Then who did land the first blow? Is that man in court today?

  … “Which bit?” said Lionel. “When you pointed you finger! When you named him.”

  Des gave a silent sigh. His statement did no more than corroborate the testimony of eleven waiters, four hired musicians, three Dragos (Dejan, Oreste, and Vassallo), and two of Marlon’s own brothers (Troy and Yul).

  “What should I have said?”

  “Same as John, Paul, and George! That you never saw nothing! You was looking the other way!”

  “… Marlon grassed you up. For Gina.”

  “No he didn’t. All in me own head, that was. See, this is what girls do to you, Des. They make you mad.”

  Lionel lit a fresh cigar (and proceeded to smoke it as he would a Marlboro Hundred, with long drags and emphatic inhalations). The room darkened another shade. With a wistful smile Lionel asked quietly,

  “Remember Rory Nightingale, Des? Course you do, course you do. He said something, Rory. Before they uh … He said something. Something about you … Des did … did it and all! Stressful moment for the boy, of course,” Lionel conceded (and momentarily raised his chin). “They was gagging him. About to take him off. Des—Des did it and all. Now why’s that stuck in me mind? That’s what I want to know. Why’s that stuck in me mind? Look at me, Des …”

  For one minute, two minutes, three, Des laid himself open to those small mobile eyes. And so, perhaps, it might have gone on, and on, for ever and ever … But at last he heard the jolts of the locks, the jink and scuffle of the dogs.

  “Up you get, boy. We got work to do.”

  As Des slid to his feet the tank gaped open.

  “… You been sitting on it.”

  Lionel changed into sweatpants, trainers, and mesh vest. Then the two of them spent three and a half hours ferrying packing cases, tea chests, and cardboard boxes from Lionel’s lock-up in Skinthrift Close to Lionel’s bedroom at Avalon Tower—which, by the time they were done, was an impenetrable mass of stolen property. They couldn’t even get the door shut.

  “You be all right,” said Lionel. “Just squeeze round it.”

  “I can. But what about you? How’ll you get out?”

  Fuming, glowing, throbbing (they had relied on the Ford Transit and the stunted lift), Lionel surged into the kitchen and toppled on to the couch.

  “You look downhearted, girl. Now why’s that? Here, Des. Seen the brothers at all?”

  Sitting at the table with Dawn’s hand on his shoulder, Des looked up as he wiped his face with a paper towel. “They’re ill. All five of them. I saw Uncle Paul.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Uncle John’s been served with an Order of Distraint. They’ve seized his flat. And they’ve gone and repossessed Uncle George’s—”

  “Yeah. Well I made me contribution.” He gave one of his masterful sniffs. “If it wasn’t for me they’d still be inside.”

  “They wouldn’t’ve been inside in the first place,” said Dawn, “if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Dawnie …”

  “Don’t worry, Des, I won’t take offence. I’m uh, immune. See, that’s what happens when you win a hundred-odd million quid. You go numb. Not happy. Not sad. Numb.… Here. Jon and Joel. Cost a fair bit to feed.”

  “Well yeah. They do.”

  “Okay. I told you I’d relieve you financial situation. And I’ll be as good as my word,” he said, rising. “I’m taking the dogs off yer.”

  “But Dawn loves the dogs!”

  This weak cry, with its leapt octave, came from Des (who of course loved them too). Dawn sat down suddenly and said,

  “What you going to do with them?”

  “Cut me losses. I got a buyer. Four hundred quid. Think youself lucky, Des. No more shelling out for they Tabasco.”

  Now Lionel bathed (causing a not very serious flood in the passage). Ten minutes later, they heard a mighty uprush and downflow of water; and then with a towel round his waist he squelched into the kitchen.

  “I don’t understand how you can live in these conditions. And there’s nowhere to change. Go on. Get the dogs in.”

  Dawn gave Des a meaning nod and he said, “We’ll match it, Uncle Li. We’ll match the four hundred.”

  Lionel squelched out again. “Get them in.”

  Jon and Joel were coiled up under the table. They were painfully aware that they were the cause of a dreadful misunderstanding—which, surely, would very soon be resolved. Leaning forward, Dawn was stroking them with purposeful fingers, as if kneading hope into their harrowed brows.

  When Lionel re-entered he was knotting his tie. He said,

  “Fair enough. How can any reasonable man refuse?”

  Dawn said, “Oh thank you, Lionel. Thank you, thank you.”

  “You welcome. Let’s have it then. Four hundred … Oh. You haven’t got it on you?” he said. “Oh dear. How unfortunate. See, Des, I need the cash tonight.” He threw on his jacket and held out his hand. “The leads. Come on, yer … Come on, yer fucking little wankers. Come on, yer fucking little slags.”

  The dogs lay on their sides with their forepaws bent as Lionel hooked them to the steel hawsers. They rose and their leg muscles stiffened; and there was a terrible minute while they cowered and wheeled. Des half turned away from their beseeching smiles.

  “Go with Uncle Li,” he said unsteadily. “Good boys.” He felt, just now, that if Lionel hit the dogs in front of her then Dawn might give up utterly. “Go with Uncle Li.”

  Lionel shortened his grip with a sudden tug and the dogs, leaning backward, skidded from the room. There came the sounds of wrenching and rending, the giddy-up of the steel reins, the slammed front door.

  “… Maybe I should’ve stood up to him.”

  “Don’t talk bloody stupid,” said Dawn. “D’you see his eyes?”

  “Yeah. What’s happened to his eyes?”

  “He’s stopped blinking! … They’re murderer’s eyes.”

  Des and Dawn went and looked: the bedroom door torn off its hinges, the room itself stacked deep from floor to ceiling, Lionel’s sweats and mesh vest in a loose knot in the passage …

  “There goes our nursery,” said Dawn.

  “No. No. I want a youth. And he’s not stopping us.”

  “Oh, Des, you’re mad. The things you say.”

  “I want a youth,” he said. “And he’s not stopping us. I want a youth.”

  Just before midnight Des spent a largely speechless half-hour with his gran. Grace sat facing the window, and when he spoke to her she just waved him away … There were no pets allowed—in the old people’s home singled out by her son. And so Des returned to Dawn with the kitten Goldie zipped up and purring in his windbreaker.

  9

  “That’s absolutely fine, Mr. Asbo. Don’t give it another thought, sir. And have a fantastic day.”

  It wasn’t hard to see why Lionel was so very much happier in the South Central—the asymmetric ninety-suite high-rise that loomed like a whimsical robot over the stubby bohemia of north P
imlico. As fancily priced as the Pantheon Grand (and the Castle on the Arch and the Launceston), the South Central described itself, in its publicity material, as the heavy-metal hotel. It catered to rock stars, and not just to heavy-metal rock stars. And not just to rock stars: in its candyishly bright and airy public rooms you might glimpse a recently imprisoned bratpack actor, an incensed fashion model, a woman-beating Premiership footballer—and so on. In brief, the core clientele was rich and famous; and none of them got that way by work of mind. Lionel, at last, had happened upon his peers.

  There were never fewer than three plasma TV sets at the bottom of the swimming pool on the back terrace, plus a selection of iPod docks, camcorders, laptops, and minibars. Day-Glo crime-scene tape frequently adorned the entrance to this or that forbidden passageway—illegal firearms, assaults, investigations of rape (statutory and otherwise). There were often fire engines snorting and sneezing in the forecourt—but no ambulances: the hotel deployed its own medical teams to cope with all the pharmaceutical misadventures and the more serious self-mutilations. Similarly, the floodings, the wreckings, the sometimes storey-wide devastations were taken care of by squads of discreet and cheerful young men in sky-blue jumpsuits.

  Thrown out of the Pantheon Grand, thrown out of the Castle on the Arch, and thrown out of the Launceston, Lionel was intrigued to learn that nobody had ever been thrown out of the South Central. Zero Ejections, it said in his desktop brochure. Anti-social behaviour, among the guests at least, was considered a civic virtue; and the incorrigible monotony of Lionel’s criminal record (often reinventoried in the press) was widely admired. His prestige, here, was boundless, his legitimacy beyond challenge. But it hadn’t gone away—the internal question mark, like a rusty hook, snagged in his innards.

  • • •

  He made several good mates during his short time there. Scott Ronson, the arthritic, lantern-jawed rhythm guitarist of a band called the Pretty Faces. Eamon O’Nolan, the two-time World Snooker Champion (who was always doing community service for various unambitious misdemeanours—roughing up referees, relieving himself in pot plants, and the like). Lorne Brown, the winner of a huge reality telethon (a month in the South Central was one of his prizes). Brent Medwin, the (teenage) cokehead Manchester City midfielder, both of whose parents were in jail (the mum for living off immoral earnings, the dad for manslaughter). Hereabouts, Lionel Asbo could just relax and be himself, freely mingling with his fellow superstars.