by Martin Amis
Good effort, boys and girls, he said as he ate chocolates in the commissary (Quality Street and Black Magic). Me gains’ll be reflected in you bonuses.
On August 2, 2011, Des and Dawn were informed that they’d both got Two Ones!
“Well, after all that graft, we’d’ve looked like bloody fools if we’d got Thirds.”
“Yeah, or even Desmonds,” said Desmond (a Desmond was a Two Two—after Desmond Tutu). “Complete bloody fools.”
“And you’d’ve got a First if you’d had the three years. Easy.”
Dawn took a teaching job at an enormous girls’ school in Pentonville called St. Swithin’s.
Des wrote to every newspaper in London, enclosing a sample of his work (it was an eyewitness description of two simultaneous but unrelated incidents—a non-fatal stabbing and an acid-attack blinding—in a local takeout). And he was summoned to two interviews, one at the Diston Gazette—and one at the Daily Mirror!
Grace Pepperdine had a minor stroke on Guy Fawkes Night of that year. Her mouth seemed to be torqued round on its axis—and yet she was now lucid. That is to say, she could explore little air pockets of her very distant past. Her childhood—before the days of Cilla, and John and Paul and George …
“She can’t stay in this place, Des,” said Dawn (who hadn’t been up there for over a year). They were taking a breather in the street. “Look at it. Smell it.”
He looked at it. The home had let itself go—it was like a tea trolley rattling down a hillside. And he smelled it. In 2009 it smelled of deodorant and cabbage; by 2011 it smelled of urine and mice.
As dusk was falling, in the early afternoon, Grace took Des’s hand and met his eye and whispered: I smell something … I scent tangled crime. Six, six, six.
Lionel was whiling away the last months of his sentence at Wormwood Scrubs—the desolate rain-steeped stronghold that presided over a huge stretch of common land (brush and stunted forest growth) in Hammersmith, west London. It was his first prison and, as he sometimes said, probably his favourite.
When Des next went to see him (in January 2012), he was led not to the commissary but to an administrative office evidently dedicated to Lionel’s use (there were warm beers, damp sandwiches, and silent pretzels). Pale Cynthia sat at his side. Dressed in the usual navy overalls, Lionel was reviewing country properties—properties thought worthy of a whole brochure each.
An extensive paddock? he was saying (with the full plosive on the terminal k). Why would I want a fucking paddock?
… Uncle Li. Gran’s Home. She can’t—
Jesus.
It’s you I’m thinking of. Partly. What if the—
Oy! Des, give you face a rest, all right? You depressing me … Here, Cynth, look at this one. A bit over the top? Des—what’s a ha-ha?
In January Dawn Sheringham fell pregnant! … Fell pregnant: how awful and beautiful that phrase sounded: fell pregnant. Beautiful, but full of awe. Over and above everything else, though, it meant that Des would now have to tell Dawn about Grace.
He sat her down in the kitchen, and began. Ten minutes later he was saying, “I can’t excuse it, I can’t even explain it.” He sniffed and wiped his cheeks. “… Will you still have me, Dawnie?”
Slowly her eyes narrowed and her mouth broadened, and she said, “But nothing actually happened. All right, you got dependent on the cuddles. You might’ve … But nothing actually happened.”
He sank back in his chair. It was, at least, immediately clear that this avenue would remain forever closed. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Course not. Nothing happened. Just got dependent on the cuddles. That’s all.” There was a silence, a silence that only he had the power to break. “Knock knock,” he heard himself say.
“Who’s there?”
“Little old lady.”
“Little old lady who?”
“Didn’t know you could yodel.”
And somehow that got them to the other side.
Later he went out and walked as far as the canal … Was this a version of what they called cognitive dissonance? Because Dawn had only ever known Grace as a thoroughgoing little old lady (a viejita, as the Spanish so economically put it). And today, almost six years on, he himself found it close to inconceivable that he had ever kissed those eyes, those lips. That mouth, which now looked as though there was a toy boomerang wedged into it … Des turned on his heel and started back. And imagine! He had planned to tell Dawn about Rory Nightingale too, and about what Lionel did to him. No. His head shuddered in negation as he walked. All that—the whole bad dream. All that was his to hold.
With Vincent Tigg as best man, and with Prunella Sheringham in proud attendance, Des and Dawn were married on Valentine’s Day in Carker Square Registry Office. And then Uncle John, Uncle George, and Uncle Stuart whisked them off for a surprise slap-up Chinese—hosted and paid for by Uncle Paul!
The baby, at this stage, was a fifth the size of a full stop.
“Now the blastocyst,” said Des the next morning (he was reading a huge baby book in the Bachelor’s Occasional), “has completed its journey from Fallopian tube to uterus.”
“Don’t call it that! … I don’t feel pregnant. And anyway. Who wants a blastocyst?”
That same day he was hired as a trainee reporter on the Diston Gazette!
De-leverage, said Lionel into his phone, and snapped it shut. No, tell them this, he went on coldly. Tell them I’ll be on the same money as me namesake, Lionel Messi. European Footballer of the Year. Tell them that.
They were in Lionel’s office in Wormwood Scrubs, wondering what, if anything, to say to the world about the true dimensions of the Asbo fortune—Lionel, Megan Jones, and Sebastian Drinker.
And tell them that’s just the interest. On me principal. Lionel Messi gets paid for running round a fucking football pitch. I get paid for sitting on me arse. Tell them that.
We shouldn’t stir them up, Lionel, said Megan. It’s nobody’s business but yours. She laughed and went on, As it is you’ve got every gold-digger in England after you!
More fanmail? Go on then, sling it over. Lionel’s fanmail consisted of letters of introduction from young women, with photographs enclosed. No, the fanmail’s—it’s all right. It’s good. See, it’s like a brothel. It’s you privilege to choose. It’s you uh, prerogative. You know. Like in a brothel. Lionel raised a finger. Except I won’t be paying for it. You don’t want to pay for it, Megan. Starts you off on the wrong foot.
The first time he said brothel he pronounced it broffle, and the second time he said brothel he pronounced it brovvle. But that wasn’t why Megan Jones and Sebastian Drinker were glancing at each other from under their brows.
I’ll make a pile of the ones I might fancy. You can drop them a note, Megan. Say I look forward to making they acquaintance, Lionel specified, upon me release.
One warm May Saturday (the baby, in recent weeks, had grown from olive-size to prune-size to plum-size to peach-size), Des and Dawn went boating on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. And guess who they ran into. Jon and Joel!
It had been three years—but the dogs went completely berserk. And they had a brilliant half-hour with them out on the green. And when the new owners (a dad and his daughter) took them off again, it was murder watching them disappear, Jon and Joel, with their crestfallen ears, their brimming eyes …
After they were gone Des dropped to his knees and rolled on to his side. It wasn’t the dogs, not really; but the air was so fast and free, and he felt he was being roughly tickled from within, by his own heart, his own blood … That afternoon the lake was minutely runnelled by the wind, like corduroy; Dawn sat and soothed him, and they both stared out at the corded water.
Later that week Des was summoned to Canary Wharf. For a second interview at the Daily Mirror!
Old Dud died. Brian “Skanker” Fitzwilliam died. Yul Welkway was left paralysed after a fistfight behind the Hobgoblin. Grace Pepperdine had another minor stroke. Uncle Ringo (a southpaw) was run over by the mop
ed of a trainee taxi driver (who was out acquiring the Knowledge) and lost the use of his left arm. Pete New was again sent to prison for having a fat dog. Uncle Stuart suffered a stress-induced nervous breakdown. Troy Welkway was blinded by an oxyacetylene burner in a worksite accident. Uncle John’s wife left him, taking four of the five kids. Horace Sheringham was hospitalised with violent pains in his abdomen (it was by now quite widely known that Horace was a secret drinker). Jayden Drago died. Ernest Nightingale died. This was the loose, the floating world of Diston Town.
The winters were medievally cold.
PART III
Who let the dogs in? Oh, who let
the dogs in?
Who let the dogs in? Who, who?
2012 Cilla Dawn Pepperdine, Babe in Arms
1
“ ‘Elizabeth Sheringham-Pepperdine.’ What d’you think? … Des, he’ll call you when he calls you. Don’t feel hurt. He’s busy with his birds.”
“Yeah. Funny, isn’t it. Not that bothered before. Now it’s a new one every night.”
“The Lotto Libertine. The Lotto Lecher.”
“The Lotto Lothario. The Mirror called him that. They even called him the Lotto Lancelot!”
“The Lotto Ladykiller. Ah, but now he’s moved on. And found true love …”
“You know I’m a feminist, Dawn,” he resumed. “And all that. But it just won’t work. ‘Elizabeth Sheringham-Pepperdine’? That’s—ten syllables. No.”
“Mm. And we’re only delaying the problem, aren’t we. What if she grows up and marries someone whose parents did the same thing?”
“Yeah. She’d be uh, ‘Elizabeth Sheringham-Pepperdine-Avalon-Fitzwilliam.’ That goes right across the page!”
“All right. ‘Elizabeth Dawn Pepperdine.’ No hyphen. Just a middle name.”
“Ooh. I like it. Wait. What if it’s a … Hang on. ‘Desmond Dawn Pepperdine.’ I wouldn’t mind that. I’d be proud. Yeah. Good, Dawnie.”
“ ‘Robert Dawn Pepperdine.’ Nothing wrong with it.”
“ ‘Georgia Dawn Pepperdine.’ ‘Sybil.’ ‘Maria.’ ‘Thea.’ I like ‘Thea.’ But then Uncle Li’ll call her ‘Fea.’ ”
“We can live with that, surely to God … Des, go and tell him our news. And say we need the space. For the baby.”
Des sighed. And the flat itself, roosting atop Avalon Tower, endeavoured to go on seeming stoical: the tidy kitchen with its balcony, the windowless bathroom, the smaller bedroom—and Lionel’s commodious lair, still crammed with contraband (though long since sealed by a new plywood door).
“And admit it,” said Dawn. “You’re upset. You’re pining. He’s been out a month and you haven’t heard a single word.”
“Yes I have. He sent his change-of-address card.”
“Yeah. Change of address. From Wormwood Scrubs to ‘Wormwood Scrubs.’ ”
“You know, I ought to go up. Tell him our news. I ought to. Now that you’re showing.”
“I’m not! Why is it, Des? I still don’t feel I’m expecting. Even when he flutters.”
“She. How’s your dad?”
It was true. Dawn’s pregnancy was so far asymptomatic. And it was Des who had the dry skin and the migraines, Des who had the heartburn and the mood swings, Des who had the torrents of drool, and the sense, day in, day out, that he was sucking on a pocketful of loose change.
“… Go and see him. Go on, Des. There’s Grace. And that’s urgent.”
“There’s Grace. Yeah, I will.”
Sitting on the table, Goldie (now a ladylike three-year-old) held up a forepaw, as if to receive a courtly kiss; then she kissed it herself, and tongued it, and rolled over on to the Daily Mirror.
“Funny, isn’t it, Dawnie. They’re back to going on about how stupid he is. After three years of him just being vicious. Now he’s stupid again. Why’s that?”
“Because his new bird claims he’s clever.”
“Does she?”
“All the time. Says he got his head sorted out while he was away. Says he read a whole dictionary.”
“Which dictionary?”
“Pocket Cassell’s, but still. Says he’s secretly very clever. And they’re not having that, the papers. Oh no.”
“… I’ll give him a ring. Ask if I can look in on him one Saturday. I’m curious. I want to see how he’s getting on.”
Propped up on silken pillows, Lionel Asbo sat in the great barge of the four-ton four-poster with the gilt breakfast tray resting on his keglike thighs.
“Photo op,” he said, and tossed aside his phone. “Oy! ‘Threnody’!”
“What!”
“Photo op!”
“When? And what’s it in aid of?” Naked but for her black high heels, “Threnody” came clicking out of her bathroom (they had a bathroom each) and on to the solid silence of the rugs.
“For a uh, an in-depth profile.” Lionel scratched one of the dents in his crown. “Eight-page pull-out. Photo op’s Saturday.”
“That’s not a photo op. That’s a photo shoot. Isn’t your cousin coming Saturday?”
“Not me cousin.” Lionel reached for the squat cigarette lighter on the bedside table. “Me nephew … Now what’s he after?”
“I’ll give you three guesses. Gimme gimme gimme.” “Threnody” was noisily brushing her hair. “Lesson number one. See, with the press, Lionel, you got to practise the art of manipulation. You call the tune. Not them. You. One step ahead. Like Danube does. See, Danube, she—”
“Stop going on about Danube! You always going on about Danube!”
“Yeah yeah yeah.”
“Yeah yeah yeah yeah.”
“Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah. Photo shoot who for? What paper?”
He told her. “Eight-page pull-out. A fresh approach. Megan reckons it’ll do wonders for me image.”
“Threnody” started getting dressed … The vast bay-windowed bedchamber was doing its best to think well of the new occupants; now it looked on with a polite smile at “Threnody” ’s satin thong and spangled garter belt, at Lionel’s cigar ash in the untouched bowl of muesli and yoghurt …
“You know, ‘Threnody,’ they can write what they want about Lionel Asbo. I don’t give a fuck.”
“You say that, Lionel, but you do. Go on, you do.”
“It’s when they … It’s when they uh, when they suggest I’m not quite right in the head. You know, that I’m not the full quid up here,” he said, tapping another concavity in his scalp. “Or I’m supposed to be thick. Okay, I talk bad, but that don’t mean—”
“Things’ll be different, Lionel. You’ll get your recognition. I guarantee it.”
“It’s when they uh, impugn me intelligence. That’s what gives me the right raging hump. You know. When they imply I’m a cunt.”
“I’ll make them respect you, Lionel. Trust me. I’ll make you loved.”
2
Lotto Lummox, Raffle Rattlepate, Numbers Numbskull, Pick Six P***brain, Sweepstake Psycho, Bingo Bozo, Tombola Tom o’ Bedlam—the Lotto Lout’s been called the lot.
But does the Diston Dipstick have hidden depths? His new heart-throb, thrusting “Threnody,” real name Sue Ryan, 29, claims he’s an Einstein—and how can we doubt “Threnody”? She’s a “poetess.” And she’s got a whole O-level!
Our nationally famous Agony Aunt, Daphne, went to Loopy Lionel’s country seat, in the once-sleepy Essex village of Short Crendon, to offer her counsel to the Chav S***head.
“The first thing you notice about ‘Wormwood Scrubs,’ Lionel Asbo’s thirty-room Gothic mansion, is the little picket line of villagers standing guard at the wrought-iron gates. A smattering of ordinary folk. A shopkeeper, a housewife, a man of the cloth.
“I am early for the midday interview, so, whilst I wait, I talk to them about their grievances. Which aren’t what you’d expect for a lotto lout! No wild parties, no demolition derbies or souped-up quad bikes ripping through the countryside. It’s a bit more subtle than that.
“True, Asbo is hardly a
pillar of the community. That the hamlet’s premier residence, formerly Crendon Court (where Henry VIII once spent the night), is now named after a blighted Acton prison—this rankles.
“So do the 30-foot steel walls which now gird the 10-acre garden. And the local children are said to be terrified of the two furious pitbulls, Jek and Jak, who are taken on daily tours, or aggressive inspections, of the village.
“Who, after all, would welcome the influx of the usual rabble that bob along in the slipstream of fame and money? Parasites and predators, and all the ‘Threnody’ stalkers and lookalikes.
“Local rumour has it, by the way, that ‘Jek’ refers to Jekyll and Hyde, whilst ‘Jak’ alludes to Jack the Ripper. But this sounds a bit too ‘erudite’ for the East End ‘eejit.’ More likely, ‘Jek’ and ‘Jak’ are garbled versions of ‘Juke’ and ‘Jyke,’ the names fished out of a hat by Asbo’s companion, ‘Threnody,’ for the orphaned Somalian twins she long ago stopped sponsoring.
“What you sense, in the end, is a feeling of general hurt and dismay. A sense that these orderly rural lives are somehow travestied by the intrusion of the jackpot jailbird, Lionel Asbo.”
“My photographer, the Sun’s Chris Large (one of the three journalists brutalised by Asbo in August 2009), asks the picketers for leave to ring the buzzer and announce our arrival.
“Wearing a blue silk dressing gown and, of all things, mid-calf snakeskin boots, Asbo walks briskly up the drive. He welcomes Chris and myself most cordially, then endures a brief heckling from the petitioners at the gates.
“ ‘You know what I got, Daph?’ he says. ‘Neighbours from hell.’
“This remark intrigues me. I have come here with an ‘open mind’—after all, you can’t believe everything you read in the papers! And I ask him, as we walk down the drive, passing the famous Bentley ‘Aurora,’ ‘Weren’t you a neighbour from hell, Lionel? Back in Diston?’
