Lionel Asbo: State of England

by Martin Amis

  And you couldn’t deny it. The famous young couple, so recently known as (say) the Jugjob Jezebel and the Diston Dingbat, were now referred to, alliteratively but without capital letters, as the courageous covergirl and her patriotic paramour.

  “Yeah,” said Des. “Some thought’s gone into all this. I wonder how long it’ll last.”

  The interview with Ringo Pepperdine in Sunday’s People sparked little controversy. Ringo’s complaint—Lionel never gave me a penny piece—counted for nothing when set against the revelations in the text: over the course of thirteen years, Ringo had cost the taxpayer well over half a million pounds in benefits and disability allowances. And the colour photograph, with its waxwork effect, won him few admirers: a dishevelled Mongolian, with sunken red-spoked eyes, a needle-thin moustache, and a watchfully parasitic leer.

  There was but a single repercussion. All he cared about, said Ringo unguardedly, was Mum. No thought for anyone but Mum. And in Tuesday’s Star there was a half-page piece about the Northern Lights—the bijou sunset parlour on the crest of Scotland where Grace Pepperdine, thanks to her youngest boy’s fond munificence (and no thanks to Ringo), now contentedly dwelt.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Nowhere. Just down the shop … You’ve got that frown again.”

  “Well don’t be long, Dawnie.”

  A while ago, as he was working his way through another enormous baby book, Des came across the following: During pregnancy every woman will experience an irrational fear of isolation.

  Which is funny (he thought): because that’s exactly what I’m experiencing—and Dawn, in his view, had never seemed more unnervingly self-sufficient. Sometimes, when he got home from work, he expected to enter a grey void of slowly shifting dust. Or else an indifferent Dawn would look up at him from the kitchen table and politely ask, Yes? Can I help you? Have you come to the wrong flat? Can I help you?

  He knew his irrational fears were irrational, and he tried to keep quiet about them, but late one night, in the dark, he found himself saying,

  You wouldn’t go and do a runner on me would you Dawnie?

  … Don’t be daft.

  And another night he might say in the dark,

  You won’t suddenly up and leave me will you Dawnie?

  And she might say, Desmond, and roll over towards him.

  … I worry, he said with a convulsive swallow.

  No need. My love. My love. No need. And then she said (solvingly, it turned out), Oh, Desi, don’t. Stop trying not to cry. Stop. Don’t. It breaks my heart.

  A weekend morning, and there they were, in their limited habitat, Dawn on the balcony, reading, Des in the passage, exercising. He was now very fit; twice a day, before and after work, he went for half-hour sprints on Steep Slope; and he could polish off forty-five press-ups in less than a minute. Why was he doing all this? Because he was a man who was going to have a baby. And his body, at least, his physical instrument, would be perfectly primed …

  “I’ll get it,” he called, and went to the phone.

  “Des, it’s you Uncle Li. Listen. A couple of EBs’ll be over to clean me room. They’ll let theyselves in. Take care.”

  By EBs Lionel meant persons from the Eastern Bloc. And that afternoon, sure enough, Danuta and Kryzstina hurried talkatively into the flat with armfuls of thick towels and glowing flax. They worked for an hour, and drank a cup of tea, and left.

  Again Des ventured within, and Dawn followed. The white smile of the folded upper sheet (which was quality linen, and not the scorching polyester of earlier days), the white Turkish bathrobe plumped up at the foot of the bed. And there in the drawer were Lionel’s old socks and pink-tinged Y-fronts, his sweats, his combats.

  Dawn sighed and said, “I know I’m always moaning on about it. But wouldn’t it be lovely if we could move in here.”

  “Then our room’d be perfect for Toilet.”

  “Perfect. Where’s Toilet going to sleep?” Dawn was looking at herself in the freestanding swing mirror, full on and then in profile (as Cilla used to do before she went out). “I’m still not showing!”

  Des glanced down at his own mid-section. No: his hysterical pregnancy was not quite as hysterical as that. And in fact he felt much calmer. Dawn was always praising him, admiring him, and enthusiastically returning his embraces and caresses, and it now seemed rather unlikely, on the whole, that his beloved wife, four months pregnant, would desert her home and husband and elope with the unborn child. He said,

  “You’re showing a bit, Dawnie.”

  “But the other mums are out here! And I still don’t feel pregnant.”

  “She hasn’t stopped kicking, has she?”

  “Don’t look so stricken! Of course she hasn’t stopped kicking. You think I wouldn’t tell you? And she’s a boy too. It’s like a pub brawl in there. She’s a boy.”

  “Not necessarily, Dawnie. You know, I’ve been looking round the stalls. And I think I’ve found the perfect cradle for Toilet.”

  “Harry.”

  “Lally.”

  “Gary.”

  “Sally.”

  “… You know, Des, I’m getting an awful feeling.”

  “So am I. He’s moving back in.”

  10

  By now the lovers were being referred to, simply, as “Threnody” and Lionel, or as Li and “Thren,” or (for a week or two at least) as Thrionel (and even “Thr”ionel). England looked on with an indulgent smile as the romance spread its buds and bloomed.

  Lionel and “Threnody” feeding the ducks in St. James’s Park, and strolling on, hand in hand. “Threnody” and Lionel drinking champagne in the directors’ box at Upton Park (where they watched West Ham lose heavily to Manchester City). Lionel top-hatted, and “Threnody” extravagantly befrocked, enjoying a day at the races. But there were also nights out at the greyhound tracks—Walthamstow, Haringey, Ockenden—with the principals in jeans and bomber jackets … Des gazed for a long time at a not unendearing photo (he thought) of Lionel in earnest communion with his Morning Lark in the stadium cocktail bar while “Threnody” paid a visit to the ladies’ room.

  I’ve finally met a man, “Threnody” told reporters (including Desmond’s new colleague at the Daily Mirror), who makes me feel cherished. He makes me feel safe. He’s an Englishman. He’s a real man, not like that sad, pathetic little b*****d Fernando. And don’t get me going on that stupid s*d Azwat.

  At “Wormwood Scrubs,” when it’s just Lionel and I, we generally have an interlude in our room before dinner. With the lights down low, I model him the latest creations from “Self Esteem.” Starting with the bustiers and ending with the teensiest little frillies. As a prelude to the obvious!

  He’s a decathlete in the boudoir, my Lionel, but also so very sensitive and caring. For hour upon hour we surge and meld. However, for me, the really romantic part comes after our evening meal. We go up, we lie there in the dark. I’ll say, “Love you, Lionel.” He’ll say, “Love you, ‘Threnody.’ ” And we’ll fall asleep in one another’s arms, in an ecstasy of loving.

  A source at the office of Megan Jones did not deny that the couple had ordered several catalogues of engagement rings.

  “There is no mistaking ‘Threnody’ ’s heartfelt adoration,” concluded Daphne, in a follow-up think-piece in the Sun. “And Lionel? Oh, he looks as sunny as a dog with two tails!

  “And whilst the couple are impatient to start a family of their own, they also have plans to adopt the three Afghan babies that ‘Threnody’ fell in love with at the orphanage in Badroo.

  “So who knows? The two poor little rich things might yet become national treasures, as they find their way to the proverbial ‘dream come true.’

  “And what, finally, of Lionel’s adorable nephew? May I, on behalf of the Street of Shame, extend a warm welcome to Des Pepperdine. As much as it pains me to praise a rival, young Des, a fresh face on a certain venerable tabloid, has already started to impress. What a striking comprehension of the criminal men
tality! Hmm. Wonder where he got that from!”

  “She’s copying Danube again,” said Dawn.

  The Pepperdines were en route to Cape Wrath. Activated for travel, England thrummed past them with its rainbow of greens.

  “Listen to this.”

  On her way from an OK! shoot to an appearance on T4—and before making a PA at EZ (a new nightclub)—“Threnody” instructed Sebastian Drinker to release a statement about the forthcoming ITV documentary “Threnody” and Lionel: Fusion.

  “She’s doing a Danube,” said Dawn.

  “Pinch me,” said Des, aghast. “She’s signed him up for I’m a Superstar, What the F*** Am I Doing Here? No. Never.”

  I just want to be with Lionel 24/7, said “Threnody” in a speech at the annual Formula 1 Pit Pets Party (like Danube, who did not attend, “Threnody” was a former Formula 1 Pit Pet). And to think I used to obsess about my career! And about Danube! Danube. Who’s so over. That’s what happens when you find true love. You don’t give a s*** about anything else. End of.

  Then all this changed.

  But before it did that, Lionel called Avalon Tower and gave warning.

  “I’m going to be fussing over you. You won’t have a minute’s peace.”

  Des’s tone, now, was no longer tearful or pleading. It was pitched at the level of romantic banter, and Dawn seemed to like it. She gave her new laugh (half an octave deeper) and said, “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “And remember. A promise is a promise.”

  The phone sounded, and as he went to pick it up he saw Goldie settling on the balcony, her tail like an undulating question mark; she sat, and listened, with independently twitching ears—one ear listening right, one ear listening left.

  “Des? … I thought I’d pop in one of these nights.”

  Des said, “Course, Uncle Li. Which?”

  “How would I know? All this going on. Load of bollocks,” he said (and in the background you could hear many faint but festive voices). “I’m standing here in a fucking black-and-yellow romper suit. For why? Because Lynndie England’s showing off her waist in one of her wasp outfits. Colour-coordinated, see. We’re throwing a party for all her lookalikes. And you know what? Half of them’s on retainer! And her stalkers! What’s happening, Des? Me face—me face, Des, it’s all distorted! From the smiling. I can’t get it back to what it was before! … What’s happening? Where’s Lionel Asbo? Gone. I’m gone, boy, I’m gone. Jesus, load of bollocks all this is.”

  When Lionel rang off Des went on sitting there with the phone in his hand. For a moment his breast throbbed with warmth; then from another direction came a kind of arrhythmia of anxiety; and then the warmth returned.

  “Ah, see him? Fairly glowing, he is. Well. Love is blind,” said Dawn.

  He looked up. There was a temptation to say something about (that genius) Horace Sheringham, but he didn’t need to because they both understood.

  And now the fairy-tale romance between “Threnody” and Lionel began to lose its way.

  In late June “Threnody” bolted from her seat in the VIP enclosure at the Elle Style Awards and went back to the South Central Hotel—early, alone, and in tears. Photos: “Threnody” with smeared mascara fleeing the Churchill Ballroom in her silk tanktop and diamanté tutu; Lionel sullenly remaining at the round table with his feet up on the empty chair …

  In early July Lionel stormed out of the Full Throttle Motor Show, in Manchester. Photos: against a background of glass and burnished metal, the opposed figures, at various angles: Lionel like a mammoth in his mink coat, “Threnody” like an elf in her Union Jack bikini, Lionel with an imperious forefinger upraised, “Threnody” with hands and arms combatively akimbo …

  Then came the acrimonious dinner—in some paparazzi-girt trattoria in King’s Road. The dailies concentrated on the postprandial slanging match, out on the pavement (with “Threnody” obviously the worse for wear). But what stayed with Des was a follow-up paragraph in the Evening Standard’s Londoner’s Diary: a well-placed fellow diner disclosed that Lionel and “Threnody” spent the entire meal saying “yeah yeah yeah” to each other. The entire meal. “Yeah yeah yeah.”

  At this point the couple repaired to “Wormwood Scrubs”—they’ve work to do on their relationship, admitted Sebastian Drinker. They know this fully well. And “Threnody,” in confirmation, released these simple lines:

  Talking over issues

  Seeing eye to eye

  Learning how to compromise

  As the years go by

  Trifling disagreements

  We hereby cast aside

  For you will be mine husband

  And I will be thy bride …

  “She said Lionel cracked up when he read her poem.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “No, Dawn. Listen. Poor Lionel couldn’t finish it. He was crying that hard.”

  “… It gives you a funny feeling, all this, doesn’t it.”

  “Yeah, it does. What was all that squabbling in aid of? Her getting pissed and them yelling in the street. To make them look human?”

  “To make them look English, you mean. No, I reckon it’s just indiscipline.”

  “The strain.”

  “The strain.”

  They were out on Steep Slope: Sunday morning—and early Sunday morning (7 a.m.), before Diston stirred and rose. Dusty chestnuts, cloth-capped flowers, bent beer cans: the natural surroundings. Only the smell of liquid waste maintained the power to astonish—the way it maddened the gums.

  “Wait,” he said.

  Their pace slowed as they approached the little memorial to Dashiel Young. Dashiel, the Jamaican teenager beaten to death by six grown men on Steep Slope—six years ago. A lozenge of grey stone, indented, flush with the ground, and the etched words: Always Remembered. Dashiel Young, 1991–2006. Des bowed his head. He always remembered. Grief is the price we pay for … They moved on.

  “Lionel and ‘Threnody.’ There’s something infinite in it,” said Dawn, peacefully and mysteriously (as always, now).

  “Infinitely what?”

  “Poor. Imagine pretending to be in love.”

  “Mm. Imagine.”

  11

  It was on the last Saturday of Dawn’s fifth month that Lionel paid his first visit.

  “He said he might look in sometime. That’s all. You know Uncle Li. Predictably unpredictable. Always was.”

  “… That’s a useless bloody phrase, that is. Predictably unpredictable. I mean, how far’s it get you? Where’s the predictable bit come in? Lionel’s not predictably unpredictable. He’s unpredictably unpredictable.”

  “Yeah. He’s just unpredictable.”

  Predictable and its opposite were becoming similarly meaningless in the half-dark of the kitchen. One of those pleasant, deep-voiced, lethargic dusks when no one turns the lights on. Why aren’t the lights on? Who hasn’t turned the lights on? You haven’t. I haven’t … They were wondering aloud about what to have for dinner, and such talk, at Avalon Tower (after the year of cereal, the year of baked beans on toast, the year of pasta and pesto), was a sign of high living. He said,

  “I just mean he may surprise us. By not being surprising.”

  “Oh pack it in, Des. I’m going mad.”

  “… How about a Cornish pasty?” This suggestion was teasingly made. “Or a Cheltenham lamb pasanda.”

  “Good idea. Or Cumberland sausages and mash.”

  “Or a Melton Mowbray pork pie.”

  Although Des still sometimes gorged himself on (for example) anchovies and chocolate fudge, it was Dawn’s palate that was in the ascendant at Avalon Tower. And Des bowed to the genetic suzerainty of Horace Sheringham. Always rather limited in her tastes, Dawn now wanted everything she ate to be tamely and blandly English.

  “I know what you’d really like for your dinner. Scones. With Cow and Gate Farmer’s Wife Double Devon Cream.”

  Then they heard the rattle, the double-thunk, the creak, an
d the percussive wheeze of the slammed front door.

  Des stood up and reached to his left, and the neon strips came on with a flustered whinny. “In here, Uncle Li!”

  “… Yeah, well where else?” said Lionel, whose bouldery shape now filled the doorway. Intent, unsmiling, the mink coat worn cape-like over the deep-blue suit with its churchy glisten. In one tensed fist he was holding a soft leather valise, and in the other a wicker hamper, which he now swung up on to the table. “Got me beer?”

  “On its way, Uncle Li. Just in the tin?”

  The valise was dropped, the coat shrugged off. Lionel took a chair and swivelled it, facing out over the colourless evening. He settled himself with his Cobra and his Marlboro Hundred. His long back was sloped and still, but the tips of his shoulders now and then lightly shuddered. Many minutes passed.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he said without turning. “Ah, that’s better. Here, Dawn. What’s the uh, what’s the basis of domestic bliss? I’ll tell yuh. Respect,” he said pitilessly. Up came a squat forefinger. “And empathy. Empathy. ‘Threnody’ reckons …”

  After a while Dawn said, “Have you eaten, Lionel?”

  “Nah, I’m off out, me.” He stood and started loosening his tie. “See that? That’s the Hamper Supreme. Fortnum’s. Eat you fill.”

  They could hear him in the bathroom, copiously urinating; then a bedraggled yawn; then the passage floorboards were wincing to his tread.

  “… Maison de la Truffe Olive Oil with Black Truffles,” said Des.

  “Jabugo Iberico Ham with Stuffed Andalucian Gherkins.”

  “Spiced Nut and Satay Bean Mix. With Salsa Baguettes.”

  “Lime and Pomeranian Coriander Dressing. With Epicure Croutons.”

  “Stoneground Mustard with Elephant Garlic!”

  Very soon Lionel reappeared. He hovered there for a moment, baseball-capped, tracksuited, trainered, with his laces loosened … And you realised something. Lionel Asbo was by now a national presence, and instantaneously recognisable—but only when defined by a plutocratic setting. Behind the wheel of the “Aurora,” for instance, (or abseiling earthward from the cockpit of his Venganza) or on the arm of “Threnody” at some ball or gala, or simply patrolling the lawns of “Wormwood Scrubs.” Casually dressed in Diston, Lionel would reattain generic anonymity: he would be an invisible man.