Lionel Asbo: State of England

by Martin Amis

  “Uh, back channel.” He got to his feet and straightened his tie. “Ringo. Uncle Ring. And Troy. Troy Welkway. They brokered it.”

  “But you said Ringo hates Marlon.”

  “Yeah. He does. And Troy hates him too.”

  “… Ooh, Des, will it be all right?”

  “Course it will. It’s a wedding party. Uncle Li’s been working on his speech. The best man’s speech. You know. The eulogy.”

  3

  It was easy to find—the Imperial Palace, a broad low-rise hotel set back from the road beyond a strip of lawn and a crammed car park. Doormen dressed like town criers were guiding the guests through the foyer, past the Beefeater Bar, and into an L-shaped anteroom where you could already hear a wall of sound, like the clamour of a schoolyard but on a lowered register—the contraltos of the women, the baritones of the men, in festive concord. Springtime, amatory union, massed revelry … With due allowance made for the imperfections of all those present, this wall of sound was a wall of love.

  Dawn at once hurried off to the ladies’ room, and Des was at once confronted by a cream-jacketed waiter with a silver tray: prosecco! The bubbles sizzled in his nose and romped and swarmed round his brain and after a second sip he was already feeling tremendously happy and proud. Dawn joined him, and together they advanced through the tall doorway.

  Now, Des had never been in a hotel before, and he was a little overawed, perhaps, by the way the place seemed to set itself the task of pampering his senses—the smiling, dipping waiters, the limitless refreshments, the soft music, the padded chairs in lines against the walls, the thick rayon drapes, the twinkling plastic chandeliers, the fitted nylon carpet (orange, with attractive sprinklings of yellow), and the brilliant company, all around, in their Whitsun best.

  “They’re not so bad, Dawnie,” he said, reaching for a second glass. “They’re all right, I reckon. They’ll do. Look at them.”

  Of the ninety-odd souls gathered in that lofty ballroom, the most august, probably, was Brian “Skanker” Fitzwilliam (Uncle John’s father-in-law), his compact head adorned by a scythe of snow-white hair, together with his lady wife, Minnie, spryly wielding her black crutches. Next in seniority was Jayden “One Mile” Drago, father of the bride, in all his immovable girth, together with his current partner, Britt, half his age, with her miniskirt, her freckled poitrine. Then, too, there was Dennis “Mumper” Welkway, and Mrs. Mercy Welkway (née Pepperdine), and her younger sister Grace, with her walkingframe and her hairnet and her …

  “You look lovely, dear. Lovely. Doesn’t she, Des.”

  “Yeah, she does. Eh, what’s that, Gran? Orange juice?”

  “No. Buck’s Fizz!”

  “Prosecco, me! Gaw, all this. Must be costing a—”

  “Oops,” said Gran, turning away. “Here comes summer. And I can tell. He’s got that look in his eye.”

  Lionel Asbo moved smoothly through the crush, patting a back here, giving a wrist-clasp there, embracing Uncle John, Uncle Paul, Uncle George, Uncle Ringo, and Uncle Stuart, slapping hands with Marlon’s brothers, Charlton, Rod, Yul, Burt, Troy, and Rock, bowing in solemn introduction to Gina’s innumerable siblings (bowing to Dejan, to Shakira, to Namru, to Aaliyah, to Vassallo, to Yasmine, to Oreste, to little Foozaloo) … And Des thought: Could it be possible? Could it be possible that Lionel Asbo, the great asocial, was in certain settings a social being?

  Dawn said, “And over there, Des. Ooh. There’s posh.”

  A waistcoated string quartet, up on the stage, rose as one and began playing the theme of The Godfather. Yes, there would be dancing, after the formalities, and then a great array of traditional Maltese dishes, artichoke hearts, beans with parsley, vegetable medleys, ricotta pie, nougat. But for now the fingerfood was reassuringly English—honest tavern fare—and Des said, “You’d better eat your fill now, Dawnie. You won’t be wanting that foreign muck. Horace wouldn’t like it. Here. Have a nice ham bap.”

  “Oh, get off … What are you smiling at?”

  “I’m just thinking. I’m thinking about tonight.”

  “Mm. So am I.”

  They kissed.

  “Oy!”

  And here he was (in his one good suit, his white shirt, his cord-thin blue tie), scrubbed and shaven, with a stubborn tin of Cobra in his meaty hand.

  “Lionel, can I ask you something?”

  “Course you can, girl,” he said, leaning over the table. He speared a rollmop and reached out, with impatient fingers, for two bite-sized pork pies.

  “Why’s Mr. Drago called ‘One Mile’?”

  Crunching his way through a mouthful of pickled onions, Lionel explained. Jayden Drago’s cars were very cheap; but “One Mile” was as far as anyone ever got in them before they broke down.

  “Sorry—but how’s he stay in business?”

  “Ah you see, Dawn, one mile’s a uh, an exaggeration. It’s more like five miles. Or even ten,” he said through the gingery crumbs of a Scotch egg. “I bought one off him once. It’s worth it if you going all the way across town. Same as a cab.”

  “Your speech, Uncle Li. You were going to dictate it to me. But you never.”

  His head tipped back, Lionel negotiated a ziggurat of salt-and-vinegar crisps, dusted his palms, and gave his brow a sharp knock with his knuckle. “It’s all up here, son. It’s all up here … Beautiful ceremony this morning. No, it was,” he went on, looking lost and wistful. “The little bridesmaids with they bouquets. The stained glass … Gina. Gina, she took me aside in the garden. All in white, with them little white ribbons in her hair. And she said, Lionel? Thank you, Lionel, she said, thank you for helping to make this the most perfect day of me life. And her smile was like a little ray of sunshine. I tell you, it warmed me heart. It warmed my heart.”

  The string quartet withdrew. After a skirling volley of whoops and yells, and then a gurgling hush, the groom, the bride, and the best man approached and mounted the low stage. Lionel and Marlon embraced; Lionel and Gina embraced, and, as she too lingeringly stepped back and to the side, he kissed her hand (a nice touch).

  And Lionel Asbo began.

  “Can you all hear me, my friends?” A mutter of assent. “… Marl and me? What can I tell you. We been best mates,” he said scathingly (as if settling the hash of anyone who claimed otherwise), “since we was babies.” The womenfolk led a soft chuckle. “Sometimes, for a hoot, our mums’d take it in turns to feed us both at once. Didn’t you, Grace. Didn’t you, Auntie Mercy. That’s how close we were, me and Marl—he was the bloke on the next tit along.” More maternal mirth. “So the months passed. Then, when we stopped brawling over the next bottle of formula, well, we started putting ourselves about like normal little boys. All right. We was so-and-sos. There’s no other word for it. We were right so-and-sos. Scallywags, if you like.”

  And Des thought, He’s found a style, Uncle Li. There’ll be some rough edges, but he’s found a style. Dawn was watching with her arms intently crossed.

  “Bunking off day care and sneaking into X-films through the fire escapes.” Male laughter. “Ringing all the neighbours’ doorbells and giving them the finger. Aged two.” Female laughter. “And, when we was taller, pissing through they letterboxes.” General laughter. “We had a specialty, me and Marl. It started one Bonfire Night, when we was three, but soon we were doing it all year round. What you looked out for was a big heap of wet dogshit near a nice smart car. You’d ease a fat cherry bomb in under the slime, light the fuse, then nip round the corner.” Affectionate tut-tutting. “Bang! You come back, and it’s all over the paintwork. Every inch. Beautiful. Not so popular with the uh, the passers-by.” More affectionate tut-tutting.

  “Nicking trikes, then bikes, then mopeds, then scooters. This is how you grow. Then proper motors, then vans, then lorries. We had the odd scrap, I don’t mind telling you, about whose turn it was to steer. See, we was only six or seven when we started.” A deep hum of admiration. “So one of us did the pedals and the other sat on his chest and d
id the wheel. If you were on top you’d go brake or power. And if you was underneath, and it was a pantechnicon, and Marl was all power power power power power, well, you just closed you eyes and hoped for the best.”

  He had them. File upon file of beaming moist-eyed faces. When this bit’s over, thought Des, I’ll ask Granny Grace for a dance. Just a gentle shuffle on the edge of the floor, if she’s game.

  “Then comes uh, adolescence. Shoplifting, credit cards, mug jobs, smash and grab. At school—suspension, expulsion, PRU offroll. Youth Court, Youth Custody, and the odd spot of Yoi. Then came maturity. Which in my case meant prison.” Some muffled snorts, a single guffaw. “Marl was craftier, and quicker on his toes. I was more headstrong. I wouldn’t learn. For me, for me that’s a point of principle. Never learn.

  “So. We had our careers to make. I was drawn to reset—you know, selling on—and to debt work. Marlon here was a natural thruster. B and E. Otherwise known as burgling. And ooh was he useful. It’s why he’s called the Floater. Marl, he could ransack a barracks in broad daylight and no one’d turn a hair. What a talent. What a gift. So him with his thrusting, and me with me reset. Plus, you know, there was always uh, a bit of this, that, and the other.

  “Okay. Okay. What we was doing was not in uh, strict accordance with the law. But we make no apologies, Marl and me.” An intensely interested quiescence. “For why? Because the law’s there to protect the rich man’s shilling.” A hot murmur of agreement. “And no bloke worth the name’s going to bend over for that.” Prolonged and stormy applause.

  Which Lionel now quelled, with raised palms and lowered head. “And all the way along, of course, there was skirt. Birds, birds, birds. And Jesus, with Rhett Butler here, tall, dark and handsome with his lovely scar, it was like he’d entered the Olympics. Which event? The Legover!” Reluctant amusement. “Like how many can he do in one day. Or one hour. His bedroom—he fit it with a revolving door!” Unreluctant amusement. “As for me, with my ugly mug, I just held his coat and warmed his dunkers.” Quiet male laughter. “Sorry, ladies. I mean his johnnies—his uh, family planning.” Quiet female laughter. “Well, I wasn’t that bothered. But him? With the minge? He was styling his hair with it. That’s the Floater. That’s Marlon Welkway.”

  Lionel half turned. The bride was smiling at the groom in coquettish reproach; Marlon’s wet eyes were shut and his shoulders were shaking. Des, too, half turned, and noticed Ringo slipping out through the tall double doors.

  “Now I always thought, Marl? Marlon Welkway? He’s not the marrying kind. Marl? No danger. Ladies’ man. Confirmed bachelor if you like … Ah, but then he goes and falls under the spell … of the gorgeous Gina.” Cheers, whoops, and ear-stinging whistles. “Gina Drago. Look at her. Pretty as a sunset on a waterfall. Yes, there’ll be gloom in the pubs of Diston tonight. As it sinks in with all the blokes that the jewel of the manor, Gina Drago, has now become Gina Welkway.”

  Lionel solemnly clapped his hands, and was joined by the entire company. This went on for a minute and a half.

  “There’s been a lot of talk about the so-called garage meet.” An affirmatory murmur. “Didn’t mean a thing. See, we always rucked. As babies, toddlers, kids, youths, grown-ups—always rucked. Long fights, serious fights. Why? Out of respect. To keep ourselves honest. Yeah, we fought, Marl and me. Well,” he said, with a comparatively lenient sneer, “no one else was any good at it.” Deferential clearing of throats.

  “Now I’ve gone on long enough. Without further ado—let the celebrations begin! … Oh yeah—before I forget. You know, friends, half an hour ago I happened to pop up to the first floor. And there was a queue of uh, hotel staff on the stairs. Not them handsome young waiters in they cream jackets. No. Kitchen skivvies. Horrible bloody old geezers from the boiler rooms and the compost heap. With flies buzzing round they heads. And they all undoing they belts.” Silence. Lionel frowned. “I said, What’s happening, gents? And one of them points down the corridor. And what do I see? Gina.” Extreme silence. “With her fucking trousseau up round her waist and her fucking knickers down round her shins and her great big fat arse in the air and her—!”

  • • •

  … So, no. No, Marlon and Gina did not spend the evening hours drinking Girgentina and eating bebbux on the poolside veranda of their rented villa on the Maltese islet of Gozo.

  And, no, Desmond and Dawn did not spend the evening hours drinking vin de table and eating cottage pie, by candlelight, on the thirty-third floor of Avalon Tower.

  No. Each and every one of those present, even the bridesmaids, even the grandmothers, spent the night in the copshops (and clinics) of Metroland, on preliminary charges of Criminal Damage and Affray.

  The cost of the repairs to the Imperial Palace would eventually run to six hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

  Dawn was released the next morning, and Des the next afternoon. It was made clear to them that they would have to testify in court. Four days later, Dawn’s body stopped shaking.

  And Des remembered his last glimpse of the Imperial Palace (he had his bleeding face crushed up against the back window of the Black Maria). He saw a sign saying Eats. Drinks. Beds. Decent Rooms At Decent Prices. And he saw the white-ribboned Austin Princess, with its starred and cratered windscreen and the brick still lying on its bonnet—Ringo’s contribution to the Whitsun wedding.

  4

  At two in the afternoon Officer Fips came to fetch him.

  “Best of luck, Lionel,” said Pete New from his bunk.

  Asbo sauntered freely down the stone passage. He was led up four flights of steps, then through a hall bracingly redolent of vomit and carbolic, and then out on to the colonnade with its dripping arches. The Governor’s door stood wide open.

  Slight, bald, with frizzled eyebrows and a bulging forehead, Governor Wolf did not at all resemble the bearer of good news as he said drily,

  “Ah. Here he is. The estimable Mr. Asbo … I suppose you just plug away at it, don’t you, Lionel. Month after month. With your brain hurting. And your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth. Plugging away at the Lottery.”

  “The Lottery? Course I don’t. Think I’m stupid? And what about it?”

  “What about it?”

  Lionel barely remembered; he had only filched the coupon to give a certain old lag a niggle (and it was all a load of bollocks anyway). He stood there with his hands in his pockets. Governor Wolf—who had long ago stopped trying to make Lionel call him sir—said again,

  “What about it?”

  Sighing, Lionel said, “Okay. You got me up here because I won fifteen quid. It’s a mug’s game, the Lottery. If you ask me.”

  Governor Wolf threw his pencil on to the desk and said, “Well. I suppose this proves that God’s got a sense of humour.”

  Lionel grew alert.

  “It’s more than fifteen pounds, Asbo. It’s a substantial sum.”

  Like a soldier Lionel went from the at-ease posture to full attention.

  “How substantial? Sir!”

  Owing to an earlier infraction, Lionel was confined to his cell. But the next morning Pete New was carted off to the san for an hour of physiotherapy, and when he came back he said,

  “You’re on the front page of the Sun.”

  A recumbent Lionel was examining his fingernails. He said, “Headline?”

  “Lionel Asbo, Lotto Lout.”

  “Photo?”

  “You outside the Bailey. Being led away and giving the finger.”

  Lionel merely shrugged, and New ventured to say,

  “Wasn’t there a box you could tick, Lionel? You should’ve ticked it. Confidential or whatever. Now you’ll never get a moment’s peace.”

  “I’m not bothered. By the publicity. I can handle it … You know, Pete, the funny thing is, I never done the Lottery in all me life! Fucking mug’s game, if you ask me.”

  That afternoon Lionel received an official visitor: Dallen Mahon, the lawyer assigned to him by Legal Aid. They sat at a s
quare table in the commissary, Dallen with her briefcase and her mineral water, Lionel, in his navy overalls, drinking coffee and eating Toblerone.

  “It’s simple,” she said. “Pay off the civil suit, and they’ll prosecute you on a lesser charge. Say Drunk and Disorderly. A fine and a caution. And you walk.”

  “What, I pay all of it?”

  “Well no one else has got any money, have they. Mr. Drago’s willing to make a modest contribution. I mean Gina’s still inside. Not to mention”—she took out her notebook—“Dejan, Namru, Oreste, and Vassallo. And all the uncles and cousins.”

  Lionel’s face assumed a fond expression. Gina, after it went off at the Imperial Palace, had certainly caught the eye. With a chair leg in one hand and half a violin in the other. “She’s a spirited girl, that Gina … Listen. I’m prepared to pay me share. I worked it out. Eight thousand. And that’s it.”

  “Lionel. You’re a millionaire a hundred and forty times over.”

  “Yeah, but seven hundred k!”

  “Nine hundred. Lost custom.”

  “Jesus Christ. Some people …”

  “Lionel, your financial situation has changed. Has this sunk in?”

  “Wait. If I stump up, does Marlon walk?”

  “Marlon walks. And so do … and so do Charlton, Rod, Yul, Burt, Troy, and Rock.”

  “Well I’m not having that, am I. It was Marlon started it. And now he walks? On my hard-earned … Marlon poncing off my success? Enjoy you daydream, Dallen.”

  “You all walk. John, Paul, George, and Stuart. Sleep on it. In your cell.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And tomorrow morning, when you and your colleague are mucking out,” she said, “you might have second thoughts.”

  “I might. Now where’s this uh, adviser?”

  Dallen made a come-nearer gesture to the guard, who went off and shortly returned with a suntanned forty-year-old in a pinstripe suit.