Lionel Asbo: State of England

by Martin Amis

“When I was little,” she said, “I wanted a pup so much. Or a kitten. I kept a pet ant. I had an ant bar on my windowsill. I fed it jam … And now I’ve got these two fine fellas. And I’ve got you. And we’ll have a whole new room. We’ll have twice the space, Des. Just think.”

  He checked his keys and his money.

  “His eyes. His eyes’ve gone … I just hope there’s a copper watching. He won’t do anything if there’s a copper watching. I just hope there’s a copper watching.”

  6

  In the silver cube Lionel Asbo rode up to his suite on the eleventh floor. Bedroom, lounge, office area, bathroom with two sinks (and an extra shitter in a little closet of its own). The leading segment of the toilet roll was shaped in a V: a thoughtful touch. He stripped, and stood for ten minutes under a showerhead the size of an umbrella—sluicing off all that Stallwort. He shaved, wielding the heavy brush and the heavy razor. The heaviness of the brush, the heaviness of the razor: these weights had a meaning that Lionel could not yet parse.

  Next door he climbed into the new clothes Firth-Heatherington had laid on for him: white shirt, dark slacks, tasselled loafers, sports jacket. But he’d put on a few, what with the stodge they give you inside, and he couldn’t quite get the trousers joined up at the waist. So he used the fluffy white belt off the complimentary robe. Looked a bit stupid but there it was. Half past one. Now what?

  Having hosed himself down and all that, Lionel expected to feel twice the price. But he had to admit that he was still coming over slightly queer. Not himself. In fact, he was coming over very peculiar indeed. The air seemed glazed and two-dimensional: filmic. James Bond or what have you. Except James Bond never … There was a solid pressure in Lionel’s loins, like a stuck crank, and his left pillock ached. Once again he tried to move his bowels. With no joy. Come to think of it, he hadn’t had a proper stint since that day with the Governor. And usually he was as regular as time itself … Mind you, he was looking forward to his dinner. Seven-thirty, table for six: John, Paul, George, Ringo, and Stuart. Lionel gave a grin, with scrolled upper lip. It was going to be a good one, this. He had it all worked out.

  Now Lionel betook himself to the Bolingbroke Bar on the ground floor. Straddling a tall stool, he had a couple of bottles of champagne and cleared a few trays of Bombay Mix. The whole hotel was nonsmoking; but as against that, there was a garden beyond the open doors and he stepped outside, every fifteen or twenty minutes, for a quiet Hundred. Milk-white statues. And the drugging scents of roses and hyacinths. Also a fountain and the placid patter of its shimmering droplets. He believed for a moment (not a long moment) that he was feeling somewhat improved.

  With a copy of Country Life on his lap, he sat by the dormant fireplace in the Lancaster Lounge. Two burnished old gents were chatting away on the adjacent settee. Lionel unthinkingly assumed they were in their late forties; but then he began to decode the static of their talk—and they were reminiscing about Normandy and D-Day! Now Lionel, as a boy, had been dead keen on the bloodbaths of World War II, so it only took him a minute. 1944—that made them well over eighty! … Gazing ceilingward, Lionel had a little think about the vale of years. There was that doddering tycoon who married some tart a fifth his age, and there was the Queen, of course—but they were bound to keep her walking, weren’t they, what with the … Or could this mean that, among the rich, it was maybe even halfway normal to live that long? And then the two gents leapt to their feet and strode forward to hail and hug their wives!

  After a little accident in the Lancaster Lounge, and after a lively exchange of views with certain fellow guests in the shopping arcade, Lionel found himself in the foyer. Looking out. He supposed that, if he’d been feeling better, he would’ve taken a stroll—buy a Lark, see how the local pubs compared … Nine or ten representatives of the Fourth Estate: still out there. He registered the urge to go and give them a piece of his mind; but an unfamiliar qualm restrained him (what? It was something like an unexamined fear of derision). He went on standing there, leaning against the pillar, looking out. Gilded cage, if you like. He went on standing there, leaning there, looking out.

  Then it was three o’clock and he had the outfitters to deal with back upstairs. The couturier, the hatmaker, the bespoke cobbler, the hosier, the mercer, the jeweller, and the furrier. Bolts of cloth were glowingly unfurled. He stood there like a felon about to be frisked as the tailors whispered round him with their pins and tapes. In such circumstances, where was the mannequin’s mind supposed to go? He started the hour with his chin up but after twenty minutes it dropped and slewed. A beast at the altar—his martyred, his crucified form. When this lot pack up, he kept mechanically thinking, I’ll avail myself of the hotel facilities … Just then a whippet in a waistcoat with needles for teeth veered close and chalked a cross on the waxwork’s smarting breast.

  First the gym: on the bench with the weights. He’d maintained his regime, as you always do inside, and his arms were soon shunting away like hairy pistons. Then something struck him. What do I need me strength for? he said out loud. Now? Still, he worked up a fair sweat and then went for a dip in the pool and a long rubdown (after a slight misunderstanding) from the Danish bird in the pink smock. Next he got his nails trimmed and glazed, and his prison toejam sorted out. As an afterthought he had his nut tightened in the barber’s.

  Upstairs again he was surprised by a need for human company. He considered summoning Cynthia. Cynthia? he said out loud. Cynthia in the Pantheon Grand? Nah. Cynthia in the Pantheon Grand? Nah. Gina, though. Gina wouldn’t give a toss. She’d love it. Walking around swinging her arse and … He suddenly realised what he was doing: he was talking to himself. Oy. Steady on, mate. You losing you … The heavy furnishings, the heavy room, the heavy hotel on its unfathomable foundations, gripping it to the earth.

  … So he watched some (crap) porn on the TV (get the computer back off Des), put on his new red tie (it was almost six-thirty), and spent the last hour in the business centre on the ground floor (causing a bit of bother). All day he’d been an astronaut, weightless, without connection, swimming in air …

  But dinner, at least: this would be perfect Asbo.

  “How d’you get an upper-class cunt to burn his face?”

  “Go on then.”

  “Phone him when he’s doing the ironing! … An upper-class cunt goes into a pub with a—”

  “Excuse me, sir, are you ready to order?” said the bearded waiter for the seventh or eighth time (and the bearded waiter, though young, was as Lionel saw it an upper-class cunt).

  “Hang on … An upper-class cunt goes into a pub with a heap of wet dogshit in his hand. He says to the barman, Look what I nearly stepped in! … How many upper-class cunts does it take to …? Wait up. Wait up. Uh, concentrate, lads.”

  They were dining in the Grosvenor Grill. It was now just after ten.

  “Well, it stares you in the face, doesn’t it. Steak and chips.”

  “Plain as day,” said John.

  “Open-and-shut,” said Paul.

  “Common sense,” said George.

  “No-brainer,” said Ringo.

  Stuart, on this occasion, was silent; but then Stuart (the seedy registrar) hardly ever said anything anyway.

  “That one’ll do,” said Lionel, pointing to the filet mignon.

  And did these young men—evenly spaced round the glistening ellipse of the white tabletop—did they resemble a band of brothers? No. They shared a mother, true, but Grace Pepperdine’s genetic footprint was vanishingly light, and the boys were all duplicates of their fathers. So John, twenty-nine, looked Nordic, Paul, twenty-eight, looked Hispanic, George, twenty-seven, looked Belgic (or Afrikaans), and Ringo, also twenty-seven, looked East Asiatic; only Stuart, twenty-six, and of course Lionel, looked English (though Stuart was in fact half-Silesian). John, Paul, George, and Ringo, at any rate, wore the same threadbare zootsuits and had the same hairstyle—slashbacks, with long sideburns that tapered to a point.

  “How would you like that
cooked, sir?”

  “Cooked?” said Lionel. “Just take its horns off, wipe its arse, and sling it on the plate. And bring all you jams and pickles and mustards … Us against the world, eh, lads?”

  It did not escape Lionel’s notice that when he went out for his trihourly smokes he always returned to five strained faces and a sudden, stoppered hush. And he knew all about their difficulties, John, Paul, and George with their bad debts and cramped flats (their shattered wives, their rioting toddlers), Ringo with his decade on the dole, and Stuart (who alone could probably look forward to some kind of pension) sharing a bedsit with a bus conductor in SE24. Now Lionel invited the company to raise their glasses. He thought that everything was coming along quite nicely.

  “Why did the upper-class cunt cross the road?” he resumed.

  “Go on then.”

  The brothers had had, between them, forty-eight gin and tonics.

  “Lionel.”

  “Ring, mate.”

  Ringo coughed. He wiped a hand across his mouth and lowered his head.

  “… I spent twelve grand today,” said Lionel, “on guess what.”

  “What.”

  “Socks. Us against the world, eh lads?”

  So after a bit John starts having a go at Ringo, and Ringo starts having a go at George, and George starts having a go at Paul, and Paul starts having a go at John, and Lionel, not to be left out, starts having a go at Stuart (for never saying anything). That bit soon quietened down.

  “Lionel.”

  “John, mate.”

  John coughed. He wiped a hand across his mouth and lowered his head.

  Then the food came, and all the beers, and all the wines.

  “See that?” said Lionel, tapping the label of the Château Latour Pauillac. “That’s the vintage—the date. And guess what. Give or take a tenner, it’s the same as the price! We’ll have one each. Us against the world, eh lads?”

  So John starts having a go at Paul, and Paul starts having a go at George, and George starts having a go at Ringo, and Ringo starts having a go at John (and Lionel starts having a go at Stuart). That bit took much longer to quieten down.

  It was close to midnight when Lionel called for the bill.

  • • •

  “There’s tension in the air, lads,” he said as he followed the fairy lights up the garden path with his brandy balloon and his cigar. “Bound to be. I mean, look around. This ain’t Diston. This ain’t KFC. Everything’s different now.”

  Lionel heard the gulp of five Adam’s apples in five shrivelled throats.

  “Tension. It’s only natural. You kid brother’s been tipped the wink by Lady Luck. And you asking youself, What’s he going to do for his own?”

  Lionel heard the soft seethe of five intakes of breath.

  “John. Paul. George. Ringo. Stuart. You lives are about to be transformed.”

  Lionel turned. Five pairs of feet staggered back.

  “You number-one headache—from now on, completely taken care of. You needn’t give it another thought. Ever. That shadow that never goes away? That nagging concern that wakes you up in the middle of the night? A thing of the past. Over.”

  Lionel looked forgivingly from face to face.

  “And what’s that worry? Well. Come on, let’s not be shy. Begins with an em. Say it. Em. Mm. Mmuh …”

  Lionel lifted his gaze to the night sky.

  “Mum,” he said.

  The brothers. As pale, still, and silent as the statues.

  “Mum. Mum. ‘Mum.’ Our mum, in her declining years—what’s going to become of Mum? … They not having our mum mate!” Lionel dipped his head and wiped his eyes. He sniffed richly. “Ah, look. I can see the lovely glow in you faces. You feeling better already. Knowing I’ll take care of Mum. Our mum. Us against the world, eh lads? Us for Mum!”

  … So. Stunned hugs in the foyer. Then, one after the other, the five Pepperdines shot out through the revolving doors, ran a brief sprint, and stumbled to a halt.

  Sharply watched by Lionel Asbo. Whose head abruptly jerked forward as something interesting seemed to develop with the skeleton staff of press—but it was just Stuart rebounding off a lamp post and falling over backwards, and John and George kneeling down to be sick.

  7

  “They chucked him out on Sunday morning. He set fire to his suite. But apparently they’re only using that as an excuse!”

  “Jesus,” said Des. “What else did he do?”

  “Well he … Jesus. Hang on.”

  Des lay on the couch in the kitchen, wrapped in a white sheet. He was having one of his neurasthenic episodes (for half a day at a time, the world seemed too much for him, too many for him, too full, too rich, too strong). Dawn’s wide eyes were staring at the Sun.

  “He was groaning his head off in the Bolingbroke Bar. And releasing wind from both ends … He swam in the pool in his Y-fronts … And he asked the masseuse for ‘relief’ … He watched a film in his room called MILFs Gone Mad. Then he went and watched more filth in the business centre!”

  “The business centre?”

  “Where they have the computers. And Lionel was watching it with the sound up!”

  “With the sound up?”

  “That’s what it says. He was sitting there with all these bankers and diplomats and sheiks. Watching something they can’t print about facials. Facials? Des, what’s that all about?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure. With the sound up?”

  “The manager came and … There were two fights at dinner. The first just a bit of face-slapping. But the second one … Ringo, they think it was, crashed into the dessert trolley … John and George vomited in the street. And Stuart fell and smashed his head open. And then Lionel goes and dozes off with a fag in his hand. All the sprinklers came on … Drink your cocoa!”

  “I am!”

  “Ooh. They say the hotel’s suing him. Not for the physical damage. The untold detriment to our reputation and goodwill. That was yesterday. And listen. On Saturday … On Saturday there were these two elderly couples standing in the foyer. Minding their own business. And Lionel goes up and says … See it? Lionel goes up and says, What are you lot still doing here? Why don’t you all just f*** off and die!”

  It was a while before Lionel looked in at Avalon Tower. But in the meantime they always knew exactly what he was up to. They stayed abreast of his remarkably unvarying activities (fights, expenditures, admissions, ejections), hour by hour, in the tabloids (and in the Daily Telegraph).

  Sunday. 10:00. Lotto Lout Lionel Asbo chucked out of the Pantheon Grand. 11:15. Asbo checks into the Castle on the Arch. 12:45. Asbo caught up in a brief brawl in a pub called the Happy Man in Leicester Square. 15:15. Asbo enters La Cage d’Or in Dover Street and spends £1,900 on lunch for one. 18:40. Asbo becomes a provisional member of the Sunset Strip Lounge on Old Compton Street. 21:50. Asbo becomes a provisional member of the Soho Sporting Club (where his losses at craps and blackjack are said to be prodigious).

  “I can’t stand it, Dawnie,” said Des. “What’s going on? Uncle Li—he’s disappeared into the front page!”

  Monday. 2:05. Lotto Lout Lionel Asbo becomes a provisional member of the Taboo in Garrick Street. 4:15. Asbo returns to Soho Sporting Club. 7:50. Asbo chucked out of the Castle on the Arch. 9:35. Asbo checks into the Launceston in Berkeley Square. 11:15 Asbo caught up in a brief brawl in a pub called the Surprise in Shepherd Market. 13:00. Asbo orders a Bentley “Aurora” at the Piers Edwards Showrooms on Park Lane (£377,990). 15:20. Asbo chucked out of the Launceston. 16:10. Accompanied by his financial adviser, Jack Firth-Heatherington, Asbo checks into the South Central Hotel in Pimlico. 17:30. Asbo takes delivery of a consignment of merchandise, mostly clothing, valued at—

  Then the story went cold.

  • • •

  “Hello?”

  “Dawn. Lionel. I’ll be round in fifteen minutes. Get Des.”

  It was teatime on Saturday. Des was out cabbing (the medium-late shift) and was expe
cted back in good time for Match of the Day. With a hot face Dawn rang the pointman at Goodcars, and waited. The dogs smiled up at her. They, too, always seemed gripped by Match of the Day, and sat side by side in front of the screen, lightly panting, like a pair of old-fashioned hooligans thirsting for the final whistle and the post-match maul …

  Lionel used his own keys.

  “That you, Lionel?”

  He approached, he appeared, he gave a slow nod, and stood there with his head dropped and his arms folded. Three different organisms—one human, two canine—stared out at him.

  To Dawn he looked like one of the huge but semi-retired or injured or (more likely) suspended footballers who occasionally deigned to contribute to the analyses on TV: a squarely powerful, low-slung, much-punished body, now swathed in a suit of truly presidential costliness (as if cut from some liturgical material used for hassocks or surplices). He raised his chin and she saw his sky-blue silk tie and the lavish equilateral of its Windsor.

  “Well welcome. Settle down, boys!”

  To Jon and Joel … Jon and Joel were affectionate and intelligent animals—and how could these qualities be combined and brought to bear on Lionel Asbo? Their glossy backsides keenly shimmied but their foreheads were creased with apology and strain. Dawn said,

  “They don’t know whether to …”

  After a moment the dogs seemed to wither into themselves, and they turned away.

  “Yeah. Turn away. I hate yuh. I’m disgusted with yer. Yer …”

  Dawn tried to say it brightly. “Lovely suit, Lionel.”

  “Where’s Des?”

  Des was taking the stairs three at a time.

  “… Ah. The traveller returns. Tears hisself away from carting pissers round Diston. To keep his meet with his Uncle Li … I want a serious talk with you, Master Pepperdine. Dawn, girl. Why don’t you take the uh, ‘the dogs’ for a bit of fresh air.”

  “Yeah, might as well, Dawnie. It’s nice out.”

  She picked up her keys and reached for the leads on their hook. “I shall,” she said. Joel and Jon were already milling at the door. As Des saw them off, Dawn confusedly whispered,