by Martin Amis
“May we serve your lobster with some melted butter, sir?” said Mr. Mount.
“Go on then. And some tomato uh, some tomato sauce, Cuthbert. Of you own preparation. On the side.”
Mr. Mount seemed to be frowning at Lionel’s suit, and he said, “That’s a truly remarkable cloth, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. And I do know something about cloth. Is it … pashmina wool? Is it—my God, is it shahtoosh? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Must have cost you an absolute—”
“Wasn’t cheap.”
“May I?”
“Course you can.” Lionel held up his right arm. “Take you time, Cuthbert,” he said. “Don’t stint youself.”
Mr. Mount bent, straightened, bowed and said, “So extraordinarily fine … I hope you enjoy your meal with us tonight, sir.”
After much cramped contortion Lionel found a page without a topless model on it, page forty-eight, up near the classifieds. He carefully flattened the paper out on the table. He settled. He drank … And with miming lips he started on a report about a two-year-old who was already in trouble with the law! … This little minx, this little … This little monkey—she was striping all the cars with a door-key … She was stealing cash and smashing windows … And she got pissed on her mum’s vodka and when the woman from the Social come round she bit her one on the …
Lionel’s frown deepened.
This little terror was being served an ASBO … There goes me record!
“There goes me record!” he shouted out, and hunched himself forward.
Let’s see: two years and three hundred and sixty days. Pips me by a week! … Well, fair’s fair. No, come on, you got to give her credit. Yet to celebrate her third birthday, and this little bleeder’s already …
Lionel became aware of a silence, a silence of considerable purity, no voices, no background tittle-tattle of tumblers and tines. He peered up and out. It seemed he had the undivided attention of every pair of eyes in the room. Whitely shining spectacles. Raised lorgnettes. Even two sets of opera glasses. What’s all this then? And Lionel now realised that in his innocent absorption he was holding the Morning Lark at shoulder height. Savagely he yanked it round.
11
And saw what? A whole page of GILFs!
He took it all in with his frozen eyes … The sheet was dominated by a huge small ad—and even the most hardened readers of the Morning Lark were seldom expected to contemplate anything quite as dreadful as this. A blubbery, curly-haired old woman, wearing nothing but gumboots, pictured from the rear, on all fours, her lower haunches half-obscured, her rustic features contorted in a snarl of agony. HORNY HILDA, 74. TEXT HER NOW AT—
With a single galvanic convulsion Lionel wrestled and scrunched the Lark to his lap. Then he blushed. And it was as if all his blushes, all the blushes of a lifetime, had come to him at once. Like flames they plumed and hummed, wave after wave … Indeed, for the next five minutes or so, Lionel bore certain affinities with what was soon to be his fateful supper—the brick-red lobster boiling to death in its pot. Another fistfight, another riot of thought; and then at last (in that way he had) Lionel calmed and cooled.
Come on now, son, he told himself—steady. The Lark ain’t illegal or anything. On sale everywhere—great big stack of them in you corner shop. The Lark’s just a bit of fun. Everyone knows that. No harm in it. Just a bit of fun. Everyone knows that …
He sternly regrouped. He finished his caviar and, with some show of insouciance, ordered another pot. And another round of toast: soldiers, if you like. And another pint of champagne. Lionel steadied again. He ate all that and he drank all that. He rose.
“Uh, Cuthbert,” he said, making a tremendous effort to control the volume of his voice. “Uh, Cuthbert,” he croaked. “I’m just going out for a quick burn, okay? Back in a minute, Cuthbert. Back in a minute.”
• • •
The photojournalists from the Morning Lark, the Sun, and the Daily Telegraph, Lionel saw with a pang, had disappeared. Gone for a bite theyselves, most likely, he mused out loud. Be along later. And this was good anyway: he wanted to tackle that massive spliff Scott’d rolled up for him. The alley dead-ended to his left, under the frosty sheen of the coach-house lantern. Perfect: no passers-by. He stuffed his Lark into a rubbish bin, tamping it down. Might even dash off in a minute and get a Sun (or even a Daily Telegraph!) to have a read of with me lobster. No. They’ll think you doing a runner. Or fled in shame! … Nah. You being uh, oversensitive mate. The Lark’s just a laugh—they all know that. Just a lark. Even calls itself as much. A laugh won’t hurt yer. What’s wrong with a laugh? … There came another memory of Dylis. When he flipped her over, to give her a lovepat or two, how suddenly the spank became a clout, became a wallop. Managed to exercise restraint, he whispered. And, throughout, that whining noise in his ears—and in his chest too, somehow. That’s what happens when you up and pay for it. Gives you funny notions. Master–slave, you could say. She’s like a pet animal you got it in for … Frighten meself sometimes. So he just got on with his joint (seemed to be tastier than the other two). He took a last inch-long drag … the crackling buds, the sizzling Rizlas … and held it in as long as he could before exhaling through his nose. And then he went back inside to confront the scarlet fortress of the crustacean.
Now the creature lay in front of him on its oval dish. There were two skewers (one with a curved tip) and a nutcracker. He picked up the gangly device: like the bottom half of a chorus girl made of steel … Fucking ugly-looking bugger, this fish. The shrunken, horror-comic face. And the monstrous hydraulics of the forearms. Was that the lobster’s mitt or its—its pincer? Bending low over the table, he positioned the jagged limb in the instrument’s clench; then he applied maximum force—and caught a jet of hot butter right in the eye!
“UN!” he cried, and jerked back … But as he dabbed his cheek, well, Lionel had to smile. He had to smile. He thought of Pete New, his cellmate at Stallwort. Bloke seemed to specialise in unlikely accidents. He said he once poached an egg in the microwave, took it out, went to sniff it—and the whole mess exploded in his face! Said it fucking near blinded him! … So Lionel had a good old laugh about Pete New. A very good old laugh (him breaking a leg from watching TV!). And then he drained his glass, chewed on a couple of boiled potatoes, and smiled again with a little twist of the head.
“More bubbles, son.”
His dinner, so far, felt a bit like a practical joke—the beer mug, the GILFs, the hot butter. Nothing serious, mind. In the South Central they were always playing practical jokes. More money than sense, half of them. Practical jokes with superglue and cling film. Whoopee cushions. Squirting HP sauce and mustard. Setting off the fire alarm. High jinks, if you like. Being stupid on purpose. More money than sense, the lot of them. Sometimes it’s like they playing practical jokes on theyselves …
Lionel reapplied himself to his meal. Using the silvery tools, plus his fork.
The key moment came ten minutes later, when he threw down his weapons and reached for the enemy with his bare hands.
“I’m sorry you seemed to have such trouble with your entrée, sir.”
“… Well, you know how it is, Cuthbert. You win some, you lose some.”
“Do take the napkin, sir. Take a clean one. Here … That looks really quite nasty. Might need a stitch or two.”
“Look at this one!”
“Dear oh dear.”
Lionel’s yttrium credit card was slotted into the gadget and he did the rigmarole with the PIN. He added a startling tip and said,
“They’ll patch me together at the hotel.”
“May I ask where you’re putting up, sir?” Mr. Mount’s eyes widened and he said, “Well they have a very advanced valet service at the South Central. They might, they just might, have some luck with those …” Mr. Mount seemed to submit to a gust of anguish. “Those stains.”
“Yeah?”
“My God. It’s rather more serious than I thought.” Mr. Mount was no long
er calling Lionel sir, because he knew that his customer would be taking his leave in fairly good order. This had not looked probable during Lionel’s endlessly self-regenerating fit of laughter; and it had looked even less probable during his climactic struggle with his main course—when Lionel was crashing around and visibly giving off a faint grey steam. “What can one say? Bad luck, old chap.”
“Yeah cheers, Cuthbert. An unfortunate choice.” Lionel was still short of breath, and there were still tears in his eyes; but he was in complete control. “Next time I’ll have the haddock.”
“… Why, thank you very much indeed, sir.”
He swung himself down the steps and out into the alley, his tie half off, his jacket, shirt, and waistcoat colourfully impasted with butter and blood. He felt very hungry.
“The bingo get a bit rough, Lionel?” said the man from the Sun.
“Just stand there a minute, Lionel,” said the man from the Lark as he raised his camera. “Ooh, this is priceless, this is.”
“The old ladies take their revenge on you, Lionel?” said the man from the Daily Telegraph.
Lionel glanced right. At the far end of the alley there was a policeman, standing stock still, and staring his way.
“Copper watching. That settles the matter,” said Lionel Asbo succinctly.
He moved to his left.
“Come on then,” he said wearily. “Gaa, Christ, let’s have it. Go on—get you laughing done with. Yeah, I will. I will. I’ll do five years for the three of yer.”
XII
Nothing really out of the ordinary happened between 2009 and 2012.
“He’ll get ten, they reckon, and do five. And serve him bloody well right.”
“Come on, Dawn. Think. He won’t be out till 2014!”
It was Sunday. They were having what they called breakfast on bed (it was a single bed), and rereading Saturday’s Mirror (their new tabloid of choice).
“He fancied prison,” said Des dazedly. “He did. He fancied prison.”
“Three counts of GBH. Plus Assaulting a Police Officer.”
On their laps (and on facing pages) were the iconic Before and After shots from the dead-ended alley off Brompton Road. Before: Lionel posing on the steps of the restaurant, Pickwickian, vaudevillian, aglow with combustible bonhomie. The After photograph (not taken immediately after, because the journalists’ cameras had all been smashed): this was more interestingly composed. The malefactor, like a city scarecrow, his lolling head, his arms up around the shoulders of the two policemen, with all the stuffing coming out of him (the ripped and twisted suit, the frothy white shirt); and then, to the right, just behind and beyond, the wheeled ambulance trolley with its own fixed light and the lumpy body lying on it (this was the man from the Daily Telegraph).
“Tsuh-tsuh,” said Dawn. “Tsuh-tsuh.” She was addressing the cat. “Here, Goldie. Here, love … The restaurant bloke says he had a fight to the death with his lobster.”
“Mm. The QC’s preparing his defence. Lord Barcleigh.”
“The fat one … Diminished responsibility. Oh yeah. It was the lobster, your honour.”
“I can’t understand him, Dawnie. He did it when a copper was watching!”
“Mm. And not even nutters do that. Here, Goldie. Here, girl.”
In early 2010, incidentally, they traded in their single bed—not for a double bed (because the room itself was the size of a double bed), but for what was called a Bachelor’s Occasional.
Minicabbing, clambering over speed bumps, forever staring into the unlanced boil of the red light (and then the lurid matter of the amber). Diston traffic was obedient to the hierarchy of size: the Smart car feared the Mini, the Mini feared the Golf, the Golf feared the Jeep, the Jeep feared the … Des, driving, impatiently aware of the frail flustered presence of the bicycle on his inner flank, but himself obedient to the great swung mass of the bus.
Here’s a tale of the unexpected, said Lionel in August 2009, on his first day back in Stallwort (awaiting trial). I had a shit this morning. Hey. Go up and see you gran.
I am, Uncle Li.
I want a report. And oy. While I’m away—don’t you dare go near me stuff.
The first-class train fare to the North West Highlands and back, by sleeper, ran well into four figures. But Des went on the Cloud and got a bargain-berth “apex” split-ticket—for eighteen quid! … You rose before first light (Inverness, then motorcoach via Lairg), and you returned in the next day’s early darkness: the grey hours. Des did his Christian duty, and his Christian penance, about every six weeks, and sometimes Dawn came too.
The home was a townhouse, five floors high and unusually deep, with a great many internal partitions of hardboard (and cardboard). The atmosphere of the place frightened Des right from the start, and every time he went up there it seemed measurably slacker, shabbier, more demoralised. Souness itself (fifteen miles east of Cape Wrath): there were prettier enclaves further back and up on the cliffs, but the township, the port, where Grace dwelt, was a maze of dark flint, populated by taupe genies of sopping mist. It was never not raining. A spittling, hair-frizzing drizzle was your absolute basic—what the locals called smirr; and it was smirr that kept guard between downpours.
Grace was in a conical attic—the hospital bed, the chair beside it, and a cavernous sink with thick rubber tubing attached to the spouts. Des, dear, she said, clearly enough. But thereafter she spoke in random clauses that made no sense. Some stuck in his mind for a moment, and he thought he’d remember them later, but he never did. So he started writing them down.
Nine owls out where it’s high and cold: that was one.
Partial to gains I stake claim: that was another.
No-no disturbs sin, etc: that was yet another.
The chief physician, furtive Dr. Ardagh in his shaggy marmalade suit, used the phrase early onset degenerative brain disease. He mumbled something Des didn’t quite catch.
Sorry? A few more good years?
Uh, no. A good few more years. Is what I said.
He returned to the conical attic.
Unresisting, even so, moaned Gran as he eventually kissed her goodbye. Fifteen!
Des remembered that one. Was it a reference to the things that took place between them in 2006—when he was fifteen, and hadn’t resisted? Neither Des nor Grace had said a word about it all since the disappearance of Rory Nightingale.
At his trial at the Old Bailey, Lionel, for the first time in his life, pleaded guilty.
Diminished responsibility was Lord Barcleigh’s theme: he asked the jury to consider the massive senselessness of the offence, committed, after all, in plain view of an officer of the law. Medical science calls it an ictus—a spasm of the brain.
Lionel himself, dressed for the occasion in the pathetic shreds of his shahtoosh dinner jacket (woven from the wool of the chiru, an endangered Tibetan antelope), was archaically humble: I deeply regret all distress caused, he said. I’m just a boy from Diston who got out of his depth … I’ll do me time with no complaints, and I swear I’ll never again be a threat to uh, to society like. I’ve done it the hard way, You Honour, but I’ve come to see the error of me ways.
One character witness turned out to be disproportionately influential: Fiona King, the co-manager of the South Central Hotel. He was a model guest. If all our clients comported themselves like Mr. Asbo, I can assure you that my life would be very much simpler. Ask anybody. Lionel Asbo behaved like a true English gentleman.
Even more tellingly, Police Constable George Hands (Yeah, Lionel would later admit, he was dearer than Lord Barcleigh) informed the court (through splintered teeth) that Lionel’s conduct, in the Knightsbridge alleyway, had in fact been more consistent with the lesser charge of Resisting Arrest.
He got six years—a light sentence, many felt (and wrote). Five months were already served, and Lord Barcleigh, making due allowance for Lionel’s good behaviour, predicted that he would be a free man by the spring or early summer of 2012.
; Des switched subjects: from Modern Languages to Sociology, with a special emphasis on crime and punishment. Lionel, when told of this, simply shrugged and turned away. As usual he had his cellphone on loudspeaker—a conference call with his investment team (he was accumulating dead equity). This was in the prison outside Exeter: its name was Silent Green.
You can’t go far wrong in prison, Lionel might say, between calls … And Des came to a tentative conclusion: the career criminal didn’t really mind being in prison. Being in prison didn’t ceaselessly strike him as an unendurable outrage on his dignity. Des resolved to ask Lionel why this was—but not today.
Prison, said Lionel. Good place to get you head sorted out. You know where you are in prison.
Well yeah, thought Des. You’re in prison.
Go on then. Off you hop, said Lionel as he leaned into another call.
And Des would eat a cheese roll at the station, and head back to London on his day return.
The next time he went down there Lionel was busy buying half a dozen forests’ worth of Uruguayan timber.
The next time he went down there Lionel was busy attacking the yen.
A word, therefore, about Lionel’s finances.
In his three weeks of freedom Lionel Asbo spent nine million pounds, nearly all of it on craps, blackjack, and roulette (there was also the unused Bentley “Aurora,” and a seven-figure clothes bill). But his investments prospered almost uncontrollably right from the start. He instructed his young squad of free-market idealists to be as aggressive as possible. Don’t fuck about on five per cent, he told them. Go for it.
Right, said Lionel, as he sauntered round the exercise yard. Take sixty out of the one-thirty and have a punt.
Depressed bank stock? he said, while watching TV in the rec room. Yeah, give it a crack. Fifty. No. Sixty.
Vend, he said, activating the flush toilet in the privacy of his cell. Now take ninety and have another punt. I fancy oil. And get me eight per cent on the principal.