Lionel Asbo: State of England

by Martin Amis

  “ ‘Me? Never. Except when I was a kid. You don’t want to be a neighbour from hell, Daph,’ he confides. ‘That’s lower class.’

  “Built in 1350, rebuilt in 1800, and completely refurbished in 1999, the house, I admit, is magnificent. Asbo gives me a brief tour: the semicircular drawing room with its nine bay windows, the library with its billiard table and recessed bookcases, the baronial dining hall. Of course, the cultured fixtures and furnishings are those of the previous occupant, antiques mogul Sir Vaughan Ashley, 73, who now resides in Monaco.

  “ ‘I’m going to rip it all out,’ says Asbo, and summarises the questionable renovations he has in mind. ‘Everything’s got to be new. I had my fill of f***ing antiques when I was growing up in Diston.’

  “Then Asbo turns thoughtful. ‘Or d’you think it suits me, Daph, all this old gear? Trouble is, it aggravates me class hatred,’ he says in his inimitable Diston brogue. He turns briefly to Chris. ‘How’s your jawbone?’ he asks without meeting his eye. ‘You get me cheque?’

  “Carmody, the butler, brings us drinks by the pool—orange juice for me, the signature Dom Perignon for Asbo. But first the photographs! Lionel yells for ‘Threnody’ (we all know how particular she is about those inverted commas! And whatever you do, don’t mention Danube!)

  “ ‘Threnody,’ tearing herself away from her odes and her elegies, busily appears, in pink sarong and spike heels. Her dark red hair is tightly drawn back, and bunned—the hairstyle known as the ‘council-house facelift.’ But in the case of ‘Threnody,’ of course, the surgeons have been busy elsewhere.

  “It’s an unseasonably torrid noon, and the sarong is soon removed to reveal a ‘teardrop’ bikini, three dots of yellow against the perennial bronze of her flesh. The young couple strike loving poses. In his blue swimsuit, with the unzipped snakeskin boots, and with ‘Threnody’ at his side, Asbo (not muscular but very solid) resembles a superhero, or supervillain, in a risqué cartoon.

  “ ‘Pop the top off for us, love,’ murmurs Chris. ‘Threnody’ isn’t slow to oblige. And there are the famous boobs (first unveiled last year)—more like pottery than flesh, and pointing upward.

  “ ‘They weren’t cheap,’ says Asbo. ‘She told me what they cost. And that’s f*** all,’ he adds, ‘to what she’s blown on her a***.’

  “ ‘Threnody’ lingers for a glass or three, and talks about the new line of fragrances she hopes to launch. There is also a new line of what she calls ‘intimate garmenture.’ And of course there’s the next ‘slim volume’ of verse!

  “She gets up and minces about, whilst Chris clicks away. Her boobs and her ‘a***’ (as Asbo so gallantly calls it) provide vivid testimony to the cosmeticist’s skill. But her 18-inch waist is all her own (and how does she find room for such a curvaceous midriff?). What with that face, those strangely noble bones and that wide, intriguingly thin-lipped mouth, well, it isn’t hard to see why Asbo has fallen under her spell.

  “Chris and ‘Threnody’ slip off for their ‘session’ (see pages 3–6). Lionel calls for Carmody and more champagne. And in a moment of weakness I consent to enjoy a small Buck’s Fizz. I consult my notes, reload my tape recorder, and we proceed.

  “ ‘Women, Lionel.’ ”

  3

  “ ‘Yeah? What about them?’ asks Asbo with a wary look.

  “ ‘Well. You played the field for a while, following your release. And now you’re settling down here with your new partner. But it’s true, isn’t it Lionel, that in the past you were never a great ladies’ man?’

  “ ‘That’s correct, Daph. That’s correct. There was Cynthia. My childhood sweetheart, if you like. And then Gina.’

  “This would be Mrs. Marlon Welkway (née Drago), the cause of the massive ‘nuptial rumble’ that put 90 wedding guests behind bars in the spring of 2009.

  “ ‘Of course, Gina, she’s happily married now, God bless her,’ he says a little huskily. ‘See, Marlon’s my cousin. So Gina’s my cousin too. And I wish them both all the luck in the world. I respect their bond. True love. It’s a beautiful thing.’

  “For a moment I sense that we’re about to move on to his feelings for ‘Threnody.’ But I’m a trifle premature.

  “ ‘You’re not wrong, Daph. I never had much time for the other. Before. Wasn’t bothered. Perfectly happy with the porn.’

  “This is casually said. As if for all the world adult videos were a traditional alternative to adult relationships.

  “ ‘You can’t go far wrong with the porn. It’s like prison. You know where you are with the porn.’

  “I’m beginning to find this very weird, so I quickly ask, ‘Er, how did you and “Threnody” meet?’

  “ ‘Ah, you see, Daph, all these birds wrote me letters when I was away. And when I come out, I had them over. One at a time to my place in London.’ (In London, Asbo now maintains a penthouse apartment at the infamous South Central Hotel.) ‘And they were all glamour girls on the make!’

  “Asbo seems to find this scandalous. Yes, what a contrast to ‘Threnody,’ that shrinking violet, with her well-known vow of poverty! (Remember Fernando, the Argie beef baron? Remember Azwat, the Bollywood billionaire?)

  “ ‘Lads’ mag types. All tits and teeth. Grasping slags, basically, Daph.’

  “ ‘And “Threnody”?’ I ask, suppressing a titter.

  “ ‘See, I’m in this nightclub. And her bodyguard slips me her number in the gents. So we had a few drinks. And I knew. I knew. “Threnody”? She’s got it up here,’ he says, tapping not his chest but his poor old brainbox. ‘Excellent head for careers.’

  “Careers? A career for Lionel Asbo? Doing what? Giving lessons in filling out lotto tickets? Or perhaps a new ‘line’ in bingo shirts?

  “ ‘And see, Daph,’ Asbo goes on, ‘she’s an established celebrity. In her own right. She can handle herself. A woman of er, true sophistication.’

  “At this point ‘Threnody’ bustles out, wearing a turquoise rubber catsuit, retrieves her sunglasses, and bustles back in again.

  “There’s a silence.

  “ ‘Them other birds,’ says Asbo, ‘they were all up for a porking on the very first night! Not “Threnody.” She’s not that kind of girl. “Lionel,” she says, “you’re like a little boy lost. Trust me. I’ll be your … shepherdess. And guide you through the er, celebrity circuit. Give me your hand.” We shake on it. And she gazes into me eyes and she whispers, “Let’s seal our pledge,” she says, “with a swift ‘jobbie’ in the stretch.” You know, the limo. There. Dead discreet.’

  “Another silence (and I hope he doesn’t hear me gulp). ‘She knows how to deal with the er, the media spotlight. From her I’ll learn to cope with the pressures of me new lifestyle.’

  “I struggle on as best I can. ‘What about that notorious temper, Lionel? You’re having anger-management therapy, isn’t that right?’

  “ ‘Tommy Trum,’ he says with satisfaction. (Tom Trumble, UK Light Heavyweight Champion, 1971–3.) ‘Tommy lives near and he comes over twice a week. Teaching me the art of boxing.’ He alertly moves his head from side to side. ‘To channel me aggression.’

  “ ‘But you’ve got a serious problem there, Lionel. Surely you need psychiatric help?’

  “ ‘What, lying on some f***ing couch all afternoon moaning on about me childhood?’ Asbo pauses. ‘Listen, you can talk to all the so-called experts. But it’s down to you, isn’t it, in the end, Daph? It’s down to you. See, when you’re away, Daph, you get a lot of time to think. I went over it in me mind, over and over. And now I’ve got me head right.’

  “Mm, well we’ll be the judge of that!

  “He folds his hands round the back of his neck and looks out over the rolling lawns. The rough spud of his face cracks into a gap-toothed smile, and he says, ‘You know, Daph, one day I reckon I’ll write the story of me life.’

  “Now I feel a definite urge to tiptoe off into the afternoon. But I listen, as Asbo struggles on.

  “ ‘I wouldn’t do the typin
g, mind,’ he says with disdain. ‘I’d dictate it, like they do. A lad from Diston. Scraping out a living with this and that. Sticks at it, and by sheer . . Makes something of himself. Achieves something in this life. Comes good. Yeah. He comes good.’ ”

  • • •

  “I am still struggling to contain a fit of laughter when—thank God—we are graced by a pleasant interruption: the arrival of Lionel’s 21-year-old nephew.

  “Desmond Pepperdine has not changed his name to Desmond Asbo. This tall, slender, well spoken and delightfully assured young man, a graduate of Queen Anne’s College, London, is now a cub reporter on the Diston Gazette.

  “More than once Des has claimed (in court) that Lionel was ‘like a father’ to him after he was orphaned at the age of 12. But there is nothing paternal about his greeting.

  “ ‘Ah, here comes the soap-dodger,’ says Lionel (for Des is of mixed race).

  “ ‘How are you, Uncle Li?’ Des replies, no whit abashed.

  “Lionel fans himself and yawns aggressively whilst Des and myself exchange pleasantries. Touchingly impressed, even slightly overwhelmed, Des says, ‘Not the Daphne? I used to read you first thing every day!’

  “ ‘Go and put your bathers on,’ says Uncle Lionel, and gives brief directions to the changing rooms. He then looks pointedly at his watch. My hour is up.

  “ ‘A real pleasure to meet you,’ says Des, and gives a graceful little bow. With his gorgeous smile and the light of true intelligence in his hazel eyes—what a radiant contrast to the pathetic gropings of his poor old uncle!

  “I say, ‘You must be very proud of him.’

  “ ‘No comment,’ quoth Asbo.

  “ ‘One last question. Tell me, Lionel,’ I ask him. ‘What was it you learned—when you were “away”?’

  “He seems to think for a very long time. Then, with much vigorous frowning, he haltingly ‘explains.’ Later, when I played this through, I thought my tape recorder was on the blink—but no. These are Asbo’s very words.

  “ ‘See Daph, the rich world . . is heavy. Everything weighs. Because it’s here for the duration. It’s here to stay . . And my old world, Diston as was, it’s . . it’s light! Nothing weighs an ounce! People die! It, things—fly away!’ He does some more frowning and says, ‘So that’s me challenge. To go from the floating world . . to the heavy. That’s me challenge. And I can handle it.’ ”

  “I smile. Well, honestly—have you ever heard such a load of self-serving twaddle in all your life? And really, the truth is almost too sad for words, isn’t it? Lionel Asbo is now a very wealthy man (see sidebar). And for what? The rewards have been huge, whilst the endeavour, and the talent, have always been non-existent. Thus, the trappings of wealth, in Asbo’s case, are just a constant reminder of his basic worthlessness. His self-esteem is no higher than his IQ (which barely aspires to double figures). This—combined with severe emotional disorders, and an alarming shakiness in the sexual domain—has produced a terrible stew of violent insecurity and hollow pride.

  “ ‘So that’s me challenge.’ Indeed … Chris and myself slip away, leaving Asbo to his dosh, his drivel, and his doxy. And I’m thinking, of course, that it’s young Des Pepperdine who’s faced a challenge and surmounted it. It’s young Des Pepperdine who’s achieved something in this life. It’s young Des Pepperdine who’s ‘come good.’

  “Not Lionel Asbo.”

  No, not the Hog Heaven Headcase. Not the Megabucks Moron. Hidden depths? Don’t make us weep. Put it on your tombstone, mate. If you can spell it. LIONEL ASBO: FATCAT F***WIT. RIP.

  Rape? Murder? What’ll it be next, you brainless BERK? Remember your rhyming slang, Lionel? Berk? From Berkeley Hunt? Four letters? Begins with a C?

  Don’t worry, folks. Give him long enough, and he’ll work it out—one of these years. Back at the Scrubs they’re already warming his toilet seat. And repadding his cell.

  Go easy, lad, and take it nice and slow. You’ll have all the TIME in the world …

  4

  In the planetarium of Lionel’s glass-domed spa, as he slid into the trunks he’d been told to bring along, Des took it all in, the plunge pool, the lap pool, the saunas of various ferocities, the gargling jacuzzis, and the orderly forest of potted plants and gleaming pine. Then he went out through the wrong door—and found himself, barefoot, in a large and luxurious library … On the nearest coffee table (he saw with a pang) there was a roughly splayed Morning Lark, plus a roughly splayed Diston Gazette, plus two cans of Cobra with a crushed Marlboro Hundred on either lid, like a tableau of earlier times …

  With the white towel across his shoulders he stepped out on to the deck. Daphne had gone (and with a blush he imagined her reading it, all those years ago: Dear Daphne, I’m having an affair with an older …). Poolside, Lionel lay chewing on a cigar while Carmody replenished his ice bucket. Des stood there, hands on hips … The village nestled on a rise over a shallow valley, and Lionel’s vast garden was arranged on three levels, three graded distances, eventually subsiding into a pasture of paler green where two tiny horses nuzzled and browsed. The uppermost lawn was tyrannised by a sky-filling cedar, caught in mid-flail, ancient, grand, and haggard, and half-supported, now, by tripods made from its own wood. Dropped branches, fashioned into crutches.

  “Get wet then,” urged Lionel.

  In Des dived, and the tepid water streamed past him, seeming to clog his pores and filling his head with memories of school trips, chlorine, foot troughs, pimpled white chests. He surfaced, saying,

  “It’s a bit warm, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I know. Blood-heat. That’s ‘Threnody.’ She insists.”

  Out of politeness Des swam a few laps … You could count on Lionel (he thought) to have a girlfriend whose name he couldn’t pronounce. And didn’t threnody mean a lament or a dirge? … Up he climbed, feeling as though he was covered in sweat; he retrieved his towel and went and sat on the white wicker chair next to Lionel’s plumply padded lounger. He said,

  “Ah. Nice.”

  “Yeah. Most refreshing. Like a bath you just pissed in … Suppose you want a drop of this. Go on then. Nah, fill you glass. I already had a couple of pints with Daph. You know, she’s right, ‘Threnody.’ There’s nothing to it.”

  “Nothing to what?”

  “Shaping you image in the press. It’s easy. You just let you personality come out. And then they putty in you hands.”

  “Cheers, Uncle Li.”

  “It’s not even like beer, champagne. It’s like pop. This is more like it—Macallan’s.” He hoisted the heavy glass. “It’s older than me, this is. And as for that fucking tree, it’s been there, it’s been there for a thousand years. A thousand years. They brought it back from Lebanon. On they crusades.”

  The two of them were looking out and away.

  “… You know, Des, I’ve had every ponce and mumper in England come knocking on me door. Ringo. Ringo shows up. Says he can’t find work because of his arm. I said, You couldn’t find a fucking job, Ring, even before you was crippled. You Uncle John, he shows up and all.” Lionel ruefully but in the end quite indulgently shook his head. “They’ll try anything! Oh yeah—and guess who else come calling. Guess what else crept out from under its fucking stone. Ross Knowles!”

  Des remembered Ross Knowles. The unexceptionable drinker Lionel smashed up that time in the Hobgoblin, on account of the news about Marlon and Gina Drago.

  “Ross Knowles, if you please. Ross Knowles come hobbling up me drive. Yeah—on you way, brother. What am I, a fucking bank?”

  Ban-kuh. After a silence Des said, “Dawn’s expecting.” The silence resumed.

  “Is she now. Expecting what? … Come on, let’s have it, son. Why’re you here?”

  Des said, “Just some family business. That’s all.”

  “What business?”

  “You know. The flat. Gran.”

  “Oh yeah. Gran. You been up there? How is the old …?”

  “And I came to tell you our news, Uncl
e Li,” said Des, rerousing himself. “I’m chuffed. Dawn’s in the family way and we’re both dead chuffed.”

  Breathing in, Lionel resettled himself. “You too young, Des,” he said quietly. “You twenty-one.”

  “Well. Dawn’s twenty-three. We aren’t kids.”

  “Okay. You not like Grace. Or you mum. You not twelve … But you should be putting youself about,” he went on. “With the birds. Applying youself.”

  “I don’t seem to be the type … I’m like you, Uncle Li. Back then. Not bothered.”

  “Yeah, well I’m bothered now, by Christ. Obsessed. And when that happens, Des, it’s all off. You at they mercy!”

  Des leaned back and closed his eyes and said dreamily, “I fancy a girl.”

  “Oh yeah? Who?”

  Was Lionel being sarcastic—or just stupid on purpose? “No. I fancy having a girl.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “No, Uncle Li. I fancy fathering a girl.”

  “Oh. Oh. Well that’s you own business … Sorry, Des, me mind’s elsewhere. I’m due a treat this afternoon.” He winced three times, four, as if in pain, and then his mouth broke into a lavish sneer. “Gaw. Birds. The way they … And then you …”

  Des closed his eyes again. “Well I’m chuffed. Just think. What if it’s twins?”

  “… Forget it.”

  “Forget what?”

  “You after me room. And you can’t have it.”

  Des sat forward. “Ah come on, Uncle Li. Come on. What you need it for?”

  “All me stuff!”

  “All what stuff? Crates of dodgy old mobile phones. Old bottles of North Korean steroids all stuck together. And a load of old videos off the Adult Channel!”

  “… Oh. So you saying you been sniffing round in there.”

  “Yeah.” And Des told him how he had gained entry (on all fours), and spent a week restacking the merchandise. “So we could put a new door back on the hinges and get it shut. This was years ago. I told you, Uncle Li.”

  “You never!”

  “I can prove it!”