Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘… He didn’t like my statement in court.’

‘Your statement was better than his statement. I solemnly swear, under oaf …’

‘You don’t understand the criminal mind, Dawnie … And the other matter. The dogs.’

‘Mm. The dogs.’

‘Dawn, never mind the money. It’s … we shouldn’t think about the money. Just look at it this way. We’ve got a whole extra room.’

‘We could take in a lodger!’

‘… No. No. We’ll make it a nice study for the two of us. Like a library.’

‘Yeah … It’s not right to think about the money.’

‘And one day, Dawnie — maybe a nursery and all.’

‘Oh, Desi. The things you say.’

‘A whole extra room. He’s got no use for it now. He won’t be coming back here. Will he.’

AFTER AGONISING ABOUT it for a couple of weeks (and after many grave discussions with Pete New), Lionel undertook to cover the eight hundred and eighty-five k (Jayden Drago making up the difference). Then progress was swift.

The hideous envelope (windowed, dun-coloured, and spitefully undersized) came by second-class post, in late June. It contained by far the longest literary effort that Des had ever seen from his uncle’s pen (MILK and TOILITPAPER and TUBASKO — this was the kind of thing he was used to). Lionel’s letter was in block capitals and unpunctuated, like a telegram without the stops. Des and Dawn took another look at it on the bus on the way to Queen Anne’s:

DES BE AT NORF GATE ON SATDEE JULY 11 TWELVEFIRTY BRING ME DRIVE-IN LISENSE ME BIRF STATIFICAT ME BLAK SELL FONE AND ME CUMPEW UH [the last four words were crossed out] AND THE DOGS PEDDYGREES BE THERE SO NO MINNIE CABIN FOR YOU THAT SATDEE TELL SIMFEA ALRIGHT LIONEL

‘Jesus,’ said Des. ‘He’s winding me up. Simfea ! Why didn’t he sign it Loyonoo ?’

‘He’s taking the piss. Simfea.’

‘Simfea. You know Simfea’s mum and — Christ, you know Cynthia’s mum and dad both call her Simfea? Amazing, that. You give your daughter a name of — seven letters. And you can only pronounce four of them!’

‘They can’t pronounce it,’ said Dawn. ‘But I bet they can spell it!’

‘And the only bit he got right was the a ! Computer — look at that glottal stop. He’s taking the piss.’

But the letter had an atmosphere: Lionel had hated writing it, and the words themselves had hated being written. Even the paper had hated the pen. With a frown Des said,

‘I can’t work him out, Dawnie. Never could. I mean, he’s clever when he wants to be. Last time I was there he said something really good. Very acute, I thought.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Well there was this bloke in the prison caff. Who was obviously off his chump. Dribbling and gibbering away to himself. And Uncle Li said the bloke’d get off light. Diminished responsibility. And Uncle Li said it was all crap, diminished responsibility. They get these experts in, and ask them, Did the defendant know what he was doing, and did he know what he was doing was wrong? Uncle Li says that’s all crap.’

‘How’s he work that one out?’

‘Well he’s right. There’s only one question the law needs to ask. And Li goes, Oy, nutcase! To the psycho. Oy! Mental! Would you have done that old lady if a copper’d been watching? And the psycho shakes his head … Uncle Li’s right. Would you do it if a copper was watching? That’s the question, and never mind all the other stuff. I thought that was very acute.’

‘… Just a few hundred would be brilliant,’ said Dawn. ‘He wouldn’t even notice it. Don’t worry, love. You filled in the numbers. Lionel’ll do the right thing.’

‘Yeah,’ said Des.

Outside the north gates of Stallwort Prison, at noon, on Saturday, July 11, Desmond hung back, taking note of the thirty-odd reporters and photographers, the TV crew, and the white limousine with the two men leaning on it — the chauffeur in his serge uniform and peaked cap, and the city gent in pinstripes and a bowler hat. Saturday was sunless but intensely humid, and the redbrick building dankly gleamed in its sweat, looking like a terrible school for very old men.

At half past twelve Lionel was punctually escorted from the inner gate to the outer, wearing the clothes he’d had on when he went inside — the mauled grey suit, the ripped and bloodied white shirt, and the slender rag of his dark-blue tie. He signed a form on a clipboard while the guard busied himself with the locks.

In the course of his thoughtful reply to Lionel’s prison letter, Des offered the following advice ( of course, I wouldn’t know, but this seems to make sense ): try to establish a cheerful and ( even though it might go against the grain ) respectful relationship with the media crowd, because ( like it or not, Uncle Li ) they’re going to play a part in your immediate future. And remember — they’re just doing their job. A bit of common courtesy, that’s the thing. What would it cost you, after all? And Des recurrently imagined his uncle, frowning in his cell as he pondered these words …

‘Some questions, Mr Asbo!’

‘ Fuck off out of it,’ said Lionel with a convulsive shrug as he pushed himself through.

‘Mr Asbo! How will you —’

‘ Fuck off out of it. You know what you are? You the fucking scum of the earth . Here, Des. Away from these fucking slags. Come on, boy.’

‘Desmond! One question!’

‘Goo on. I told yuh. Fuck off out of it!’

The chauffeur opened the rear door. Lionel paused. Then, while the cameras flashed and mewed, he unleashed a surprisingly cosmopolitan flurry of obscene gestures: the V-sign, the middle finger, the pinkie and index, the tensed five digits, the thumbnail flicked against the upper teeth; and then he smacked his left hand down on the biceps of his right arm — whose fist shot skyward. Finally, as he bent to enter the car, Lionel reached for his anal cleft and lingeringly freed his underpants.

‘Des?’ he said as he settled, and took a can of Cobra from the ice bucket. ‘Don’t never talk to the press. See, Des, they’ll distort it. You say one thing — and they go and print another! Uh, excuse me uh, Mr Firth-Heatherington.’ Mr Firf-Hevrington . ‘Hello!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ And, with the stolidity of a man who had never in his life travelled by other means, Lionel pressed the necessary button, and a glass partition slowly surged towards the roof. ‘Want a quiet word with me nephew.’

‘Of course, Mr Asbo.’

Des drew in a chestful of breath and said, ‘Well, congratulations, Uncle Li. It’s like a fairy tale. Magic.’

‘Yeah, and tomorrow it’ll all disappear. The market’s gone and wanked itself out, Des. The banks’ve sploshed it all away and they kiping on us now! What can you trust?’

They rode on. After a while, to fill the silence (it was a new kind of silence), Des said mildly, ‘Gold. I was reading that it never drops in value. Gold.’

‘… Oh, you was reading, was you. You brought me stuff?’

‘Course.’ And Des handed him the plastic bag.

‘No computer!’

‘You crossed that bit out, Uncle Li. I thought you crossed that bit out.’

Now the whirring white machine was up on the London Orbital. A motorbike drew level, fell back, drew level. A goggled face peered in.

‘What’s this?’

‘The glass, it’s tinted, Uncle Li. He can’t see you. He’s just a snapper. A pap.’

‘I’ll give him fucking pap!’

Lionel lowered the window with one hand and reached for a full can of Cobra with the other, but before he could fling it Des yelled out — ‘ No! No , Uncle Li! They’re provoking you. Don’t! Don’t give them the satisfaction …’