Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

Over the next two minutes Lionel’s eyes calmed and cleared.

‘You got to be careful, Uncle Li. Make allowances. You’ve had a shock to your system.’

‘Shock?’ Shoc-kuh?

‘Yeah. Your whole life’s changed. Make allowances. You’re a public figure. With a hundred and forty million quid.’

‘Mm. Huh. More like thirty-nine. After them bloodsuckers been at it.’

‘Uncle Li, you’re not going to be yourself for a week or two. You got to be cool.’

‘I am cool.’

Then silence. The new silence.

‘Where you off to now then?’

‘The Pantheon Grand.’ The Pamfeon Grand . ‘Till I sort meself out. Christ, there’s no end to it. Sign this, sign that. Sign this , sign that . Sign this , sign that .’ For a while Lionel railed against red tape — and bent MPs. After another silence Des said,

‘Dawn’s moved into the flat. Bit tight in the single but we manage. You aren’t bothered, are you Uncle Li? See, her —’

‘Gaw, don’t tell me.’ And for the first time Lionel smiled. ‘Don’t tell me. What’s he called, the old arsehole? Horace. Don’t tell me. Horace found out about her night in the nick. And if you ever darken me door … So she’s in. You got you Uncle Li to thank for that, Des Pepperdine.’

In the private street off St James’s that served as the driveway to the Pantheon Grand Hotel there were more reporters, and more obscene gestures, and more choice anathemas (plus a momentary flurry of raised fists). Lionel shouldered his way through the revolving doors — and into the ancient hangar of the atrium. With his head down he followed Firth-Heatherington to the check-in bay, and rocked to a halt, breathing harshly and wiping his upper lip on his cuff. Round about, small groups of sleek metallic seniors murmured and milled.

‘The items you requested are in your suite, sir. The toiletries and so on.’

Lionel grimly nodded.

‘And the outfitters and whatnot, they’ll be coming to you at three. If that’s convenient.’

Lionel grimly nodded.

‘Will you be dining with us tonight, Mr Asbo?’

‘… Yeah, girl. It’s booked. Seven-thirty. Table for six.’

‘Ah, so it is. And may I take an impression of your credit card?’

‘Course you can.’ Lionel nodded his head sideways. Firth-Heatherington snapped open his valise. ‘There. Take you pick.’

‘And would you like a newspaper tomorrow morning, sir?’

‘Yeah. Guiss a Lark .’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Jesus. Guiss a Sun .’

‘I hope you have a nice stay with us, sir.’

They stepped back.

‘I was just thinking, Mr Asbo, that you —’

‘Call me Lionel. Jack.’

‘I was just wondering, Lionel, if you wouldn’t be happier elsewhere. There’s a far more —’

‘What’s that mean?’ said Lionel with abrupt and inordinate menace. ‘What’s that mean? Is this, or is this not , the dearest hotel in London?’

‘Well yes it is. But it’s slightly fuddy-duddy here. And there’s a place near Sloane Square, a new place called the South Central, where I think you’d feel … more at home.’

‘More at home? More at home? What, it’s council flats, is it? I’ve had enough home . Okay? I’ve had enough fucking home .’

Des looked on as Lionel’s face began to swell (he had seen this before). It was the size of a carnival balloon when he said, in a froth of fricatives,

‘ I’ll be thoroughly at me ease in the Pantheon Grand thanks very much Mr Firth-Heatherington .’

Heads turned — then dropped … Everyone waited for the break, this fissure in the order of things, to close and heal.

‘Well,’ came the whisper as Firth-Heatherington backed away. ‘Please ring me at any time, Lionel.’

‘Call me sir . Jack.’ He loosened his tie with a gasp and a violent hoist of the chin. ‘ You can run along and all, Des. Oh and listen.’

‘Yes, Uncle Li.’

‘I’ll be round in a day or two. Uh, Desmond, I intend to relieve you financial situation. And that’s a promise. On me mother’s life.’ He smiled and said, ‘Oh yeah. How is the old …?’

‘Poorly, Uncle Li.’

‘Mm. Well. I’ll take care of Grace. Once and for all. On you way, boy.’

‘Uncle Li, seriously. That lot,’ he said, jerking a thumb towards the forecourt, ‘they want you back inside! It’s envy, Uncle Li, that’s what it is. Don’t let them work you up. All right?’

‘Ah, but you fears are unfounded. I’m in full control.’

And Des left him there on the other side of the glass at the Pantheon Grand. The shorn crown with its twinkling studs of sweat. The ripped suit, the bloodstained shirt, the thin blue tie. The new silence. The eyes.

‘Just out of interest. Has your dad got an actual grudge against black people? Or was he just born that way?’

‘Well,’ she said cautiously. ‘He does sometimes go on about how they ruined his profession.’

‘His profession? Ha — that’s a good one! Since when’s being a parking warden a … No. That’s unkind. Forget I ever said that, Dawnie.’

She was lying on the bed with Joel and Jon (while Des climbed into his minicabbing gear — old trainers and sweats). What she liked to do was — she’d slide the dogs’ ears between her toes. Said it felt like silk. Mmm . And whenever they got the chance Joel and Jon would give her feet a furtive, reverential lick.

‘I’m tense. About Uncle Li.’

‘I’m not. Not any more. If he does something for us, that’d be nice. If he doesn’t. Well.’

Dawn worked four nights a week — teaching English to foreign students. And the minicabbing? What Des minded, in the end, was the inanition. He kept asking himself: Is there anything stupider than sitting and staring at a red light?

‘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.’

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 shower-head 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.