Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

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.

‘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 expected 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!’