Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

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.

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 longer 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.’