Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

They were in Lionel’s office in Wormwood Scrubs, wondering what, if anything, to say to the world about the true dimensions of the Asbo fortune — Lionel, Megan Jones, and Sebastian Drinker.

And tell them that’s just the interest. On me principal. Lionel Messi gets paid for running round a fucking football pitch. I get paid for sitting on me arse. Tell them that .

We shouldn’t stir them up, Lionel , said Megan. It’s nobody’s business but yours . She laughed and went on, As it is you’ve got every gold-digger in England after you!

More fanmail? Go on then, sling it over . Lionel’s fanmail consisted of letters of introduction from young women, with photographs enclosed. No, the fanmail’s — it’s all right. It’s good. See, it’s like a brothel. It’s you privilege to choose. It’s you uh, prerogative. You know. Like in a brothel . Lionel raised a finger. Except I won’t be paying for it. You don’t want to pay for it, Megan. Starts you off on the wrong foot .

The first time he said brothel he pronounced it broffle , and the second time he said brothel he pronounced it brovvle . But that wasn’t why Megan Jones and Sebastian Drinker were glancing at each other from under their brows.

I’ll make a pile of the ones I might fancy. You can drop them a note, Megan. Say I look forward to making they acquaintance , Lionel specified, upon me release .

One warm May Saturday (the baby, in recent weeks, had grown from olive-size to prune-size to plum-size to peach-size), Des and Dawn went boating on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. And guess who they ran into. Jon and Joel!

It had been three years — but the dogs went completely berserk. And they had a brilliant half-hour with them out on the green. And when the new owners (a dad and his daughter) took them off again, it was murder watching them disappear, Jon and Joel, with their crestfallen ears, their brimming eyes …

After they were gone Des dropped to his knees and rolled on to his side. It wasn’t the dogs, not really; but the air was so fast and free, and he felt he was being roughly tickled from within, by his own heart, his own blood … That afternoon the lake was minutely runnelled by the wind, like corduroy; Dawn sat and soothed him, and they both stared out at the corded water.

Later that week Des was summoned to Canary Wharf. For a second interview at the Daily Mirror !

Old Dud died. Brian ‘Skanker’ Fitzwilliam died. Yul Welkway was left paralysed after a fistfight behind the Hobgoblin. Grace Pepperdine had another minor stroke. Uncle Ringo (a southpaw) was run over by the moped of a trainee taxi driver (who was out acquiring the Knowledge) and lost the use of his left arm. Pete New was again sent to prison for having a fat dog. Uncle Stuart suffered a stress-induced nervous breakdown. Troy Welkway was blinded by an oxyacetylene burner in a worksite accident. Uncle John’s wife left him, taking four of the five kids. Horace Sheringham was hospitalised with violent pains in his abdomen (it was by now quite widely known that Horace was a secret drinker). Jayden Drago died. Ernest Nightingale died. This was the loose, the floating world of Diston Town.

The winters were medievally cold.

‘“ELIZABETH SHERINGHAM-PEPPERDINE”. WHAT d’you think? … Des, he’ll call you when he calls you. Don’t feel hurt. He’s busy with his birds.’

‘Yeah. Funny, isn’t it. Not that bothered before. Now it’s a new one every night.’

‘The Lotto Libertine. The Lotto Lecher.’

‘The Lotto Lothario. The Mirror called him that. They even called him the Lotto Lancelot!’

‘The Lotto Ladykiller. Ah, but now he’s moved on. And found true love …’

‘You know I’m a feminist, Dawn,’ he resumed. ‘And all that. But it just won’t work. “Elizabeth Sheringham-Pepperdine”? That’s — ten syllables. No.’

‘Mm. And we’re only delaying the problem, aren’t we. What if she grows up and marries someone whose parents did the same thing?’

‘Yeah. She’d be uh, “Elizabeth Sheringham-Pepperdine-Avalon-Fitzwilliam”. That goes right across the page!’

‘All right. “Elizabeth Dawn Pepperdine”. No hyphen. Just a middle name.’

‘Ooh. I like it. Wait. What if it’s a … Hang on. “Desmond Dawn Pepperdine”. I wouldn’t mind that. I’d be proud. Yeah. Good, Dawnie.’

‘“Robert Dawn Pepperdine”. Nothing wrong with it.’

‘“Georgia Dawn Pepperdine”. “Sybil”. “Maria”. “Thea”. I like “Thea”. But then Uncle Li’ll call her “Fea”.’

‘We can live with that, surely to God … Des, go and tell him our news. And say we need the space. For the baby.’

Des sighed. And the flat itself, roosting atop Avalon Tower, endeavoured to go on seeming stoical: the tidy kitchen with its balcony, the windowless bathroom, the smaller bedroom — and Lionel’s commodious lair, still crammed with contraband (though long since sealed by a new plywood door).

‘And admit it,’ said Dawn. ‘You’re upset. You’re pining. He’s been out a month and you haven’t heard a single word.’

‘Yes I have. He sent his change-of-address card.’

‘Yeah. Change of address. From Wormwood Scrubs to “Wormwood Scrubs”.’

‘You know, I ought to go up. Tell him our news. I ought to. Now that you’re showing.’

‘I’m not ! Why is it, Des? I still don’t feel I’m expecting. Even when he flutters.’

‘She. How’s your dad?’

It was true. Dawn’s pregnancy was so far asymptomatic. And it was Des who had the dry skin and the migraines, Des who had the heartburn and the mood swings, Des who had the torrents of drool, and the sense, day in, day out, that he was sucking on a pocketful of loose change.

‘… Go and see him. Go on, Des. There’s Grace. And that’s urgent.’

‘There’s Grace. Yeah, I will.’

Sitting on the table, Goldie (now a ladylike three-year-old) held up a forepaw, as if to receive a courtly kiss; then she kissed it herself, and tongued it, and rolled over on to the Daily Mirror .

‘Funny, isn’t it, Dawnie. They’re back to going on about how stupid he is. After three years of him just being vicious. Now he’s stupid again. Why’s that?’

‘Because his new bird claims he’s clever.’

‘Does she?’

‘All the time. Says he got his head sorted out while he was away. Says he read a whole dictionary.’

‘Which dictionary?’

‘Pocket Cassell’s, but still. Says he’s secretly very clever. And they’re not having that, the papers. Oh no.’

‘… I’ll give him a ring. Ask if I can look in on him one Saturday. I’m curious. I want to see how he’s getting on.’

Propped up on silken pillows, Lionel Asbo sat in the great barge of the four-ton four-poster with the gilt breakfast tray resting on his keglike thighs.

‘Photo op,’ he said, and tossed aside his phone. ‘Oy! “Threnody”!’

‘What!’

‘Photo op!’

‘When? And what’s it in aid of?’ Naked but for her black high heels, ‘Threnody’ came clicking out of her bathroom (they had a bathroom each) and on to the solid silence of the rugs.

‘For a uh, an in-depth profile.’ Lionel scratched one of the dents in his crown. ‘Eight-page pull-out. Photo op’s Saturday.’

‘That’s not a photo op. That’s a photo shoot. Isn’t your cousin coming Saturday?’