Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

Now something happened to Lionel’s eyes: their blues glowed and swelled, like a pair of headlights going from dipped to full. ‘Ah but Des!’ he cried. ‘That room’s me — me only … It’s my only …’

‘Your only what? Your only — your only link?’

‘Yeah, I suppose. Something like that … Okay, Desmond. You win.’

And then and there Lionel undertook, in future, to pay a half — no, a third — of all the outgoings that pertained to Avalon Tower.

‘We’d rather have the room.’

‘Jesus. There’s no pleasing yer, is there. Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay the lot . The whole whack … Come on, Des. Humour me. It’s just for a month or two. Till I’m settled.’

He held out a hand, and Des took it.

‘Well. You got what you come for. Mission accomplished. Now are you happy? … Ooh, it’s hot, isn’t it, Des. D’you know how dear it is, Dom Perignon?’

‘No, I don’t.’

With a grunt Lionel got to his feet. He hoisted the bottle out of the ice bucket: it was five-sixths full. With a hooked thumb he tugged out his waistband, and poured.

‘Ooh, that’s better. Où . Nice little tingle and all. Well. It deserves it! … Who you grinning at?’

‘No one, Uncle Li!’

Rolling the spent bottle on to the tabletop, Lionel threw himself raggedly into the water and pounded down to the shallow end.

IT WAS HALF past one.

His bare legs cooled by sprinklers, his bare feet on the feathery and succulent grass, and his mobile phone in his hand (he was awaiting Lionel’s summons), Des took a turn round the grounds. They were landscaped, he assumed — giant hands had taken them and moulded them. The three lawns were girt on either side by tall thicknesses of electrified steel grilling, but the view of the valley and beyond was uninterrupted — maybe a hidden barrier, he thought. While he made his way down there, motion-sensitive CCTV cameras, on branches, in bushes, indignantly craned their necks to watch him pass; and he was also politely accosted by three different security men (all of them early middle-aged, with capped teeth and fresh suntans: they looked like minor filmstars, or their stand-ins or body doubles). As the land flattened out towards the pasture, and as the horses now nobly loomed, he came to a deep trench perhaps twenty feet across. Within was a thrill ride of twirling razor wire; it squirmed like a barber’s pole, and faintly crackled.

His phone gave its pulse. Des? said Lionel briskly. Have a word with Mrs Lucy in the kitchen. She’ll give you a turnip for you lunch. And then come to me office. You can say hello to ‘Threnody’. Have a little chat about you future. Three. There . As he pocketed his phone Des noticed the twin searchlights on the gabled roof (the mansion’s staring antennae), and he thought he heard the muffled or subterranean shouts of dogs … But for now he was far from Diston — distant Diston and its savage rhythms. Look how gently the ancient tree decayed, losing its green needles, its slow fall broken by its own struts and stays. All was quiet, except for birdsong and the subliminal murmur of heat and fertility; and all was still, except for the shoals of frantic white butterflies.

Having done what he could with an old-style ploughman’s lunch (root vegetables, lightly steamed), he went from the kitchen to the library. It was two forty-five … The books: some of them might have been bought by the yard (fifty-odd leather-clad volumes of Bulwer-Lytton), but there were many treasures — Macaulay, Gibbon, the Churchill — Roosevelt letters, Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolution … At the far end of the room, gazing at one another across the length of the billiard table, were two gilt-framed paintings — the current master, the current mistress. In a cream singlet against a rich blue sky (and strenuously idealised), Lionel resembled a Young Pioneer of early Soviet propaganda, the humped shoulder muscles, the corded forearms, the sheen of honest exertion on his open brow. As for ‘Threnody’, seen against the same background, she could have been a survivor from the Old Regime — a high-born harpist, say, now tempered by a year or two of forced labour.

‘Mr Pepperdine?’

He took one last look around. Yes, the luxury of the garden was the luxury of space and silence; and the luxury of the library was the luxury of thought and time.

Carmody led him through the entrance hall and down a wide stone-flagged passage and came to a halt in front of a wall of mirrors.

‘You just push the door, sir, and it opens outward.’

Des pushed, and went on through the looking glass.

He entered a long, low room, parched of all natural light, and with treated air (cooled, humidified) — the scene, he immediately sensed, of a grim and singular preoccupation. Lionel sat on a square-shouldered swivel chair in the far corner, wanly illumined by a bank of TV screens. And now it was Des’s turn to think of James Bond — of Bond, James Bond, and his licence to kill. Of course, Lionel would not be the secret agent, would not be 007; he would be the talented maniac bent on world domination. Where was his moat full of shark or piranha? Where was his bushy white cat, his chessboard, his monorail? And, having achieved world domination, what would Lionel do with it? … The burgundy smoking-jacket, the stout cigar, and the brandy balloon were all of a piece; on the other hand, the likes of Mr Big and Dr No, with their planetary ambitions, would not normally be seen frowning down at a tousled copy of the Diston Gazette . This Lionel now put aside.

‘Sit there, would you?’ He nodded at a low couch of studded red leather. ‘… How could you do it, Des?’ he asked. ‘Something so sick. So twisted .’

Fear, like a terrible old friend, took Des Pepperdine and hugged him close.

‘Look at you eyes. Says it all.’ He ran a thumbnail across his brow, from temple to temple. ‘The eyes of guilt. Tell me why, Des. You know what I’m talking about. Why, Des, why?’

With his face tipped back (and wearing its smile of pain), Lionel described a full circle in his swivel chair.

‘See, I’m a man in a predicament. I got this nephew. After his mum sadly died, I raised him meself. As best I could. Not a bad lad, I thought. Here and there he let me down. Loose tongue. Such is youth … Then what’s he do? Turns bent on me. Goes to the university, gets his head full of ideas. Studies uh, Criminology. And now he’s finking for a living …’

It took Des a moment to work out that Lionel did in fact mean finking (and not thinking ). His tension seeped away — to be replaced by a kind of sumptuous boredom. All this would be nothing new.

‘D’you remember, Des, years and years ago, when I come home and caught you red-handed in front of Crimewatch ? And I give you a smack? Well, I thought you’d learned you lesson. Apparently not.’

‘What’re you driving at, Uncle Li?’

‘What am I driving at? I open me Diston Gazette ,’ he said, opening his Diston Gazette — ‘and you on the crime desk!’

‘Yeah. Sort of.’

‘Look at this. Gutsy Grandma Thwarts Ganger Getaway. By Desmond Pepperdine . Look at this. Brave Bank Guard Frees Trapped Raid Blonde … No. No. You got to walk away from that, Des. Forthwith,’ he said (with difficulty). ‘You betraying you own class ! And I can’t have it, son. I can’t have it.’

‘You can’t have it. So what should I do?’

‘No need to ask. It’s simple. You tender you resignation.’

‘… Yeah. That makes a lot of sense. These days there’s loads of jobs.’