Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

On the following Tuesday, May Day, at seven in the morning, a uniformed tipstaff or beadle, with rainwater dripping from his shovel hat, delivered a forty-page document, stamped and sealed with the imprimatur of Lord Barcleigh’s chambers.

It took them an hour to make any sense of it.

‘What can we do? The flat’s in his name … Here. He’s going to pay a third,’ said Des. ‘By banker’s order.’

‘A third. I bet he’ll cut it to a quarter once Toilet’s here.’

‘He’ll have to clear out once Toilet’s here. I’ll reason with him. Wish me luck … Still, Dawnie. It’s money coming in. Not money going out. Like with Horace.’

‘See that? He told you it was just for a while. See that? In perpetuity ! And look at the penalties if we even …’

‘He’s using the law! Against us .’

‘Christ. He could buy the whole Tower. What’s he want the room for anyway?’

NOW THINGS STARTED speeding up.

Lionel’s cellphone was switched off or otherwise deactivated, so Des called the house. He hoped to hear Carmody’s emollient murmur — but no. He got ‘Threnody’.

‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘you’re lucky it’s me who answered.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Have you seen the fucking Sun ?’

The Sun lay open on the kitchen table. With Goldie asleep on it.

‘Absolutely terrible he’s been,’ ‘Threnody’ went on. ‘This morning he wrecked the barn. And that barn’s scheduled . And then Tommy Trumble came over. For their sparring session — you know, they sort of shadowbox each other? Anger management? And Lionel went and knocked him out! And Tommy’s sixty-seven! We thought he was dead . And it’s all your fault. According to Lionel.’

‘How’s he work that one out?’

‘Threnody’ lowered her voice. ‘According to Mr Mastermind, if you hadn’t wandered in he might’ve come across not that bad. But you. He reckons they’re up your arse because you’re black. You’d better steer clear. I’m off out of the country, me. Let him calm down … I tell you, he hated it like fucking poison,’ she said, ‘the way they impugned his intelligence. You know. The way they implied he’s a cunt.’

‘Yeah. They did a bit.’

‘And look what the arsehole said about me !’

Late that night (and this would be widely covered in the press), ‘Threnody’ boarded a plane for Kabul.

At work the following lunchtime Des received a text: 2 a clock some lads coming dont worry they movers . He went straight home and found them already there: a team of men in sharp white overalls and mining helmets. Des looked on as with military thoroughness they stripped Lionel’s bedroom of all its stolen property. When they were gone he tiptoed in. The teetering, beetle-chewed wardrobe, the chest of drawers with its missing knobs and warped runnels. In the corner lay a heap of trainers, all parched and curled in on themselves; and there on the hooks were Lionel’s three or four mesh vests.

On Thursday they received a postcard from Cape Wrath. An artist’s impression of the great frayed tray of the North Sea, under a pouting sunset. And on the other side a short message, evidently dictated. A nice young couple came and moved me into this lovely new home . And there was her toiling G ., plus a spidery kiss.

Towards the end of that week the Pepperdines, enveloped in a faint yellow glow of unreality, were reading about the doings of ‘Threnody’ in Afghanistan.

She had flown there on a morale-boosting mission, along with the Formula 1 Pit Pets and an all-girl glamour rock band called Shy. ‘Threnody’ gave a poetry reading and a frank Q and A at the base in Kandahar. It was rumoured that for the signing session she would shed her burqa to reveal an offering from ‘Self Esteem’, her new line in underwear. She didn’t. There was also the visit they all made to an orphanage in Badroo, where ‘Threnody’ had what sounded like a tantrum of compassion.

Meanwhile, in the offices of Megan Jones and Sebastian Drinker, Lionel held a kind of press conference — attended by the Sun , the Mirror , the Star , the Lark , the Lark on Sunday , and the Daily Telegraph . Extract:

So ‘Threnody’ has your full support, Lionel?

Lionel Asbo: Absolutely. Anything for our boys. Okay, I don’t see eye to eye with John Law. Obviously. Everyone knows that. But Her Majesty’s armed forces? 100 per cent. And I know they’ll look out for my ‘Threnody’ and send her home safe and sound .

Is it true about the Cobra, Lionel?

Megan Jones: Mr Asbo wanted to donate a case of Cobra to every British soldier serving in Afghanistan, all 5,182 of them. But we were advised against it .

Lionel Asbo: See, over there, lads, they don’t touch a drop. Not even beer. Getting s***faced on heroin’s okay but show them a can of —

Sebastian Drinker: Mr Asbo is considering various alternatives .

Are you going out there yourself, Lionel?

Lionel Asbo (laughing): What, and leave England? No chance. I’ll never set foot outside my motherland. Well, Scotland and that. You know, maybe Wales. But I’m not going over that water, mate. I love this f***ing country. It’s England, my England, for Lionel Asbo. England. England. England .

And even as he spoke, a flag of St George (measuring over two thousand square feet) was billowing high over the searchlights at ‘Wormwood Scrubs’ …

‘It’s improving,’ said Dawn. ‘Their image.’

‘Yeah. Queen and country. They can’t knock that.’

‘And she’s stopped going on about how clever he is. Let’s face it, Lionel’s not the brightest of sparks … It’s improving.’

And you couldn’t deny it. The famous young couple, so recently known as (say) the Jugjob Jezebel and the Diston Dingbat , were now referred to, alliteratively but without capital letters, as the courageous covergirl and her patriotic paramour .

‘Yeah,’ said Des. ‘Some thought’s gone into all this. I wonder how long it’ll last.’

The interview with Ringo Pepperdine in Sunday’s People sparked little controversy. Ringo’s complaint — Lionel never gave me a penny piece — counted for nothing when set against the revelations in the text: over the course of thirteen years, Ringo had cost the taxpayer well over half a million pounds in benefits and disability allowances. And the colour photograph, with its waxwork effect, won him few admirers: a dishevelled Mongolian, with sunken red-spoked eyes, a needle-thin moustache, and a watchfully parasitic leer.

There was but a single repercussion. All he cared about , said Ringo unguardedly, was Mum. No thought for anyone but Mum . And in Tuesday’s Star there was a half-page piece about the Northern Lights — the bijou sunset parlour on the crest of Scotland where Grace Pepperdine, thanks to her youngest boy’s fond munificence (and no thanks to Ringo), now contentedly dwelt.

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Nowhere. Just down the shop … You’ve got that frown again.’

‘Well don’t be long, Dawnie.’

A while ago, as he was working his way through another enormous baby book, Des came across the following: During pregnancy every woman will experience an irrational fear of isolation .

Which is funny (he thought): because that’s exactly what I’m experiencing — and Dawn, in his view, had never seemed more unnervingly self-sufficient. Sometimes, when he got home from work, he expected to enter a grey void of slowly shifting dust. Or else an indifferent Dawn would look up at him from the kitchen table and politely ask, Yes? Can I help you? Have you come to the wrong flat? Can I help you?