Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

When Des went on through, ‘Threnody’ was raising a huge glass of ‘Mirage’ and saying, ‘It’ll be a precious bond between ourselves, Dawn love. So precious. Just between you and I — the mums .’

She gave a signal. Mal MacManaman went down the passage and you could hear the front door give its sigh. They came in very quietly, two men, introduced as Sebastian Drinker and Chris Large (Des recognised Chris Large: Daphne’s photographer from the Sun ). Mal MacManaman leaned back against the wall with folded arms and penitently dropped his head.

‘Let’s sit on the sofa, Dawn,’ said ‘Threnody’, ‘and have a little smooch. Then a few standing up. So they can see your tum.’

Her face solar and leonine under the striplight, Goldie was looking on as they cleared the table — the glasses, the Wotsits, the Fairy Toast.

‘Look at that. She drank the whole bottle!’ Dawn’s eyes widened out into space. ‘And she had a go at the Rebel Yell and all. That baby’s paralytic .’

‘Yeah. If there is one.’

‘If there is one … She knows what she’s going to call it. Boy or girl. Lovechild.’

‘Lovechild?’

‘Lovechild. And she’s going to do what we’re doing with the middle name.’

‘… Lovechild “Threnody” Asbo?’

‘Lovechild “Threnody” Asbo. State of England.’

‘State of England.’

‘And anyway. It won’t be a lovechild, will it. What about their dream wedding?’

So for the next few days Des faced reasonably mild ridicule at his work station in Canary Wharf, and Dawn rose from archangel to seraph in the eyes of the pupils of St Swithin’s, what with Aunt ‘Threnody’ all over the papers — and the unbelievable poem, ‘Sisters’ ( God’s gift of generation/We hold in veneration …). It was official. Sebastian Drinker: Mr Asbo is frankly overjoyed. He greeted the news with absolute euphoria .

… It doesn’t sound right, does it , said Dawn. ‘ Euphoria ’.

No, it doesn’t. As if he meant to say ‘euthoria’ … I hate this. I mean, where’s the truth? Where’s the poor old truth? And what’ll we say to him when he comes?

‘Congratulations, Uncle Li.’

‘Yes, all the very best, Lionel.’

Lionel halted, filling the doorway in his ambassadorial suit, holding in both hands a thick glass jar of what looked like Chinese seaweed. He said,

‘What’re you on about?’

‘Or uh, shouldn’t we believe everything we read in the news, Uncle Li?’

‘What? Read about what?’

Dawn said, ‘The baby.’

‘Oh the baby . Oh the baby .’ Lionel gave the glass jar to his nephew and with his freed hand reached up to jerk at the vast valentine of his Windsor. ‘You know what she’s calling it?’

‘… She told us Lovechild.’

‘Lovechild, my arse. She’s calling it her exit strategy . Work that one out.’

The thick glass jar — Lionel’s house present — turned out to contain hydroponic marijuana. The week before he had given them a thousand cigarettes (Balkan Sobranies). It seemed that Lionel, too, had been reading the baby books. Other donations included a whole hamper of sushi, ceviche, and fish tartare.

One Sunday afternoon (this wouldn’t happen again) Lionel surfaced from his room and was soon joined, at the kitchen table, by his childhood sweetheart, Cynthia. This silent Distonite was now twenty-eight. Cynthia — her face as bleached as a London sky but not quite colourless, with a faint rumour of mulberry in it, like the blue of cold.

… Every time Lionel crashed in at night (as if returning to an empty house) Des thought how restful it must be (if you could imagine such a thing) — to have no consciousness of others.

‘CHEER UP, BOY. It hasn’t happened yet.’

‘Yeah but I’m all alone.’

Des was all alone: his wife wasn’t there, and his baby wasn’t there either.

‘Where she gone then?’

‘Gone to look after her dad.’ Des reached into the fridge for a can of Cobra. ‘Well, she doesn’t look after her dad exactly. The old bastard still won’t let her near him.’

‘Only natural in a way. Someone like Horace. His only daughter marrying a brother … No offence meant, Des.’

‘None taken, Uncle Li. No. So she just sits in the hospital and looks after her mum.’

‘Yeah? What’s up with him then?’

A secret drinker, Horace Sheringham had secretly given himself acute cirrhosis — diagnosed that Saturday morning.

‘He’s turned yellow. His liver’s packed up.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fifty.’

‘Oh, so he’s getting up there. Tell you what then. We’ll have one of our nights out, Des. Okay?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, wicked, Uncle Li.’

‘Yeah. Like in the days of you youth. Back in a minute.’

He finished his beer, poured himself a beaker of Rebel Yell, gave the (open) tank a kick, and went shouldering off to his room.

‘Talking KFC . KFC. KFC. KFC. KFC …’

These words were spoken almost conversationally, and not with the incantatory force of earlier days. Lionel’s mood appeared to be unusually bright, even festive — as he dropped his tray and attended to the little sachets of mustard and relish. Round about them, the milkshake colours, and the hamburger girths, of KFC.

‘Talking KFC. KFC . Wealth, Des. Wealth … Remember when you was a kid, thinking, What’ll I be when I grow up? It’s like that. You think — I know, I’ll be an engine driver! I’ll buy a, I’ll buy a fucking train and steam around in that. But then you think, Where to? What’s the point? Then you think — I know, I’ll buy one of them hot-air balloons. Or a plane. Fuck it, I’ll go to Cape Canaveral and have a spin in the space shuttle.’

Des said, ‘You’d have to go to Russia for that. These days. Or maybe India.’

‘Be all right. Cape Bollywood. Blast-off. Have a crafty smoke in the toilet. Weightlessness. See the globe from on high. Why not? You can do anything , see. So you don’t — you never … You just think, What’s the point?’

Lionel gazed incuriously at his drumsticks and reached for his chips.

‘What about your boxing?’

‘Ah now. Me boxing. I got quite far with that. Planned it out. Set meself goals. Like — like full ABA member in eighteen months.’ Lionel shrugged and went on, ‘I talked it over with old Tommy Trum. He says, Lionel? You got the aggression, son. But celebrity fighters never last! They ain’t hungry enough, see. And you fame’s like a red fucking rag to you opponent. So what’s the point? Nice smelly gym in Middlesbrough. With some ex-SAS trying to stove you nose in. Okay, fair enough. But then you got all the papers the next morning saying you a cunt! What’s the point? … Come on, Des. Suggest something.’

‘Well. There’s reading.’

‘Tried it. You know — bit of history. D-Day. Omaha Beach. Seems all right. Then after a page or two I … After a page or two I keep thinking the book’s taking the piss. Oy. You taking the piss? Then you temper’s gone, and you can’t uh, regain you concentration. Keep thinking the book’s taking the piss. It’s weird.’

‘Uh, what about good works? Charities.’

‘ Charities? Charities — that’s the only thing me and her ever agree about. We can’t stand charities … Remember what I said? Not happy. Not sad. Numb . Des, I tell you the truth. The only time I know I’m breathing is when I’m doing some skirt. Not uh, problem-free there either. With the minge.’

‘ Get you tits fixed, Get you tits fixed … You know, Des — “Threnody”. Say what you like. Say what you like about …’