Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

They had reached a circular clearing. Well lit, trash-strewn … Her head pillowed on a glistening rubbish bag, and with her dress up around her halter top, a large adolescent redhead was trying to climb to her feet, scraping and clawing for purchase like a supine skier with the two broken wine bottles she held in her freckled fists … Coming towards her down the facing slope was a file of densely veiled figures, a mother and her three, no four, no five daughters, each smaller than the next, like Russian dolls. They fanned out and stared. Lionel lingered, saying,

‘Don’t worry, ladies. I know it don’t look too clever, but you in England now. And it’s different with our birds. Our birds, they can lie around all stripped and helpless. And us blokes don’t turn a hair. Why? Because they that rough. Come on, son.’

Lionel and Desmond again fell into step.

‘ DILFs , Des. All divorcees. The lot of them! You know how they do it? First they — first they get theyselves hitched to some old banker for ten minutes. Then they independent for life! And oh, they in gorgeous nick, Des. Superb. And I said to her, I said to this DILF, How old are you anyway? And guess what she said.’

‘What.’

‘Thirty-seven! Which means she’s probably forty-three! Think. She’s almost Gran’s age — and there’s not a mark on her. Pampered all they lives, they are. Beauty treatments. Massage. Yoga. Okay. Okay. You in a smart hotel room. Now it’s got this lovely sneer on its face and it’s saying, Let’s —’

‘Uh, Uncle Li …’

Up ahead, where the lane narrowed to the width of a council-flat corridor, an enormous shape awaited them. Even for Jupes Lanes it was an exceptional sight (and people, now, had to try harder and harder to be exceptional). This alley-filling apparition was about twice Lionel’s mass, grossly bloated but also dynamic, and gasping mechanically for air. As they got nearer they saw that the young man’s face was like a pizza of acne or even eczema, and his loose damp smock was similarly encrusted and ensmeared, with a thick gout of blood or ketchup running from armpit to armpit. He held a bulky mallet with a nubbled head, and his free hand was rummaging around in the crotch of his khaki shorts.

‘… You going courting?’ asked Lionel mildly. ‘Well out the way then. Out the way then. Step back and to the side. By them dustbins … Look, we can’t get round you, mate. You too fucking fat. Jesus. Out the way then .’

The young man held his ground — and Lionel folded his arms, lowered his head, and exhaled … Now, in Desmond’s considerable experience, Uncle Li, as combat neared, had three distinct styles of mobilisation. With his peers he gathered about himself a fury of self-righteousness, with his near-peers he opened and widened his mouth and brightened his eyes in quasi-sexual avidity (this was the Marlon Welkway approach), and with everyone else he just rolled up his sleeves and got on with it. But here in Jupes Lanes he just seemed tragically bored, bored to the point of psychic pain — like one eternally diverted from all fascination, all delight … The young man said,

‘Fuck you.’

‘Okay,’ said Lionel. ‘Well relish the moment, mate. You not going to feel half this good — ever again … So you worked that one out did yuh, you thick cunt? Jesus. Uh, this DILF toff, Des, she’s taking about forty grand’s worth of togs off and she’s called me a — she called me a yoik . What’s a yoik? I mean I can tell it’s not nice. But what’s a yoik?’

Des hesitantly suggested that it was a conflation of yob and oik . Yoik.

‘You reckon? Thought it was because of me Yoi. You know. Yoi. Yoik … Des, I got a feeling I’m in over me head. On the DILFs. What with me class hatred. And them saying, Come on, you yoik, come on, slumboy … That could get well out of hand, that could. That could get well out of hand.’

Murdstone Road, Des saw, was now just a block away. ‘It’s all beyond me, Uncle Li. I can’t imagine the type.’

‘Well that’s not surprising, living round here. They no DILFs in Diston, Des.’

‘Wonder what’s in it for them … No offence meant, Uncle Li.’

‘None taken, Des. It’s a good question.’ In a speculative spirit Lionel went on, ‘People say, Toff birds fancy a bit of rough . They fancy rough blokes. And I always thought, Yeah, it’s only rough blokes say that. Don’t flatter youself. But there’s something in it. See, what they fancy’s a change .’

‘A change from their own kind?’

‘Yeah, they own kind, they own blokes, with they degrees and that. Now. They wouldn’t normally act on it. Just a uh, a fantasy. But they can act on it with Lionel Asbo.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Okay, he’s rough. But he’s famous. He’s worth a couple of bil. He’s in the public eye. He’s safe. Eh, and what you make of this? They pay for everything, Des. Consistently. It’s a uh, it’s a DILF trademark. They pay for the room and the champagne and that … She’s controlling her own little treat, see. Which is?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The joy of messing around with someone stupid.’

‘You’re not stupid, Uncle Li.’

‘Yes I fucking am.’

‘Welcome back,’ said the man at the glass door. ‘How’re you tonight, Mr Smith?’

IN THE FIRMAMENT of London hotels, the Sleeping Beauty (like the Imperial Palace in Metroland) was a brown dwarf, and not a blue giant (like the Pantheon Grand) or a spasmodic ‘flare star’ (like the South Central). But it was modern, or at least recent; and Des was somehow reassured (everyone was somehow reassured) to see all the men and women in airline uniforms, having a last few rounds of stiff drinks before proceeding by minibus to Stansted for the small-hours package flights (to the Scillies, the Balearics, the Canaries). The pilots and co-pilots in suits of martial serge, the stewardesses in orange jumpsuits, like detainees.

After checking in (and submitting a cash deposit), Lionel procured a half-pint of cider and a whole bottle of Wild Turkey. They settled at a table in the corner of the Beanstalk Bar.

‘Ever wondered, Des, how I amuse meself in Diston?’

‘Yeah. Sometimes.’

‘Well I’ve run out of grudges. None left. So when you toddle off tonight I’ll go and do a couple of NEETs. Go and do a couple of NEDs.’

NEETs were those Not in Employment, Education or Training. NEDs were Non-Educated Delinquents.

‘Nothing serious. Give them a tap or two. And then sling them in the canal. Tonight I’ll go looking for that fat cunt we seen in Jupes. Maybe that’ll put me in the mood.’

Desmond’s frown asked the question.

‘The mood to do a tart. Here. Up in me room.’ Lionel’s features now came as close as they ever did to expressing apology or self-reproach. ‘See, Des, with me sexuality being what it is — there has to be pain … This is it. This is it. Don’t know why. But there has to be pain.’ He said, ‘So the Gina relationship’s obviously ideal. For now. You know, I’m doing her in the normal way. And with every thrust,’ every frust , ‘I’m causing pain … But you can’t say I’m hurting Gina , can you. She likes it rough in the first place. But you can’t say I’m hurting Gina.’

‘… How’s Gina feel about it?’

‘Ah, with her it’s all Marlon. Gaw, them two. Talk about love — hate — they like Kilkenny cats. With they tails tied together. Gina’s spiting him, see, because Marlon’s giving her kid sister one. Little Foozaloo. Well he’s got to do something, hasn’t he. Keep his end up. How much can he take? And it won’t end there. It won’t end there. He’ll do her. He’ll mark her. He’ll have to.’