Lionel Asbo: State of England (12 page)

‘Des? What was that fight they had? That garage meet.’

‘Well hang on. It’ll sound a bit … See, Uncle Li reckoned Marlon finked on him. Got him jugged – to put him out of the frame with Gina. But why would he? Gina only went with Uncle Li to make Marlon jealous. Nah. He just cooked that up, Uncle Li. To soothe his own pride.’

‘His pride? This is over my head, this is. This is Criminology.’

‘To soothe his own pride. And to give him someone to hurt when he got out. So they had the garage meet. Bare-knuckle. Stripped to the waist. With a paying audience.’ It must have been like the Lady Godiva – but all-male. ‘Lasted an hour.’

‘Who won?’

‘Uncle Li. On a technicality. He was in hospital for a week. But Marlon was in hospital for a month. I heard they were still going at it in the ambulance.’

‘Bit stupid, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But now it’s all patched up.’

‘Supposedly. Daggers drawn, but they buried the hatchet.’

‘Smoked the pipe of peace.’

‘They had a rendezvous. All very stiff to start with. Then they shook on it. Then they hugged. All weepy. And the next thing you know – Uncle Li’s agreed to be best man!’

Dawn said, ‘Then why’re you so worried about it all?’

‘I’m not!’ he said, and kissed her. ‘It’s just that … Burying the hatchet – I can’t see him doing that, Uncle Li. That’s not his way.’

‘Look outside. Oh Des,’ she said, and kissed him back. ‘Des, imagine
we
were getting married today.’

‘Yeah. Imagine. And jetting off to Malta for our honeymoon.’

‘… You know those candles Mum gave us? I’ll make a cottage pie when we get back. Let’s have dinner by candlelight. And let’s go mad and get a little packet of
vin de table
.’

Three pound ninety-five! he thought.

With a stern look she kissed him again, on the lips, the cheeks, the brow, the eyes … ‘Tonight,’ she said. ‘Tonight. I’m ready. I’m ready, Desmond my love.’

His head lolled on to her shoulder, and he gasped and smiled and closed his eyes.

‘Yeah, that’s it, darling. Have a little drowse. That’s it. Lie down. There. On my lap. There you are. There.’

He closed his eyes and was immediately encircled by the familiar moods and memories that came to him whenever he neared sleep – the time he touched tongues after Sunday school with the girl in the white beret, the time Cilla cut her hand on the prised lid of the tin of soup (her fingers under the cold tap with their gaping mouths of red and white), the time he stole that fiver from Uncle George and made himself sick on sherbet lemons, the ruby wine and his fairy grandmother in her pink babydoll, the sticky sweets and sticky drinks, and the lord of his world of half-dreams, a hooded shape (always one size bigger than expected, broader, deeper), and the panting dogs …

‘Come on. Come on, Des. End of the line!’

‘We here?’ He sat up straight and rubbed his eyes with both sets of knuckles.

‘Who made the first move?’ Dawn was asking as she rummaged in her straw bag. ‘Did Lionel reach out to Marlon? Or the other way around?’

‘Uh, back channel.’ He got to his feet and straightened his tie. ‘Ringo. Uncle Ring. And Troy. Troy Welkway. They brokered it.’

‘But you said Ringo hates Marlon.’

‘Yeah. He does. And Troy hates him too.’

‘… Ooh, Des, will it be all right?

‘Course it will. It’s a wedding party. Uncle Li’s been working on his speech. The best man’s speech. You know. The eulogy.’

3

IT WAS EASY to find – the Imperial Palace, a broad low-rise hotel set back from the road beyond a strip of lawn and a crammed car park. Doormen dressed like town criers were guiding the guests through the foyer, past the Beefeater Bar, and into an L-shaped anteroom where you could already hear a wall of sound, like the clamour of a schoolyard but on a lowered register – the contraltos of the women, the baritones of the men, in festive concord. Springtime, amatory union, massed revelry … With due allowance made for the imperfections of all those present, this wall of sound was a wall of love.

Dawn at once hurried off to the ladies’ room, and Des was at once confronted by a cream-jacketed waiter with a silver tray: prosecco! The bubbles sizzled in his nose and romped and swarmed round his brain and after a second sip he was already feeling tremendously happy and proud. Dawn joined him, and together they advanced through the tall doorway.

Now, Des had never been in a hotel before, and he was a little overawed, perhaps, by the way the place seemed to set itself the task of pampering his senses – the smiling, dipping waiters, the limitless refreshments, the soft music, the padded chairs in lines against the walls, the thick rayon drapes, the twinkling plastic chandeliers, the fitted nylon carpet (orange, with attractive sprinklings of yellow), and the brilliant company, all around, in their Whitsun best.

‘They’re not so bad, Dawnie,’ he said, reaching for a second glass. ‘They’re all right, I reckon. They’ll do. Look at them.’

Of the ninety-odd souls gathered in that lofty ballroom, the most august, probably, was Brian ‘Skanker’ Fitzwilliam (Uncle John’s father-in-law), his compact head adorned by a scythe of snow-white hair, together with his lady wife, Minnie, spryly wielding her black crutches. Next in seniority was Jayden ‘One Mile’ Drago, father of the bride, in all his immovable girth, together with his current partner, Britt, half his age, with her miniskirt, her freckled poitrine. Then, too, there was Dennis ‘Mumper’ Welkway, and Mrs Mercy Welkway (née Pepperdine), and her younger sister Grace, with her walking-frame and her hairnet and her …

‘You look lovely, dear. Lovely. Doesn’t she, Des.’

‘Yeah, she does. Eh, what’s that, Gran? Orange juice?’

‘No. Buck’s Fizz!’

‘Prosecco, me! Gaw, all this. Must be costing a –’

‘Oops,’ said Gran, turning away. ‘Here comes summer. And I can tell. He’s got that look in his eye.’

Lionel Asbo moved smoothly through the crush, patting a back here, giving a wrist-clasp there, embracing Uncle John, Uncle Paul, Uncle George, Uncle Ringo, and Uncle Stuart, slapping hands with Marlon’s brothers, Charlton, Rod, Yul, Burt, Troy, and Rock, bowing in solemn introduction to Gina’s innumerable siblings (bowing to Dejan, to Shakira, to Namru, to Aaliyah, to Vassallo, to Yasmine, to Oreste, to little Foozaloo) … And Des thought: Could it be possible? Could it be possible that Lionel Asbo, the great asocial, was in certain settings a social being?

Dawn said, ‘And over there, Des. Ooh. There’s posh.’

A waistcoated string quartet, up on the stage, rose as one and began playing the theme of
The Godfather
. Yes, there would be dancing, after the formalities, and then a great array of traditional Maltese dishes, artichoke hearts, beans with parsley, vegetable medleys, ricotta pie, nougat. But for now the fingerfood was reassuringly English – honest tavern fare – and Des said,

‘You’d better eat your fill now, Dawnie. You won’t be wanting that foreign muck. Horace wouldn’t like it. Here. Have a nice ham bap.’

‘Oh,
get
off … What are you smiling at?’

‘I’m just thinking. I’m thinking about tonight.’

‘Mm. So am I.’

They kissed.

‘Oy!’

And here he was (in his one good suit, his white shirt, his cord-thin blue tie), scrubbed and shaven, with a stubborn tin of Cobra in his meaty hand.

‘Lionel, can I ask you something?’

‘Course you can, girl,’ he said, leaning over the table. He speared a rollmop and reached out, with impatient fingers, for two bite-sized pork pies.

‘Why’s Mr Drago called “One Mile”?’

Crunching his way through a mouthful of pickled onions, Lionel explained. Jayden Drago’s cars were very cheap; but ‘One Mile’ was as far as anyone ever got in them before they broke down.

‘Sorry – but how’s he stay in business?’

‘Ah you see, Dawn, one mile’s a uh, an exaggeration. It’s more like five miles. Or even ten,’ he said through the gingery crumbs of a Scotch egg. ‘I bought one off him once. It’s worth it if you going all the way across town. Same as a cab.’

‘Your speech, Uncle Li. You were going to dictate it to me. But you never.’

His head tipped back, Lionel negotiated a ziggurat of salt-and-vinegar crisps, dusted his palms, and gave his brow a sharp knock with his knuckle. ‘It’s all up here, son. It’s all up here … Beautiful ceremony this morning. No, it was,’ he went on, looking lost and wistful. ‘The little bridesmaids with they bouquets. The stained glass … Gina. Gina, she took me aside in the garden. All in white, with them little white ribbons in her hair. And she said,
Lionel? Thank you, Lionel
, she said,
thank you for helping to make this the most perfect day of me life
. And her smile was like a little ray of sunshine. I tell you, it warmed me heart. It warmed my heart.’

The string quartet withdrew. After a skirling volley of whoops and yells, and then a gurgling hush, the groom, the bride, and the best man approached and mounted the low stage. Lionel and Marlon embraced; Lionel and Gina embraced, and, as she too lingeringly stepped back and to the side, he kissed her hand (a nice touch).

And Lionel Asbo began.

‘Can you all hear me, my friends?’ A mutter of assent. ‘… Marl and me? What can I tell you. We been best mates’, he said scathingly (as if settling the hash of anyone who claimed otherwise), ‘since we was
babies
.’ The womenfolk led a soft chuckle. ‘Sometimes, for a hoot, our mums’d take it in turns to feed us both at once. Didn’t you, Grace. Didn’t you, Auntie Mercy.
That’s
how close we were, me and Marl – he was the bloke on the next tit along.’ More maternal mirth. ‘So the months passed. Then, when we stopped brawling over the next bottle of formula, well, we started putting ourselves about like normal little boys. All right. We was so-and-sos. There’s no other word for it. We were right so-and-sos. Scallywags, if you like.’

And Des thought, He’s found a style, Uncle Li. There’ll be some rough edges, but he’s found a style. Dawn was watching with her arms intently crossed.

‘Bunking off day care and sneaking into X-films through the fire escapes.’ Male laughter. ‘Ringing all the neighbours’ doorbells and giving them the finger. Aged two.’ Female laughter. ‘And, when we was taller, pissing through they letterboxes.’ General laughter. ‘We had a specialty, me and Marl. It started one Bonfire Night, when we was three, but soon we were doing it all year round. What you looked out for was a big heap of wet dogshit near a nice smart car. You’d ease a fat cherry bomb in under the slime, light the fuse, then nip round the corner.’ Affectionate tut-tutting. ‘Bang! You come back, and it’s all over the paintwork. Every inch. Beautiful. Not so popular with the uh, the passers-by.’ More affectionate tut-tutting.

‘Nicking trikes, then bikes, then mopeds, then scooters. This is how you grow. Then proper motors, then vans, then lorries. We had the odd scrap, I don’t mind telling you, about whose turn it was to steer. See, we was only six or seven when we started.’ A deep hum of admiration. ‘So one of us did the pedals and the other sat on his chest and did the wheel. If you were on top you’d go
brake
or
power
. And if you was underneath, and it was a pantechnicon, and Marl was all
power power power power power
, well, you just closed you eyes and hoped for the best.’

He had them. File upon file of beaming moist-eyed faces. When this bit’s over, thought Des, I’ll ask Granny Grace for a dance. Just a gentle shuffle on the edge of the floor, if she’s game.

‘Then comes uh, adolescence. Shoplifting, credit cards, mug jobs, smash and grab. At school – suspension, expulsion, PRU offroll. Youth Court, Youth Custody, and the odd spot of Yoi. Then came maturity. Which in my case meant prison.’ Some muffled snorts, a single guffaw. ‘Marl was craftier, and quicker on his toes. I was more headstrong. I wouldn’t learn. For me, for me that’s a point of principle.
Never learn
.

‘So. We had our careers to make. I was drawn to
reset
– you know, selling on – and to debt work. Marlon here was a natural thruster. B and E. Otherwise known as burgling. And ooh was he useful. It’s why he’s called
the Floater
. Marl, he could ransack a barracks in broad daylight and no one’d turn a hair. What a talent. What a gift. So him with his thrusting, and me with me reset. Plus, you know, there was always uh, a bit of this, that, and the other.

‘Okay. Okay. What we was doing was not in uh, strict accordance with the law. But we make no apologies, Marl and me.’ An intensely interested quiescence. ‘For why? Because the law’s there to protect the
rich man’s shilling
.’ A hot murmur of agreement. ‘And no bloke worth the name’s going to bend over for
that
.’ Prolonged and stormy applause.

Which Lionel now quelled, with raised palms and lowered head. ‘And all the way along, of course, there was skirt. Birds, birds, birds. And Jesus, with Rhett Butler here, tall, dark and handsome with his lovely scar, it was like he’d entered the Olympics. Which event? The Legover!’ Reluctant amusement. ‘Like how many can he do in one day. Or one hour. His bedroom – he fit it with a revolving door!’ Unreluctant amusement. ‘As for me, with my ugly mug, I just held his coat and warmed his dunkers.’ Quiet male laughter. ‘Sorry, ladies. I mean his johnnies – his uh, family planning.’ Quiet female laughter. ‘Well, I wasn’t that bothered. But him? With the minge? He was styling his hair with it. That’s the Floater. That’s Marlon Welkway.’