Lionel Asbo: State of England (28 page)

Talking over issues

Seeing eye to eye

Learning how to compromise

As the years go by

Trifling disagreements

We hereby cast aside

For you will be mine husband

And I will be thy bride …

‘She said Lionel cracked up when he read her poem.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘No, Dawn. Listen.
Poor Lionel couldn’t finish it. He was crying that hard
.’

‘… It gives you a funny feeling, all this, doesn’t it.’

‘Yeah, it does. What was all that squabbling in aid of? Her getting pissed and them yelling in the street. To make them look human?’

‘To make them look English, you mean. No, I reckon it’s just indiscipline.’

‘The strain.’

‘The strain.’

They were out on Steep Slope: Sunday morning – and early Sunday morning (7 a.m.), before Diston stirred and rose. Dusty chestnuts, cloth-capped flowers, bent beer cans: the natural surroundings. Only the smell of liquid waste maintained the power to astonish – the way it maddened the gums.

‘Wait,’ he said.

Their pace slowed as they approached the little memorial to Dashiel Young. Dashiel, the Jamaican teenager beaten to death by six grown men on Steep Slope – six years ago. A lozenge of grey stone, indented, flush with the ground, and the etched words:
Always Remembered. Dashiel Young, 1991–2006
. Des bowed his head. He always remembered. Grief is the price we pay for … They moved on.

‘Lionel and “Threnody”. There’s something infinite in it,’ said Dawn, peacefully and mysteriously (as always, now).

‘Infinitely what?’

‘Poor. Imagine pretending to be in love.’

‘Mm. Imagine.’

11

IT WAS ON the last Saturday of Dawn’s fifth month that Lionel paid his first visit.

‘He said he might look in sometime. That’s all. You know Uncle Li. Predictably unpredictable. Always was.’

‘… That’s a useless bloody phrase, that is. Predictably unpredictable. I mean, how far’s it get you? Where’s the predictable bit come in? Lionel’s not predictably unpredictable. He’s unpredictably unpredictable.’

‘Yeah. He’s just unpredictable.’

Predictable
and its opposite were becoming similarly meaningless in the half-dark of the kitchen. One of those pleasant, deep-voiced, lethargic dusks when no one turns the lights on. Why aren’t the lights on? Who hasn’t turned the lights on? You haven’t. I haven’t … They were wondering aloud about what to have for dinner, and such talk, at Avalon Tower (after the year of cereal, the year of baked beans on toast, the year of pasta and pesto), was a sign of high living. He said,

‘I just mean he may surprise us. By not being surprising.’

‘Oh pack it in, Des. I’m going mad.’

‘… How about a Cornish pasty?’ This suggestion was teasingly made. ‘Or a Cheltenham lamb pasanda.’

‘Good idea. Or Cumberland sausages and mash.’

‘Or a Melton Mowbray pork pie.’

Although Des still sometimes gorged himself on (for example) anchovies and chocolate fudge, it was Dawn’s palate that was in the ascendant at Avalon Tower. And Des bowed to the genetic suzerainty of Horace Sheringham. Always rather limited in her tastes, Dawn now wanted everything she ate to be tamely and blandly
English
.

‘I know what you’d really like for your dinner. Scones. With Cow and Gate Farmer’s Wife Double Devon Cream.’

Then they heard the rattle, the double-thunk, the creak, and the percussive wheeze of the slammed front door.

Des stood up and reached to his left, and the neon strips came on with a flustered whinny. ‘In here, Uncle Li!’

‘… Yeah, well where else?’ said Lionel, whose bouldery shape now filled the doorway. Intent, unsmiling, the mink coat worn capelike over the deep-blue suit with its churchy glisten. In one tensed fist he was holding a soft leather valise, and in the other a wicker hamper, which he now swung up on to the table. ‘Got me beer?’

‘On its way, Uncle Li. Just in the tin?’

The valise was dropped, the coat shrugged off. Lionel took a chair and swivelled it, facing out over the colourless evening. He settled himself with his Cobra and his Marlboro Hundred. His long back was sloped and still, but the tips of his shoulders now and then lightly shuddered. Many minutes passed.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said without turning. ‘Ah, that’s better. Here, Dawn. What’s the uh, what’s the basis of domestic bliss? I’ll tell yuh.
Respect
,’ he said pitilessly. Up came a squat forefinger. ‘And empathy. Empathy. “Threnody” reckons …’

After a while Dawn said, ‘Have you eaten, Lionel?’

‘Nah, I’m off out, me.’ He stood and started loosening his tie. ‘See that? That’s the Hamper Supreme. Fortnum’s. Eat you fill.’

They could hear him in the bathroom, copiously urinating; then a bedraggled yawn; then the passage floorboards were wincing to his tread.

‘… Maison de la Truffe Olive Oil with Black Truffles,’ said Des.

‘Jabugo Iberico Ham with Stuffed Andalucian Gherkins.’

‘Spiced Nut and Satay Bean Mix. With Salsa Baguettes.’

‘Lime and Pomeranian Coriander Dressing. With Epicure Croutons.’

‘Stoneground Mustard with Elephant Garlic!’

Very soon Lionel reappeared. He hovered there for a moment, baseball-capped, tracksuited, trainered, with his laces loosened … And you realised something. Lionel Asbo was by now a national presence, and instantaneously recognisable – but only when defined by a plutocratic setting. Behind the wheel of the ‘Aurora’, for instance, (or abseiling earthward from the cockpit of his Venganza) or on the arm of ‘Threnody’ at some ball or gala, or simply patrolling the lawns of ‘Wormwood Scrubs’. Casually dressed in Diston, Lionel would reattain generic anonymity: he would be an invisible man.

‘Here, Dawn,’ he said again. ‘How far gone are you?’

She told him.

‘Go ahead then. Show us you gut.’

Dawn’s chair juddered slowly backward and she got to her feet. She turned.

‘… You wouldn’t believe this, Des. But I seen it online. There’s blokes who
like
girls when they pregnant. Funny old world … Enjoy you meal. And you
Big Match
.’

They were busying themselves with the jars and pots and punnets.

‘Have some of this. See, he’s nervous, Dawnie. If it’s true what they say about him and her. He’s nervous about starting a family. Don’t take it to heart.’

‘Why would I? He’s touched, isn’t he. He can’t help it … Imagine empathising with “Threnody”. Do anyone’s head in.’

‘Exactly. Here, have a drop of uh, Rich and Sustaining Merlot.’

‘That’d go straight through Baby, that would. All of it. As if Baby had ordered a whole glass of red wine. It’s the same size
he
is!’

‘
She
is. A thimbleful. Go on … You know, I reckon he just fancies a night out in the old neighbourhood. He won’t do us any harm.’

‘I should bloody well hope not. Here, look at this. Choice of cheddars. Which? Strong and Sharp,’ she said, ‘or Family Mild?’

‘Strong and Sharp.’

‘No, Des. Family Mild.’

… Lionel returned in the small hours – the rattle and double-thunk, the thrown-on light, the Neolithic trudge down the passage, the pole of water drilling into the stressed tin of the sink. Not that it mattered – because Dawn and Des were wide awake anyway. They lay sighing together in the dark, giving off a swampy glow. Their stomachs conversed in a sawing Q and A, like two nests of cicadas.

‘That’s all you needed. A lovely lie-in.’

‘It wasn’t a lovely lie-in, Dawnie. I just couldn’t get out of bed.’

‘Well you’re up and about now.’

‘At the ninth attempt. How come
you’re
suddenly okay?’

‘Because I only had a sip. You had going on for half a bottle!’

‘Gaa, well I’m paying for it now. It was the food too. Any sign of …?’

Lionel emerged at four in the afternoon. His dramatic pallor was perhaps enhanced by his black satin dressing gown and also by the bright blotches on either cheek, where the flesh looked scuffed or abraded. Not hungover (Des thought): Lionel was never hungover. But he could tell that his uncle ached.

‘D’you want a cup of something, Lionel? … You usually like a tea.’

‘… Go on then. You never know. Might have some effect.’ Glazed with a kind of comfortable vacuity, Lionel’s eyes patrolled the room. His face cleared and then immediately twisted away in helpless detestation. ‘Look at that.
Shut
.’

Des said, ‘Yeah it’s jammed again.’

‘
Shut
…’ With an unsteady hand he reached out towards it. And the tank, in what seemed to be coy anticipation, yawned open.

The three of them reared back.

After a moment Lionel said, ‘What happens when you wedge it?’

‘It
hates
it if you wedge it,’ said Dawn. ‘It bites down on it and then it won’t move either way. For a month. It hates a wedge.’

‘It’s no good to you when it’s always open, either, is it,’ said Des.

‘The rubbish,’ said Dawn. ‘After a bit you can smell it.’

‘You want something you can open and shut. And when it’s open you can’t shut it.’

‘And when it’s shut you can’t open it.’

Lionel considered all this. ‘So what d’you do with it?’

‘We sit on it,’ said Dawn. ‘When it’s shut.’

Their stares returned to the tank’s black gape. Which now with a soft hiss of compressed air snapped to.

The three of them jolted in their chairs.

Lionel said, ‘It’s fucking
haunted
, that is. Like the lift.’ Minutes passed. ‘Here, Des. When they write about you in the papers, Des. When they write about you in the papers … I don’t know. They up you arse,’ said Lionel, ‘because you black.’

He showered and changed, and called from the passage for Des to come and see him out.

The day had begun freshly, with a light scattering of cloudlets floating low enough to cast their individual shadows. But promise and colour were siphoning themselves from the sky, and a hard wind blew. Beginning his first smoke of the day (a substantial cigar), Lionel said,

‘I had a call from Dr fucking No in Cape Wrath. What’s his name? The deep-eye.’

‘Endo. Jake Endo.’

‘Here. When you go up there.’ Lionel frowned and his mouth widened. ‘Does she know you you?’

‘Know I’m me? Hard to tell. She remembers the old times. Her schooldays.’

‘Well they didn’t last long. She make any sense?’

‘Yeah, now and then. Talks about Dominic. And Lars.’ Lars: father of Uncle John. ‘Dom and Lars.’ With reluctance Des went on, ‘She uh, she talks a bit salty. Sex stuff.’

‘That’s what Dr No was telling me. The life force. Fucking disgusting.’

Lionel enfolded himself in his fur. Now a silver Mercedes approached and came to a halt, keeping its distance, ticking over.

‘The doc. He reckons her memory’s coming back. Can’t remember if she had her fucking pills five minutes ago. Can remember the past. It’s coming back. In chronological order! Think. She’ll do the six dads. Then, who was it, Kevin. And bleeding Toby. Then she’ll do Rory! That’s all we need.’

He tugged on the warped door of the Ford Transit. Respectfully trailed by the Mercedes-Benz, Lionel pulled away – a white-van man in a black mink coat.

And so the pattern formed and settled. The businesslike entrances, on a Friday night, a Saturday night, sometimes a Wednesday night; the brief greeting and the submission of the house present (the house presents became increasingly bizarre); Lionel changed, went out, returned in the smoky gunmetal hour (waking both of them up), rose at teatime with his face grazed and chafed, drank some tea as he sneered at the tank and the newspapers, sighed, stood, torrentially showered …

Soon he started bringing one or the other of his dogs with him – now Jek, now Jak. The first time it happened (this was Jek – piebald, with his four-inch tail anxiously tucked between his thick back legs) there was a lot of clacking around till Lionel located the litter tray, which he filled from the bag he brought with him in his calf valise, and then laid out the dog’s evening meal: what looked like a hunk of filet mignon clumsily stuffed with peppers of a bilious, glistening light green. The pitbull, with indifferent appetite, dined on the Avalon balcony.

‘Give him a drop of water, Des – after he’s done. Just a cupful, mind,’ said Lionel as he took his leave.