Lionel Asbo: State of England (39 page)

Time now slowed. It would in fact take him precisely 2.05 seconds to get from his bed to his destiny. But it seemed longer than that to Desmond Pepperdine.

0.10 seconds. His legs did it. With one arching bicycle kick he was out and upright on the mat. The plywood door had swelled in the heat, as if its glue had wept and oozed, and precious, priceless milliseconds were lost while he tugged on the handle and tugged again.

0.50 seconds. The kitchen door was also shut. He could clearly – and, it seemed, slowly – hear the snuffling, the rootling, the low growling, the slobbering. An entire centisecond passed by as he tried to identify the strange animal in the passage. Was it a porcupine? No. It was the cat. Between one tug and the other on the sticky handle he had time to feel the unearthly size of the quivering deep-sea wave he would now have to pass through. He stepped into it.

1.45 seconds. He threw on the light and in a voice hugely amplified by the chemicals in his brain he shouted out something – an ancient howl. He stared into the rustling, tinkering neon tubes as the deep-sea wave swept by him, and he listened to the click of canine nails on the sanded boards.

2.05 seconds. He looked down. The trestle table lay on its side, the empty basket had tumbled to a halt, four feet away, and now leaned, still swaying, against the leg of a kitchen chair. He fell on his hands and knees and scrabbled about like a beast himself.

The electric fan continued to patrol its space.

There was no blood, and no baby.

Tuesday

Kee you, kee you, kee you. Wicky wicky, wicky wicky. Zhe-zhe diddum eet. View-cha view-cha view-cha. Payee, payee. Tuseetz, tuseetz. Kee you, kee you, kee you. Wicky wicky. Wicky wicky …

The two great drapes, the two giant strips of bulging black velvet, remained tightly drawn, but you could hear, outside, the multitudinous chaos – the rasps and ricochets – of enraptured birdsong. In the expanse of the four-poster a contorted figure gasped and stretched.

‘Mao!’ it seemed to shout. ‘
Mao!
… Jesus Christ.
MAO!
’

Mal MacManaman opened the door a crack. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘Go and tell them fucking birds to shut they –
don’t shine that bleeding light in me eyes!
’

Mal’s shape withdrew for a moment, and then more vaguely reappeared. ‘You called, boss.’

‘Mal. Mal, mate. I’m dying.’

‘… Should I get Sir Anthony, boss? Put you back on the oxygen. And the dialysis.’

‘I’ll give you fucking dialysis … Oh, Mal, heal me, mate. Heal me.’

‘… What can I say, boss? All the cures are old wives’ tales. I was looking online. The Romans tried owls’ eggs. And fried canary.’

‘Fried canary?’

‘In Iceland they eat rotten shark. Keep a rotten shark on the balcony.’

‘Where’m I going to find a fucking rotten shark? See this pillow? Go on – put me out of me misery. I won’t struggle.’

‘Sorry, boss, but what you need’s a drink. You’re in withdrawal. It’s your only hope, boss. Hair of the dog.’

‘… Say that one more time and I’m sacking yer.
Hair of the dog
. Say that one more time and you sacked.’

‘Some morphine, boss.’

‘Yeah. Go on then. Just a drop. Like a pub treble … You know, Mal, I reckon she poisoned me. That sort up in Scotland – she poisoned me … No. No. Bollocks. This is Lionel Asbo, this is. This is down to Lionel Asbo. I don’t need a
doc
. I need a priest! A uh, a fucking
exorcist
is what I need … Mal. Is he coming?’

‘Yeah, boss. He’s coming.’

Wednesday

HIS FELLOW PASSENGERS saw nothing unusual about the young man on the train. He was six foot one, and of mixed race; he wore black chinos and a white shirt; he wasn’t reading, he wasn’t looking out of the window at the streaming, bending, leaning English countryside. His face was without expression. But there was apparently nothing unusual about him.

The shrunken old lady seated at his side was methodically reading the
Sun
. Gunman Nicked by Grappling Grandad. I Murdered Down’s Baby – Mum. Duane Went Berserk When Wife Cried ‘Harder, Chris!’. Dear Daphne. I had fling with banker but he lost interest. Trapped in a man’s body. Hubby’s six-year cybersex with my best pal.
Dear Daphne, I’m having an affair with an older woman. She’s a lady of some sophistication, and makes a refreshing change from the
…

Wheezing, slowing, the three-carriage train felt its way into the station called Short Crendon. A recorded voice told our young traveller to collect all his belongings and to mind the gap. He got out and walked through the suspended village.

At the house he crossed the deserted picket line, pressed the buzzer, and announced himself. He was told to wait. After three or four minutes, the tuxedoed butler and a plainclothes security man were making their way down the drive. The electrified gates opened up and let him in.

‘Mr Asbo is slightly indisposed,’ said Carmody as they passed the Bentley ‘Aurora’ and the Venganza and approached the front door. ‘May I offer you some sustenance, sir, while you wait? The other visitors are enjoying a selection of beverages and a cold collation. Mr Asbo does know you’re here.’

Three knights in armour gazed out mournfully at the round table, at the high-winged saddles of the chairs, at the steel chandelier, many-bladed, like a medieval propeller. The dining hall contained eight people, including Desmond Pepperdine.

‘I’m owed,’ ‘Threnody’ was saying. She replenished her glass of white wine. ‘I’m due. It’s only right. I’m owed.’

‘But surely this won’t affect sales,’ enthused Jack Firth-Heatherington. ‘To the contrary, I’d have thought … I suppose it’s too late to relaunch it with a different title?’

‘As it is I’ll be a laughing stock, won’t I.’ She had a slim paperback in front of her, face down. Two other volumes were on display, standing upright, as on a table in a bookstore:
My Love for Azwat
and
Reaching Out to Fernando
. By ‘Threnody’. She said, ‘Danube’ll be
pissing
herself.’

Seeking confirmation, she turned to the youngish man on her left. His colouring was Levantine: this was presumably Raoul. He removed his toothpick and said (pronouncing the
i
-sound as an
ee
),

‘
Pissing
herself.’

‘They all will. I’ll be a laughing stock. A mere figure of fun. So I’m due, Jack. Come on. I’m owed.’

‘Threnody’, Raoul, Jack Firth-Heatherington – and who else?

Lord Barcleigh (the famous face, the famous girth) sat in an armchair with a tray on his lap. Facing him was another learned-looking gentleman, in an open shirt (with white cravat). They talked in regretful whispers. Sebastian Drinker, with solemn nods, was writing on a yellow pad.

At the other end of the room, in profile with folded arms, stood a woman in a white veil. She was looking out through the far window.

‘I’m owed. I’m due.’

Time passed.

‘I’m due.’

‘… Mr Asbo will see you now, sir.’

Carmody gracefully gave way to Mal MacManaman, who was waiting in the hall.

‘Desmond,’ he said, and offered his hand.

At a meditative pace he started up the stairs.

‘Your uncle,’ he said, ‘your uncle had a bad reaction to the death of his mother. Up in Scotland there. Funny, isn’t it? He didn’t seem that attached, I thought. But with these things you never know. Anyway, he went and did himself a bit of an injury. To his brain. That’s what they reckon. And then there’s all this other trouble. I wonder if you’ll find him changed. Here.’ He reached out and dimmed the light. ‘Go on in. You’re expected.’

The room was the colour of beetroot, thickly dark but with a shade of mauve in it.

‘Wait. Wait till you eyes adapt …’

Des could see a slowly glowing throb in the middle distance. It made his body remember the lighthouse on the northern shore; it made his body remember the sound of his daughter’s heart.

‘See anything yet? Come on, Des. Come and sit by here.’

He felt his way past heavy furnishings, then crossed a spongy expanse of rugs or hides. In the manner of an usherette in an ancient picture house, Lionel used his cigar to illuminate the bedside chair.

‘… I can’t eat. Can’t drink. Christ, I can’t even
smoke
. Tastes horrible. But it’s something to do. I can cough. I can retch. I can
scratch
. There’s a word for it, Des. Hang on.
Formication
. You feel you flesh is covered in ants.’ He took a long drag, and the coal swelled and grinned like an evil eye.

‘Who let the dogs in?’

‘Oh. First things first, is it.’ Lionel tried and failed to shoulder himself higher on the pillows. He sank back. ‘
Un
.’ In a tranced voice, with a long lull at every period, he said, ‘I was under the doctors in Scotland. Little bit the worse for wear, Des. On the Monday I come back and shut meself up in here. I could’ve made a phone call. But I didn’t. Decided to wait for Tuesday and me
Diston Gazette
. Superstitious if you like. I went through it with a pencil torch to spare me eyes. And it was just the usual stuff. Knifings and that. Blindings. No report, no report of the uh, the very sad tragedy at Avalon Tower. And you won’t believe this, Des, but you know what I thought? I thought, I thought, Maybe I’ll live.’

‘Who let the dogs in?’

‘All right,’ said Lionel, and raised a palm. ‘Some might say I uh, overreacted. Went a bit over the top. Pass us that tin, Des. And don’t come it all innocent with me.’

The gold Zippo flared but cast no light.

‘So, Des, satisfy me curiosity. Uh, what went wrong?’

He was like a dog himself – down on all fours, the whirring limbs, the famished whimpers. He was under the table, under the couch, behind the basket, beyond the chair. There was no blood, no blood, and no baby. There was no baby
.

With jagged effort and difficulty he got himself upright. He strode towards the balcony, he closed and locked the sliding door. The dogs were swiftly circling. And wait. He would now have to rip Jak apart, rip Jek apart – his hands in the wet jaws, forcing, splitting. He turned to face the unfathomable room
.

Then his eyes settled on the burnished cube of the tank. The lid was down. Yesterday the lid was up – and now the lid was down. He went to the thing and threw it wide …

Cilla lay on the half-filled rubbish bag, in her nappy, her chest rising and falling … He pictured it (and again heard it): Jek’s first bound, Jak’s first bound, the toppled table, the twirling girl, and the tank snapping shut
.

He kissed her eyes until they opened. They opened, and her eyes beamed up at him
.

* * *

‘Well well. Huh. So it come in useful, did it. In the end.’

Des stood. He took a few steps forward, a few steps back. He sat, he stood, he sat.

‘Easy, Des. Easy, son. Gaa, hear them birds? … Okay. Cape Wrath. You know, Des, when I woke up Saturday morning. I wasn’t in that suite. No. Just in a normal room. And it looked like about
thirty blokes
’d got pissed in there the night before. Bottles everywhere. All empty. And me poor old DILF. Dear oh dear. With two black eyes and lying in her own dinner. And Jesus Christ, Des, the state of you Uncle Li you wouldn’t fucking believe. And I’m standing there. I’m standing there thinking about you kitchen floor. And I did
not
feel too clever. I did
not
feel too clever.’

‘Who let the dogs in?’

‘Not
in
,’ he said, and swiped a raised finger. ‘You don’t let them
in
. You open the door a crack and the dogs do it theyselves. Acting on they own initiative. Not
in
.’

‘Who?’

‘I was elsewhere, you honour. Up in Scotland with me DILF.’

‘Who? Who?’

‘Marlon,’ said Lionel in momentary defeat. ‘The Floater. But that’s a uh, a technicality.
Think
, Des. Did Marlon let the dogs in? Did
I
let the dogs in? No.
You
let the dogs in. You let the dogs in … You fucked my mum. And you me
nephew
.’

‘And? And?’

‘Well. We’ll have to see, won’t we. The fact remains. Des, the fact remains. You can’t go round giving you uncle’s mum one. Giving you own gran one. No.’