‘The Lottery? Course I don’t. Think I’m stupid? And what about it?’
‘What about it?’
Lionel barely remembered; he had only filched the coupon to give a certain old lag a niggle (and it was all a load of bollocks anyway). He stood there with his hands in his pockets. Governor Wolf — who had long ago stopped trying to make Lionel call him sir — said again,
‘What about it?’
Sighing, Lionel said, ‘Okay. You got me up here because I won fifteen quid. It’s a mug’s game, the Lottery. If you ask me.’
Governor Wolf threw his pencil on to the desk and said, ‘Well. I suppose this proves that God’s got a sense of humour.’
Lionel grew alert.
‘It’s more than fifteen pounds, Asbo. It’s a substantial sum.’
Like a soldier Lionel went from the at-ease posture to full attention.
‘How substantial? Sir!’
Owing to an earlier infraction, Lionel was confined to his cell. But the next morning Pete New was carted off to the san for an hour of physiotherapy, and when he came back he said,
‘You’re on the front page of the Sun.’
A recumbent Lionel was examining his fingernails. He said, ‘Headline?’
‘Lionel Asbo, Lotto Lout.’
‘Photo?’
‘You outside the Bailey. Being led away and giving the finger.’
Lionel merely shrugged, and New ventured to say,
‘Wasn’t there a box you could tick, Lionel? You should’ve ticked it. Confidential or whatever. Now you’ll never get a moment’s peace.’
‘I’m not bothered. By the publicity. I can handle it … You know, Pete, the funny thing is, I never done the Lottery in all me life! Fucking mug’s game, if you ask me.’
That afternoon Lionel received an official visitor: Dallen Mahon, the lawyer assigned to him by Legal Aid. They sat at a square table in the commissary, Dallen with her briefcase and her mineral water, Lionel, in his navy overalls, drinking coffee and eating Toblerone.
‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘Pay off the civil suit, and they’ll prosecute you on a lesser charge. Say Drunk and Disorderly. A fine and a caution. And you walk.’
‘What, I pay all of it?’
‘Well no one else has got any money, have they. Mr Drago’s willing to make a modest contribution. I mean Gina’s still inside. Not to mention’ — she took out her notebook — ‘Dejan, Namru, Oreste, and Vassallo. And all the uncles and cousins.’
Lionel’s face assumed a fond expression. Gina, after it went off at the Imperial Palace, had certainly caught the eye. With a chair leg in one hand and half a violin in the other. ‘She’s a spirited girl, that Gina … Listen. I’m prepared to pay me share. I worked it out. Eight thousand. And that’s it.’
‘Lionel. You’re a millionaire a hundred and forty times over.’
‘Yeah, but seven hundred k!’
‘Nine hundred. Lost custom.’
‘Jesus Christ. Some people …’
‘Lionel, your financial situation has changed. Has this sunk in?’
‘Wait. If I stump up, does Marlon walk?’
‘Marlon walks. And so do … and so do Charlton, Rod, Yul, Burt, Troy, and Rock.’
‘Well I’m not having that, am I. It was Marlon started it. And now he walks? On my hard-earned … Marlon poncing off my success? Enjoy you daydream, Dallen.’
‘You all walk. John, Paul, George, and Stuart. Sleep on it. In your cell.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘And tomorrow morning, when you and your colleague are mucking out,’ she said, ‘you might have second thoughts.’
‘I might. Now where’s this uh, adviser?’
Dallen made a come-nearer gesture to the guard, who went off and shortly returned with a suntanned forty-year-old in a pinstripe suit.
‘Lionel Asbo? Jack Firth-Heatherington.’
‘Excuse us, would you, Dallen? We going to have a little chat. About cash streams. And uh, me portfolio.’
Des was in the kitchen, with Jon on his lap. Dawn sat opposite, with Joel on her lap. That day’s Sun lay between them, open at pages four and five: a bullet-point retrospective of the whole career, with more photographs, including two mugshots (full face and profile) of Lionel at the age of three. Dawn said,
‘Ring rang. Again. He’s all on pins. He said, How much d’you reckon he’ll be giving away? How much should I ask for?’
‘Ask for? Ask Lionel for? Ringo’s off his nut. You never ask Uncle Li for money. He’s been that way since he was a nipper. You ask him for money and he’ll smash your face in.’
‘… Ooh, Mean Mr Mustard. And you say you love him. He’s a truly dreadful person. And you love him.’
‘Dawn, he’s worse than you know. But I can’t help it. It’s like you and Horace. He’s a truly dreadful person too — and you love him. You can’t help it either.’
‘Yeah, and I wish I could. Help it.’
‘Look on the bright side. No more of those bleeding dinners up Jorliss.’
Horace Sheringham?
It’s nothing personal, Desmond, he would typically begin as he settled down to his bowl of Heinz tomato soup (to be followed, invariably, by Bird’s Eye fish fingers), but you see, you and Dawn have different brains.
Oh come on Dad, groaned his daughter.
Please love, don’t start, groaned his wife.
Different how, Mr Sheringham?
And Horace, who was an unemployed traffic warden (in Diston — where traffic wardens were in any case unknown), would patiently proceed. Well. Your brain’s smaller and a different shape. Whilst hers is normal, yours is closer to a primate’s. Nothing personal, lad … Oh, I see. I can’t even state a scientific fact. In my own home.
Horace’s home was a low-ceilinged flatlet above an electrics shop on Jorliss Parkway. After a few months of this Des started saying,
What about your brain, Mr Sheringham? Is yours bigger than mine too?
Course it is. Stands to reason. It’s why you’ve got such a childish face.
Horace’s face was dark red, and twisted and seized, a crustacean face (with nose and chin shaped like a claw), and tiny black eyes.
You see, Dawn, he’s different from you and I.
You and me, said Des.
Pardon?
You and me. You wouldn’t say, He’s different from I, would you?
Of course not. But you and me’s rude.
It’s not rude. It’s right. How’s your French, Mr Sheringham?
My French?
Oui. Ton français, c’est bien? How’s your Italian? Puedes hablar español?
Whatever is he going on about? No more of your mumbo-jumbo, Desmond my lad … Well then. Thank you. Thank you very much indeed. There’s my dinner ruined.
So after the business in Metroland, it was all very simple. Des was not a witness to that climactic scene — Horace scrawnily gasping and coughing and falling over as he bundled great armfuls of Dawn’s clothes and books out of the first-floor window, Prunella Sheringham weeping on her knees …
Off! I’m disowning you, my girl. Go and live with your darkie. In jail! That’s where you both belong. Go on. Off with you. Out!