‘Plain as day,’ said John.
‘Open-and-shut,’ said Paul.
‘Common sense,’ said George.
‘No-brainer,’ said Ringo.
Stuart, on this occasion, was silent; but then Stuart (the seedy registrar) hardly ever said anything anyway.
‘That one’ll do,’ said Lionel, pointing to the filet mignon.
And did these young men — evenly spaced round the glistening ellipse of the white tabletop — did they resemble a band of brothers? No. They shared a mother, true, but Grace Pepperdine’s genetic footprint was vanishingly light, and the boys were all duplicates of their fathers. So John, twenty-nine, looked Nordic, Paul, twenty-eight, looked Hispanic, George, twenty-seven, looked Belgic (or Afrikaans), and Ringo, also twenty-seven, looked East Asiatic; only Stuart, twenty-six, and of course Lionel, looked English (though Stuart was in fact half-Silesian). John, Paul, George, and Ringo, at any rate, wore the same threadbare zootsuits and had the same hairstyle — slashbacks, with long sideburns that tapered to a point.
‘How would you like that cooked, sir?’
‘Cooked?’ said Lionel. ‘Just take its horns off, wipe its arse, and sling it on the plate. And bring all you jams and pickles and mustards … Us against the world, eh, lads?’
It did not escape Lionel’s notice that when he went out for his tri-hourly smokes he always returned to five strained faces and a sudden, stoppered hush. And he knew all about their difficulties, John, Paul, and George with their bad debts and cramped flats (their shattered wives, their rioting toddlers), Ringo with his decade on the dole, and Stuart (who alone could probably look forward to some kind of pension) sharing a bedsit with a bus conductor in SE24. Now Lionel invited the company to raise their glasses. He thought that everything was coming along quite nicely.
‘Why did the upper-class cunt cross the road?’ he resumed.
‘Go on then.’
The brothers had had, between them, forty-eight gin and tonics.
‘Lionel.’
‘Ring, mate.’
Ringo coughed. He wiped a hand across his mouth and lowered his head.
‘… I spent twelve grand today,’ said Lionel, ‘on guess what.’
‘What.’
‘Socks. Us against the world, eh lads?’
So after a bit John starts having a go at Ringo, and Ringo starts having a go at George, and George starts having a go at Paul, and Paul starts having a go at John, and Lionel, not to be left out, starts having a go at Stuart (for never saying anything). That bit soon quietened down.
‘Lionel.’
‘John, mate.’
John coughed. He wiped a hand across his mouth and lowered his head.
Then the food came, and all the beers, and all the wines.
‘See that?’ said Lionel, tapping the label of the Château Latour Pauillac. ‘That’s the vintage — the date. And guess what. Give or take a tenner, it’s the same as the price! We’ll have one each. Us against the world, eh lads?’
So John starts having a go at Paul, and Paul starts having a go at George, and George starts having a go at Ringo, and Ringo starts having a go at John (and Lionel starts having a go at Stuart). That bit took much longer to quieten down.
It was close to midnight when Lionel called for the bill.
‘There’s tension in the air, lads,’ he said as he followed the fairy lights up the garden path with his brandy balloon and his cigar. ‘Bound to be. I mean, look around. This ain’t Diston. This ain’t KFC. Everything’s different now.’
Lionel heard the gulp of five Adam’s apples in five shrivelled throats.
‘Tension. It’s only natural. You kid brother’s been tipped the wink by Lady Luck. And you asking youself, What’s he going to do for his own?’
Lionel heard the soft seethe of five intakes of breath.
‘John. Paul. George. Ringo. Stuart. You lives are about to be transformed.’
Lionel turned. Five pairs of feet staggered back.
‘You number-one headache — from now on, completely taken care of. You needn’t give it another thought. Ever. That shadow that never goes away? That nagging concern that wakes you up in the middle of the night? A thing of the past. Over.’
Lionel looked forgivingly from face to face.
‘And what’s that worry? Well. Come on, let’s not be shy. Begins with an em. Say it. Em. Mm. Mmuh …’
Lionel lifted his gaze to the night sky.
‘Mum,’ he said.
The brothers. As pale, still, and silent as the statues.
‘Mum. Mum. “Mum”. Our mum, in her declining years — what’s going to become of Mum? … They not having our mum mate!’ Lionel dipped his head and wiped his eyes. He sniffed richly. ‘Ah, look. I can see the lovely glow in you faces. You feeling better already. Knowing I’ll take care of Mum. Our mum. Us against the world, eh lads? Us for Mum!’
… So. Stunned hugs in the foyer. Then, one after the other, the five Pepperdines shot out through the revolving doors, ran a brief sprint, and stumbled to a halt.
Sharply watched by Lionel Asbo. Whose head abruptly jerked forward as something interesting seemed to develop with the skeleton staff of press — but it was just Stuart rebounding off a lamp post and falling over backwards, and John and George kneeling down to be sick.
7
‘THEY CHUCKED HIM out on Sunday morning. He set fire to his suite. But apparently they’re only using that as an excuse!’
‘Jesus,’ said Des. ‘What else did he do?’
‘Well he … Jesus. Hang on.’
Des lay on the couch in the kitchen, wrapped in a white sheet. He was having one of his neurasthenic episodes (for half a day at a time, the world seemed too much for him, too many for him, too full, too rich, too strong). Dawn’s wide eyes were staring at the Sun.
‘He was groaning his head off in the Bolingbroke Bar. And releasing wind from both ends … He swam in the pool in his Y-fronts … And he asked the masseuse for “relief” … He watched a film in his room called MILFs Gone Mad. Then he went and watched more filth in the business centre!’
‘The business centre?’
‘Where they have the computers. And Lionel was watching it with the sound up!’
‘With the sound up?’
‘That’s what it says. He was sitting there with all these bankers and diplomats and sheiks. Watching something they can’t print about facials. Facials? Des, what’s that all about?’
‘Uh, I’m not sure. With the sound up?’
‘The manager came and … There were two fights at dinner. The first just a bit of face-slapping. But the second one … Ringo, they think it was, crashed into the dessert trolley … John and George vomited in the street. And Stuart fell and smashed his head open. And then Lionel goes and dozes off with a fag in his hand. All the sprinklers came on … Drink your cocoa!’
‘I am!’
‘Ooh. They say the hotel’s suing him. Not for the physical damage. The untold detriment to our reputation and goodwill. That was yesterday. And listen. On Saturday … On Saturday there were these two elderly couples standing in the foyer. Minding their own business. And Lionel goes up and says … See it? Lionel goes up and says, What are you lot still doing here? Why don’t you all just f*** off and die!’
It was a while before Lionel looked in at Avalon Tower. But in the meantime they always knew exactly what he was up to. They stayed abreast of his remarkably unvarying activities (fights, expenditures, admissions, ejections), hour by hour, in the tabloids (and in the Daily Telegraph).