At 7.45 p.m. Lionel had a few words with the girl at the desk, and extended his stay for another three weeks.
In fact he wouldn’t be returning to the South Central — not for another three years.
10
‘OFF TO A function, are we, Lionel?’
‘What, no Megan, Lionel?’
‘Any truth in the rumours, Lionel?’
‘Rumours? Me and Megan? No, footloose and fancy-free. That’s Lionel Asbo. More trouble than they worth if you ask me.’
‘… Off to a function, are we, Lionel?’
This was a second reference to Lionel’s oufit, which of course had raised no eyebrows in the hotel. In the hotel there were loads of people dressed up as pirates and nuns and Nazis. But now Lionel was out and about — strolling across Sloane Square and down Sloane Street, in flawless weather. The traffic, seeming to shrug something off, rolled forward into the ease and freedom, the innocuous proficiency, of a London summer, beneath a flattering sky. Lionel said buoyantly,
‘No, lads, I’m off to me new job. Bouncing in a bingo parlour. But tonight I’m calling the numbers!’
There was laughter from the three representatives of the Fourth Estate. This laughter went on for longer than usual — because Lionel did in fact quite closely resemble a bingo caller. His tuxedo, true, and his vast trousers were impeccably and superaccurately cut; his buxom bow tie was no elasticated clip-on but a fine length of schmutter (Eamon, who earned his living in a bow tie, showed him how you looped it); and the shoes, at ten thousand pounds apiece, performed as expected — two padded floats of glistening ebony. On the other hand, only an unusually confident and sexually secure bingo caller would have consented to wear Lionel’s shirt and waistcoat. The waistcoat was of canary-yellow suede, with turquoise buttons. And the white shirt was an impossible orgy of vents and flounces (his hands were only just visible beneath the ruches of its cuffs). He slowed as he lit a cigar, saying,
‘Here, lads, I got one for yer. What’s got lots of balls and screws old ladies? … A bingo machine!’
‘You won’t win a hundred and forty mil on the bingo, Lionel.’
‘You know, lads, back in Diston, me mum used to take me to the bingo. Every Friday. Friday. Reno Night. Can do all the numbers, me. Legs eleven. Sweet sixteen. Thirty — dirty Gertie. Ninety — top of the shop.’
‘Where’s the function then, Lionel?’ persisted the man from the Sun.
‘What fucking function? … No, seriously, lads. Remember the uh, remember that bistro I popped into for a minute this afternoon? Down that little alley behind Harrods? Well I booked a table.’
‘For two, Lionel?’ said the man from the Daily Telegraph.
‘You deaf? I’m on me tod tonight. Get a bit of peace. And read me paper.’
‘Which paper, Lionel? Where’s your trademark Lark?’ said the man from the Lark.
‘It’s all in hand, son,’ said Lionel, patting his trouser pocket. ‘It’s all in hand.’
To a relay of encouraging cheers he climbed the seven steps to the restaurant (which was called Mount’s). Obligingly he paused and posed — but soon drew back beneath the awning, his head and shoulders lost in shadow, and the three men turned away, leaving him in quiet communion with his cigar … It should at this point be revealed that Lionel had just smoked two nine-paper joints on Scott Ronson’s balcony: Swaziland skunkweed marijuana. Now, in normal times the fiercest possible intoxicants made no mark on Lionel Asbo. Tonight would be different. And the difference had to do with the recent activation of his subliminal mind. For the time being, though, Lionel was in excellent fettle, and imagined that a nice little treat lay ahead of him. A quiet dinner, and a thoughtful read of the Morning Lark.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said a resonant and resolute voice. ‘Welcome. Your table.’
‘Ah. Lovely.’
‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, are you going on somewhere after your meal? To the amateur boxing at the Queensbury perhaps?’
‘Amateur boxing?’
‘Yes, sir. I hear Prince Philip’s going to be there. You know — for the Duke of Edinburgh Awards.’
‘The Duke of Edinburgh? … Yeah well I follow the boxing. That’s a proper sport, boxing. Not like all the other rubbish. What’s you name, mate?’
‘… Well, here they call me Mr Mount.’
‘No.’ Lionel looked him up and down: a tall and mournful figure in lounge suit and tie, with an icecap of thick white hair. ‘What’s you first name?’
‘… Cuthbert, sir.’
And Lionel said simply, ‘Cuthbert.’
Mr Mount took a step backwards. He hadn’t heard Cuthbert pronounced quite like that for thirty years. Not since 1979, when he stopped going to Billingsgate Market (at five o’clock on Monday mornings) to assess the catch. He now said,
‘Yes. Cuthbert Mount.’
‘Well I’ll tell you what, Cuthbert. I’m starting me new job! Bouncing in a bingo parlour! And tonight I’m calling the numbers!’
For some reason all this came out much, much louder than Lionel intended — as if through a stadium bullhorn. He grew aware that thirty or forty faces, crowned with wisps of hoar and rime, were staring his way.
He thought, Must be cold, getting old. Old, cold: like poetry. ‘Evening all!’ he found himself hollering as he lowered himself into his chair.
‘… Would you like a drink before your meal, sir?’
‘Yeah. Guiss a uh, give us a —’
But Mr Mount stepped aside, and was instantly supplanted by a knowing youth in a white dinner jacket.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘You amused,’ said Lionel.
‘Amused, sir? No, not at all, sir.’
‘You look too light on you feet, mate …’ Lionel sniffed and said, ‘Okay. Fuck it. Guiss a pint of …’ In the South Central you could get champagne by the pint (and by the half-pint — very popular with the ladies); and Lionel had in any case come to regard champagne as rich man’s beer. ‘Bubbles, son. What kind you got?’
A ribboned wine list was opened and handed over. Lionel pointed to the most prohibitive of the vintages, and the waiter bowed and withdrew.
The restaurant was something of a surprise. Earlier that day, when he poked his head round the door, his sunstruck stare registered a grotto of pulsing shadow, and he imagined a kind of family brasserie. But Mount’s … The furnishings were plump and plush, the walls practically panelled with paintings, with haywains and cloudscapes and cavaliers. Yeah, the place was like some fat old cavalier, buttoned up far too tight. Lionel hefted but did not yet open the crested red-leather menu. England’s Oldest Restaurant. Established by Clarence Fitzmaurice Mount. 1797. And Lionel thought: 1797!
‘Your champagne’s on its way, sir.’
Lionel had intended to make a start on the Morning Lark while enjoying his aperitif. Catch up on current events. But now he was having his doubts. He already knew that the cover was devoted to a truly mountainous blonde; and it might look a bit … The Lark, that day, appeared for the first time in two editions, tabloid and broadsheet, and Lionel had succumbed to the novelty of the larger format. Anyway, he slipped the thing out of his trouser pocket, unfolded it under the table, and awkwardly searched for a page that didn’t have a topless model on it. Page two usually contained the day’s news, but today the day’s news was about a topless model (bust-up with childhood sweetheart) … Looks a bit like Gina, he thought — and Lionel was abruptly transfixed by an unpleasant memory.