* * *
Now the creature lay in front of him on its oval dish. There were two skewers (one with a curved tip) and a nutcracker. He picked up the gangly device: like the bottom half of a chorus girl made of steel … Fucking ugly-looking bugger, this fish. The shrunken, horror-comic face. And the monstrous hydraulics of the forearms. Was that the lobster’s mitt or its — its pincer? Bending low over the table, he positioned the jagged limb in the instrument’s clench; then he applied maximum force — and caught a jet of hot butter right in the eye!
‘UN!’ he cried, and jerked back … But as he dabbed his cheek, well, Lionel had to smile. He had to smile. He thought of Pete New, his cellmate at Stallwort. Bloke seemed to specialise in unlikely accidents. He said he once poached an egg in the microwave, took it out, went to sniff it — and the whole mess exploded in his face! Said it fucking near blinded him! … So Lionel had a good old laugh about Pete New. A very good old laugh (him breaking a leg from watching TV!). And then he drained his glass, chewed on a couple of boiled potatoes, and smiled again with a little twist of the head.
‘More bubbles, son.’
His dinner, so far, felt a bit like a practical joke — the beer mug, the GILFs, the hot butter. Nothing serious, mind. In the South Central they were always playing practical jokes. More money than sense, half of them. Practical jokes with superglue and cling film. Whoopee cushions. Squirting HP sauce and mustard. Setting off the fire alarm. High jinks, if you like. Being stupid on purpose. More money than sense, the lot of them. Sometimes it’s like they playing practical jokes on theyselves …
Lionel reapplied himself to his meal. Using the silvery tools, plus his fork.
The key moment came ten minutes later, when he threw down his weapons and reached for the enemy with his bare hands.
* * *
‘I’m sorry you seemed to have such trouble with your entrée, sir.’
‘… Well, you know how it is, Cuthbert. You win some, you lose some.’
‘Do take the napkin, sir. Take a clean one. Here … That looks really quite nasty. Might need a stitch or two.’
‘Look at this one!’
‘Dear oh dear.’
Lionel’s yttrium credit card was slotted into the gadget and he did the rigmarole with the PIN. He added a startling tip and said,
‘They’ll patch me together at the hotel.’
‘May I ask where you’re putting up, sir?’ Mr Mount’s eyes widened and he said, ‘Well they have a very advanced valet service at the South Central. They might, they just might, have some luck with those …’ Mr Mount seemed to submit to a gust of anguish. ‘Those stains.’
‘Yeah?’
‘My God. It’s rather more serious than I thought.’ Mr Mount was no longer calling Lionel sir, because he knew that his customer would be taking his leave in fairly good order. This had not looked probable during Lionel’s endlessly self-regenerating fit of laughter; and it had looked even less probable during his climactic struggle with his main course — when Lionel was crashing around and visibly giving off a faint grey steam. ‘What can one say? Bad luck, old chap.’
‘Yeah cheers, Cuthbert. An unfortunate choice.’ Lionel was still short of breath, and there were still tears in his eyes; but he was in complete control. ‘Next time I’ll have the haddock.’
‘… Why, thank you very much indeed, sir.’
He swung himself down the steps and out into the alley, his tie half off, his jacket, shirt, and waistcoat colourfully impasted with butter and blood. He felt very hungry.
‘The bingo get a bit rough, Lionel?’ said the man from the Sun.
‘Just stand there a minute, Lionel,’ said the man from the Lark as he raised his camera. ‘Ooh, this is priceless, this is.’
‘The old ladies take their revenge on you, Lionel?’ said the man from the Daily Telegraph.
Lionel glanced right. At the far end of the alley there was a policeman, standing stock still, and staring his way.
‘Copper watching. That settles the matter,’ said Lionel Asbo succinctly.
He moved to his left.
‘Come on then,’ he said wearily. ‘Gaa, Christ, let’s have it. Go on — get you laughing done with. Yeah, I will. I will. I’ll do five years for the fucking three of yer.’
XII
NOTHING REALLY OUT of the ordinary happened between 2009 and 2012.
‘He’ll get ten, they reckon, and do five. And serve him bloody well right.’
‘Come on, Dawn. Think. He won’t be out till 2014!’
It was Sunday. They were having what they called breakfast on bed (it was a single bed), and rereading Saturday’s Mirror (their new tabloid of choice).
‘He fancied prison,’ said Des dazedly. ‘He did. He fancied prison.’
‘Three counts of GBH. Plus Assaulting a Police Officer.’
On their laps (and on facing pages) were the iconic Before and After shots from the dead-ended alley off Brompton Road. Before: Lionel posing on the steps of the restaurant, Pickwickian, vaudevillian, aglow with combustible bonhomie. The After photograph (not taken immediately after, because the journalists’ cameras had all been smashed): this was more interestingly composed. The malefactor, like a city scarecrow, his lolling head, his arms up around the shoulders of the two policemen, with all the stuffing coming out of him (the ripped and twisted suit, the frothy white shirt); and then, to the right, just behind and beyond, the wheeled ambulance trolley with its own fixed light and the lumpy body lying on it (this was the man from the Daily Telegraph).
‘Tsuh-tsuh,’ said Dawn. ‘Tsuh-tsuh.’ She was addressing the cat. ‘Here, Goldie. Here, love … The restaurant bloke says he had a fight to the death with his lobster.’
‘Mm. The QC’s preparing his defence. Lord Barcleigh.’
‘The fat one … Diminished responsibility. Oh yeah. It was the lobster, your honour.’