The nickname Mean Mr Mustard was derived from the Beatles song, and referred not just to Lionel’s spite but also to his stinginess (Sleeps in a hole in the road … Keeps a ten-bob note up his nose. Such a mean old man). He earned the nickname during his toddler period — he was an implacable hoarder and non-sharer. If any of the brothers played with his toys (even when he wasn’t there), they lived to wish they hadn’t. John, Paul, George, Ringo and Stuart were all very afraid of their little brother. John, who was then aged seven, told Cilla, who was then aged eight, that he was very afraid of Lionel, who was then aged two.
Last thing at night little Lionel would seal the lid of his toybox with a moistened strand of hair plucked from his own scalp. So he could tell if anyone took a liberty while he was asleep … Then he made his enquiries (it was nearly always Ringo); and the next time Ringo was asleep, Lionel would steal up on him wielding his heaviest Transformer.
He was served his first Restraining Directive when he was three. Three years and two days: a national record (though disputed by other claimants). This was for smashing car windscreens with paving stones; the authorities also noted his habit, when out shopping with his mother, of booting over display pyramids of bottles and tin cans; a childish interest in cruelty to animals was perhaps only to be expected, but Lionel went further, and one night made a serious attempt to torch a pet shop. Had he come along half a generation later, Lionel’s first Restraining Directive would have been called a BASBO, or Baby ASBO … ASBO, which (as all the kingdom now knew) stood for Anti-Social Behaviour Order.
What was the matter with him? Why did he work at being stupid? I mean (thought Des), if you spend about a third of your waking life in court, isn’t it a bit bloody daft to change your name, by deed poll, on your eighteenth birthday, from Lionel Pepperdine to Lionel Asbo? All his uncle would say was that Pepperdine’s a crap name anyhow. And Asbo has a nice ring to it. This was literally the case: Lionel would flaunt his electronic loop (it looked like an ankle strap with a battery attached), even as he took the stand at the Old Bailey (Ah yes. Mr … ‘Asbo’. Mr Asbo, this is not the first time you have …). You could only do that if you gave being stupid a lot of very intelligent thought.
Dear Daphne, wrote Desmond in the Library Reading Room.
I’m a young Liverpudlian (15) and I’m having an affair with my grandmother. Obviously, it’s not an ideal situation. We both live in Kensington, which sounds posh but is in fact the poorest area in the city (we call it ‘Kenny’). I’m on a charity trip to London to watch ‘the Reds’ play West Ham, which explains the postmark.
Could you fill me in on the legal side of it? This is worrying me to distraction. And when that point is cleared up, I’ll write again (if that’s alright) about my uncle and the other problem I face. You see, Daphne, I’m very confused.
Maybe I should come clean about living in Diston, he thought. Then she’d understand. I mean it’s a different demographic … Des shrugged. No, it was okay. ‘Kenny’ must surely be almost as bad.
A chat on one of your HelpLines might be a good idea. And do you have any pamphlets you think I should read?
6
IN DISTON THERE were many thousands of pylons, and they all sizzled. The worst stretch of Cuttle Canal was as active as a geyser: it spat and splatted, blowing thick-lipped kisses to the hastening passers-by. Beyond Jupes Lanes sprawled Stung Meanchey (so christened by its inhabitants, who were Korean), a twelve-acre dump of house-high electronic waste, old computers, televisions, phones and fridges: lead, mercury, beryllium, aluminium. Diston hummed. Background radiation, background music for a half-life of fifty-five years.
He heard Lionel attacking the locks. The snaps and rattles dispersed his soothing daydream. In this daydream, diligent Daphne was applying herself to a tall stack of mail. She unsheathed Desmond’s letter; her frown melted into a lenient twinkle; and she started to type her reply. You poor dear, you must have been worried out of your wits. And all for no reason! Happily, following an amendment to the law in 1979, it is no longer … But now Lionel stomped in. Lionel stomped in, with two unlabelled quart bottles of liquor (one of them half empty), plus a takeaway mutton vindaloo — for the dogs.
‘I tasted success’, he said, ‘with Ross Knowles. At the tenth attempt. But here. Summon up all you courage, Des, and have a look at this.’
Lionel seemed stirred, stimulated, if not downright drunk (and, as always, one size bigger than expected). Yet Des could tell that something was wrong, and he sensed danger … Lionel wasn’t drunk — he never got drunk. He put away suicidal quantities of alcohol; and he never got drunk. It was the same with dope, blow, crack, aitch, e, and methamphetamine. Nothing had any effect on him (there was no intoxication, and no repercussion). In this sphere at least, Lionel was steady-state. But tonight he had a look of lit purpose in him, and something was wrong.
Lionel now upended the quart bottle and took six swallows, seven, eight. He wiped his mouth on his wrist and said, ‘This is what this country’s come to, Des. A national newspaper printing this.’ With finger and thumb, and with some show of fastidiousness, Lionel took from his back pocket a rolled copy of the Morning Lark. ‘Second page of Classifieds. They calling them GILFs.’
‘Jesus … That one’s seventy-eight!’
‘GILFs, Des. Topless at seventy-eight. What’s she doing still living at seventy-eight? Leave alone topless! And that’s a uh, a contradiction in terms, that is, Des. GILFs. Grans I’d Like to … Nobody’d like to fuck a gran. Now would they. Contradiction in terms.’ Lionel added vaguely, ‘Suppose you could call them NILFs.’
‘NILFs?’
‘NILFs. Nans I’d Like to … And that’s England, Des. A once-proud nation. Look. Beefy Bedmate Sought by Bonking Biddy. That’s England.’
It was a clear night in early May with a tang of chill in it. Des wiped the sweat from his upper lip.
‘… What’s up with you, Des? You got a funny look on you face.’
‘No, I’m fine, Uncle Li. So uh, so you got a result today. With Ross Knowles.’
‘What? Oh. Change of subject, is it.’ He yawned and went on blandly, ‘Yeah, I’m outside the Watch Ward with me grapes. And here I’ve had a bit of luck. The copper’s there — but he’s on a stretcher. With blood coming out of his ears. One of them uh, superbugs, I don’t know.’
Des shrugged and said, ‘Diston General.’
‘Yeah. Diston General … So now I’m stood over the bed and he opens his eyes. I never raised me voice above a whisper. I said uh, Remember me, Mr Knowles? Or may I call you Ross? I sincerely apologise, Ross, for any distress caused. See, that night, I wasn’t meself. I was suffering for love. For love, Ross. How would you feel, how would you feel, Ross, if the girl of you dreams got porked by you best mate?’
‘He say anything, Uncle Li?’
‘No. His jaws’re wired shut. Then I go, You got to understand, Ross, that I’m a very unbalanced young man. Now if you proceed with this matter, I’ll be inside for — what? Eight months? A year? But when I come out, Ross, I’ll do you again. Only worse. And go straight back inside. Because I’m stupid, I am. I’m stupid … So he had a think and we settled out of court.’