The censor, p.13
The Censor, page 13
‘Yes, but it’s in the way you display the images that one is able to interpret. After my first reading of The Golden Spin there were many things that stayed with me, haunted me, disturbed me; not because of the strength of particular scenes, but because of the nuances you’re able to put on a scene through detail. You remember the pattern of blood on the policeman’s head, the scab on a man’s face, the girl in the white dress engulfed by a petrol bomb; the outward face of pain and the outward face of pleasure. The sexual descriptions are either totally revolting, because of the specifics, or they are consumingly titillating. With your work it is the tiny thing which often increases my knowledge more than the great tracts of dialogue. And it’s because of those details and the way in which even the most mundane mind will retain them that you are in such a vulnerable position.’
‘You mean that people with a strong bias are more likely to react with greater ferocity to selections of the book which disturb them most?’
‘That’s exactly it.’
‘Yet the book is meant to disturb. At least certain parts of it are meant to.’
‘Quite. But we cannot tell what action will follow somebody being disturbed by, say, one of the sexual passages, or one of the drug sequences. We cannot tell how individual members of a jury will react.’
There was a long pause. Then, too quickly and out of key, John Sutton spoke. ‘Well David, what about the alterations now?’
Another pause in which Askelon could just interpret Freddy Cadogan’s shake of the head. When David spoke he brought out the words carefully. ‘This has all been very interesting and in many ways complimentary. I see that there is danger in publishing as the text stands. None of us is in any doubt as to where the danger lies. But I’d like to ask you a couple of straight questions Mr Harrington.’
Harrington made an open-handed gesture.
‘You’ve talked about the pressures being put on the ... What’s he called the Director ...?’
‘Director of Public Prosecutions,’ furnished Freddy.
‘You’ve talked about pressures being put on him; vigilantes; the law must be seen to be done. Tell me honestly, what are the odds on The Golden Spin actually being prosecuted?’
Harrington gave Sutton a shy smile: a look in which one could read the signs of defeat. ‘Your publisher’s already asked me that one and I’ll have to give you the same answer. The odds are around fifty-fifty, perhaps a little less.’
‘A reasonable business risk?’ asked Freddy.
Harrington nodded. ‘I must warn you, though, that the DPP could take another, and in some ways more devastating, course of action. Under Section 3 (1) of the Obscene Publications Act and the addition made to the Criminal Justice Bill in 1967 the Director of Public Prosecutions could order a handful of local Magistrates to issue “destruction orders” against the book.’
Askelon’s face was smudged suddenly with worry. ‘What the hell’s a destruction order?’
‘A very unpleasant summons.’ John Sutton seemed to speak from experience.
‘Basically,’ said Harrington, ‘it means that the police go to a bookshop and take away all copies of your book. The bookseller is then required to show cause why those books should not be destroyed. If he, or the publisher or author, cannot show cause then the book is virtually outlawed in that Magistrate’s area. You only need a couple of those and no reputable bookseller in the country is going to stock your book so your distribution goes and John Sutton has a lot of books left on his hands while you don’t get any royalties.’
‘But that’s suppression.’
‘It’s the law.’
Askelon thought for a moment. ‘And what are the odds on that happening?’
‘About the same. Fifty-fifty.’
‘Good. One more question. If Spin was prosecuted and you were asked to defend it would you take the brief?’
‘Yes.’ Harrington did not hesitate.
‘And do you think you could mount an adequate defence?’
‘I’ve virtually told you that this afternoon and no doubt you have taken that into consideration. I would add that it might be necessary to call you.’
‘And you think we could win?’
‘There’s no way of knowing. Like the possibility of being prosecuted I think we’d have a fifty-fifty chance. But prevention is better than cure.’
Another silence swept the room.
‘I haven’t got a lawyer here to represent me. but Freddy’ll stop me if I’m wrong,’ Askelon said finally. ‘John, I don’t want to fall out with you. I don’t want a row, but we both signed a contract in good faith. In the small print it says I’ve got to okay any alterations, additions, deletions or amendments. I’m sorry John, I just can’t do that.’
Sutton took it well, accepting the inevitable. ‘I take it you won’t even change your mind for other considerations?’
‘You talking money?’ laughed Askelon.
‘I might be.’ It was his second big mistake of the afternoon. David Askelon still smiled. ‘Then don’t insult me, John. I like you too much to be insulted by you.’
It was nearly five o’clock when John Sutton got back to his office. Now the decision had been taken he felt better: knowing what he faced with no malice towards David.
He put a call straight through to the printers who were holding a marked up manuscript of The Golden Spin until they received a ‘go’ or list of alterations and deletions. Sutton now told them to go ahead and begin the first print. He had long ago gone into the details of layout and typeface. They talked for a short time, did a couple of small sums and came up with dates for proof copies, advance copies and final delivery. He would let them know the size of the first print within a week. Publication was scheduled for September twentieth.
He called down to Ed Coin and Tom Parker, asking them to come up to his office. As he waited, a sudden thought of further disaster hit him. He put in an immediate call to David Askelon at The Carlton Tower. There was no reply from Askelon’s room so he left a message asking Askelon to call him at home after seven. It was most urgent.
Both Coin and Parker showed signs of relief when Sutton told them that the publication day had been set and there was to be no revision of manuscript.
‘Publish and be damned?’ asked Coin.
‘I hope not, for all our sakes. Publish and get away with it. I shall need the total cooperation of everyone.’
‘You’ve already got it.’
‘Oh, and Ed?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ve a small confession to make. I was with Askelon all this afternoon and I didn’t find out when he planned to go back to the States. I hope to talk with him this evening. Now did you really mean what you said about getting him on the Brookes Show?’
‘Sure.’
‘Next week?’
‘As long as World War three doesn’t break, or some big scandal pops up. I’ve held Wilfred Brookes in reserve since I’ve been here. I was at school with him.’
‘Get moving then. I call you at home tonight?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘We’re still using the American jacket?’ asked Parker. ‘Unless anybody’s got something to beat it.’
Coin looked at his clip board. ‘There are a couple of ideas floating round the office. Can we talk about that in the morning?’
‘Fine. Okay by you Tom?’
Parker nodded. ‘Everything else on the list should take care of itself.’
‘The publicity for all other books on the list is in hand. If one runs away then we’ll follow it. We’ve all been waiting for the off on this one.’
‘You’ve got a copy of the American edition for Brookes?’ asked Sutton.
‘I should imagine a guy like Wilfred will have read it already. But he’ll want another copy. I’ve got half-a-dozen anyhow. Oh, and can you fix it for Askelon to come in and talk publicity with me?’
‘Keep your fingers crossed that I haven’t loused it all up. He could be on his way back to New York now.’
But David was not on any airplane. He called the Essex Place number at seven-thirty.
‘Hi John I just got your message.’
‘David. Thank you for calling. I was rather anxious because we wondered what your plans would be now that you’ve come to a decision about all this.’
‘Plans?’
‘Yes, whether you were going straight back to the States or what.’
Askelon, sprawled on his bed, moved into a sitting position. So they want to carve your book up and when you say no they give you the old heave ho. He would show them. ‘To tell you the truth John, I hadn’t thought of going anywhere. I’ve got this idea for a new book and Freddy’s trying to find me a garret somewhere, so I can write it here and keep an eye on Spin.’
He was surprised at the response.
‘That’s great, David. I’m very pleased. Look, could you drop by the office tomorrow. We’d appreciate it if you’d come in to have a chat about the way we’re going to promote Spin. You’ll like our Publicity Manager, Ed Coin: nice fellow.’
‘Sure.’ David began to feel jumpy, uncertain. Or was he simply seeing monsters where there were only shadows?
‘You won’t have caught a TV show we have over here: The Wilfred Brookes Show?’
‘I haven’t seen it but I’ve heard a lot of good things about it.’
‘Any objections to going on it?’
‘Why should I baby?’ Television shows were never much of a trial for David who had been around she whole circus in the States and knew how to handle himself.
‘He can get rough at times, Wilfred Brookes.’
‘I’m fireproof John. They can shoot as much as they want: goes straight through me. Anything else?’ He waited for the long expected remark about June, then realised that she was probably in the same room as Sutton.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘See you tomorrow then.’ He grinned, mouthing into the phone. ‘Gee, if my old mammy and pappy could see me now. On TV in London. Gee. Big time.’
‘See you tomorrow David. Any time. I’ll be around all day,’ chuckled Sutton.
Askelon laid back on the bed and cradled the telephone. All the day’s tensions were slipping away and suddenly he felt insatiably randy. He closed his eyes, unwilling to fight it off, his mind garrotted by sensual erotic pictures. A nipple, fully swollen, held tenderly between finger and thumb; the rolling movement; the full curve of buttocks and the firmness of a naked belly. All obvious. Quick and easy, like lips, armpits and the smooth pock of a navel. In the morass that was now the centre of his being he could smell the fragrance of lust and feel the textures of materials against flesh: the silks and nylons, velvet and cottons.
Freddy Cadogan had made a thoughtful speech yesterday.
‘In London whores aren’t the answer,’ he said. ‘It’s all most unsatisfactory. If you use the telephone numbers in newsagents windows you’re playing Russian roulette. In spite of the smug smiles they’re still on the streets. Have a look round Shepherd’s Market after four o’clock. But it’s always risky unless you’ve got it properly organised. I’m a literary agent and don’t go in for poncing myself but as you’re alone in the big city, David, you’d better have this number. It may come in useful, if only as an experience.’ He handed the author a plain business card with a telephone number inked in on one side, adding ‘And for heaven’s sake give your proper name when they ask you.’
Askelon had grinned knowingly, tucking the card into his wallet without the least thought of using it. He knew plenty of whores but made it a general rule not to use them professionally. Not that he had any particularly strong moral feelings about them. It simply seemed stupid to pay for what was around in large quantities for free. Only once had he actually been with one: for a bet on a youthful Saturday evening in New York. Around nineteen and thinking he was no end of a stud, ineptly laying college girls, he had boasted to the other guys that he had a real hot number: the one his father’s colleagues always used. The genuine article. A call girl. They had crowded round him in the phone booth and he could not get out of it because she said she was free and why didn’t he come over now? They even went with him, down to the apartment block on sixty-second and First Avenue.
In the end, horny, sassy walking and sick with the uncertainty of the unknown he rang the bell. She was fat, blonde and around one hundred and eight years old. She asked what he wanted and he said he had just called. She laughed and asked if he was old enough yet, but pulled him inside. He could remember she wore some sort of diaphanous robe with the inevitable black lace panties and bra underneath. By today’s standards of underclothes she could have walked in the street dressed like that and not be noticed. Then, there was something erotic about it even though she was fat and old. He laughed. She must have been all of twenty-seven. She asked him how much dough he had on him and if it was his first time. He told her twenty dollars and lied, yes it was his first time, thinking he might get a bargain. He did. She took his twenty dollars, used her hands on him, gently massaging him into the strongest erection he had ever managed. He remembered that after that she was rough, rolling the rubber johnny onto him so that it really felt tight. Then she whipped off the robe and panties, spread herself on the bed, thighs wide, patting her gleaming bushy prize with one hand while the other gripped his penis so that she literally dragged him on to her. He had no control and came as he entered her, the discharge wracking his whole body. She squirmed and laughed, slapping his naked bottom with her hand and his orgasm seemed to go on for ever sapping off into the tit of the rubber so that it bulged. It was like being sucked dry. The energy swept from him, directed into the small of his back and then throbbed out leaving him weak and heavy with aching balls. There was an orange carpet and a bowl decorated with flowers and a crack in the washbasin. She gave him two white tissues and sent him off into the bathroom. When he came out she had the robe and panties on again and was talking into the telephone. He just walked out and they did not even speak.
He had never used a whore since, but here in London with the desperate urge and an address book full of stateside numbers he would seem to have no option.
He took out his wallet and removed the card, then slowly dialled the number. Engaged. He put down the receiver and waited five minutes. This time it rang and a woman answered.
‘I was given your number to call.’
‘Oh yes. Can I have your name please?’
‘Askelon. David Askelon.’
‘Thank you Mr Askelon, and your telephone number.’
‘I’m at The Carlton Tower Hotel.’
‘Room number?’
He gave it.
‘Thank you sir, we’ll call you within the next fifteen minutes.’
The line went dead. He felt a fool, his erection now declining. ‘Idiot Askelon.’ He spoke aloud. ‘Discipline. Learn to live with it. You’re behaving like a brute beast. A beast of the field.’
He laughed and the telephone rang again. The same female receptionist kind of voice at the other end.
‘Mr Askelon?’
‘Speaking.’
‘You just called us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. You have been recommended to us. When would you like to make a booking?’
What was all this anyhow? Like a dental appointment. ‘As soon as possible,’ he answered, grinning at the thought of a man screaming the lines into the phone.
For Christ’s sake make the booking for now. No cancel that. Too late. Or, I’m sorry sir but we have nothing available for six hours all our lines are blocked. Will you reserve something for later?
But the girl was still talking calmly. She gave him an address in Mayfair adding that he should make it by cab in fifteen minutes. David giggled to himself and wondered if she was worried about the cabbie or the state of his cab if it took longer.
‘Okay, see you then.’ He tried to make it sound sexy. He need not have bothered.
The street had style and elegance and had obviously once been a carriage trade residential patch of quality. Most of the houses now seemed to have been converted into offices, but the door of number forty-seven, the address he had been given, bore no brass plate. Just a heavy six panelled door, painted white with a polished steel intercom grille above the bellpush.
Hesitation. Would she be fat, blonde, one hundred and eight years old in a fragile kimono and black panties? Or was this the top bracket British cash down screw with decor by David Hicks (not knowing what he was decorating of course), lingerie by Dior, condoms exclusively provided by one of those regal shops in Bond Street, beds and whips by courtesy of the British Museum?
He pressed the bell and the intercom crackled.
‘Yes?’ trapped inside the steel grille.
‘David Askelon.’
‘Oh yes Mr Askelon. Would you come up please. I’ll meet you at the top of the stairs.’
The door clicked open and Askelon walked into a hall leading to a wide staircase. The carpet sank to the foot, above a chandelier floated and glittered.
The girl who met him at the top of the stairs was in her early twenties with that glossy finish you rarely find off the ad pages of Vogue and Harpers. Short white boots, skirt and sweater in grey, blonde and groomed like an expensive cat.
‘Mr Askelon?’ It was the telephone voice. ‘Madam will see you now.’
She led him into a small outer office. There were four telephones on a grey desk; an IBM typewriter; a dictating machine and four filing cabinets. Not a scrap of paper was in view.
He followed the girl to an inner door on which she tapped before opening and allowing Askelon to pass inside.
It was a small drawing room, the walls covered in dark olive velvet; two gilt chairs and a small settee lined with a bright peacock blue: a long glass table by the window, another smaller and lower, between the chairs in front of the fireplace. Two modern paintings and a long gilt-framed mirror. She was of indeterminate age: possibly early fifties, dressed in a sage green suit, tailored distinctively for her.
