The censor, p.17
The Censor, page 17
June spread out her hands, fingers open and palms pointing flat towards him. ‘No intrusions.’
‘Okay. No intrusions.’
X
ON TUESDAY MORNING, the day of the Wilfred Brookes Show, Ed Coin asked to see John Sutton.
‘I don’t quite know how to put this,’ he began. ‘It’s not easy.’
‘Don’t say you’re leaving us, not at this point Ed. We need you.’ John could not avoid seeing that Coin looked tired, that his fingers were not as still as they should be and his eyes were restless.
Sutton had a theory that the best publicity men were not always the mobile balls of fire. The really cool ones seemed to be superior, bringing with them a calmness which permeated their department. The tricky talkers and jumping beans often went sour and lost their nerve. Ed Coin seemed to be among the coolest of men.
‘No, I’m not resigning.’
‘Well, thank God for that. What is it? Something to do with Spin?’
Coin nodded. ‘Yes it’s Spin, and it isn’t like me at all.’ He took a breath. ‘David told me the other day he was surprised that, with all the cuts and deletions, nobody wanted to do anything about the ending. He said he reckoned the ending was the most obscene part of the book.’
‘It’s strong.’ Sutton nodded.
‘I read the last couple of chapters again; and they depressed me.’
‘As well they might.’
‘So I read the whole book for the second time. It depresses me to hell, John.’
‘I can understand that. It can have a numbing effect. That’s why it’ll get slaughtered by the less intelligent reviewers. They’ll simply switch off half way through and decide it’s cheap, manufactured rubbish. But what’s your real problem?’
‘That’s it. I’m beginning to get moral scruples. I don’t know if we ought to publish.’
Somewhere far in the back of his mind, beyond the horizon of consciousness, Sutton had known someone in the firm was going to feel like this before they were through. He had never considered that it would be Coin. ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Because we may get clobbered by the Obscene Publications Act? Or because we might depress a few people? Or because the one or two less perceptive reviewers in the Street are going to list the book as erotic man-made fibres?’
‘Askelon said something else about the ending.’
‘Yes.’
‘Something very basic, nothing to do with what lies behind the surface plot; nothing to do with the big truisms. He said that one day it was going to happen. Actually he said more than that; it boiled down to meaning that one day a wild group of pop star freak-outs are going to blow their minds and commit some unspeakable act of violence: like the murder of Kitty Blake in the book.’
‘I think that’s very probable. Political writers attuned to the scene often give very accurate forecasts. Someone like Askelon who’s been attuned to that scene can do the same. It’s not prophecy.’
‘No, not prophecy. But does it help? How far will we be responsible?’
Sutton was up fast. ‘You can’t Ed. You just cannot start thinking like that.’
‘I don’t know, Emlyn Williams has made out a very strong case for De Sade’s Justine being the trigger mechanism for one of the most horrible series of murders this century. You’ve read Beyond Belief?’
‘Yes. Come to that, the Bible’s inspired a few billion killings in its time. Ed, we may be providing trigger mechanisms, as you call them, every day of the week. I could go away now and write a book about the motivations of a sex strangler, putting in all the detail. It might be a best seller and it just might spring off some poor wretched soul and cause the deaths of ten innocents before they get around to catching up with him. But if I don’t write that book, who’s to say the same twisted mind won’t go out and pick up a paperback of Gerold Frank’s The Boston Strangler and get sprung that way. I don’t think we can allow ourselves to be off-tracked by what might, or might not happen. If you write a book saying all Jews or all Christians or all one legged men must be wiped out then it’s a different matter. But the other thing is playing with the odds. The seeds are already there, out on the streets and in the towns and villages, in the factories and farms. If we doubt about one work of fiction then we must doubt about all.’
Wilfred Brookes made the choice in the end. They scrapped the idea of having a third guest once Carmichael turned it down. This left them with the original idea of a book review, read live by a biased reviewer. Wilfred Brookes chose Harvey Proctor.
Proctor knew his job. Now a freelance, he had done a long stint in the Street as a gossip columnist, features writer, and, his last contract job, an acid theatre reviewer.
From thence, Proctor had gravitated to television, adding a spice of snide comment to topical arts programmes, and performing neat pieces of surgery in special interview shows when the producer wanted to inject some ‘good television’ into boring, or phoney, subjects.
Harvey Proctor also reviewed regularly for one of the Sunday heavies, carving up what the literary editor called ‘difficult books’.
In all, Proctor was the right man and, the production team decided, it should make for sweaty viewing.
Brookes sat in his own room, clammy. The clock moved forward another minute, Soon he would be called to the studio for the warm up, and, before he knew it, the show would be on.
This was the worst time. The wait. The time of inaction at the starting gate when you had done everything and the whole business was rolling. You could do nothing to contribute or halt it.
Once the warm up was under way there was no problem. You hardly noticed the transition from warm up to live transmission. Then, quickly and mercifully, it would all be over for another week.
Proctor was tucked away with one of the team while someone else took care of Askelon in a room far away.
Brookes had gone down to see Askelon shortly after the author arrived at the studios.
‘You going to knock-the shit out of me?’ Askelon asked.
That had been an unnerving question. This one was flexible and did not take the business seriously, but Brookes simply smiled and said that he did not think so and that he liked the book: thought it was super. More smiles, and then: ‘We are doing one thing that’s a trifle underhanded. But you must know about it before we go on.’
Askelon merely gave a knowing look, as though to say, I know just what bastards you people are.
Brookes told him that they had got a reputable literary critic to read Spin and he would ask him to read a review on the show.
‘I don’t even know what’s coming myself. I haven’t asked to read the review. Prefer to go in cold, makes for a better chat don’t you think?’
Askelon agreed, a little too fulsomely Brookes thought. It was difficult to tell when he was sending you up.
‘Okay. Then the running order will be: the singer, we’re plugging a young singer tonight; then we do the introductory chat, your background, the book, success, all that drag; then the review, and last all three of us can have a general chat. Okay?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Whose?’
‘The literary pain in the ass.’
‘Oh. Proctor. Harvey Proctor.’
‘Cute name. Harvey. So you and Harvey and D. Askelon will slug it out?’
‘Yes,’ door open. ‘See you up there?’
‘Look forward to it Mister Brookes.’
The moment Wilfred Brookes left the room Askelon turned on the young man who was doing the hosting. He had not caught his name, but the man was only a cipher: dark, short hair, glasses, intense face primed with a surfeit of reading and late nights of earnest discussion about the great, confusing one-eyed carnivorous monster.
‘Telephone,’ said Askelon.
The other hesitated. ‘Sure. Sure, there’s one over there. Dial zero for an outside line.’
Askelon smiled blandly at his host. The smile spoke a language the intense young man had never bothered to learn. ‘Private telephone. I’ve a date right after this opera and I’d like to warm it up on the speaking tube. In private. Solo. Dig?’
The young man nodded. ‘Yes. Sure. Okay.’ Looking at his watch: a production number. ‘You have about ten minutes before we go up.’ He nodded again and left the hospitality room with a good deal of flourish and uncertainty.
Askelon got straight on to Sutton’s home number. June answered.
‘I’m speaking from the studio, Junie. Put John on fast.’
‘David?’ Puzzled.
‘John, listen. They’ve pulled one on us. Ed’s already in the audience and I can’t really pull him out. They’re putting up some literary critic. He’s going to read a review of Spin that he’s written specially for the show. Sounds like we’re going to have a ding-dong.’
‘Who is he?’
‘That’s what I want from you. The guy’s called Harvey Proctor.’
A pause. Fifteen seconds.
‘Watch him David. He knows television backwards and he’s a shit: snide as hell. He’ll slice up the book and try to hang personal insults on you. Don’t get rattled.’
‘Never been cooler. As long as I know what to expect. Don’t forget to watch because this is where we start bringing in the gravy train. I am about to gird up my magnificent loins.’
‘Be careful.’
‘As a racing driver. Just sit back and watch. I’ve been insulted in public by professionals.’
‘That’s what I mean. Proctor’s a professional.’
‘We’ll soon find out. See you.’
XI
SHE HAD A reasonable voice, cutting back to the grass roots of the American Middle West, even though she came from Chingford, Essex, England. Brown hair hanging down to her shoulders, black eyes, tall body, slender with long stretching legs. A blue, gold-edged, bolero jacket and ski pants. Her name, for singing purposes, was Etta McCall.
She sang of plains that she had never seen and a longing for the coast, a yearning to put things right, freedom for all and time to learn how to live.
Askelon smiled to himself. The kids had conquered the identification barrier by inventing their own simple communications shorthand. The songs that sounded like poems but which frayed into fragile and unworkable dreams once you put them under the scope.
The studio audience swayed to Etta McCall’s rhythm and looked like any other studio audience: more middle class, middle aged than any other group. A few youngsters. Not many senior citizens.
All three cameras were on Etta McCall who sat perched on a high stool centred in the set furthest away from where Askelon stood near Wilfred Brookes’ own set, with the desk and big leather tip-back chairs that were supposed to put you at ease while he grilled you. Brookes was out there alone, sitting unbelievably still, hands folded, not a foot or finger moving to the guitar rhythm. Cool bastard.
The plains and highways rolled to a final, downbeat chord, and the audience rippled its appreciation. Brookes looked over to where Askelon stood with the intense young man. The merest shadow of a nod. Askelon blatantly grinned back at him. Nobody was going to sew David Askelon up tight, especially not on a TV show going out into X thousand homes. He was there to sell his book and that was exactly what he would do in the best possible way open to him.
Brookes had a copy in his hand, the American edition of Spin, and he began to talk about the book having made an impact in the States. Then, very quickly, he was doing the introduction and David Askelon found himself out there, walking over the three hundred mile desert to Brookes’ desk.
It was the first time that June had ever seen a close friend on television. The camera held David in a tight head and shoulders close-up as he came on. She looked at John Sutton who leaned back in his chair, gaze on her, not on the screen; a curious expression somewhere there around his eyes: in the distance between, more worry lines, a cocked eyebrow, almost quizzical.
She flipped a little sentimental smile at John and turned back to the screen and David. He did not appear as short as he really was, but he looked some man: the face grained with character, his manner almost aggressive, certainly assured as he took Brookes’ hand.
‘Christ,’ John gasped, ‘he’s nearly broken Brookes’ fingers.’ You could see the wince of pain on Wilfred Brookes’ face, between the smile and welcoming words.
David sat back in one of the guest chairs, grinned and responded to Wilfred Brookes’ welcome with an open, almost hick, comment.
‘Sure is nice of you to have me on the show, Mr Brookes. Mind if I smoke?’
The camera all but gloated at Brookes’ features. The expression outwardly one of pleasure and friendliness. Only the most perceptive were able to trace a small relaxing of Brookes’ tension, as though he was inwardly congratulating himself, saying ‘Here I have him. A dummy author whom I can manipulate for the delight of the customers.’
‘It’s great to have you here, David.’ He picked up Spin, casually, a gesture he had taken on the spur of the moment. It was all very relaxed: freezing cool.
Brookes smiled. ‘The book. The Golden Spin. It’s brought fame and fortune to you in the United States. When are we going to see it here?’
‘Around September I guess.’
‘Do you reckon it’s going to be a knock out over here as well?’
Askelon paused in the action of lighting his cigarette. ‘Hard to say. I don’t know this market. Publishers seem happy enough.’
‘They’ve paid enough money for it eh?’
‘You asking or telling me?’
Brookes side-tracked with one of his brays well known to television audiences as a sign that something witty had been said. To those who knew him well it was a signal that he needed time to think.
‘Tell me David, what did you do before The Golden Spin?’
‘What do you mean, what did I do?’ The country and western style was gone from Askelon’s tone, something hard and almost gritty taking its place.
‘Life story.’
‘Oh that. That’s pretty dull. I was a rich kid, that’s unfashionable but my old man was in oil.’
‘So the success of The Golden Spin didn’t mean much to you? Financially that is?’
‘It meant one hell of a lot. I’m a professional writer. That’s my job. I wrote two books before Spin.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ So easy that it made June’s flesh creep until she caught the still deeper note in David’s voice as he replied.
‘You should do better research then. One thing I hate is professionalism. Journalists who start an interview by saying, “I didn’t read your last book, but ...” It’s an occupational hazard I suppose. I wrote a book called Permutations, all about a guy trying to work out how you can stay in the middle of the road. He sees the two extremes — the plastic people of the rat race and the far out drop aways — as inconceivable, so he wanders from affair to affair trying to make up his mind.’
Brookes was nodding.
‘He’s not concentrating,’ said John. ‘David’ll sneak up on him.’
The pause was far too long before Brookes asked, ‘What happened to that book? Permutations?’
‘It bombed out. Good reviews but nobody wanted to know. So I wrote Dream Now, Rest Later. That was basically about the same problem, but seen from the plastic people’s standpoint.’
‘And that bombed out?’
‘Total blitz. Failure’s my second name.’
‘So you wrote this on more commercial lines.’ There was a tincture of disgust in Brookes’ tone.
‘There’s nothing wrong with commercialism. That’s a mistake you toffy nosed people are always making. Literature and commercialism don’t mix. The great books were always commercial. We live in an age of instant communication and entertainment. Commercial success can also be intelligent, witty and stacked with style.’ He gave an almost camp elegant gesture. ‘So I went away and wrote The Golden Spin. It’s not quite as easy as that. My first two books weren’t all that bad. It’s just that people didn’t want to know about the calm middle of the road. As far as literary effort is concerned people want to go far, fast and deep. They want to feel they know something about the hidden things. You have to provide a lot of information.’
‘Even if the information’s spurious?’
Askelon took the point and parried. ‘You mean like in all the suspense thrillers and gangland books? It all has to sound right?’
‘No.’ Brookes was not leaning back any more. He sat straight in his chair. ‘No. I mean the big, fat, super selling, sexy books. They have to have a smattering of truth around the sensationalism so that people will almost automatically believe the rubbish they’re selling.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. All the fat, sexy books I’ve read have been pretty well researched. Most of them are simply selling a story.’
Brookes held up The Golden Spin. ‘Would you say this is a fat, sexy, sensational book?’
‘It’s fat.’
‘And sexy?’
‘There’s sex in it. Yes there’s a lot of sex in it. It’s about young people breaking free from traditions, trying to find other ways of living, lousing it up. Hell, you can’t write a book about people that doesn’t have sex in it.’
‘But wouldn’t you say some of the sex in The Golden Spin is violent, warped, repugnant?’
‘I don’t know about repugnant. It might be to those who haven’t got the wits to understand.’ Askelon was in close-up. A three-quarter profile with Brookes’ face in the background, just out of focus. ‘It’s for real, man. You have to tell the truth. Truth often has warts and pustules, boils or malformations.’
‘But can’t the truth be coloured? Made more vivid so that it’s warped?’
‘When the truth is warped it ceases to be true, but you have to show it as it is to expose it. What you’re trying to say is that my book’s sensational. It is a vivid story. Sometimes people call good vivid style sensational.’
‘I’m not trying to say anything about the book being sensational. But let’s get someone more qualified in on this.’ The picture cut Askelon out and came up with a neat full face of Brookes looking straight into the camera.
