The Censor, page 23
‘So you’ve taken it on?’
‘The least I can do is draw attention to the facts. Speak publicly about it and present the viewpoint of the majority.’
Price felt the stillness about him. Carmichael was relaxed. These were questions he had answered dozens of times before, for Press and Television. He knew the ground. By placing his questions with accuracy Price might just be able to force the man into a moment of explosive truth. A moment in which Carmichael would stand revealed even to himself.
‘How do you know that you speak for the majority?’ asked Price.
Carmichael’s look was contemptuous. ‘There is a vast army of good, honest, hard-working, Christian citizens who are appalled by the foul and filthy trivial influences at work in Publishing, the Cinema and the Theatre. I believe that the minority who can gain financially from a so-called uncensored freedom are leading us to the moment when the safety hatches will be opened and the cesspool will overflow into our midst, infecting all areas with a pestilence worse than the plague.’
Price recognised it as an extract from one of Carmichael’s standard speeches. ‘And you believe it is your job to prevent this by constantly attacking chosen targets?’
‘Most certainly. Targets that are potentially and actually dangerous.’
‘Potentially dangerous from a sexual viewpoint?’
‘Sex is the most powerful and most dangerous weapon. Representations of its misuse, available to anyone, can and will corrupt.’
‘But how can you assess what is corrupting in a book or film?’
‘There is a simple rule. Anything that provides an over-stimulating sexual response is inherently dangerous. That which titillates, that which perverts, fills the mind with sensual, erotic visions, seeks to experiment in matters of sexual arousal.’
‘So any sexual description, or explicit erotica, is wrong?’
‘Not simply wrong. Immoral, corrupting. A poisonous influence.’
The obsession was total. Price changed his line of attack. ‘You would ardently subscribe to the ideals of democracy?’
‘Democracy? Of course.’
‘The freedom of man is important? Of prime importance?’
‘Naturally.
‘And yet you would refuse man the freedom to write, read or look at what he chooses?’
Carmichael laughed. Hollow, as though he had laughed at the same question a hundred times before. ‘Would you allow a child to go out into a public park with a loaded shotgun?’
‘We’re not talking about loaded shotguns. We’re talking about freedom. The freedom of the artist, the freedom of the individual. We’re talking about erotica and descriptions of sexual acts in works of art and books, films, plays which, perhaps if not complete art are striving towards truth by sharing feelings and needs and desires.’
‘To me, and many others, it’s all the same thing. Evil at its most basic and animal.’
‘Sex is evil?’
‘Sex is a private matter. It’s misuse is evil.’
‘Poetry is a private matter but we share it with others.’
‘Twisted words,’ Carmichael spoke more rapidly now his face infused with the crimson of rage. ‘You know very well what I mean. Filth and dirty sex has passages in meagre untalented work, which can do nothing but corrupt and devalue the true currency of sex.’
‘You’re doing it again. You’re equating sex with dirt and evil.’
‘In this sense it is dirt and evil.’
‘Who are you to say, or decide, that?’
‘I’m a normal, healthy, thinking human being.’
‘Who says that?’
‘It’s common sense, man.’ Carmichael’s nostrils flared, anger reflected in his eyes. For a second, Price detected the terrible single-mindedness and destructive will within the man. ‘It’s part of my duty, My role in life …’
‘What’re your qualifications?’
‘Qualifications? A man needs no qualifications to root out evil. A man only needs his conscience.’
‘I would have said you had to provide very high qualifications indeed. A man’s conscience can always be warped. As a professional man I think that you have an obsession with printed and acted sexuality. I think you’re as preoccupied in one way as Lady Dorothy has been in another.’
‘Obsession?’ It was near to a shout. ‘You seem to forget …’
‘Who you are?’ Price kept a level voice. ‘That’s the last thing I forget. I know you too well, Sir Humphrey. I’ve listened to all you have to say, against the context of your marriage; and the sexual content of that hasn’t exactly been a success.’
‘My marriage has nothing …’
‘It has everything to do with it. Sex is evil and evil is sex. That’s your angle, and your inadequacy has fed it for years. In matters of sex I would advise you to take professional advice.’
He thought Carmichael was going to strike him. But the baronet simply rose and turned away, shaking with fury as he left the room.
Price let out a long, frustrated sigh, hoping that Carmichael’s mind would at least be moved from its rutted, stagnant immobility.
*
Dorothy Carmichael kept her normal Thursday appointment with Price. Even the psychiatrist was impressed. She had never looked her age, but now there was a maturity and subtle blend of confidence together with the one thing that had always been missing. Behind her eyes, a hint of happiness. As though the jigsaw had been completed and once the picture was there to see it did not matter any more. The frenzy had departed, like the seven devils, and Dorothy Carmichael’s inner house was fresh and clean.
Their relationship had reached a finely balanced pitch of trust. In any case there was nobody else to whom Dorothy could pour out her experiences. She related the detail of the previous Friday night to Price, like a young girl babbling out a blow by blow account of her voluptuous wedding night onto the innocent private pages of her diary.
Price tried not to let the tension show in his face: the worry and gravity of the new state. For a woman of Dorothy’s age to have her first, true experience of orgasm under such conditions, and after the searching, there were built-in snares. A complete splurge might alter her yet again. A sexual bender could undo all that he had accomplished.
He asked if she was going to see the man again. She had not spoken his name, as if clutching the secret to her.
‘I don’t know his address. He doesn’t know mine. There was such happiness. How can abnormality bring such ...?’
‘There was nothing abnormal about it. It was simply the stimulus you needed. I knew a girl once who. quite innocently asked her father what oral sex was: to be honest she asked him what was the sixty-nine position. He, very wisely, said that it was a method used by people who had got so accustomed to each other that they needed a change. One view. But it pushes out the guilt and the idea of abnormality. You look very relaxed.’
‘I feel different. As if I’d proved something. Like a woman who’s had a child. I felt nothing when Charles and Joan were born. In some way I’ve got more from this.’
Gently, Price led her towards the major problem. The future. Humphrey’s immovable attitude and time-fused mental state.
‘Since you first came to see me, I’ve felt the priority was to get you away from him. Divorce. Separation. Now I wonder. Your husband’s in a disturbed, obsessive condition. Perhaps you could help him.’
A slight smile, her lip curled as though intentionally satirical. ‘I intend to do a little living.’ She looked him steadily in the eye. ‘I mean getting out. Seeing old friends, reap old friends. Opening up my mind to what’s going on outside my private fantasy world.’ She caught the expression on his face. ‘Don’t worry I know a miracle hasn’t happened. I know the wretched itch will return. But now I’m its mistress. I don’t intend to revel in self-pity or do any more damage to my self-respect.’ She stopped, raising her eyebrows in query. ‘Perhaps you think it’s too late?’
‘Far from it. With most human beings it’s almost never too late.’
‘You think I could help Humphrey?’
‘And live a more fruitful life?’
She nodded.
‘It won’t be easy …’
‘That’s obvious. I know that.’
‘He’s a man in chains, walled up inside two lives, political and business; behind the bars of a deluded philosophy. I suppose you might try to lead his mind towards the real evils of our society: neglect, apathy, the hungry loneliness.’
‘I’ve been through that one.’
‘Show him then.’
*
Humphrey was gripped with rage following the clash with Price. His mind seethed, swathed in brilliant, blood-coloured pictures: indescribable and melodramatic inventions of what he would like to do to the man.
For a whole day he found himself immersed in imaginary conversations. Parrying the silky thrusts with destructive logic, battering down the psychiatrist’s word play with silver-tongued eloquence. Indeed, he was angry with himself. He knew his capabilities as an orator and yet, under Price’s verbal lash, his talent had withered. Behind the silent mental dialogue a guilt and feat brooded; unrecognised by Carmichael.
After a couple of days, however, he began to acknowledge to himself that it was of paramount importance to control his emotions: his sparking temper and the self-detonating intolerance.
As summer began to weave its way towards the seasonal apogee, when the dust hung heavy and leaves began to dry on trees, so Humphrey Carmichael started to see the full potential of his private crusade against The Golden Spin. First came the reactions of his chosen operatives, those to whom he had originally written and those with whom he made physical contact at the start after his first reading of Askelon’s book.
They all appeared to be deeply offended by what they called ‘the tastelessness of the work’ and each was pledged to apply pressure within their business, professional and social spheres.
Even Gavin Herod, about whom Carmichael had been uncertain wrote — If I may say so, the whole aura of the book is one of masquerade. I admit that I was surprised when you wrote to me. But while I work in a business which attracts its fair share of vice and immorality I am disturbed when I contemplate this book and others of its type. It is simply sensational fiction setting up as truth. The sex and violence in it are totally repugnant and I will do my small uttermost to help in its suppression in the public interest. To this end I ask for an early private meeting so that we may discuss tactics.
It was a heartening start. Some of the correspondents even wanted action taken before publication of The Golden Spin.
Carmichael’s old friend, Robert Primrose gave his support early on. Now he began to counsel a certain caution.
‘Humphrey,’ he said, ‘I am with you. Completely. But I think you must take care if only to avoid personal disappointment. The Director of Public Prosecutions will, I believe, act against this book only if the circumstances are right.’
‘You mean the public climate?’ They were lunching at Carmichael’s club. An incongruous pair. The portly, pompous-mannered Primrose, and the impressive, almost military, Carmichael.
‘No not just the public climate,’ countered Primrose. ‘He must be pretty sure of his case. First there has to be direct pressure, the kind you are massing so splendidly. I am, myself, aiming for the solid, respectable, middle-road people. The family men and women who’re just facing the teenage problem within their own homes. But all that is relatively simple. People are manipulating protests all the time. For drugs; against drugs; for the pill; against the Pill; abortion …’
‘Must you?’ Carmichael looked sour.
‘It takes time and work, especially in this area where you have to avoid collusion. But, once the protest begins to build, it becomes almost automatic. Or nearly so. The Director can be made to move by the sheer weight of unrelated pressure. But his first move will be one of caution. The law provides its own safeguards. He will take advice. First from the Attorney’s Office, and they, I should imagine, will be swayed by the Treasury. They usually are in matters of this kind. Second, the Director will take literary advice, and that is the advice, Humphrey, that you will have to watch.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought there’d be much problem.’ Irascible. ‘Nobody with any literary integrity is likely to defend a book like The Golden Spin.’
‘Too hasty, Humphrey.’ Primrose wagged a podgy finger. ‘This is where you worry me. Your enthusiasm is so consuming. You are the same in politics. I agree with you; this book should be hounded. I’m not always with you, some of your attacks are ludicrous. The girlie porn shops for instance. The kind of stuff they peddle is to be laughed at not preached over. But this book is different. It is more slimy, because it pretends; it hides under a documentary form, it disguises itself. You’ve got to put your opinions in perspective. Be quite clear. There are those who will argue the literary merits of The Golden Spin.’
Carmichael smiled. ‘I know you and your literary merits, Bob. What is there to argue about?’
‘A great deal more than you can see. Askelon’s no fool in front of an audience. He’ll argue that he’s taken fictional characters and set them against the real background of young America in ferment. In fact he’s already said this. In a magazine interview. One function of the novel is to mirror life. If the mirror image is accurate enough, and the writing of a high standard, then you come up against a weighty literary argument.’
‘My dear Bob, you can’t think ...?’
‘It matters little what I think. For your peace of mind, I think Askelon’s got himself onto a band waggon. He’s written a book which uses a minority situation, and circumstances, to provide spectacular and sensational prose. However, I cannot get away from the fact that for eighty per cent of the time that prose is exceedingly well written. If it were not so, you wouldn’t be in the state you are. Analyse your emotions, Humphrey. Your concern about this book is motivated by the fact that it is vivid and lucid. It has literary impact. Therefore it might have literary merit. QED.’
‘My concern is with its obscenity its violence.’
‘Be reasonable. If this was a nothing book it wouldn’t even have caught your attention. It’s still a best seller in the States.’
‘So is a lot of other rubbish.’
‘I would still advise you to look into its possible literary standing. The Director will put a lot of trust in the literary advice.’
‘Who will he get?’
Primrose sat back, smiling. ‘At last you’re starting to ask the right questions. I don’t know who he’ll get.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I can seek advice, make an intelligent guess. I doubt if they’ll use the Oxford man again. He’ll be an academic certainly. I’ll let you know.’ He grinned, relishing intrigue. ‘And how’s Dorothy?’
*
Eventually, June managed to persuade John Sutton to take a shore holiday. She pushed him into it tenderly, pointing out that the Autumn would be citing and trying. In the end, Sutton even imagined that the idea to take Martha and Dominic with him had been his own.
Ten days in the second and third weeks of August. Ibiza. A common enough ground where he could hide among the spread fits and fat guts of the package tours.
June was relieved when the decision had been made and tickets bought the obvious melancholy of a complete breakdown was upon him. Even a short rime in new surroundings with different fears, might accomplish wonders. Now she longed to be alone. To have time, rest and freedom.
*
Two days after their luncheon conversation, Robert Primrose telephoned Humphrey Carmichael.
‘I have details of the most promising candidate,’ said Primrose.
‘Who?’
‘A late starter. Fifty-eight year old Cambridge English don. Came up with a brilliant book last year, Trends In The Modern Novel. You should read it.’
‘Who is he? Where can I get hold of him?’
‘The University’s down at the moment of course, but I have his private address. His name is Scholes. Dr Irving Scholes.’
That night, Carmichael wrote to Dr Irving Scholes enclosing a copy of The Golden Spin.
*
Charles Carmichael was a wilful young man, and his wilfulness had brought with it a great self-indulgence. It had been so since his earliest days, when he discovered there was only one person you could trust, and that was yourself. From his preparatory school onwards, Charles used people. When he thought about it, he knew the attitude stemmed from the fact that he had learned a simple, cynical truth. If you did not use people, inevitably they would use you.
He was an expert professional in his job. After all, he used his father to gain an important place within the organisation, and he used that place to make his future secure.
He used his wife, Pamela, as an ornament. It was on their honeymoon that he discovered she was not sexually useful, and cursed himself for having studiously withheld his bedroom talents before their marriage. But Pamela was pliable. He could manipulate her with the agility of a skilful potter. In the few years of their marriage he had run rings round her, taking one casual mistress after another. His creative urge contained a large share of sexual drive, and that also had to be used: on fast cars; living just within the safe side of the danger line; and on women.
On this particular evening the woman was a blonde of considerable beauty. Her name, Connie Bowes, had been linked with many men in the past, but this did not worry Charles. It was strictly a one night affair. Dinner at the Mirabelle. A visit to La Bourse, Gavin Herod’s best gaming club in Mayfair (Gavin Herod was another person to use). Later, there would be a visit to Miss Bowes apartment.
La Bourse has a limited membership and high turnover. The atmosphere is expensive, sexual, unemotional. All the things a gaming club needs to lure clients. Charles and his companion spent an hour at the tables and came away eighty pounds richer. They now sat at a table in the bar where Charles was just bringing the conversation round to the evening’s final entertainment when Gavin Herod approached.
‘Charles, nice to see you.’ Herod smiled thinly in the direction of Connie.
