An Uncivilised Election

by John Creasey

  After a long pause, Gideon said, “All I can do is try.”

  7: Sex Special

  At the top of the two “special” pages in the Daily Globe was a bold declaration of policy. This read:

  The Daily Globe admits there is such a thing as sex.

  It believes that sex motivates human life.

  It believes that within the ordinary bounds of human decency and dignity, which amount to the same thing, sex should be fully and frankly featured in a great national newspaper.

  When Fred Wilcox went whistling into the garage where he worked he noticed two of the attendants and another mechanic staring at him, and saw one of them fold up the newspaper surreptitiously. He took no notice. He was at peace with the world, with only a faint shadow in his mind – that Effie wasn’t quite herself now that she was with child. That was the phrase he used to himself; he had a dislike of the word “pregnant,” feeling that it was faintly improper. If anyone here wanted to start a fight, they had only to talk in his hearing of Effie’s being “in the family way.” He was a mixture of old-fashioned puritanism and modern tolerance, and at no time did he try to analyse his own emotions; he simply knew how he felt, and acted accordingly.

  Effie seemed well enough, he thought, but something seemed to be frightening her. Last night he had told himself that he would have to get his mother to come and stay for a few days and help Effie over this patch. After all, it was her first – but if he knew anything it wouldn’t be her last! – and it was only natural she should be worried. He went to his locker, where he kept his overalls and a few odds and ends; beneath the main compartment was a small one, always locked, where he kept his tools; but the upper section was unlocked.

  He opened it, and a folded newspaper fell out.

  “Funny,” he said to himself, and stooped to pick it up. He was half aware of a couple of apprentices hovering near the locker-room door, but didn’t give them a thought; they often got into a huddle to tell filthy jokes, knowing that he wasn’t interested and would tear a strip off them if they told their stories in his hearing. He put the newspaper, the Daily Globe, on a bench as he took off his overcheck sports jacket and slipped into the brown coverall. The apprentices were whispering. He picked up the newspaper, for it was five minutes to eight, and he had a few minutes’ grace before work. He always read the Globe because Effie liked it, but their copy wasn’t delivered until after he had left for work. He skimmed through this one, looking for the political news. There was a double-page spread, headed:

  WHO WILL GET YOUR VOTE?

  NOMINATION DAY – YOUR

  FUTURE AT STAKE

  He scanned the list of candidates in what the newspaper called the “decisive constituencies” where the winning margin had been less than 4,000 votes, picked out his own candidate, rubbed his hands, spoke half aloud – as he often did – “I’ll have to spend a bit of time on this job. Hope it won’t worry Effie if I’m out at nights.” He was looking forward to the rough and tumble of meetings and the cut and thrust of question and answer, and his spirits were high when he turned the next page.

  On it were four photographs, each of a woman.

  One was Effie’s.

  He stood absolutely still, holding the paper by the sides. It did not even shake. The colour, red in his cheeks when he had first seen the picture, slowly faded, leaving him an unhealthy pallor. Someone whispered, “Shurrup!” Someone giggled. He was aware of things but they seemed to have nothing to do with him. All he could see was a misty greyness in front of his eyes. The photographs had vanished, as if cut off by fog. Then, slowly, the newspaper began to shake, as his hands trembled, and he could not stop them. Effie looked up at him, in a funny, startled way. He knew that expression very well; it was the one she always had when she was taken by surprise. He had seen it frequently when they had first come to know each other, and he had taken a delight in jumping on her when she was least expecting it.

  He began to move his lips together, as if they were dry.

  He read:

  VICTIMS OF BOGUS DOCTOR

  He clenched his teeth until his jaws hurt, and made himself read. It was all there. The places where the bogus doctor had worked, the number of people he was known to have “examined,” the doctors for whom he had acted as locum tenens, the names of seventeen women and the photographs of four.

  Effie.

  Mrs. Effie Wilcox of Flat 5, Hilton Street, Sydenham. Mrs. Wilcox is soon to have her first child.

  Effie!

  One of the four young garage hands, who knew that the newspaper had been put into the locker and were watching for the reaction, backed away from the door, half shamefaced.

  “Let’s pack it in,” he said.

  “It’s gone too far,” an older one said.

  “Look at him,” another still gloated, hardly able to choke back his glee. “That’ll teach him, the narrow-minded ape. That’ll teach—”

  He broke off.

  “Look out!” a fourth man cried in a high-pitched voice.

  Fred Wilcox swung round and stormed toward them, newspaper in one hand, fist clenched. His eyes were glittering, he looked as if he would kill anyone who got in his way. The four men backed off, one of them tripped over an old tire and staggered against the wall. Wilcox did not seem to see any of them. He pushed past the works manager, who had just come in.

  “Wilcox! What’s up?”

  Wilcox heard him and ignored him. His pale-blue motor scooter, with the red pillion for Effie, was parked at the side of the garage. He straddled it. He kept the keys in his trousers pocket, and fished them out. The manager came hurrying across.

  “Fred, what’s up?”

  He went roaring off. The manager, baffled, turned round and saw the four who had been near the locker room moving towards their benches. No one explained. He went into his office, where a girl of eighteen with lovely legs and an ugly, pimply face said:

  “Good morning, Mr. Robson.”

  “What’s happened to Fred Wilcox, do you know?”

  “If you ask me, this is what’s happened to Mrs. Fred Wilcox,” said the girl. She pushed a copy of the Daily Globe in front of the manager.

  Effie saw Fred arrive, from the front-room window. She was still suffering from shock, and was shivering uncontrollably. She felt terribly cold. She couldn’t think. She heard Fred rushing up the stairs, heard his key click against the lock. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing her fluffy pink dressing gown, her figure not yet hinting at the child within her, pathetic, pale, with huge eyes and colourless lips.

  Fred slammed the door.

  “What the hell’s been going on?” he demanded in a quivering voice. “Come on, out with it. What’s been going on?”

  She tried to speak his name, but the sound would not come and her lips hardly moved.

  “Listen, I want to know what’s been going on.” He pulled the newspaper from his pocket, folded to the Sex Special pages, folded over again so that her photograph and that of an older woman showed. “Who took this?”

  Now Effie’s voice came, croaking: “A-a-a man—”

  “I bet it was a man! Who was he? Come on, tell me his name. I’ll break his neck. I’ll smash his face in. Who was it?”

  “F-F-Fred—” she stammered.

  He sprang up to her and grabbed her arms. “Who was the swine? How come you told him all about the phony doctor and didn’t tell me? Eh? How about that? How long have you known about him? My God, it’s bad enough being messed about by a real doctor, but a phony—Let’s have it! What have you been hiding?” He shook her vigorously. “What’s been going on?”

  “N-n-n-nothing,” she managed to mutter. “Fred, listen—”

  “Nothing! You can stand there and say ‘nothing’ – if it was nothing, why didn’t you tell me about it? Eh? Answer that. This happened three weeks ago, didn’t it? Three weeks ago, and you’ve known all this time and you told this swine of a photographer and lied to me about it.”

  “I
didn’t lie!” Her voice was suddenly strong. “Don’t say I lied to you.”

  “You didn’t, didn’t you? Well, you didn’t say anything to me about it, did you? How long have you known? Come on, tell me.” He was gripping her soft arms very tightly and shaking her with every word.

  “Fred—”

  “Don’t stand there Freding me!”

  “Fred, let me go.”

  “If you don’t answer me—”

  “Fred, if you don’t let me go I shall scream and bring Mrs. Mullery up here,” she threatened. “You’re hurting me.”

  He stood still, holding but no longer shaking her, and she returned the furious glare in his eyes with a deliberate gaze which seemed to quiet him. His grip relaxed. Slowly he let her go. He did not look away from her, but the fury had died and a kind of anguish replaced it in his eyes.

  “What happened, Eff? You’ve got to tell me.”

  “If you’ll listen quietly and stop shouting, I’ll tell you.” She was surprised at her own self-control, by the fact that her voice could be so clear. “I must sit down, even if you don’t.”

  She sat on the couch and put her legs up, while Fred began to walk about the room. She told him exactly what had happened, and tried to tell him why she had not been able to confide in him, but she knew that she wasn’t really making him understand.

  “If only you’d told me,” he kept saying. And then: “If I ever get my hands on him I’ll kill the swine, and if I catch up with that photographer I’ll break his neck. Why didn’t you smash his camera, that’s what I want to know?”

  “I was too frightened,” Effie said simply.

  She could not explain, because she was only vaguely aware of the fact that her fear had been of him, Fred. She was beginning to realize that in this crisis she had kept her nerve. There had been a trial of strength and she had won; although she was aware of this, she was also conscious of the fact that Fred might explode again. There was something peculiar about him, both in the expression in his eyes and the twist of his lips.

  But when he left an hour later he seemed outwardly calm.

  For the first time in their married life he did not kiss her goodbye.

  That same morning, all over Great Britain, men and women (in a proportion of about a hundred men to one woman) were going with their chief nominators and seconders, to the mayors’ parlours of the land, or to the offices of the chairmen of the urban and of rural districts councils. Some of these were as gracious as the drawing rooms of great palaces, others were as humble as any small parlour. Some were in huge civic buildings erected since the war, square edifices of stone and glass. Others were in converted Georgian or Victorian houses, once private homes, now council offices where the chairmen of the smallest councils presided. The hearts of many candidates were pounding as they waited to accept nomination for candidacy of the constituency. Men and women from all the major parties, seven from the Fight for Peace Committee, five Q Men, one Anti-noise candidate, fourteen Communist candidates, fifty-one Independents and one World Government, seven Welsh Nationalists and four Home Rule for Scotland candidates – all of these met their respective opponents, shook hands, had a drink at the mayor’s expense (or that of his corporation, and so the electors) and signified their willingness to stand and to accept the rules of the contest and the laws of England. It was all very friendly. Only a dozen or so of the candidates refused to shake hands, and stalked out the moment the formalities were over.

  At each simple ceremony the press was present.

  Outside each room and outside each building, be it local council or city guildhall, policemen waited or plodded or conferred, the outward symbol of a law which gave the people democracy. In certain places where the F.F.P. and the Q candidates were nominated, more police were in evidence, while substantial numbers were held in reserve, discreetly out of sight, in case there was. a clash after the nominations between supporters on each side. There were three scuffles, and a few discordant loudspeaker arguments which warned the people of the vicinity what to expect when the election really hotted up.

  “But that’s all,” Parsons reported to Gideon, at half past five. “Nothing to worry about. It went off almost too quietly.”

  “Good start’s half the battle,” said Gideon sententiously. He looked down the list which Parsons had brought to his office. Lemaitre had gone home early for some special date with his wife. After a desperately unhappy marriage, Lemaitre had fallen in love and married again and it now looked as if his marital future was set fair. “What about Quatrain?”

  “No trouble.”

  “Hetherington and Corby?”

  “I’ve got a feeling that those two ex-Labour party chaps are going to have their work cut out to hold their seats,” said Parsons. “It’s one thing to support the F.F.P. movement when you’re safely in and you’ve got official party support, quite another to persuade the electors to put you back as Independents so that you can try to ban the bomb. I gather that Conservatives and Labour are going to send their big guns down to both constituencies.”

  Gideon nodded.

  “Will they also try to unseat Quatrain?”

  “According to Littleton, who’s got the ear of some of the shrewdest political journalists in Fleet Street, they think they would be wiser to put up weak opponents against him. They feel that he’s probably safer in the House than out. But he’s got a very lively Independent against him, and he might have his work cut out.”

  Roland Quatrain did not think, did not dream, he would have any trouble in regaining his seat. He left Williton Town Hall after the nomination that day and saw fifty of his supporters drawn up outside to welcome him. They formed a solid square of men in a kind of uniform, shiny black leather motorcycle jackets and black knee breeches. On the back of each jacket was a white Q. On the far side of the square near the Town Hall was a larger group of people carrying Fight for Peace banners and posters. These were in no kind of order, but were an untidy, ill-assorted, bedraggled-looking lot of men and women of all shapes and sizes. Quatrain then knew that there was a real risk of a conflict, and that he could cause one with a word. He called Dave Smith, his chief aide, and said pleasantly but authoritatively: “Keep our men away from the F.F.P. crowd, David. We don’t want any trouble today.”

  “I don’t know that it will be easy to hold them,” Smith objected. He meant he did not want to, for he was not only militant but hotheaded. He had one gift which made him invaluable to Quatrain: he was a brilliant organizer.

  “Of course you can hold them,” Quatrain said. “If there is any trouble today, we shall be blamed for it. We don’t want the electors to think that we’re indifferent to democracy, do we?”

  “Democracy!”

  “This isn’t the place or the time for making speeches in favour of a benevolent dictatorship,” Quatrain told him. “And you know it as well as I do. Make sure there’s no trouble.”

  Smith’s eyes were glistening.

  “How about chairing you off?” he suggested. “We could carry you round the square and bring you back to the car. It’s sure to hit the headlines, too. And if those weak-kneed babysitters over there want to start anything, it would be their fault.”

  Quatrain, renowned for his split-second decisions, said: “Very well.”

  Smith hurried away.

  When Robert Talmad, the Independent candidate, came down the Town Hall steps with Rowden the Labour man and Saunders the Conservative, he saw the two groups, heard Dave Smith’s voice, and hoped that Smith would start something. One fracas now would be worth hundreds if not thousands of votes for him. However, instead of leading a rush at the undisciplined-looking lot of F.F.P. supporters, with their rain-washed and dilapidated banners, the Q Men swooped upon their leader. On the instant, photographers snapped into action; there was a rush of nonpartisan sightseers come to see the two groups and now drawn toward Quatrain’s Rolls Royce. With startling precision, Quatrain was hoisted on the shoulders of two enormous men wearing shiny black
jackets. Other Q Men fell into line behind them, four abreast, like a storm troop. They began singing their “battle song”:

  Quat-Quat-Quat-rain

  Cast your vote for Quatrain

  He will make us great again.

  Quat-Quat-Quat-rain.

  The portly, red-faced mayor of Williton, one of the more wealthy London residential boroughs, stood by Talmad’s side.

  “That didn’t do you any good, Bob.”

  Talmad, tall, in his middle thirties, with a public school and university background and a family almost as good as Quatrain’s, smiled, shook his head, and remarked: “Quatrain’s no fool.”

  “Think you’ve got a chance?”

  “Yes, now that he’s Independent and has no Conservative support. If we can lure him into making one major mistake I’ll beat him,” Talmad said. “But you’d better be careful, you’re not supposed to take sides.”

  “I should think not,” chimed in the Conservative.

  “Wouldn’t like to have to make a complaint against the Returning Officer,” joked the Labour man.

  Parsons’ sergeant, on duty at this key spot, heard all this, reported it faithfully, and also gave as his opinion that the first blood in the Williton campaign had been drawn by Quatrain.

  “Of course,” the sergeant said, “it helps that he’s got a lot of support from right-wing newspapers.”

  The uniformed men from the local division reported that everything had gone off without incident.

  Gideon, knowing all this, felt in a reasonably contented frame of mind when he reached home. Kate, who had benefited almost as much as he had from the holiday, was in the garden, sweeping up after Malcolm had cut the lawn. The scent of the grass was almost ambrosial. The chrysanthemums had been watered, and some small copper-coloured blooms were beginning to catch the eye.