"A devastating bomb attack outside a popular nightclub in Bali has killed scores of patrons, many of them Australians," said the news presenter. "A number of British tourists are also believed to have been killed or wounded. Our reporter is at the scene."
"A powerful car bomb exploded without warning outside the Sari Club, just down the road from where I am standing, shortly after 7 p.m. local time, killing or wounding hundreds of people," George heard an Australian voice saying. "According to police reports, the carnage started when a suicide attacker detonated a bomb in his backpack outside Paddy's Pub, across the street from the Sari Club in Kuta Beach, a popular haunt with young travellers.
After the first bomb exploded, patrons fled into the street. Fifteen seconds later a second, more powerful car bomb hidden inside a white Mitsubishi van was detonated by a second suicide bomber directly outside the nightclub, killing or wounding hundreds of people. Damage to the densely populated residential district was extensive over several blocks, destroying buildings and shattering windows. The explosion left a crater one meter deep. I'm two hundred meters from the site of the blast, but even from here it is possible to see the extent of the damage," the reporter continued, his voice calm, professional, totally devoid of emotion. "Smashed roof tiles and window glass are strewn everywhere. Before the area was cordoned off by police I managed to get close. I saw bodies being pulled from the ruins, flip flops in the rubble, a white orchid, the random detritus of those who died."
"Oh my God, Pem," he thought. "But she doesn't go to night clubs. She wouldn't. It couldn't be." Just then, his phone rang.
"Thank God, it's her," he thought. But it was not. It was the British High Commissioner in Denpasar. He was sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
Pem Surjani had been among the passers-by killed in the Bali night club explosion. Her remains had been identified by her family and turned over to them for burial.
He was too shocked to cry. He threw a few things into a suitcase and got a cab to the airport, catching the first available flight to Bali. He barely remembers how he got there. On arrival, 23 hours later, he took a cab to the scene, which was cordoned off behind police tape, still smoking, and there the full weight of the tragedy struck him. He wept, not only for Pem, his beloved wife, but for all the dead. His shoulders shook uncontrollably and tears coursed down his cheeks.
Years passed. In the efficient Indonesian way, those responsible for the bombings were tracked down, tried, convicted and executed by firing squad, but their deaths brought no closure for George. Even now, five years later, he regularly visits the memorial to the victims of the bombings at Clive Steps, across from St. James's Park. He runs his fingers across the surface of the marble globe on which are engraved 202 doves, one for each of the dead, and he reads her name and those of all the others carved into a stone wall behind it.
Chapter Three
In a classroom on the third floor of the City of Westminster Trade, Technical and Performing Arts College on the Kings Road, Chelsea, George Aloysius Brown, recently retired as municipal manager Putney & District, occupies a desk at the back of the class and daydreams of making love to his late wife. In his mind's eye he is stroking her lovely Balinese bottom which is wriggling for the sheer joy of his undivided attention.
"And that brings me to George…"
Hearing his name jolts him back to reality.
The talented – and much lauded – poet Wanda Gravely, once short-listed for the job of Britain's poet laureate, is delivering her end of term analysis on the collected short stories of her students in Creative Writing 101.
"George," he hears her saying, "your story about a whistle-blower who prevents an unscrupulous developer from building condos on the last existing wetlands in Putney, is well written, nicely structured but, frankly, a little on the predictable side.
"You were a civil servant, yourself, were you not, weights and measures, wasn't it?" It was not, but George nods in agreement anyway as at this precise moment he is mentally measuring her breasts, finding them of perfect proportions, revealing in a purple tank top just enough of their contours to attract attention short of inciting civil unrest.
Oblivious to the scrutiny of the man from town hall, Wanda continues her critical analysis.
"Your story, George, could have been pulled from the files, under W for whistle-blowers." For emphasis, she adopts the mellifluous tones of a narrator for a TV documentary: 'The shocking story of a how a cover-up of regulatory infractions led to the extinction of the spotted two-toed frog.' May I remind you this is a creative writing class, George? Isn't that why you're here? You write well, but you need to give flight to your imagination." Here the lovely Wanda sweeps her arms in the air like a condor about to take flight and takes a bound across the classroom. "You need to step outside your comfort zone, George. Try your hand at writing something completely different, something outlandish. I'm thinking Lady Chatterley's Lover, I'm thinking, Portnoy's Complaint, Story of O. I don't know, write some… pornography."
The class howls with laughter.
George Aloysius Brown, the Pimlico Pornographer, they love it. His classmates couldn't imagine a more unlikely scenario. But George's dander was up, not to mention the little fella, which in George's fevered imagination had been rudely interrupted from impending coitus and was now straining at its moorings in a most disconcerting way.
"I shall take your recommendation under advisement, Miss Gravely," he says, pausing momentarily for dramatic effect. He would have risen from his desk and stretched to his full height, but under the circumstances thought it prudent to remain seated. "Ms. Gravely, in the interests of etymological derivation and its devolvement into modern-day usage, would you say it as one word or two?"
"What? Pornography?"
"No, blow job."
The class howls with laughter.
"I wouldn't say it at all, George." This gets a few chuckles. Wanda pauses. "I was taught never to speak with my mouth full."
They are still laughing as they collect their evaluations and file from the room. An
attractive 20-something redhead, he knows only as Catherine, taps him on the shoulder. "Nice one, George," she says. She smiles. "You might want to take a look at this. I'm going for it."
And she was gone.
George fumbles for his reading glasses and perches them on his nose.
"A prize of £20,000 from an anonymous benefactor will be awarded to the first graduate of the City of Westminster Trade, Technical and Performing Arts College creative writing class 101 to have novel commercially published. For more details and an application form, go to our website at…"
George stuffed it in his pocket. Right now, he's ready for a beer. Thursday night is pub night for a group of his mates at the Marquis of Westminster, a short walk from the college. He orders a pint of bitter at the bar, takes a long sip, and wanders over to join them, a raucous gathering already in progress. There is a chorus of "Here he is. George, good to see you, mate." And they are pleased to see him. The banter always ramps up a notch when George is in the house.
"How was school? Did teacher keep you after class?" George the would-be writer is someone they can have a bit of fun with.
"As a matter of fact Miss Gravely was fulsome in her praise of my literary talents although not overly enamored of the content. She suggested I write pornography." Predictably this is greeted with hoots of derision. George expects no less. The little fella will be in for a merciless wigging.
"Porn? You, George? You must be joking. Hope you've got a long memory. You'll need all your fevered imagination."
Ha ha ha.
"I can see it now, adapted from a short story by George Aloysius Brown, Strep Throat, staring Woosie Galore."
Ha ha ha. The boys are in full cry.
George sips his pint and greets these jibes with sanguine amusement. He loves to make them laugh. Ironically what he doesn't like is pornography. He hates the violence, the lack of subtlety, the aggression, the total di
srespect to men and women, the sordidness of it, soiled sheets under sticky studio lighting, the appalling acting, the clumsy copulation, you couldn't call it love making, more like cage fighting than making love. He can never find what personally excites him – love spanking, spanking as foreplay, as role playing, builder of exquisite sexual tension, facilitator of lust. The sites he has been to on the internet were clumsy and bruising, literally – more about brutality and inflicting pain than tactile stimulation that always led to passionate love making. He felt cheapened and diminished by watching. He would do better, he would put the joy back into it. The thing was, where to begin his research? Just then he spotted the redhead from his class sitting alone in a corner booth. Excusing himself from his group, he strolled over and raised his glass.
"Thanks for the heads up on the competition. Winning 20k would keep me in beer for a year or two."
"Me too," she says. "Are you going for it?"
"I don't know, maybe. You say you are."
"Absolutely. I could hear all the laughter from your table. I suppose everybody was ribbing you about writing porn. I actually think it's not a bad idea."
"Really?"
"Yes, erotica doesn't have to be disgusting, does it? One person's pornography is another person's literature. Lady Chatterley's Lover, for example, was considered pornographic and its publisher was famously charged with obscenity until vindicated in a famous trial in 1961. Writing erotica will position you in a niche market, which probably increases your chances of being published."
"That's a thought. What about you, what genre, if that's the word, will you chose?"
"Romance. I'm an incurable romantic. 'With a single bound he was by her side'– you know, that sort of thing. Did you know Pandora Books employs scores of writers? Do you know how many titles they publish a year? Dozens. They are constantly searching for new material. Writing a Pandora is a science. The formula is available on their website. By the way, I'm Catherine, Catherine Mallory Jones. I'm pleased to meet you."
"George Brown. Likewise. Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure, vodka tonic, no ice."
When George got back from the bar he squeezed in beside her. His mates regarded him enviously. How does a pudgy little retired civil servant have such success with gorgeous women, they are thinking. George knew what they were thinking and gave them a dismissive little wave.
"Wanda's great isn't she?" he said as he settled in and took a sip of his beer. "Have you read much of her stuff?"
"I've read it all, actually. She's awesome. I read poetry and I write poetry, although I suppose I read more than I write. Right now I'm writing my final exams at Cambridge."
"And then?"
"I've got a job in advertising here in London. My friends think I've sold my soul."
George smiled. His mates had all said the same thing when he told them he was going to be a civil servant.
"Nothing wrong with advertising," he assured her. "A clever ad is a thing of beauty, information in its purest form, the best words in the best order, isn't that what they say about poetry?"
"Yes, they do. Actually, advertising can be very creative. But probably the civil service is too. I've seen some of your employment ads. What on earth is a 'special events coordinating facilities adjuster?' That's one I saw this morning. Whatever it is, it pays fifty grand. Who makes this stuff up?"
George laughed.
"Where I worked we had a whole department inventing obscure job positions that nobody ever fills. We need them to boost our projected payroll to justify a municipal tax increase."
She smiled.
"What happens if people actually apply?"
"Well, if they phone, we put 'em through a sequence of punching 27 numbers, 'for service in Hindi, press 4,' etc. This takes about 15 minutes. Eventually, they get through to a recording entirely in Urdu. Otherwise, we send them a form letter: We're sorry, the position has already been adjustified."
"And if the job is 'interim assistant rodent eradicator?'"
"We tell 'em the position has already been eradicated."
Catherine laughed. She didn't believe a word he was saying.
It was her round and she went to the bar.
When she got back, George was ready with a proposition.
"Tell you what," he said. "Suppose we work as a team, help each other, critiquing each other's work. If one of us gets published we share the prize 50-50. It's still a lot of money."
"That's actually not a bad idea," she said. "Between the two of us we have the niche markets pretty well sewn up. Two tickets for the lottery are better than one."
"Have you ever written a novel before?"
"No. You?"
"A few short stories, but nothing I've submitted for publication. You say you write poetry, any luck there?"
"I've been published in the university mag, but nothing more exciting than that. Writing a novel would be a first for me. It can't be that difficult. I imagine it's like pottery and I've done a ton of that. You have a thing in mind that want to create. You form it and shape it. Then you keep throwing clay at it and spinning the wheel."
George laughed. He liked the analogy.
"How are you with deadlines?" he asked her.
"I'm okay with them. I do my best work under pressure."
"Okay, so let's say we stay in touch. We each work on a detailed outline, write a couple of sample chapters and six months from now if we both still agree we have a realistic shot, we take it from there, finish the job. If not, we go our separate ways. Deal?"
"Deal."
They clinked classes and drank to it. They would be partners not competitors. George liked that. He liked Catherine. She reminded him of Pem, or how he had imagined her, when she was that age. And Catherine liked George, she liked a man she could have a good laugh with. And it's always useful to have friends at town hall.
Next morning, as he left his flat in Pimlico to begin his research, he felt strangely elated. His destination was London Olympia and the opening day of what was billed as the world's largest erotica exhibition. It promised to lay out before him "the entire spectrum of human sexuality" and all for twenty-five quid admission. Yet despite the anticipation he felt and the promise – the promise of what, he wondered – it was the journey not the destination that excited him. For the first time in years George had a real job, a project. He was no longer a retired civil servant. He was a writer. And if he was going to write erotic literature after a lengthy absence as it were from the field of play, he could do worse than to get acquainted with what's out there.
But what should he wear? How do you dress appropriately for the entire spectrum of human sexuality? A suit seemed too formal, a blazer too sporty and a raincoat, well, too pervy. He settled on beige corduroy trousers, a blue and white striped shirt and a suede jacket he had bought 20 years ago in Istanbul when he attended a conference on new engineering concepts in storm water drainage. Over the decades the jacket had lost its buttons, but George felt the unbuttoned look to be slightly rakish and he wore with it his best fedora, the one that been blown off by the wind and run over by a yellow cab two years ago in Brooklyn leaving tire marks and a crease in the brim that mercifully had all but healed.
He felt prepared for anything as he joined the throng on Wilton Road hurrying towards Victoria Station. Draped around his neck was the broad strap of his notebook computer now securely stowed under his jacket and in his pocket there was a ballpoint pen and stenographers' notebook with which he would jot down his impressions.
"Olympia, here I come," he said to himself.
On arrival he followed the signs to the Grand Hall where he joined a queue that was already forming behind a man wearing a top hat and a black felt smoking jacket. In his right hand the man carried a silver-topped cane and in his left a blue sports bag as if later he might go for a jog. George hopped from foot to foot, not in anticipation of acres of erotica, but because he needed a bathroom. Behind him was a scruffy young man in a wheelchair clutchi
ng a bouquet of red roses extravagantly tied with ribbon. The young man's stockinged toes poked out incongruously through the frayed ruin of his runners.
As advertised, the doors opened precisely at noon and the crowd fanned out into the red carpeted exhibition hall. Towering overhead suspended on wires were two giant inflatable figures, one male one female, both naked, positioned as if tumbling or about to fall to their knees. Vast breasts bore down on George from above and buttocks the size of hot air balloons thrust upwards towards the glass domed ceiling. He took one astonished look and hurried in search of the facilities. Thus, greatly relieved, he dug out his notebook from his jacket pocket and embarked on a journey of discovery.
First thing: Oh dear, something called the Rackmaster, apparently the latest thing in suburban torture. George would have liked to have started with something a little gentler, but there it was front and center framed by a plasterboard wall papered in a faux stone motif that George could only describe as early dungeon. Beside it, looking bored, a man with a heavily bandaged index finger pecked away at a portable calculator. George wondered if the damaged digit had somehow got squashed in the Rackmaster. He felt sure that, like the spice cabinet he had once bought from Ikea, some assembly was required if the Rackmaster were to realize its full potential and in any event it was not immediately obvious how the device might be operated. But just as he was about to consult a brochure presented to him by a bandaged hand, a young woman in a skimpy gold lame bikini accompanied by a white-haired man dressed entirely in black obligingly arrived to demonstrate. Carefully and precisely, like a homeless person assuming proprietorship of a park bench, she lay on the rack to await her fate. It was not long coming. The man in black spread her legs and bound her ankles with the Rackmaster's imposing leather restraints. Thus spread-eagled, her head and arms were imprisoned in what looked to George like the mediaeval stocks in a village square. From his vantage point he noted that in such a position the poor girl's bikini offered little in the way of privacy quite possibly in violation of several workplace bylaws, but just as he was recording this observation in his notebook she started to giggle. Perhaps, he thought, she was being tickled to death. "Wot you larfin' for?" said the man in black, not unkindly. "You're s'posed to be in agony."
Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown Page 5
