Indecent Exposure

by Tom Sharpe

  From the terrace Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon watched them leave with a feeling of sadness. ‘To part is to die a little,’ she murmured and went to join the Colonel who was staring morosely into a tank of tropical fish where the Kommandant’s drink was already producing some unusual effects.

  ‘So that’s how poor Willy went,’ said the Colonel.

  *

  As they drove into Weezen the Kommandant cursed himself for his own stupidity.

  ‘I might have known Verkramp would foul things up,’ he thought and ordered Els to stop at the local police station. The information he was given there did nothing to restore his confidence.

  ‘They do what?’ he asked in astonishment when the Sergeant in charge told him that Piemburg had been invaded by hordes of self-detonating ostriches.

  ‘Fly in at night in their hundreds,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘That’s a damned lie for a start,’ shouted the Kommandant. ‘Ostriches don’t fly. They can’t.’

  He went back to the car and told Els to drive on. Whatever ostriches could or couldn’t do, one thing was sure. Something had happened in Piemburg to cut the city off from the outside world. The telephone lines had been dead for days.

  As the car hurtled along the dirt road towards the head of the Rooi Nek Pass, Kommandant van Heerden had the feeling that he was leaving an idyllic world of peace and sanity and heading back into an inferno of violence at the centre of which sat the diabolical figure of Luitenant Verkramp. He was so immersed in his own thoughts that it only occurred to him once or twice to tell Els not to drive so damned dangerously.

  At Sjambok the impression of imminent catastrophe was increased by the news that the road bridges had been blown outside Piemburg. At Voetsak he learnt that the Sewage Disposal plant had been destroyed. After that the Kommandant decided not to stop any more but to drive straight through to Piemburg.

  An hour later as they drove down the hill from Imperial View they came to the first tangible evidence of sabotage.

  A road block had been set up at the temporary bridge erected to replace the one destroyed by Verkramp’s secret agents. The Kommandant got out to inspect the damage while a konstabel searched the car.

  ‘Got to make a personal check too,’ said the konstabel before the Kommandant could explain who he was and ran his hands over the Kommandant’s breeches with a thoroughness that was surprising.

  ‘Only obeying orders, sir,’ said the konstabel when the Kommandant snarled that he wasn’t likely to keep high explosives there. Kommandant van Heerden scrambled into the car. ‘And change your shaving lotion,’ he shouted. ‘You stink to high heaven.’

  They drove on into the city and the Kommandant was appalled to notice two konstabels walking down the pavement hand in hand.

  ‘Stop the car,’ the Kommandant told Els and got out.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted at the two konstabels.

  ‘We’re on patrol, sir,’ said the men in unison.

  ‘What? Holding hands?’ screamed the Kommandant. ‘Do you want the general public to think you’re fucking queers?’

  The two konstabels let go of one another and the Kommandant got back into the car.

  ‘What the hell’s been going on round here?’ he muttered.

  In the front seat Konstabel Els smiled to himself. There had been some changes in Piemburg since he’d last been there. He was beginning to think he was going to enjoy being in the South African Police again.

  By the time they arrived at the Police Station the Kommandant was in a vile temper.

  ‘Send me the Acting Kommandant,’ he shouted at the konstabel at the Duty desk and went upstairs wondering if his imagination was playing him up or there had been a suggestive leer on the man’s face. The first impression that there had been a breakdown of discipline was confirmed by the state of the Kommandant’s office. The windows had no glass in them and ashes from the grate had blown all over the room. The Kommandant was just staring at the mess when there was a knock and Sergeant Breitenbach entered.

  ‘What in the name of hell has been happening round here?’ the Kommandant yelled at the Sergeant who was not, he was relieved to note, exhibiting any signs of queerness.

  ‘Well, sir—’ he began but the Kommandant interrupted him.

  ‘What do I find when I come back?’ he screamed in a voice that made the Duty Konstabel wince on the floor below and several passers-by stop in the street. ‘Poofters. Bombs. Exploding ostriches. Do they mean anything to you?’ Sergeant Breitenbach nodded. ‘I thought they fucking might. I go away on holiday and the next thing I hear is that there’s an outbreak of sabotage. Road bridges being blown up. No telephones. Konstabels walking about hand in hand and now this. My own office in a shambles.’

  ‘That was the ostriches, sir,’ mumbled the Sergeant.

  Kommandant van Heerden slumped into a chair and held his head. ‘Dear God. It’s enough to drive a man out of his mind.’

  ‘It has, sir,’ said the Sergeant miserably.

  ‘Has what?’

  ‘Driven a man out of his mind, sir. Luitenant Verkramp, sir.’

  The name Verkramp shook the Kommandant out of his reverie.

  ‘Verkramp!’ he yelled. ‘Wait till I lay my hands on the swine. I’ll crucify the bastard. Where is he?’

  ‘In Fort Rapier, sir. He’s off his rocker.’

  Kommandant van Heerden absorbed the information slowly.

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘He’s got religious mania, sir. Thinks he’s God.’

  The Kommandant stared at him disbelievingly. The notion that any man could think he was God when his creation was as chaotic as Verkramp’s had so obviously been seemed inconceivable.

  ‘Thinks he’s God?’ he mumbled. ‘Verkramp?’

  Sergeant Breitenbach had given the matter some thought.

  ‘I think that’s how the trouble started,’ he explained. ‘He wanted to show what he could do.’

  ‘He’s done that all right,’ said the Kommandant limply, looking round his office.

  ‘He’s got this thing about sin, sir, and he wanted to stop policemen going to bed with black women.’

  ‘I know all that.’

  ‘Well he started off by giving them shock treatment and showing them photographs of naked black women and …’

  Kommandant van Heerden stopped him.

  ‘Don’t go on,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I can stand it.’

  He got up and went over to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a bottle of brandy he kept for emergencies and poured himself a glass. When he’d finished it he looked up.

  ‘Now then begin at the beginning and tell me what Verkramp did.’ Sergeant Breitenbach told him. At the end the Kommandant shook his head sadly.

  ‘It didn’t work then? This treatment?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir. It just didn’t work the way it was meant to. I mean you’d find it difficult to get any of the konstabels who’s been treated into bed with a black woman. We’ve tried it and they get into a frightful state.’

  ‘You’ve tried to get a konstabel into bed with a black woman?’ asked the Kommandant, who could see himself giving evidence at the inevitable court of enquiry and having to admit that policemen under his command had been ordered to have sexual intercourse with black women as part of their duties.

  Sergeant Breitenbach nodded. ‘Couldn’t do it though,’ he said, ‘I guarantee that not one of those two hundred and ten men will ever go to bed with a black again.’

  ‘Two hundred and ten?’ asked the Kommandant stunned by the scale of Verkramp’s activities.

  ‘That’s the number, sir. Half the force are gay,’ the Sergeant told him. ‘And not one of them prepared to sleep with a black woman.’

  ‘I suppose that makes a change,’ said the Kommandant looking for some relief in this recital of disasters.

  ‘Trouble is they won’t go near a white woman either. The treatment seems to have worked b
oth ways. You should see the letters of complaint we’ve had from some of the men’s wives.’

  The Kommandant said he’d prefer not to.

  ‘What about the exploding ostriches?’ he asked. ‘That have anything to do with Verkramp’s religious mania?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said the Sergeant. ‘That was the work of the Communist saboteurs.’

  The Kommandant sighed. ‘Them again,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a lead on them, have you?’

  ‘Well, we have made some progress, sir. We’ve got the description of the men who were feeding the ostriches French letters …’ He stopped. Kommandant van Heerden was staring at him wildly.

  ‘Feeding them French letters?’ he asked. ‘What the hell were they doing that for?’

  ‘The explosive was packed in contraceptives, sir. Featherlites.’

  ‘Featherlights?’ said the Kommandant trying to imagine what sort of ornithological offal he was on about.

  ‘That’s the brand name, sir. We’ve also an excellent description of a man who bought twelve dozen. Twelve women have come forward who say they remember him.’

  ‘Twelve dozen for twelve women?’ said the Kommandant. ‘I should bloody well think they can remember him. I should have thought he was unforgettable.’

  ‘They were in the shop when he tried to buy the things,’ the Sergeant explained. ‘Five barbers have also given us a description which tallies with that of the women.’

  The Kommandant tried desperately to visualize the sort of man whose tastes were so indiscriminate. ‘He can’t have got far, that’s for sure,’ he said finally. ‘Not after that lot.’

  ‘No sir,’ said Sergeant Brietenbach. ‘He didn’t. A man answering his description and with fingerprints that correspond with some of those on the French letters was found dead in the toilet at the Majestic Cinema.’

  ‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ said the Kommandant.

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t identify him.’

  ‘Too emaciated I suppose,’ the Kommandant suggested.

  ‘He was killed by the bomb which went off there,’ the Sergeant explained.

  ‘Well have you made any arrests at all?’

  The Sergeant nodded. ‘Luitenant Verkramp ordered the arrest of thirty-six suspects as soon as the first bombings occurred.’

  ‘Well that’s something anyway,’ said the Kommandant more cheerfully. ‘Got any confessions out of them?’

  Sergeant Breitenbach looked dubious.

  ‘Well, the Mayor says …’ he began.

  ‘What’s the Mayor got to do with it?’ asked the Kommandant with a sense of awful premonition.

  ‘He’s one of the suspects, sir.’ Sergeant Breitenbach admitted awkwardly. ‘Luitenant Verkramp said …’

  But Kommandant van Heerden was on his feet and white with rage.

  ‘Don’t tell me what the fucking shit says,’ he screamed. ‘I go away for ten days and half the town blows up, half the police force turns into raving homosexuals, half the stock of French letters is bought up by some sex maniac, and Verkramp arrests the fucking Mayor. What the fuck do I care what Verkramp says. It’s what he’s done that’s worrying me.’

  The Kommandant stopped short. ‘Is there anything else I ought to know?’ he demanded. Sergeant Breitenbach shifted his feet nervously. ‘There are thirty-five other suspects in the prison, sir. There’s the Dean of Piemburg, Alderman Cecil, the manager of Barclays Bank …’

  ‘Oh my God, and I suppose they’ve all been interrogated,’ squawked the Kommandant.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Sergeant Breitenbach who knew precisely what the Kommandant meant by interrogated. ‘They’ve been standing up for the last eight days. The Mayor’s admitted he doesn’t like the government but he still maintains he didn’t blow up the telephone exchange. The only confession we’ve got that’s any use is from the manager of Barclays Bank.’

  ‘The manager of Barclays Bank?’ asked the Kommandant. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Peed in the Hluwe Dam, sir. It carries the death penalty.’

  ‘Peeing in the Hluwe Dam carries the death penalty? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s in the Sabotage Act 1962. Polluting water supplies, sir,’ the Sergeant said.

  ‘Yes well,’ said the Kommandant doubtfully, ‘I daresay it is but all I can say is that if Verkramp thinks he can hang the manager of Barclays Bank for peeing in a dam he must be mad. I’m going up to Ford Rapier to see that bastard.’

  *

  In Fort Rapier Mental Hospital Luitenant Verkramp was still suffering from acute anxiety brought on by the wholly unexpected results of his experiment in aversion therapy and counter-terrorism. His temporary conviction that he was the Almighty had given way to a phobia about birds. Dr von Blimenstein drew her own conclusions.

  ‘A simple case of sexual guilt together with a castration complex,’ she told the nurse when Verkramp refused his dinner on the grounds that it was stuffed chicken and French lettuce.

  ‘Take it away,’ he screamed, ‘I can’t take any more.’

  He was equally adamant about feather pillows and in fact anything vaguely reminiscent of what Dr von Blimenstein would insist on calling our feathered friends.

  ‘No friends of mine,’ said Verkramp, eyeing a pouter pigeon on the tree outside his window with alarm.

  ‘We’ve got to try to get to the bottom of this thing,’ said Dr von Blimenstein. Verkramp looked at her wildly.

  ‘Don’t mention that thing,’ he shouted. Dr von Blimenstein took note of this fresh symptom. ‘Anal complex,’ she thought to herself and sent the Luitenant into panic by asking him if he had ever had any homosexual experiences.

  ‘Yes,’ said Verkramp desperately when the doctor insisted on knowing.

  ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’

  ‘No,’ said Verkramp who still couldn’t get the picture of hooker Botha in a yellow wig out of his mind. ‘No. I wouldn’t.’

  Dr von Blimenstein persisted.

  ‘We’re never going to get anywhere unless you come to terms with your own unconscious,’ she told him. ‘You’ve got to be absolutely frank with me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Verkramp who hadn’t come to Fort Rapier to be frank with anyone.

  If, during the day, Dr von Blimenstein gained the impression that sex was at the root of Verkramp’s breakdown, his behaviour at night suggested another explanation. As she sat by his bedside and made notes of his ramblings, the doctor noticed a new pattern emerging. Verkramp spent much of his nights screaming about bombs and secret agents and was clearly obsessed with the number twelve. Remembering how frequently she had counted twelve explosions as the saboteurs struck she was hardly surprised that the head of Security in Piemburg should be obsessed by the number. On the other hand she gained the definite impression from Verkramp’s sleep-talking that he had had twelve secret agents working for him. She decided to ask him about this new symptom in the morning.

  ‘What does the number twelve mean to you?’ she asked when she came to see him next day. Verkramp went pale and began to shake.

  ‘I have to know,’ she told him. ‘It’s in your own interest.’

  ‘Shan’t tell you,’ said Verkramp who knew, if he knew anything, that it wasn’t in his interest to tell her about the number twelve.

  ‘Don’t forget that I’m acting in a professional capacity,’ said the doctor, ‘and that anything you tell me remains a secret between us.’

  Luitenant Verkramp was not reassured.

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about number twelve.’

  ‘I see,’ said the doctor making a note of his alarm. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell me about the trip to Durban.’

  There was no doubt now that she was close to the heart of Verkramp’s neurosis. His reaction indicated that quite clearly. By the time the gibbering Luitenant had been got back into bed and given sedation, Dr von Blimenstein was satisfied that she could eff
ect a cure. She was beginning to think that there were other advantages to be gained from her insight into his problems and the idea of marriage, never far from the doctor’s mind, began to re-emerge.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said as she tucked Verkramp into bed again, ‘is it true that a wife cannot be forced to give evidence against her husband?’

  Verkramp said it was and, with a smile that suggested he would do well to meditate on the fact, Dr von Blimenstein left the room. When she returned an hour later, it was to find the patient ready with an explanation for his obsession with the number twelve.

  ‘There were twelve saboteurs and they were—’

  ‘Bullshit,’ snapped the doctor, ‘utter bullshit. There were twelve secret agents and they were working for you and you took them to Durban by car. Isn’t that the truth?’

  ‘Yes. No. No, it’s not,’ Verkramp wailed.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Balthazar Verkramp, if you go on lying I’ll have you given an injection of truth drug and we’ll get an accurate confession out of you before you know what’s happened.’

  Verkramp stared panic-stricken from the bed.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he shrieked. ‘You’re not allowed to.’

  Dr von Blimenstein looked round the room suggestively. It was more like a cell than a private room. ‘In here,’ she said, ‘I can do anything I like. You’re my patient and I’m your doctor and if you give any trouble I can have you in a straitjacket and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Now then, are you prepared to tell me about your problems and remember your secrets are safe with me. As your medical adviser no one can force me to tell them what has passed between us unless of course I was put into the witness box. Then of course I would be under oath.’ The doctor paused before continuing. ‘You did say that a wife couldn’t be forced to give evidence against her husband, didn’t you?’