by Jake Arnott
Came home with an overwhelming sense of decay. My generation is dying out. All the Bright Young People of the twenties have become old and hideous. In my own decline I’m left with an abiding sense of failure – a wasted political career, a rotten marriage, constant worries about money, scandal, blackmail. I’ve utterly failed to resist temptation, I’ve given in to beastly lusts. The flesh is weak & going flabby. I feel resigned to the slow surcease of life, clinging on to some hope of redemption yet wallowing in a descent into final decadence. This is my fate & I must bear it with all the courage I can muster. Mine are dissolution honours, after all.
Monday, 17 May
Meeting of the group Tony Chilvers is chairing on party policy on overseas aid. Bit of a talking shop really, full of dreary types going on about ‘modernising the party’. There’s all manner of small groups meeting about new policy. Any recommendations go to Shadow Cabinet via the Advisory Committee on Policy. The chairman of the ACP is Ted Heath – obviously building a power base for the inevitable leadership contest.
Spoke to Tony after and he asked how the Nigeria project was going. I said something vague about problems in communication. I really have no idea what’s happening.
Friday, 21 May
Constant jabber about the direction of the party. Lots of talk about the need for new policies & ‘modernisation’. An obsession with becoming ‘classless’ which merely means middle class. Classless in the v. worst sense. Indistinct. One particularly gruesome comment: ‘We must become the party of the consumer’ – which brings to mind bodily function rather than any real political vision. The Blasted Heath, needless to say, is behind most of this ‘reform’. Manoeuvres, more like. Reggie Maudling will run against him for the old school, I hazard. A scholarship boy, but at least with some ballast.
Wednesday, 26 May
Harry invited me over. There was boxing on the television broadcast from America & Harry was having a little party. When I arrived I recognised some of the people from the first of Harry’s ‘parties’ that I had attended & there were quite a number of young pugilists. From a Boys’ Club boxing team, apparently. Lots of masculine & youthful energy as we crowded around the screen. Harry v. partisan for one of the fighters, Sonny Liston, an acquaintance, he proudly announced, passing around a photograph of them together at The Stardust Club. I rather favoured his opponent, Cassius Clay, a good-looking fellow Harry dismissed as a ‘mouthy coon’. Anyway, the whole thing was over in the first round! Clay floored Liston in about two minutes, standing over him arrogantly, refusing to retire to a neutral corner & delaying the count. The room filled with catcalls of disappointment & indignant comments. Discussion followed as to whether the fight was fixed. Then we all had more drinks.
The brevity of the evening’s entertainment after all the anticipation charged the atmosphere. Harry was animated. He has a tremendous manic energy & charisma. A noble savage demeanour that is such a palliative to the dull mediocrity that seems to be taking over everywhere. Something atavistic about him. He confirms ones worst fears but in a way this is somehow reassuring.
We all started to get drunk & the horseplay began. Starting with demonstrations of boxing moves & combinations, some light sparring between the younger boys, moving on to more erotic play. I had thought of asking Harry about the Nigeria business but I know he’s worried about it & I didn’t want to spoil his mood. Instead H. brought up a subject that I’d much rather forget. Craig. He became part of the banter.
‘Had an accident, didn’t he?’ Harry asked in mock innocence. ‘What was it Frank, fell down the stairs or something.’
‘Something like that,’ replied one of the older men laconically.
‘Or slipped on the soap,’ Harry went on. ‘Was that it?’
‘Yeah, could be.’
‘Slipped on the soap and fell down the stairs.’
Laughter. I suddenly felt sick. Somebody was plying me with brandy & I didn’t refuse. Harry came up to me & whispered in menacing mockery.
‘See? I can get things sorted for you.’
Then the business started in earnest. Older men pawing at the youths. Harry kissing greedily at a boy with bright red hair. I had no stomach for it. I felt horribly drunk. Completely fou.
I got up & staggered towards the door. Harry noticed & pushed the redhead in my direction.
‘Go on,’ he ordered. ‘See to his lordship. He’ll only want wanking off.’
Before I knew it the boy was guiding me into one of the bedrooms & was starting to roughly knead at the crotch of my trousers.
‘Whatsmatter?’ His voice high pitched. ‘Can’t get it up?’
Harry had followed us in.
‘He can’t get it up,’ the youth observed, shrilly.
I swayed in the spinning room.
‘Get him on the bed,’ Harry ordered tersely.
They both heaved my flaccid body onto the awful softness of the mattress.
‘Get his clothes off,’ Harry hissed sharply.
I felt a tugging at my vestments. My shoes thudded onto the floor. I lay helplessly inebriated. More muttered orders at the doorway. Suddenly the darkened room was filled with light. My eyes smarted. The red-haired boy pulled off my remaining clothes then stripped himself & got into bed with me. There seemed to be many people in the room now. Low cackles of laughter & underbreath comments. Whispered directions from Harry. The naked youth stuck his cock rudely in my mouth to the sound of soft clicks & ratchets. Someone was taking photographs.
Thursday, 27 May
Woke up late in the afternoon in my own bed with no idea how I got there. Strange feeling of lethargy throughout my body & thick drowsiness in my head. Was I drugged last night? Awful recollections of shame, humiliation & most of all fear. Quite glad to be in a state of sedation.
Monday, 31 May
Detective Sergeant Mooney turned up at my flat again. Something deeply unsettling about this man. All of the physical threat of H. Starks but none of the charm. His beady little eyes were always darting about, taking everything in. I asked him what his business was.
‘I was hoping that we might co-operate, sir.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I replied impatiently. ‘How much do you want?’
‘Oh, it’s not money I’m after, your lordship,’ he retorted, as if affronted.
Then he got to the point. Influence. That’s what he was after, & offering a ‘reciprocal arrangement’ as he called it. I asked him to explain.
‘Well, if I start by the way I could bring my influence to bear in a way that could be of benefit to you. Now, there’s a whiff of scandal in the air regarding connections that you have with some, shall we say, rather colourful characters. There’s still a great deal of sensitivity about any kind of intrigue involving sexual immorality. Remember all that Profumo business. In no time you’ve got the gutter press stirring things up. Nobody wants that. I’ve got a pal in the Criminal Intelligence Branch. There’s an increasing concern about organised crime. Apparently, they’ve been asked to investigate an alleged connection between a peer of the realm and a well-known figure in the criminal underworld. Racy stuff, wouldn’t you say? If the tabloids ever got hold of it.’
I groaned audibly. Mooney’s little eyes gleamed.
‘But if I was to use my influence . . . convince my friend at C11 that it’s all nonsense and hearsay. As I’ve said, no one wants a scandal like this. It only makes the general public lose faith with the establishment. Gangsters are always trying to cultivate friends in high places. They think that it gives them an air of respectability. I could suggest that you’re merely a dupe in all this. Persuade them to drop the inquiry. And in return, you could use your influence for me in a certain matter.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Well, I’m in a spot of bother myself. Years of keeping London’s streets safe to walk along and I’m being accused of impropriety. That’s the thanks I get. Left-wing trouble makers taking advantage of the British system of justice and sense of fair play
.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I arrested some demonstrators who were making a nuisance of themselves outside an embassy. Now they say I planted evidence on them and tried to force them to make untrue statements. Turns out one of them belongs to some sort of civil liberties group. A diabolical liberties group, more like. Making accusations. The British Police Force is the envy of the world. Any other system would have them rounded up and shot.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Well, they’re demanding a police inquiry. If you could use your influence.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t actually have very much influence on the affairs of state.’
‘Well, every little helps. But I was thinking that maybe you could have a word with your friends in the press. An article about trouble makers trying to blacken the name of authority, that sort of thing. Everyone knows that these people are always just stirring up trouble. Something that might put me in a favourable light and counter some of these scurrilous accusations. I’ve brought some of my press clippings. They might be useful.’
He handed me a sheaf of grubby newsprint.
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’
He finished his drink and got up to leave. We shook hands. Mooney’s palm was cold and clammy.
‘I suggest,’ he added as I showed him out, ‘that you don’t mention our little arrangement to Mr Starks. He might take advantage of the situation.’
Thursday, 3 June
Lunch with the editor of The News of the World, obvious choice for what Mooney wants & I’ve done some articles for them in the past. I fed him the story. A plot by subversives to discredit the forces of law & order. One of Mooney’s cuttings mentioned personal courage in breaking the Ricardo Pedrini racket in 1962. We talked the story into shape – a dedicated & courageous fight against crime & vice in Soho, extolling an impeccable service record & hinting that sometimes unconventional methods bear fruit. British police the best in the world etc., trouble makers just want to undermine authority. He agreed to run it & quite out of the blue asked if I was interested in doing a weekly column. Bluff stuff. Old values in a modern world, that sort of thing. Said that I was definitely interested.
Saturday, 5 June
Have agreed to do column for N.O.T.W. Not exactly intellectually challenging but it means a weekly income & opportunities to get other bits of journalism. Feel that this is really what I should be concentrating on. A chance to air forthright views with a detachment gained from being out of the rat race of politics. And regular money might help to keep me out of trouble.
Suggestions for name of column – Points of Order (a bit dull), & Entitled Opinions (which I hate – a cheap joke against the peerage).
Monday, 7 June
Board meeting of West African Developments. Latest progress report from Ogungbe extremely vague – no sense of when actual construction is to commence. Harry manically optimistic about it all, though. The whole project seemed to represent something v. important to him & so he refused to accept any possibility of failure. Ambition. It’s dreams we believe in, after all. Much talk of drastic measures to be taken unless there was more clarity about the scheme. ‘We’ll fucking sort it out,’ he said, his usual business acumen hopelessly inapplicable in these circumstances. V. glad not to have any of my own money invested in this.
Sunday, 13 June
First column published – Being Reasonable. Bringing a bit of respectability to what is, I have to say, a very trashy rag. Elsewhere in the paper news that some pop group have been all given MBEs in the Queen’s Birthday Hons. Just shows how dreadful things have become.
Monday, 14 June
Called to an emergency meeting at Harry’s flat. All his cohorts there. H. seemed to be delegating all sorts of tasks & activities to his gang. V. animated again, apparently in a good mood but difficult to tell. His temperament is so unpredictable.
‘Right then,’ he said, slapping his hands together. ‘That ought to keep you lot occupied. Make sure that you behave yourselves. Don’t get involved in anything unnecessary. All right?’
Grunts & nods all round.
‘Right then, Teddy,’ he said, looking over at me for the first time. ‘It’s all sorted.’
This unknown certainty made me feel uneasy.
‘Er, what’s all sorted, Harry?’
‘I’ve decided what to do about this African business.’
‘Really? Well that’s good.’
‘Yes it is, Teddy, it is. We’re going to go there. Sort it all out.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘So when are you going?’
‘We, Teddy. I said “we”. Me and you.’
‘Well, thank you for the offer but . . .’
‘You don’t want to come?’
‘Well, much as I’d like to accompany you, I’ve er, other commitments. You know, business in the House, a column to write, that sort of thing.’
Harry smiled & shrugged. I forced a grin back.
‘Suit yourself then. But since I’m sorting my affairs out you might want to look at this.’
He nodded to Manny who shuffled through his papers, fished out a handful of markers & passed them over to me. I stared at them blankly.
‘Gambling debts,’ Harry went on. ‘From the casino you’ve been frequenting. I sanctioned your account, I own an interest in the place after all, but since I’ll be away I’ll no longer be able to act as guarantor. I’ll have to hand them back and let the parties concerned deal with them themselves. They are, of course, debts of honour, and as such have no real legal binding. So I guess the people concerned will have to find their own ways of securing payment. Some of them are quite imaginative, I believe. And if that doesn’t persuade you . . .’
He held out his hand to Manny again. The little Jew handed him a pile of glossy photographs. He waved them at me, shaking his head & tutting loudly.
‘Naughty Teddy,’ he taunted.
He held one up to my face. I flinched and looked away but not before I’d caught an awful glimpse of myself naked on the bed in a grotesque posture of supplication.
‘Harry, please,’ I begged.
‘No. You listen. And listen good. This African business was your idea. Remember? I’ve poured a lot of gelt into this scam and I want to know what the fuck is going on.’
‘But what can I do?’
‘You can be with me. I don’t know what these jungle bunnies are up to but I guess having a peer of the realm along for the ride might help putting them in their place.’
‘When are you planning to go?’ I asked wearily.
‘In a couple of days. Manny’s sorting out tickets. Hope your passport’s up to date.’
I flapped the scraps of paper in my sweaty hands impotently.
‘I don’t really have any choice about this, do I?’
‘No Teddy,’ he replied brusquely. ‘You don’t.’
Friday, 18 June
Lagos
BOAC flight to Kano, in northern Nigeria, then connecting flight to Lagos. V. travel sick. Awful heat & closeness. Ogungbe met us at the airport. Took us for drinks at the Lagos Polo Club. The best club in town, he assured us. Faded colonial atmosphere which Harry loved but made me feel uncomfortable. Pre-Independence, Ogungbe explained, its membership had been, of course, mostly white but now its exclusivity was based on rank & means. Nigerian military and police officers, white civil servants & members of the diplomatic corps & businessmen of every colour and nationality. The ideal place to make business connections.
H. wandered out of the bar to watch a chukka of polo & Ogungbe took me to one side.
‘Your friend is worried about the project,’ he said softly.
‘He is rather.’
‘Try to reassure him. These things take time. There is a lot of, shall we say, bureaucracy.’
‘You mean people to pay off ?’
‘The notion of a free economy in this new country of ours is an illusion. Officials on every level want their share.
’
‘So, how far has construction of the scheme developed?’
Ogungbe shrugged.
‘Well there have been some delays. We’ve had to wait for the end of the rainy season to start work proper. And I’ve had to secure import licences for the building materials.’
‘More “bureaucracy”, is it?’ I said scathingly. ‘I suppose every petty official’s got his hand out for the backsheesh.’
Ogungbe’s yellowy eyes flared at me in indignation.
‘Don’t presume to lecture me, Teddy. Your people have taken plenty. And years of colonial rule have left us with no political or institutional framework to regulate growth. People who have struggled all their lives to earn a few pounds now find millions passing through their hands. What do you expect?’
I coughed.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that this whole project, well, we want it to go smoothly, don’t we?’
‘Of course. You must try to reassure your friend Harry. It’s very important that his investment in the scheme continues. Otherwise we could all lose out.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I replied.
Suddenly I felt hot & sweaty. Wandered out of the club room onto the veranda to get some air. Galloping hooves of polo ponies thundered across the field beyond.
Saturday, 19 June
Enugu
Morning flight from Lagos in a light aircraft. The plane bounced up & down in the air above the jungle canopy. Felt quite sick by the end of the journey. An official reception to greet us at Enugu as we dizzily staggered out onto the runway. A motorcade drove us through the town to the President Hotel where we were staying.
There, the regional minister, Dr Chukwurah, gave a welcoming speech & there was a party. All the local dignitaries lined up to greet us. One man, enthusiastically shaking our hands, said: ‘Welcome Lord Thursby, welcome Lord Starks. It is a great honour.’
Harry laughed.
‘It’s just Mr Starks,’ he explained.
‘You’re not Lord?’ the man asked, unable to hide his disappointment.
