‘You can’t go,’ ‘But I must,’ I said, ‘no-one turns down an invitation from Sir P_.’ It was true. Sir P_ rarely gave interviews to newspaper hacks; he preferred the glamour of the TV talk show and magazine profile. My editor was certain there must be some other motive, and he might have been right. The review I wrote of Sir P_’s latest novel had not been kind, but please, the book was awful. ‘I’m sorry I let that review of yours through now,’ ‘Are you mad?’ not the best question to ask your boss I’ll grant you, ‘The book is, and will remain forever, complete tripe.’ ‘That’s entirely possible,’ he said, ‘I am just mindful of what happened to Pearson.’ ‘The coroner will tell you what happened to Pearson.’ Pearson was the last hack we knew who had met Sir P_. They had found his naked body in a terrible state, several miles downstream, a few days later. The autopsy had revealed a badly wounded liver following years of alcoholism, and a verdict of accidental death had been recorded. ‘The coroner got it wrong.’ ‘Whatever,’ I said, ‘I’m not Pearson. I can handle myself.’ There were some people not happy at the verdict, but you can’t please everyone. Questions were raised regarding the number of broken bones Pearson had, and there was surprise expressed at the savagery of the dog bites the poor man had sustained. But there were wild dogs, strays, all over the wasted industrial dead-lands east of the City. ‘Okay, you can go. But I must insist you wear a wire.’ ‘Whatever,’ * I arrived at the tower where Sir P_ had his penthouse. I had seen the interior in Bonne- Journal last year. It would have made Croesus blush. The concierge took my details, took my picture and then gave me a card. This was my ticket to ride the private glass elevator that slipped up and down the outside of the building. The September sun had already set as I rose into the sky. The view became more magnificent by the moment. The City streets spread out below as lesser towers fell away. There was the river, and its ancient bridge, the Government buildings, the barracks, and in the far distance, the new suspension bridge. There was, of course, enough time for me to start thinking about what this must have cost. It was a potent reminder of just how successful Sir P_’s books had been. Four had been to Hollywood and three had been ‘made for television’. For me it had been a shock to realize how dreadful his latest work was. Bakke’s Way was appalling. The character development was poor, the plot was all over the place and the settings were dismal. Stir in a little bit of casual racism, sexism and homophobia and there it is. The story concerned one Jessie Bakke. It is a signifier of Sir P_’s work that the title uses the surname of the main protagonist. You may have read one or more of his previous books, Jericho’s Dozen, Jericho Returns, or Lazenby’s Mile perhaps? More likely, you caught a re-run late one insomnia dogged night. Bakke’s Way was a departure from previous form in that the lead was female and black, a detective, with pole dancing and childcare skills par excellence, working undercover at the City Airport. An ambitious milieu for a fifty something millionaire you might say, and well done him for pushing his own boundaries, so to speak, but what was his publisher thinking? A twinkle of muzak announced the end of the ride and the elevator doors sighed open. ‘Wonderful view isn’t it?’ Sir P_ had caught me gawping. ‘Extraordinary Sir,’ He waved me out of the lift and indicated a red leather suite. I crossed the floor and noted the famous art collection. Research had told me there was a Picasso, a Monet and a Pisaro on the wall, and that there was a da Vinci in the bedroom. I didn’t plan on asking for a private view. My gaze settled on a tall painting of a sword wielding angel. I had no idea of its provenance. ‘Drink?’ ‘Thank you,’ We sat in opposite chairs, with the view on my left, and the Picasso on his. I took out my recording device, which I use for interviews, and put it on the side table. Sir P_ looked at it with what I took to be mild amusement. That little metal box had been with me to some tight spots before, and scooped me some great lines too. ‘So, Sir P_, I appreciate being granted an interview. It is a privilege to meet you here in your home.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ he jabbed a finger at my recorder, ‘look, don’t you have a notebook or something? I don’t know how you chaps can stand listening back to yourselves.’ Before I could answer my attention was taken by Sir P_’s maid. She was tall, no, I mean big, larger than life. She was an Amazon in the classic sense, and on her back she wore a vast set of wings with at least two swans worth of feathers in them. Her dark hair fell in long ringlets over her broad shoulders, spilling over her dress, which was wound about her body like a series of dark silk bandages. I was transfixed. She put a crystal tumbler with a large measure of whisky already in it on the table beside me. I tried to catch her eye, but as I did so I heard a faint buzz, like a mosquito by my head, and for an instant, I swear, her silk bandage dress disappeared. I recovered myself and put the first of my killer questions to Sir P_. ‘So did she fall or was she pushed?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘At the end of the book when your character Jesse Bakke is seen dropping head first from the top of the Control Tower at City Airport?’ ‘For the answer to that cliffhanging conundrum you will have to read Bakke Again.’ So this was the scoop. He had written a follow-up. ‘So the sequel wraps up some of the problems I encountered as a reader in Bakke’s Way?’ ‘Oh no, Bakke Again is only part two of the series. After that there is Bakke Story and then Bakke For More with Bakke Flip and Bakke Door in outline.’ ‘Oh my God,’ I was trying my best not to laugh, ‘why not Bakke to Bakke or Bakke Passage or Bakke A Laureate?’ ‘These are the stories I will be remembered for young man.’ He looked at me sternly. ‘I take the business of writing extremely seriously and would remind you that I have had significant success.’ ‘I’m sorry Sir P_. I don’t mean to mock, but are you sure this is the right direction to take for an author such as yourself? I mean Jesse Bakke is a considerable departure from form for you.’ ‘As you get older and, as one might expect, more accomplished in your particular line, there is the danger of settling too deep into a comfortable rut. Jesse came along at just the right time for me. She dragged me out into the light on angel’s wings.’ There was a light rustling behind my head. Sir P_’s maid had returned with a tray of Turkish delight, dates and other, more savoury items. I watched her carefully and for a second I succeeded in catching her eye. I believe there was a small suggestion of a smile at the corner of her mouth before she turned to my host. As she did so her dress flickered off and on again and the wings she was wearing trembled. I watched her as she left the room. ‘My staff are quite touchy about my guests paying too much attention.’ Sir P_’s eyebrows were beetling about on his forehead. ‘I’m sorry; I’m impressed with the wings. Terrific costume and she wears it well. They must weigh a ton.’ ‘Light as a feather. So! Your review.’ ‘My what? Oh yes, well, seen on its own Bakke’s Way doesn’t really seem to reach the standards of your previous best-sellers. I did suggest that I might have missed the point, that I might have catastrophically missed some key thing, but really, I couldn’t believe you had written this dreadful book. I think I outlined quite well what I thought of Jesse, and your portrayal of her said some quite awful things about your own perception of women, especially your attitude to black women. It is quite an offensive book and, to be fair, I think you might be remembered for all of the wrong reasons.’ ‘Well young man, that’s where you are wrong. I think Jesse is a very positive character and a terrific ‘woman of colour’ as our American cousins put it. Not only does she have a very fine analytical mind, but she is also well aware of her physical potency. She looks after kids sure, but so did Jericho. In fact in Jericho’s Beacon he went to work in a kindergarten to uncover a paedophile network and had to come to terms with evidence of trauma he himself had suffered as a small boy. So, you see, taken in context Jesse is part of an ongoing theme. I’m sure my devoted followers will understand and be able to see the bigger picture.’ ‘Okay Sir P_ I’ll let you have that one, but the exotic dancing? In one scene Jesse strips in what reads like a blaxploitation masturbatory fantasy.’ ‘My dear boy, Jesse was simply using sex as a hypnotic weapon in the war against international crime. I don’t think she was demeaned in any way, and she got the evidence and arrests she needed. So her methods are unorthodox, but then she is a strong minded individual who will stop at nothing to ensure justice is done.’ ‘Sir P_, let me quote the book to you; “...he gasped as she ripped off her thong and thrust herself into his lap...”’ ‘Young man, there is at least one opportunistic sex scene in all of my books. I’m not sure if this isn’t your own repressed little left wing manifesto that says all humans must behave equitably at all times. We cannot help that the lines are blurred for those working on the margins, how else are they able to protect those at the centre. You are a journalist, hack, what you will and I expect the world has shown you some things, some darkness that you would not have encountered otherwise. So I reject your position that I have exploited my character. In fact, I do believe that the man she seduces comes off far worse in the end.’ ‘Sir P_,’ He was putting up a sterling defence and I could tell I had riled him. I wasn’t going to let him get away, ‘One more quote; “...Jesse gripped his enormous throbbing—“’ ‘Again I refer you to my previous reply,’ ‘Okay. Another issue I had with the book was the sense of place. I found it difficult to follow where Jesse was half the time, how she got from one place to another. It reads like everything is in the same place.’ ‘Well that’s because the action takes place in a very limited area around the Airport. Are you sure you read the book carefully enough? You know I’m not sure your own credentials as a reviewer are beginning to stack up.’ ‘With respect, Sir P_, I am an award winning journalist and I take my craft very seriously indeed.’ I had pushed him too far. I had to get him back onside. ‘Sir?’ saved by the maid, ‘Telephone call from Los Angeles,’ ‘You must excuse me,’ Sir P_ rose from his seat, a broad, but not altogether warm smile on his face, ‘why don’t you wait on the terrace, enjoy some fresh air, I may be a while. Don’t mind the dogs, my insurance company insists on them.’ I stood and watched him walk away. I was soon alone with the million pound art collection and guard dogs I had not noticed until now. I turned off the voice recorder and slipped it in my pocket. I swigged back the whisky then grabbed some Turkish delight. Millionaire’s favours. I looked about for more whisky. There was a decanter on a table out on the terrace. I looked at it with what I imagined to be the wary eye of a hack who had seen what lay at the margins. Although the only margins I had truly known were on the edges of the page. With one eye on the hounds I strolled out onto the terrace. Sir P_ had put up a good defence and now I was going to have to review my review. My chances of an advance copy of Bakke Again or Bakke Story seemed slim unless I could bring him back. Perhaps an apology? Rather not. I poured another shot of the fine whisky. ‘Don’t touch it,’ It was the maid. She had followed me out onto the terrace. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Take off your clothes.’ ‘Pardon?’ I had been propositioned by girls on occasion but never in a manner this forthright. ‘We don’t have much time. You have to remove all of your clothes. Shoes too.’ She said, ‘What’s your name?’ I said, ‘Domenica,’ She said, ‘and I need you to take off all your clothes.’ ‘Okay Domenica’ There was a strange pleading look in her eye which made me uneasy. When I hesitated, my fingers reaching for my shirt collar, she snorted and stepped up right in front of me. Close up, standing toe to toe, she towered over me. I make a decent five-ten but this girl must have been six-six plus. Her wings trembled above both of us. ‘He doesn’t like you. Get undressed now, please.’ She tore my shirt off me. I pulled at my belt, forced my trousers down and pried off my shoes. I heard that peculiar mosquito buzz and the maid’s dress vanished. So we were going to do it right here, right now on Sir P_’s million dollar terrace? She put my arms about her neck and pulled me in close to her. I could hardly breathe, but turned my head for the kiss that was to come. She turned her head away while above us both, her great wings unfurled. ‘Hold on,’ She said, I heard a shout, then a bark, followed by a low growl. She bent at the knee, her wings arched up, then snapped down and we were aloft. We hung in the air far above the City lights, far above Sir P_’s wolves, far above the maelstrom, but far below the stars. © Simon Kellow-Bingham All Rights Reserved millionstories.net |
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