Kenneth Cameron - The Frightened Man

‘The Café gets its linen done there. You could buttonhole Oddenino, get him to tell you what he pays. They’re making money, and the women aren’t getting it.’

But Harris wasn’t listening. ‘Actually, I could write it myself under a female pseudonym. I wrote as Mrs F. B. Strether a couple of times; I could resurrect her. I always saw her as a middle-aged woman with glasses and a huge embonpoint . Somebody younger for this, though — “How I Was Enslaved by My Unborn Babe,” by Elsie Dampknickers. “Your Clean Linen is My Dirty Secret — Chained to a Mangle by a Moment’s Indiscretion!”’ He banged on his glass for a waiter. ‘Sounds rather fun. You’d supply the eye-witness account of the deplorable conditions in this workhouse, and I could fabricate a couple of pathetic tales from recent inmates, with some titillation about how they got — do you say “knocked up”? In my days in Chicago people did. Wouldn’t need to put somebody inside, in that case. Might even pick up one or two of the post-partum graduates with a well-placed advert, in fact. But maybe not worth it. Get into trouble, advertising for women. Slant it towards the solid middle class — much moral indignation about child labour and the rights of women, “even women and girls who, though fallen, deserve better of England.” Eh? Catches the tone, you think? Maybe Pearson’s would take it. I’ll give you, let’s say, ten per cent for the idea and the information.’

‘I could write it myself.’

‘Not your manor, Denton; you haven’t got the properly low touch. Fifteen per cent?’

‘Half,’ Denton said, pocketing more than twenty pounds and admitting to himself that Harris could write such a piece better than he could.

‘That’s an unkind cut.’ Harris hunched over his empty glass. ‘A quarter.’ He glared at Denton. ‘Not in advance, you understand. What’s this about, then? You on your uppers, Denton?’

Denton shrugged.

‘Then let’s talk about something more your line: the new mag might lay out a few pounds for something about this murder that fascinates you so. Or what about this attack you suffered? Fellow stabbed you, didn’t he? Have to treat it in a genteel fashion — gentleman astonished by lower-class lack of civility. Invasion of your premises, working-class brute, collapse of civilization. Eh?’

‘Actually, he tried to kill me. Twice in one night.’

‘“Famous Author’s Night With a Monster”, something like that?’

‘You make it sound as if we went to bed.’

Harris waved a hand. ‘Scare the knickers off the well-to-do — if it could happen to you, it could happen to them.’ He smiled at the fresh glass that finally appeared in front of him. ‘Actually, if you’re hard up, there’s a market for a, shall I say, more specific account of your girl’s murder. Something, shall we say, graphic . Not for a, mmm, press you’d recognize — rather special, by subscription, your own name wouldn’t go on it — but spiced up with a few scenes of the right sort — first-person account of her early experiences, properly moist descriptions of what your man saw through his peephole on several occasions, then the gory murder — “What Mulcahy Saw.” Mmm. Nice. I’d take only ten per cent.’

‘Pornography, in short.’

‘Well, what’s in a name, Denton? We mustn’t think ourselves too grand for other forms of art when we’re hard up. It is art, you know — what is it if it isn’t art? It has its laws, its forms, its necessities.’

‘Old men in bedrooms with their tongues hanging out.’

‘And not just their tongues. Old and young, Denton, middle-aged and juvenile. What a sheltered life you’ve led! All men, my friend, all men. Pornography is simply what we all think but few dare to put on paper.’

‘I know a woman who says that all men hate women.’

‘We do! Yet we can’t live without them! They have that magical thing, that locus of fantasy, the monosyllable that begins with C, and we want it! We must have it! And they hide it, protect it, make us scrape and plead and marry them to get at it — and we hate them for it! The only workable relationship between men and women is prostitution; the only revealing literary form is pornography. The woman who told you that we hate them is very wise — do I know her?’

Denton hesitated; there was the usual proscription against discussing women, plus some personal distaste in this case. ‘A woman named Janet Striker.’

‘Oh, I know of her! Formidable woman. Remarkable. Rather like the Hindoo whatsit — the thing that rolls over you-’

‘Juggernaut.’

‘That’s the one. Janet Striker, my God. A virago with a halo. However did you meet her?’

‘She took me to the Humphrey this afternoon.’

‘Yes, her line — saving women from men. Unwed mothers our speciality. Hopeless, but no more so than Fabianism.’ Harris drank, his eyes now rather red, his voice rising as he warmed up for the argumentative stage of his evening. ‘It’s all hopeless. It’s all going to crash, Denton! All this do-gooding, all this genteel putting of plasters on suppurating sores. Crash! Down it’s all going to come — you, me, magazines, pornography — out with us, I say, good riddance. Down come all the old ways of doing things, all the hypocrisy, all the good intentions, all the pretence that gentility is anything but greed tinted golden — there’s a fall coming, a plunge into an abyss — inevitable! Some cataclysm, some disaster — pestilence, famine, war ! It’ll all be over in a quarter of a century!’

‘That’s pessimistic.’

‘On the contrary, I’m an optimist. It can’t go on. We can’t go on. Look at the hellhole you just visited — and that’s supposed to be for some greater good! Look around you — look at England’s artists . Dear God, Jesus laughs — artists! Art should be the hope of creation, and what do we have? The RA! Alma-Tadema! Composers who’ve never heard a minor key in their lives — little nightingale farts about their feelings while contemplating bloody nature! Poets with their lips pressed to the warm buttocks of privilege! Henley — dear God — “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul”!’ He held up his fists like a strong man, braced his head and back like a hero on a horse. ‘Dum-dede-dum-dum dum de-dum! All the rhythm of a drunkard tupping a slattern in an alley.’ He shook his angry head. ‘Let it end! New art — we must have new art that’s jangled, mysterious, incantatory, wondrous — paintings that don’t have subjects, poems that don’t scan, novels about life as it’s never been-!’ He glared at Denton. ‘You don’t believe a word I say.’

‘I have an editor who wants me to write a book about vampires.’

‘Editors will be the first to be swept away!’ Harris laughed; Denton joined in. ‘How would twenty-five pounds do for the rights to the baby-factory idea plus an article for the new mag on your night of horror?’

‘In advance?’

Harris laughed again.

Denton got to his feet then, muttering about having to go; he could take only so much of Harris when he started to rant. After several long seconds, Harris said, looking away from him, ‘It’s all coming to an end. It has to. All going to crash.’ He looked up. ‘Indignation’s no good, Denton. The Fabians, the do-gooders, the reformers — not a hope! We need a revolution.’ He lifted his almost empty glass. ‘Or another drink.’ He waved at a waiter.

Atkins was asleep in the armchair when Denton came into the sitting room; the sergeant’s swathed head glowed in the gaslight. As Denton closed the door, Atkins jerked awake and said, ‘Been thinking.’