Geoff Nicholson - Street Sleeper

Every time she’s picked up a newspaper this last week or so he’s been there, with his Beetle and his leathers and his MP’s daughter girlfriend who wants to be a writer. It makes her angry. Yes, it all seems to tie in and in some way it involves her. It doesn’t seem to mean anything but it all ties in.

Terry, of course, has told her to go along to the Kensington Astoria and get an interview, but Renata has told Terry that getting Ishmael to give an interview these days is about as easy as getting the Pope to model swim-wear.

And all this time she has the feeling that she has seen him (Ishmael, not the Pope) before somewhere, and she becomes increasingly convinced of this, though she gets no nearer to recalling where or when. She recalls visits to parties, press launches, motor shows, even to car-parks and libraries, it would have to be at that sort of place that she saw him, wouldn’t it? She doesn’t know. She still doesn’t know as she phones her mother, and she still doesn’t know as she paints her nails. And as she picks up the phone again, gingerly because the varnish is still wet, to phone Max, she still doesn’t know.

But as Max speaks, as it flits through her mind that what she really wants to say to Max is, sorry this whole thing has just been a bad idea from beginning to end, all we have in common is drink, drugs and sex, at that moment she very suddenly and absolutely certainly knows.

‘Max,’ she says, ‘I have to come over and see you right now.’

♦

It was early evening. Marilyn and Ishmael sat together in their suite, taking a final look at the BBC contract before signing.

‘It’s going to be an awesome responsibility,’ Ishmael said. ‘I’m going to be very powerful, very well-loved, comparatively rich. I’m going to be able to change the world. I only hope I can keep my humility and the common touch.’

Marilyn poured him another glass of champagne. Late sun spilled into the room. All seemed well with the world. They were thinking that dinner wouldn’t be long away, when there was a knock on the door. Naturally Ishmael was furious. He had instructed the management time and time again to make sure they had no visitors.

‘Who’s there?’ Ishmael shouted angrily.

‘It’s me. Davey.’

Ishmael grudgingly opened the door.

‘You might have telephoned first,’ he said.

‘Then you might not have seen us.’

Ishmael saw that Davey was not alone. There was a woman with him. She carried a notebook and a video cassette.

‘All right then,’ Ishmael said. ‘Come in, but not for long.’

‘This is Renata,’ Davey said.

Ishmael said hello to Renata.

‘Renata’s a journalist,’ Davey said.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Davey,’ Ishmael yelled. ‘I’m not seeing journalists at the moment. How many times do I have to tell people?’

‘I think you’ll see Renata,’ Davey said, and there was a threat in his voice, a hint of ‘or else’.

‘Yes,’ said Renata. ‘You’ll see me. And you’ll see this videotape.’

♦

The film, which begins without titles, is shot from one camera position. Occasionally the lens zooms in and out, although as filmic syntax the zooms fail to articulate anything. They’re just done to relieve the boredom. The colour is bad, the lighting patchy, and the soundtrack non-existent.

The film shows a room which is elegant in a masculine sort of way — a few art deco objects, a lot of mirrors which manage to avoid showing the camera, a rattan three-piece suite and a nest of glass tables.

A bulky, middle-aged man is lying on the floor under one of the tables. He is wearing nothing but a leather dog-collar and a latex posing pouch. A second, younger, man is seen. He is removing a blue leather motorcycle suit. He walks awkwardly, reluctantly across the room to where the man and the table are. He squats above the glass top, his naked buttocks visibly straining to shit.

‘Seen enough?’ Renata asks.

♦

‘I’ve seen more than enough,’ said Ishmael.

‘Ishmael!’ Marilyn shrieked. ‘How could you do it?’

‘It wasn’t easy.’

‘But how could you do this to me?’

‘I didn’t know you then.’

‘Talk about feet of clay,’ Davey sneered.

‘I didn’t know it was being filmed.’

‘Is that supposed to make a difference?’ Marilyn demanded.

‘I never had you down for a shirt-lifter, I really didn’t,’ Davey continued.

‘I never lifted my shirt,’ Ishmael protested. ‘I just took off my leathers. My heart wasn’t in it. You could see that from the film. I was only in it for the money.’

‘Some spiritual guide you turned out to be,’ said Davey. ‘Not just an ordinary shirt-lifter, but one who does it with shit for money.’

Marilyn said, ‘Ishmael, I hope you realize it’s all over between us, instantly and for ever.’

‘Hey, don’t go all middle class on me.’

‘And what’s wrong with being middle class?’

‘Oh no,’ Ishmael moaned. Had all his words been in vain?

Renata had been watching all this with barely restrained fury. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know there are going to be a few broken hearts over this, but really I’m more concerned with the hordes of press and the ‘fans’ who are out there dying for a chance to see you.’

‘Is this blackmail?’ Ishmael asked. ‘How much money do you want for the tape?’

‘I don’t want money, and besides this obviously isn’t the only copy of the tape.’

‘And I’d make damn sure I found one,’ said Davey. ‘And I’d make damn sure everybody saw it and knew that their new chat-show host was a filthy pervert.’

‘I’m at your mercy,’ Ishmael said. ‘Go on then, crucify me.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Renata. ‘But I do have one or two ideas.’

♦

It was just as well that Ishmael and Marilyn hadn’t got round to signing the BBC contract. The BBC were understandably furious when Ishmael informed them that he wouldn’t now be signing, and suspected some dirty trickery was taking place. But an anonymous note containing a still from the incriminating video arrived on the Director-General’s desk one morning. The BBC were so relieved at their narrow escape that they promised Marilyn a job as a researcher after her graduation, and they assured Ishmael that there were no hard feelings.

Ishmael? He turned down every deal he’d been offered. He had to. That was one of Renata’s conditions. He did no television, no radio, no interviews, endorsed no products, made no after dinner speeches. He did sell his story, however. He refused to deal with any writer except Renata Caswell of Cult Car . That surprised a lot of people.

A Sunday tabloid bought the story, paid well, and turned the story into a three-part serial. Ishmael didn’t write it, of course. Renata wrote it and he put his name to it. He had to. The story must have sold quite a few newspapers since there was still lots of public interest in Ishmael, but the story was not quite the one that people wanted to hear. It contained the hot news that Ishmael was going to renounce the world. As follows:

Today I don’t wear leather. I shave every day. I eat healthfoods and I abhor violence. I suddenly found myself in a position of potentially awesome power. I could have become an idol, an international tv star, a leader of men. But I looked into my soul and something told me that this was not the way. I found I’d made a mistake. I realized that all this pop-religion I’d been spouting was so much drivel. I had been deceiving myself. I decided not to deceive anyone else.

If I have any message left to give the world, it’s this,

Don’t follow leaders

Watch for parking meters .