Tom Sharpe - Blott on the Landscape

In the event there was no need to look in the telephone directory. As he passed the hotel desk, the clerk handed him a large envelope. It was addressed to Mr Dundridge and marked Private and Confidential. Dundridge took it up to his room before opening it and was extremely thankful that he hadn’t opened it in the foyer. Dundridge knew now how he had spent the night.

He dropped the photographs on to the bed and slumped into a chair. A moment later he was up and locking the door. Then he turned back and stared at the pictures. They were 10 by 8 glossies and quite revolting. Taken with a flash, they were extremely clear and portrayed Dundridge with an unmistakable clarity, naked and all too evidently unashamed, engaged in a series of monstrous activities beyond his wildest imaginings with Miss Boles. At least he supposed it was Miss Boles. The fact that she seemed… Not seemed, was wearing a mask, a sort of hood, made identification impossible. He thumbed through the pictures and came to the hooded man. Dundridge hurriedly put them back in the envelope and sat sweating on the edge of the bed. He’d been framed. The word seemed wholly inappropriate. Nothing on God’s earth would get him to frame these pictures. Someone was trying to blackmail him.

Trying? They had bloody well succeeded, but Dundridge had no money. He couldn’t pay anything. Dundridge opened the envelope again and stared at the evidence of his depravity. Miss Boles? Miss Boles? It obviously wasn’t her real name. Sally Boles. He had heard that name before somewhere. Of course, Sally Bowles in I am a Camera . Dundridge didn’t need telling. He’d been had in more ways than one. In many more ways if the photos were anything to go by.

He was just wondering what to do next when the telephone rang. Dundridge grabbed it. “Yes,” he said.

“Mr Dundridge?” said a woman’s voice.

“Speaking,” said Dundridge shakily.

“I hope you like the proofs.”

“Proofs, you bitch?” Dundridge snarled.

“Call me Sally,” said the voice. “There’s no need to be formal with me now.”

“What do you want?”

“A thousand pounds… to be going on with.”

“A thousand pounds? I haven’t got a thousand pounds.”

“Then you had better get it, hadn’t you sweetie?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to get,” shouted Dundridge, “I’m going to get the police.”

“You do that,” said a man’s voice roughly, “and you’ll end up with your face cut to ribbons. You’re not playing with small fry, mate. We’re bigtime, understand.”

Dundridge understood all too well. The woman’s voice came back on the line. “If you do go to the police remember we’ve had one or two customers there. We’ll know. You just start looking for your thousand pounds.”

“I can’t -”

“Don’t call us. We’ll call you,” said Miss Boles, and put the phone down. Dundridge replaced his receiver more slowly. Then he leant forward and held his head in his hands.

Sir Giles returned from London in excellent spirits. Mrs Forthby had excelled herself and he was still tingling with satisfaction. Best of all had been Hoskins’ cryptic message over the phone. “The fish is hooked,” he had said. All that was required now was to provide a net in which Mr Dundridge could flounder. Sir Giles parked his car and went up to his constituency office and sent for Hoskins.

“Here they are. As nice a set of prints as you could wish for,” Hoskins said, laying the photographs out on the desk.

Sir Giles studied them with an appreciative eye. “Very nice,” he said finally. “Very nice indeed. And what does lover-boy have to say for himself now?”

“They’ve asked him for a thousand pounds. He says he hasn’t got it.”

“He’ll have it, never fear,” said Sir Giles. “He’ll have his thousand pounds and we’ll have him. There won’t be any more talk about tunnels in future. From now on it’s going to be Ottertown.”

“Ottertown?” said Hoskins, thoroughly puzzled. “But I thought you wanted it through the Gorge. I thought -”

“The trouble with you, Hoskins,” said Sir Giles, putting, the photographs back into the envelope and the envelope into his briefcase, “is that you can’t see further than the end of your nose. You don’t really think I want to lose my lovely house and my beautiful wife, do you? You don’t think I haven’t got the interests of my constituents like General Burnett and Mr Bullett-Bloody-Finch at heart, do you? Of course I have. I’m honest Sir Giles, the poor man’s friend,” and leaving Hoskins completely confused by this strange change of tack, he went downstairs.

There was nothing like throwing people off the scent. Killing two birds with one stone, he thought as he got into the Bentley. The decision to go through Ottertown would kill Puckerington for sure. Sir Giles looked forward to his demise with relish. Puckerington was no friend of his. Snobby bastard. Well, he was bird number one. Then the bye-election in Ottertown and they would have to change the route to the Gorge and Handyman Hall would go. Bird number two. By that time he would be able to claim even more compensation and no one, least of all Maud, could say he hadn’t done his damnedest. There was only one snag. That old fool Leakham might still insist on the Gorge route. It was hardly a snag. Maud would create a bit more. He might lose his seat in Parliament but he would be £150,000 richer and Mrs Forthby was waiting. Swings or roundabouts, Sir Giles couldn’t lose. The main thing was to see that the tunnel scheme was scotched. Sir Giles parked outside the Handyman Arms, went inside and sent a message up to Dundridge’s room to say that Sir Giles Lynchwood was looking forward to his company in the lounge.

Dundridge went downstairs gloomily. The last person he wanted to see was the local MP. He could hardly consult him about blackmail. Sir Giles greeted him with a heartiness Dundridge no longer felt that his position warranted. “My dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you,” he said shaking Dundridge’s limp hand vigorously. “Been meaning to look you up and have a chat about this motorway nonsense. Had to go to London unfortunately. Looking after you all right here? It’s one of our houses, you know. Any complaints, just let me know and I’ll see to it. We’ll have tea in the private lounge.” He led the way up some steps into a small lounge with a TV set in the corner. Sir Giles plumped into a chair and took out a cigar. “Smoke?”

Dundridge shook his head.

“Very wise of you. Still they do say cigars don’t do one any harm and a fellow’s entitled to one or two little vices, eh, what?” said Sir Giles and pierced the end of the cigar with a silver cutter. Dundridge winced. The cigar reminded him of something that had figured rather too largely in his activities with Miss Boles, and as for vices…

“Now then, about this business of the motorway,” said Sir Giles, “I think it’s as well to put our cards on the table. I’m a man who doesn’t beat about the bush I can tell you. Call a spade a bloody shovel. I don’t let the grass grow under my feet. Wouldn’t be where I was if I did.” He paused briefly to allow Dundridge to savour this wealth of metaphors and the bluff dishonesty of his approach. “And I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like this idea of your building a motorway through my damned land one little bit.”

“It was hardly my idea,” said Dundridge.

“Not yours personally,” said Sir Giles, “but you fellows at the Ministry have made up your mind to slap the bloody thing smack through the Gorge. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

“Well, as a matter of fact…” Dundridge began.

“There you are. What did I tell you? Told you so. Can’t pull the wool over my eyes.”