Chapter XXX The Well of Corruption

 

 

We had arrived at Timothy’s country pile near High Wycombe, where retainers were waiting for us in a marquee erected for us in the grounds. There was a single Russian violinist, a pianoforte, further side tables with warm food consisting of beef stroganoff and wild mushrooms in a red wine sauce, as well as sherry trifles and custard blancmanges. There were both chairs and couches and after an hour most of the servants made their apologies and disappeared and we were left to continue our libations on our own. All except for one rather handsome looking waiter, who started preparing and serving racy cocktails for us. Within seconds I recognized Boris, the smooth-bottomed chauffer.

We ended up playing suggestive parlour games, starting with “Swat the Fly”, where we all pretended to be a swarm of flies and one of us had to have their eyes covered up so as to chase the rest of us with a fly swat and whoever got swatted more than three times had to take over the fly swat and be blindfolded. Then we played what Bunty called an Australian game of “Down, Down, Down” which consisted of us throwing a cricket ball to the next person in a circle. If they dropped it they had to get down on one knee and pass it on and if they dropped it again they were down on both knees. Further forfeits for dropping the ball called for removal of articles of clothing to be chosen by the person who threw the ball. The Russian girls were not used to the hard English cricket balls, which stung their hands, so after all four found themselves kneeling with no knickers they called off the game on the grounds of its unfairness.

The girls dragged us into some wild Cossack dances for which all of us with the exception of David were totally unfit while Polina played Russian tunes on the piano, changing the mood and tempo from the vibrant “Kalinka” to the more languorous “Girl with Black Eyes”, which gave us a chance to paw our partners more intimately.

Amanda then introduced her old favourite, played by the titled sort, and which she had apparently recently played with a famous actress. A person is blindfolded, made to bend over a chair, and be whacked on his or her bottom after which the victim has to recognize the hand of the perpetrator. If he/she gets it right they swap places. If not, the victim has to receive a wallop from somebody else until he or she recognize the assailant, each time in a more and more humiliating position.

Boris was part of the entertainment too, it seems. He sang some soulful songs for us with a melodious tenor voice at the blushing bride’s request. At least the first two seemed deeply soulful. Though the third developed suddenly like a drinking song spinning out of control into an orgy of dancing and leaping which completely enveloped the Russian girls. They drooled over him overtly while he was serving us but he was also observed lasciviously by Tim and Ernie. I was not immediately aware of this but at one moment I heard Smallbridge whisper in my ear, “If you’ve had your fill of the fillies and the young waiter takes your fancy, just wink at him and let him know, old boy. He is a true young Ganymede and he is available, you know.” Sure enough at certain moments I would notice that Ernie, the Professor and His Lordship were away from the celebrations at the same time as the waiter.

In my semi-drunken haze I was still conscious enough of reality to be amazed at the old boys’ stamina and versatility. Discriminating they were not, as long as the body was slender and beautiful, rounded and exposed. But plump or slim, wobbly or firm, stallion or filly, they were not so fussy.

I was not drawn into this personally as my interest seemed to be overwhelmingly with the opposite sex, where there was sufficient variety and flavour to suit my eclectic tastes without spilling over into new borders. So the waiter held no attraction for me.

In the meantime we were subjected to other constant surprises. On one occasion Ernie and Bunty disappeared for a few minutes and then came back wearing the “His and Hers” aprons which I had bought. Having made their entrance and bowed to the applause of the remaining guests, they suddenly twirled round to reveal their bare bottoms as they were wearing absolutely nothing under the apron. They then bowed to some invisible audience outside the marquee upon which the Russian girls rushed forward and smacked the cheeky exhibitionists on their protruding rumps.

Later past midnight the entrance to the marquee was ripped open as Amanda, Ludmila and David rode in bare back on 3 horses from Tim’s stable. By “bareback” I refer to both horses and their riders who were all deprived of any outer covering including saddle, harness or clothes. Actually it would be an exaggeration to say that the riders were entirely naked because they were all sufficiently safety conscious to wear their riding helmets, while David waved a polo stick as he careered around the marquee on his nervous steed. Then they all burst outside into the brisker night air to canter around a flood lit drive urged on by our drunken words of encouragement.

Amidst all this jest and jollity I was amazed when Tim Smallbridge appeared sober enough to take me aside and ask how things were progressing with the approval of the development at the committee meeting next Tuesday. We were sitting in a couple of comfortable armchairs in a long gallery full of family portraits and ancient books. Some of the girls had just come giggling out of the room and a tell-tale line of a white powder alongside a glass with multi-coloured straws gave me sufficient clue as to what had just been going on minutes before. Smallbridge invited me to partake with a silent hand gesture but I was not very venturesome as far as drugs were concerned, so he grabbed a straw and indulged himself, meanwhile listening to my reply.

I thought it would be wrong to imply that everything was fine and dandy. I chose to praise the development in the way I had done so convincingly over the last month and in particular congratulating the architects for satisfying so many paragraphs of the Framden Borough Plan. Nevertheless, I pointed out, there were a few mysteries, such as the objection of Thames Water to the unexpected depth of the lower basements and second thoughts from the Greater London planners on the panoramic view. He asked how important these objections would be and I downgraded their merits provided that an adequate explanation was given to the committee. He felt reassured by this but my comments had obviously brought to the surface something that had been gnawing at him all day.

“Are you getting hassle from the police?” he asked suddenly.

“No,” I denied quickly.

“Well, I have. I had the boys in blue round yesterday. Ostensibly it was to check on Valentina’s identity and her nationality details. In view of our wedding and all that. I showed them her Belarusian passport. Then all of a sudden they started asking me about my relationship with Sheremovsky. What a cheek! Was I on a retainer? They wanted to know. I asked how come it was their business. They said that Sheremovsky was throwing a lot of money about and there had been complaints that he had been bribing councillors and officials to get his scheme through. God, was I furious! It was probably that Sheldrake bitch. I hope you have her measure for the meeting on Tuesday. Actually I hear she’s leader of her party in your Council?”

I nodded.

“Anyway, you are deciding just on the merits of the case. You haven’t played around with that. That’s appreciated. And we all know we have your support. They’re not all like you. We did have some whining councillors coming to us, hand outstretched. We had to give them something just to make sure they supported us.”

“Really?” I asked, my curiosity thoroughly aroused. “You mean community gain?”

“What balderdash! Peter. Community gain? More like personal gain. Backhanders a plenty! I don’t mean the pedestrian crossings and the bus stops and the youth facilities. I understand all that. I mean the real backhanders. Pay for my house extension. Pay for my holiday in Tuscany. Pay my son’s school fees. Pay off my credit card debt. Some of these greedy creeps were quite highly placed. And then, blow me down with a feather, these councillor creeps are not even on the Planning Committee. We really got taken to the cleaners there. And then you come along in May and solve all of our problems and you don’t ask for a penny. Mind you, we sweetened things a little for your Mum, didn’t we? No harm in that. A little bit of sun and fresh sea-breeze for a deserving old lady and her friend. Just a nice thank you for all you’ve done. You know who suggested that? Valentina, bless her. What a heart of gold she’s got.”

My mind was reeling as I was trying to take all of this in. I should have been wearing a wire! Smallbridge had confirmed the overall bribery and confirmed the attempt to bribe me. I needed to probe further with the right questions. OK, here goes. Put on the indignation.

“I can’t believe it! Who was asking for these bribes? Surely nobody on our Council?”

“Peter, you are such an innocent. Just like your predecessor, Emil. Poor sod. He certainly fell on his sword with that press woman sucking him off. In the Mayor’s chair, of all places. What was her name? You mentioned it once.”

“I did what!!?” I could not think of a secret that I had more reason to guard than the identity of Emil’s sexual partner. 

I shouted so loud that some of the other guests noticed that we were talking alone. Smallbridge was shocked and stood back. Valentina made to come over, but I waved her away. Puzzled, she stepped back to her friends, using a fly swat on Ernie’s exposed posterior. He was still wearing my apron.

“I said what?” I whispered now, but quite angrily. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Peter, forgive me, never mind that. I’ve obviously got the wrong end of the stick. But you asked about your colleagues. How little you know them. Grayson, for a start! He’s the one with the house extension. And Batchelor. Can we pay off his son’s credit card debts? More than £20,000. And your bloody Mayor, Donald McClintock. He took us for a ride. We got him a cottage in the Highlands and he not only failed to appear on the committee, he even sided with the local residents against us. There was Kitson. Said we must support the two local schools in Claybury. Fine, we understand that. And then also his son’s tuition in a public school as well! Did you know that your Scrutiny Committee Chairman sends his kid to a private school? Nothing wrong with that on personal grounds but for someone who is responsible for your local state schools? What does that say about confidence in your local schools, eh?”

I was literally terrified by the information Smallbridge was hurling in my direction. It terrified me for three reasons. One was the recognition of how far the web of corruption extended and how high it reached. Secondly, I was terrified that I might forget the salacious details of each new revelation as I had no means of recording Smallbridge’s speech. Thirdly, I was terrified at the amount of trust that Smallbridge had in me in giving me this information and that implied just how terrible will be his anger and that of Sheremovsky when they realise that I have betrayed them.

Unaware of the volcano of emotions and fear in my breast, Smallbridge just ploughed   on. “Then there was that old geezer. The greedy bastard. Said he wanted us to buy his council house and refurbish it. We told him to take a hike. Now he’s threatening to vote against us. We’ll sort him out, never mind.”

“What old geezer do you mean?” I asked.

“Never mind, Peter. The less you know the better.”

“What about Andy Trosser? What did he want?”

“Trosser? We had nothing to do with a guy of that name.”

“Aah, I thought you did. Because he supports the scheme wholeheartedly. He’s on the committee now. A very influential guy.”

“Really?” Tim drew out a pen and scribbled on his pocket address book. “What’s his name? (I spelled it out.) Andy Trosser. I like to know these things and see how he’s been overlooked. Thank you for that bit of info. What about that new Vice-Chairman, the blackie. Garton, isn’t it?

“No, Graham,” I corrected him, “Noel Graham”,

 “Well then, Graham. Is he safe? Can we count on him? Or do I ship in some bananas.”

“No, he’s fine. So is Angela Craven. She’s a friend of Meena.”

“Oh, yes, Meena, your pretty little Indian filly. Very good chairing. But she’s not on your committee? (I shook my head.) More’s the pity.”

“My worry is,” I continued, “that the opposition will now be united in opposing us, while we may have some divisions. I think that Sheldrake has them all tied up now.”

To my surprise, Smallbridge burst out laughing. “Sheldrake has fuck all tied up. Pardon my French. Philip Egerton is our man and so is Toby Richards. And as for Mrs, what’s her name? That woman in the same party as Sheldrake? What is her name now?”

“Mrs Wallace?” I ventured. “Patricia Wallace?”

“Yes, of course” he chuckled, “Whimpering Wallace. We had nothing on her at first. Then, you know what happens? At the site visit she fell for Ted Lamsden, our resident architect. He wasn’t too keen on her, but we sweetened the pill for him and now they’re a regular item. And her married and all, with three children! Should be ashamed of herself, the hussy! You know, he gets very peeved with her and we have recordings… sorry, we’ve heard that she keeps begging him to stay for a further hour. “Oh Teddy, dear,” he imitated her voice, “Teddy dear, please don’t go or I’ll cry..” Silly moo-cow!”

Nothing I had heard so far, not even the blatantly racist comments about Noel, had disgusted me as much as the last remarks. Suddenly I had lost all sense of respect for Lord Smallbridge. The man was as small as his surname implied. He had not a spark of decency. The veneer of grandeur and the witty repartees hid nought but a shallow soul. I now felt no compunction about betraying him. I was happy to lead him on.

“That’s a bit of a rum show, Tim. Fleecing a lady for her indiscretions. I know what it’s like. Val showed me a tape that compromised me and I felt very sick about it. I wouldn’t want to think that this was an attempt to influence my vote in any way.”

“Peter, no way. We wouldn’t do that to you. Val did mention that there was a recording of you and my Val in somewhat strange poses. I won’t comment about what you were doing, but please be assured that these tapes no longer exist. On my word of honour. Again, bless her soul, that was Valentina pleading to remove the film. She’s very fond of you, you know.”

“Indeed, Tim, you have a beautiful wife. And she is a very loyal person. Congratulations.” 

“Look, Peter, let’s not beat about the bush here. She’s a pretty stunning young filly.” We both turned at this juncture and looked at her as she and Olga were laughingly trying to smear aspic jelly over David’s body. “She’s bright as a new penny. A mathematics student. Loves to play chess. And she gives good head. The key thing, though, are those hips. Those hips are good enough for a bright young Smallbridge heir with my money and connections and her looks and her spirit. What a combination! He could become Prime Minister of Britain. Or a master criminal. Anyway, my point is. Look at that figure. I’m just an old fart with a few faltering sperm bursts. She’s going to need handling, or she’ll find nurture in a different stable. She is fond of you. Very fond. And I gather you like the look of her too. If her Ladyship comes to you, don’t turn her away. Look after her. See to her needs. Just be discreet about it. At least then it’s all in the same stables. And when she gets a bit uppity or you’re getting a little fed up just smack Her Ladyship on the rump and send her back to me.”

“Tim, I never…”

“Peter, we’re both adults here. Men of the world. We know how the cookie crumbles. I won’t be offended. I’ll even be grateful. Promise? OK?”

“If you insist, Tim…”

“I only ask, Peter. I don’t presume to insist. Anyway back to the bluebottles. When they were asking me about Sheremovsky. They asked me if I felt threatened by him. I laughed and I was about to tell them to go to hell when I remembered Valentina. She had certainly been threatened and exploited by Sheremovsky’s thugs, so I told the boys in blue that she would certainly need their protection, even after she marries me. I gave them an example. Do you know that just over 2 weeks ago, Sheremovsky’s men exposed her to some client who thrashed her with a birch within an inch of her life? A birch, I ask you! Now you must agree this was barbaric. I told the police that she needed protection from that kind of assignment and that kind of customer. The police asked me and I promised to give them the name of the guy. I eventually persuaded Valentina to give his name and his description. The police promised me they will find him and bring him to justice.”

“What name did she give?” I asked incredulously.

“Oh some Russian name. Yes, I remember, Petya Tomasovich.”

Oops!