Bodies (19 page)

I
HAD A WATCH
put on the building the moment I got back to the Yard, and I put the Elephant police on to making discreet inquiries into the ownership of the place. They found out that it had been empty since well before the current depression, and was let to Vince Haggarty for practically nothing. The firm's accountant was an enthusiast for “the sport,” so presumably Vince had heard of the place through the old muscleboy network.

The watch reported that Vince remained a night-worker, even though the old imperative no longer remained. He was never seen around the building during the day, which made our preparations much easier. In one respect the loneliness and near-dereliction of the place suited us fine: there were any number of spots where I could hide men around the warehouse—and I had figured that I would use seven or eight to be on the safe side. On the other hand, there needed to be an observer there other than Charlie, whose evidence, as a participant, could be taken apart by a good defence lawyer. I needed to observe, too, in order to coordinate the men and choose the best moment for them to go in and stop the thing.

That proved rather less simple. I established (somewhat unorthodoxly, by going into the place) that the first floor was simply a
large, high room, with no conceivable place to hide. There was a very large chest, but it was padlocked, and the lock of the padlock was oiled, so I figured it was likely to contain things needed during the filming. Most of the windows of the place were inconveniently high, but at the far end there was a lower one, over which the drape had been rather carelessly arranged, perhaps because most of the filming seemed to take place down the other end of the building, where the walls were hung with coloured materials. I walked around in the waste ground surrounding the place—which was a dump in every sense of the word—and picking through all the builders' waste, kids' discarded cans and glue bottles and general family effects, I found an ancient but substantial chest of drawers. I arranged to have it moved under the window after dark, and told the watching constable to make damned sure that none of the local scavengers took it.

Charlie kept me posted about arrangements, and on the Tuesday that was scheduled for the filming he phoned in the morning to say that he was leaving work early so as to be at Vince's Dedham Road flat at four o'clock. That should mean they would get to the Elephant by four-thirty, by which time it would be all but dark. The boys, Charlie said, were going to be fetched later, when the first piece of quickie-porn was in the bag. Charlie's adrenalin was running at the prospect of an exciting evening, but he repeated over and over that he wanted the thing stopped before it became serious. I assured him that he couldn't want it more than I did, and told him I'd be watching so as to pick the best moment.

I took Joplin with me to the Elephant, and six other sergeants and constables. Joplin's job was to marshall the forces, mine to give the signals. We left the detailed deployment till after the party began, though Garry had selected most of the positions: one was in the undergrowth of what had once been one of the prefab's vegetable patch, one was in the area steps of one of the derelict houses, the rest were in the cat-infested wastelands around the warehouse. I was at the back, waiting to climb on to my chest of drawers.

The film team arrived about four-thirty. Vince pulled up some way from the only streetlamp in the vicinity that was working, and he, Mick, Charlie and an unknown bloke quickly and efficiently transferred the equipment into the warehouse, watched by the Portuguese girlfriend. The cameras they took home, apparently, after each session: the rests and tripods and frames and other less valuable impedimenta they left there, as I had ascertained during my illicit tour of the place. We gave them a few minutes to settle down, and to
remember anything they might have left in the car, but it was an efficiently run operation, and nobody came out. So Garry, quietly, with nothing but signs, began deploying his men around the place. I had perhaps brought rather more than I needed, granted that the warehouse had only two exits, one of them apparently disused and rusted into unopenability. But I knew that Vince was (in appearance, at any rate) a physically capable man, I didn't know who else would be there, and I wanted to be safe rather than sorry.

When all the men were deployed, I thought it was time to take up my watch position. I clambered silently on to the chest, and looked through into the brilliantly lighted room. It was a chaos of cameras, tripods and lights, but one that was rapidly reducing itself to order. Vince was either a good general, or the films he shot were pretty simple to stage. Charlie, Mick and the other man were humping stuff around, and it was only a matter of minutes before things were in position to Vince's satisfaction. The Portuguese girlfriend took no part in this buzz of activity. She stood by the door at the far end from me, splendid in fur coat and caftan, coolly gazing at the scene as if it were nothing to do with her. Vince was shouting directions to the rest (the window was very ill-fitting, so I could hear talk, if it was not too low), but he never shouted any to her. If he had, of course, it is unlikely she would have understood.

By about five, all was apparently ready. The place was heated by a couple of oil heaters, placed by the area they were filming in, which was at the draped end furthest from me. Well rugged-up outside, I began to feel sorry for them inside, if they were going to take off their clothes. And of course they
were
going to take off their clothes. It wouldn't be that kind of film if they didn't. Charlie was all right for the moment, lounging against a wall in a dark blue track-suit, and occasionally coming to warm his hands against a heater. Vince, too, had a heavy tweed sports jacket on, and a woollen scarf. But the other two, I thought, were going to earn their money.

It soon became clear how. Vince and Charlie brought over one of the heavy wooden frames usually used to fix lights to, and they placed it in the centre of the field of light.

“Right,” said Vince. “Let's go. Take your clothes off, Harold. I think a loincloth would be appropriate, don't you?”

Harold was a fair-haired, willowy young man, very much a contrast to the run of bodies I'd been seeing in the course of this case. He took his clothes off, piled them up neatly in a corner, donned the ready-made loincloth that Vince handed him, and stood there shivering
and banging his arms across his chest over by the heater. He did not even look at himself in the mirror that stood over by the door.

“Come on, come on,” said Vince impatiently. “We've got to get this in the can before we fetch the boys.”

He was standing by the frame holding two lengths of rope. Harold went over, raised his hands up to the cross-bar of the frame, and let himself be tied roughly in a spread-eagled position.

“Right,” said Vince, surveying his inspired piece of improvisation. “Let's get a few shots of you before the action starts . . . Look terrified . . . Terrified, not tearful . . . Come on, for Chrissake—
fear
 . . . Oh well, that'll do, I suppose. I thought you called yourself an actor. You'd never get a job on
Mutiny on the Bounty
 . . . Right, my darling: take your clothes off, as only you know how.”

He gestured the act of undressing to his girlfriend, who was standing over by the other heater. In a queenly, almost contemptuous manner she complied. She slid off the fur coat, and let it lie on the dusty floor, pulled the caftan over her head, and then took off such Western underwear as she had on. Then she stood there, leant slightly backwards, surveying them, her lips turned slightly downwards in an expression of distaste. She was the most stunning sight I had seen in years—the only fine body I had seen in this case that did not have the stain of anonymity upon it, that feeling of mass production. She was square-shouldered, to go with her height, and her breasts were large but firm, and every part of her expressed power and force.

“Very nice,” said Mick Spivey, looking like a dwarf in her vicinity. “Very nice indeed.”

Vince had gone to the chest over by the far wall, and taken out a long, shiny hide whip. Standard equipment, apparently. He handed it to her, and the corners of her mouth came up, slightly, into an expression of satisfaction. Perhaps she had fantasies of turning it on him. She stood there, magnificent, cracking the whip in the air experimentally a few times.

“Don't let her touch me with that,” said Harold from his frame. “My skin is very sensitive.”

“It won't come near you, Harold,” muttered Vince impatiently.

And certainly he was as good as his word. It is difficult to convey the risible yet tacky nature of the filming that followed. First the girlfriend, looking splendid and fearsome, if only Vince's directorial skills could have captured it, was taken inflicting terrible punishment on the vacant air. Then shots were taken of her standing before the
frame, brandishing the whip threateningly at Harold's back. Then came shots of the whip draped across the shoulders of Harold, with Vince painting in wealts with lipstick across his body between each shot. Harold was shivering, quite genuinely. Cold had its uses in a film of this kind, I decided, though I couldn't see its helping much in the straighter sex productions. Vince seemed less satisfied however, with the front shots he took of Harold looking agonized, screaming with pain, and begging for mercy. Actors' Equity are always giving fearful statistics of the numbers of their members who are out of work, but one always suspects that a great many of them richly deserve to be. Watching Harold trying to render simple emotions only confirmed that belief. Finally Vince shook his head and gave up, getting his own back by forgetting to untie Harold and ignoring his pleas to be allowed down from his frame. Finally he took a bit more film of the girlfriend brandishing her whip, sound-recorded the whip being cracked against the warehouse wall, and then decided that his latest fladge masterpiece was in the can, and could be satisfactorily put together in the cutting-room.

Charlie, I could see, found all this intensely amusing. If anyone chanced to look his way he was observing things with an absorbed interest, but at other moments his whole body was shaking with laughter. I too, on my perch outside in the dank November weather, would quite often like to have let out a roar of mirth. But it wasn't
only
funny: the shoddy, improvised nature of it was highly chuckle-inducing, it was true—the lights frame Harold was tied to, the lipstick weals. But then there was that splendid naked body, all that beauty and force, which was lending itself to this tacky little piece of fantasy-fodder. It presented an inescapable contrast between the beauty of some bodies, and the ugly things that were done to them. Ah well—as I said to Garry earlier, I should restrain my tendency to moralizing monologues.

Now that this piece was done, to be spliced together at some future date to provide a highly unconvincing little thrill for the video viewers, they could start thinking about the next one. One could see why they did better with the real thing: Vince obviously had no talent at all for faking. Charlie now took pity and went and untied Harold, who quickly donned his clothes, muttering bitterly to himself. Why he kept his complaints to himself was obvious when he was kitted out again: he went to Vince to demand his payment, and Vince with obvious reluctance that was meant to imply dissatisfaction with his performance counted out a number of tens. The girlfriend had put
on her clothes again with silent, consummate grace, her face expressing no emotion whatsoever. She was sailing towards the door as Vince paid off Harold, and he called her:

“Hey! Black cow!” She turned. He pointed to Mick. “You want lift? Drive?”

He mimed driving. She stood, impassively waiting, as Vince gave the car keys to Mick. I made to Garry Joplin one of our prearranged signs, the one meaning “Keep very low. Someone coming out.” Mick tossed the keys up in his hand, asked Harold if he wanted a lift back over the river, and then the three of them came out, picked their way through the darkness to the car, and drove off.

Charlie and Vince were now getting down to work. After some thought Vince decided to shoot this lot of film down my end of the room, away from the drapes.

“The drapes are wrong,” he said, showing his first faint glimmer of an artistic sense. “Down here is better—sort of bare, and hard. Like a peni—peni . . . Sort of prison. You know.”

Charlie nodded, though I knew he was itching to supply the word himself. In a matter of minutes they had moved the lights and the cameras down, and positioned them to Vince's satisfaction. Then Vince went to the large box again, the one containing the props of his trade, and came up with two largish wooden frames, designed to be laid on the floor, with leather, buckled bracelets at either end. Charlie helped him hump them over, but it was Vince who positioned them in the pool of light, and then stood there contemplating them deeply, as if weighty questions of aesthetics were involved. Then he checked each camera meticulously.

“You've got to be dead careful you haven't done anything daft,” he explained to Charlie. “With this sort of caper, there aren't any retakes.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” said Charlie. “What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“Simple. Piece of cake. When they get here, I want it all to go very fast, see? At least until they're strapped down. I'll size ‘em up, and if they look as if they might do it all right, I'll tell them to take their clothes off in the light, with the cameras rolling. As soon as they've done that, you take them and put them down on the frames—heads
there
, feet
there
, and you strap up their hands and their feet so the little buggers can't change their minds and walk out halfway. I won't get the birch out till they've got their clothes off—don't want to scare the little darlings too soon. Not that it
looks
so bad. You might walk
forward carrying it-might get a good expression shot out of them. When you've tied ‘em up, get hold of the birch again, then stand about . . .
here
, and when I tell you to, whop the one on this frame with all your might. Make it impressive, slow—sort of ritual, know what I mean? We'll have plenty of time between strokes, so we've got masses of film to play around with afterwards, and we'll film the other boy, waiting for his, and watching. Now—how shall we have you?” He looked at Charlie with the eye of a Hockney. “I think football shorts, don't you? Sort of gives the idea of school, don't you think? I've got several pairs here . . . ”