Meanwhile I was in Amsterdam and Rio, Paris and Vienna and New York and Sydney. I was in Tokyo and Seoul and Hong Kong. I was in Riyadh, Cairo and Baghdad. I was in Kampala and New Benin, everywhere there were major punters. I racked up so many free air-miles in a couple of months that they were automatically jumping me to first class. But I achieved what I wanted. Nobody bought London Bone without checking with me. I was the acknowledged expert. The prime source, the best in the business. If you want Bone, said the art world, you want Gold.
The Serious Fraud Squad became interested in Bone for a while, but they had been assuming we were faking it and gave up when it was obviously not rubbish.
Neither Bernie nor I expected it to last any longer than it did. By the time our first phase of selling was over we were turning over so much dough it was silly and the kids were getting tired and were worrying about exploring some of their wildest dreams. There was almost nothing left, they said. So we closed down the operation, moved our warehouses a couple of times and then let the Bone sit there to make us some money while everyone wondered why it had dried up.
And at that moment, inevitably, and late as ever, the newspapers caught on to the story. There was a brief late-night TV piece. A few supplements talked about it in their arts pages. This led to some news stories and eventually it went to the tabloids and the Bone became anything you liked, from the remains of Martians to a new kind of nuclear waste. Anyone who saw the real stuff was convinced but everyone had a theory about it. The real exclusive market was finished. We kept schtum. We were gearing up for the second phase. We got as far away from our stash as possible.
Of course, a few faces tracked me down, but I denied any knowledge of the Bone. I was a middleman, I said. I just had good contacts. Half-a-dozen people claimed to know where the Bone came from. Of course they talked to the papers. I sat back in satisfied security, watching the mud swirl over our tracks. Another couple of months and we’d be even safer than the house I’d bought in Hampstead overlooking the Heath. It had a rather forlorn garden the size of Kilburn, which needed a lot of nurturing. That suited me. I was ready to retire to the country and a big indoor swimming pool.
By the time a close version of the true story came out, from one of the stoodies who’d lost all his share in a lottery syndicate, it was just one of many. It sounded too dull. I told newspaper reporters that while I would love to have been involved in such a lucrative scheme, my money came from theatre tickets. Meanwhile, Bernie and I thought of our warehouse and said nothing.
Now the stuff was getting into the culture. It was chic. Puncher used it in their ads. It was called Mammoth Bone by the media. There was a common story about how a herd had wandered into the swampy river and drowned in the mud. Lots of pictures dusted off from the Natural History Museum. Experts explained the colour, the depths, the markings, the beauty. Models sported a Bone motif.
Our second phase was to put a fair number of inferior fragments on the market and see how the public responded. That would help us find our popular price—the most a customer would pay. We were looking for a few good millionaires.
Frankly, as I told my partner, I was more than ready to get rid of the lot. But Bernie counselled me to patience. We had a plan and it made sense to stick to it.
The trade continued to run well for a while. As the sole source of the stuff, we could pretty much control everything. Then one Sunday lunchtime I met Bernie at the Six Jolly Dragoons in Meard Alley, Soho. He had something to show me, he said. He didn’t even glance around. He put it on the bar in plain daylight. A small piece of Bone with the remains of decorations still on it.
“What about it?” I said.
“It’s not ours,” he said.
My first thought was that the stoodies had opened up the field again. That they had lied to us when they said it had run out.
“No,” said Bernie, “it’s not even the same colour. It’s the same stuff—but different shades. Gerry Goldstein lent it to me.”
“Where did he get it?”
“He was offered it,” Bernie said.
We didn’t bother to speculate where it had come from. But we did have rather a lot of our Bone to shift quickly. Against my will, I made another world tour and sold mostly to other dealers this time. It was a standard second-wave operation but run rather faster than was wise. We definitely missed the crest.
However, before deliveries were in and cheques were cashed, Jack Merry widow, the fighting MP for Brookgate and East Holborn, gets up in the House of Commons on telly one afternoon and asks if Prime Minister Bland or any of his dope-dazed Cabinet understand that human remains, taken from the hallowed burial grounds of London, are being sold by the piece in the international marketplace? Mr. Bland makes a plummy joke enjoyed at Mr. Merrywidow’s expense and sits down. But Jack won’t give up. They’re suddenly on telly. It’s The Struggle of Parliament time. Jack’s had the Bone examined by experts. It’s human. Undoubtedly human. The strange shapes are caused by limbs melting together in soil heavy with lime. Chemical reactions, he says. We have—he raises his eyes to the camera—been mining mass graves.
A shock to all those who still long for the years of common decency. Someone, says Jack, is selling more than our heritage. Hasn’t free-market capitalism got a little bit out of touch when we start selling the arms, legs and skulls of our forebears? The torsos and shoulder-blades of our honourable dead? What did we used to call people who did that? When was the government going to stop this trade in corpses?
It’s denied.
It’s proved.
It looks like trade is about to slump.
I think of framing the cheques as a reminder of the vagaries of fate and give up any idea of popping the question to my old muse Little Trudi, who is back on the market, having been dumped by her corporate suit in a fit, he’s told her, of self-disgust after seeing The Tolstoy Investment with Eddie Izzard. Bernie, I tell my partner, the Bone business is down the drain. We might as well bin the stuff we’ve stockpiled.
Then, two days later the TV news reports a vast public interest in London Bone. Some lordly old queen with four names comes on the evening news to say how by owning a piece of Bone, you own London’s true history. You become a curator of some ancient ancestor. He’s clearly got a vested interest in the stuff. It’s the hottest tourist item since Jack-the-Ripper razors and O.J. gloves. More people want to buy it than ever.
The only trouble is, I don’t deal in dead people. It is, in fact, where I have always drawn the line. Even Pratface Charlie wouldn’t sell his great-great-grandmother’s elbow to some overweight Jap in a deerstalker and a kilt. I’m faced with a genuine moral dilemma.
I make a decision. I make a promise to myself. I can’t go back on that. I go down to the Italian chippy in Fortess Road, stoke up on nourishing ritual grease (cod roe, chips and mushy peas, bread and butter and tea, syrup pudding), then heave my out-of-shape, but mentally prepared, body up onto Parliament Hill to roll myself a big wacky-baccy fag and let my subconscious think the problem through.
When I emerge from my reverie, I have looked out over the whole misty London panorama and considered the city’s complex history. I have thought about the number of dead buried there since, say, the time of Boudicca, and what they mean to the soil we build on, the food we still grow here and the air we breathe. We are recycling our ancestors all the time, one way or another. We are sucking them in and shitting them out. We’re eating them. We’re drinking them. We’re coughing them up. The dead don’t rest. Bits of them are permanently at work. So what am I doing wrong?
This thought is comforting until my moral sense, sharpening itself up after a long rest, kicks in with—But what’s different here is you’re flogging the stuff to people who take it home with them. Back to Wisconsin and California and Peking. You take it out of circulation. You’re dissipating the deep fabric of the city. You’re unravelling something. Like, the real infrastructure, the spiritual and physical bones of an ancient settlement . . .
On Kite Hill I suddenly realise that those bones are in some way the deep lifestuff of London.
It grows dark over the towers and roofs of the metropolis. I sit on my bench and roll myself a further joint. I watch the silver rising from the river, the deep golden glow of the distant lights, the plush of the foliage, and as I watch it seems to shred before my eyes, like a rotten curtain. Even the traffic noise grows fainter. Is the city sick? Is she expiring? Somehow it seems there’s a little less breath in the old girl. I blame myself. And Bernie. And those kids.
There and then, on the spot, I renounce all further interest in the Bone trade. If nobody else will take the relics back, then I will.
There’s no resolve purer than the determination you draw from a really good reefer.
3
So now there isn’t a tourist in any London market or antique arcade who isn’t searching out Bone. They know it isn’t cheap. They know they have to pay. And pay they do. Through the nose. And half of what they buy is crap or fakes. This is a question of status, not authenticity. As long as we say it’s good, they can say it’s good. We give it a provenance, a story, something to colour the tale to the folks back home. We’re honest dealers. We sell only the authentic stuff. Still they get conned. But still they look. Still they buy.
Jealous Mancunians and Brummies long for a history old enough to provide them with Bone. A few of the early settlements, like Chester and York, start turning up something like it, but it’s not the same. Jim Morrison’s remains disappear from Père-Lachaise. They might be someone else’s bones, anyway. Rumour is they were KFC bones. The Revolutionary death-pits fail to deliver the goods. The French are furious. They accuse the British of gross materialism and poor taste. Oscar Wilde disappears. George Eliot. Winston Churchill. You name them. For a few months there is a grotesque trade in the remains of the famous. But the fashion has no intrinsic substance and fizzles out. Anyone could have seen it wouldn’t run.
Bone has the image, because Bone really is beautiful.
Too many people are yearning for that Bone. The real stuff. It genuinely hurts me to disappoint them. Circumstances alter cases. Against my better judgement I continue in the business. I bend my principles, just for the duration. We have as much turnover as we had selling to the Swiss gnomes. It’s the latest item on the been-to list. “You have to bring me back some London Bone, Ethel, or I’ll never forgive you!” It starts to appear in the American luxury catalogues.
But by now there are ratsniffers everywhere—from Trade and Industry, from the National Trust, from the Heritage Corp, from half a dozen South London councils, from the Special Branch, from the C.I.D., the Inland Revenue and both the Funny and the Serious Fraud Squads.
Any busybody who ever wanted to put his head under someone else’s bed is having a wonderful time. Having failed dramatically with the STOP THIS DISGUSTING TRADE approach, the tabloids switch to offering bits of Bone as prizes in circulation boosters. I sell a newspaper consortium a Tesco’s plastic bagful for two-and-a-half mill via a go-between. Bernie and I are getting almost frighteningly rich. I open some bank accounts offshore and I become an important anonymous shareholder in the Queen Elizabeth Hall when it’s privatised.
It doesn’t take long for the experts to come up with an analysis. Most of the Bone has been down there since the seventeenth century and earlier. They are the sites of the old plague pits where, legend had it, still-living people were thrown in with the dead. For a while it must have seemed like Auschwitzon-Thames. The chemical action of lime, partial burning, London clay and decaying flesh, together with the broadening spread of the London water-table, thanks to various engineering works over the last century, letting untreated sewage into the mix, had created our unique London Bone. As for the decorations, that, it was opined, was the work of the pit guards, working on earlier bones found on the same site.
“Blood, shit and bone,” says Bernie. “It’s what makes the world go round. That and money, of course.”
“And love,” I add. I’m doing all right these days. It’s true what they say about a Roller. Little Trudi has enthusiastically rediscovered my attractions. She has her eye on a ring. I raise my glass. “And love, Bernie.”
“Fuck that,” says Bernie. “Not in my experience.” He’s buying Paul McCartney’s old place in Wamering and having it converted for Persians. He has, it is true, also bought his wife her dream house. She doesn’t seem to mind it’s on the island of Las Cascadas about six miles off the coast of Morocco. She’s at last agreed to divorce him. Apart from his mother, she’s the only woman he ever had anything to do with and he isn’t, he says, planning to try another. The only females he wants in his house in future come with a pedigree a mile long, have all their shots and can be bought at Harrods.
4
I expect you heard what happened. The private Bonefields, which contractors were discovering all over South and West London, actually contained public bones. They were part of our national inheritance. They had living relatives. And stones, some of them. So it became a political and a moral issue. The Church got involved. The airwaves were crowded with concerned clergy. There was the problem of the self-named bone-miners. Kids, inspired by our leaders’ rhetoric and aspiring to imitate those great captains of free enterprise they had been taught to admire, were turning over ordinary graveyards, which they’d already stripped of their saleable masonry, and digging up somewhat fresher stiffs than was seemly.
A bit too fresh. It was pointless. The Bone took centuries to get seasoned and so far nobody had been able to fake the process. A few of the older graveyards had small deposits of Bone in them. Brompton Cemetery had a surprising amount, for instance, and so did Highgate. This attracted prospectors. They used shovels mainly, but sometimes low explosives. The area around Karl Marx’s monument looked like they’d refought the Russian Civil War over it. The barbed wire put in after the event hadn’t helped. And, as usual, the public paid to clean up after private enterprise. Nobody in their right mind got buried any more. Cremation became very popular. The borough councils and their financial managers were happy because more valuable real estate wasn’t being occupied by a non-consumer.
It didn’t matter how many security guards were posted or, by one extreme authority, landmines, the teenies left no grave unturned. Bone was still a profitable item, even though the market had settled down since we started. They dug up Bernie’s mother. They dug up my cousin Leonard. There wasn’t a Londoner who didn’t have some intimate unexpectedly back above ground. Every night you saw it on telly.
It had caught the public imagination. The media had never made much of the desecrated graveyards, the chiselled-off angels’ heads and the uprooted headstones on sale in King’s Road and the Boulevard St. Michel since the 1970s. These had been the targets of first-generation grave-robbers. Then there had seemed nothing left to steal. Even they had baulked at doing the corpses. Besides, there wasn’t a market. This second generation was making up for lost time, turning over the soil faster than an earthworm on E.
The news shots became clichés. The heaped earth, the headstone, the smashed coffin, the hint of the contents, the leader of the Opposition coming on to say how all this has happened since his mirror image got elected. The councils argued that they should be given the authority to deal with the problem. They owned the graveyards. And also, they reasoned, the Bonefields. The profits from those fields should rightly go into the public purse. They could help pay for the Health Service. “Let the dead,” went their favourite slogan, “pay for the living for a change.”
What the local politicians actually meant was that they hoped to claim the land in the name of the public and then make the usual profits privatising it. There was a principle at stake. They had to ensure their friends and not outsiders got the benefit.
The High Court eventually gave the judgement to the public, which really meant turning it over to some of the most rapacious borough councils in our history. A decade or so earlier, that Charlie Peac
e of elected bodies, the Westminster City Council, had tried to sell their old graveyards to new developers. This current judgement allowed all councils at last to maximise their assets from what was, after all, dead land, completely unable to pay for itself, and therefore a natural target for privatisation. The feeding frenzy began. It was the closest thing to mass cannibalism I’ve ever seen.
We had opened a fronter in Old Sweden Street and had a couple of halfway presentable slags from Bernie’s club taking the calls and answering enquiries. We were straight up about it. We called it The City Bone Exchange. The bloke who decorated it and did the sign specialised in giving offices that long-established look. He’d created most of those old-fashioned West End hotels you’d never heard of until 1999. “If it’s got a Scottish name,” he used to say, “it’s one of mine. Americans love the skirl of the pipes, but they trust a bit of brass and varnish best.”
Our place was almost all brass and varnish. And it worked a treat. The Ritz and the Savoy sent us their best potential buyers. Incredibly exclusive private hotels gave us taxi-loads of bland-faced American boy-men, reeking of health and beauty products, bellowing their credentials to the wind, rich matrons eager for anyone’s approval, massive Germans with aggressive cackles, stern orientals glaring at us, daring us to cheat them. They bought. And they bought. And they bought.
The snoopers kept on snooping but there wasn’t really much to find out. Livingstone International took an aggressive interest in us for a while, but what could they do? We weren’t up to anything illegal just selling the stuff and nobody could identify what—if anything—had been nicked anyway. I still had my misgivings. They weren’t anything but superstitions, really. It did seem sometimes that for every layer of false antiquity, for every act of Disneyfication, an inch or two of our real foundations crumbled. You knew what happened when you did that to a house. Sooner or later you got trouble. Sooner or later you had no house.
The Best of Michael Moorcock Page 18