He cleared his throat and began. “Tell me, Investigator, what did you have for breakfast?”
“What?”
“Come on, Priscilla, just for the sound levels.”
“Oh, yes. Er, I was a bit late, so I just had coffee.”
“And how did you travel to work?”
“I normally come on the tube and then walk.”
The interviewer glanced at the crew for a nod and then started on the real questions. “Tell me, Investigator, why do you think this case against Foreign Affairs 1 is so important?”
“One of the features of our society in the twentieth century was the gradual emancipation of women. Our attitudes to women's place in society have changed, to the point where women can now claim to be truly equal to men. This book portrays women as sexual toys and is trying to put the clock back to a time when women existed only to serve men.”
“Many people would say that Mr. Trehearne's women are pictured quite sympathetically.”
“You've put your finger on exactly why this book is so dangerous. In my work, I see many examples of the negative treatment of women. Most of the pornographic ones are very crude and seem to be written for childish intellects. This one is different. Trehearne writes quite well, and his women seem at first sight to be real and have real feelings. But the things he makes them do.... I feel he is abusing his natural talent and printing his own perverse fantasies to make money. But he is trying to make it at the expense of the women of this country, and he must be stopped.”
“The hearing has attracted tremendous media attention. It's being shown live not only in Britain but in many other countries as well. Why do you think this is?”
Priscilla mentally crossed her fingers and told a lie. “I believe people have a genuine interest in the democratic process and want to see justice done. I think the public concern is a very good thing.”
“Yet you personally get frequent negative comments from the live audience.”
“That's true. But the public has a range of opinions, and I am sure that the people who heckle me do not represent the quiet majority in this country. Or around the world, for that matter.”
“Have you watched the television coverage? There do seem to be some very negative comments about you. Do you let this worry you?”
She smiled at the thought of the first television comments she had seen. “Well, I'm not a politician, so some of the comments came as a shock. They were quite hurtful really. I don't watch the television any more. I'm too busy with the case.”
“Many people see the hearing as a duel between Mr. Trehearne and yourself. What do you think of him as a person?”
“That's quite wrong. What they are watching is actually a confrontation between Trehearne and the decent majority feeling of the country. He understands that, I'm sure. It's obvious that he is a very clever man, very talented and a competent writer. But after dealing with him at close quarters, I am sure that there are several other sides to him.”
“You mean his sexual life?”
“Not only that. He's a very hard business man, out to make money at any cost. I have evidence that he can also be very devious in pursuit of his own ends.”
“And what about the sexual revelations? Do you think the book is autobiographical?”
“He always equivocates when this question comes up. I think the general feeling is that he has been involved in most of the events in these stories. That's also what I feel. The man's a dangerous pervert.”
“Can I ask you how much of your own sexual attitudes you bring into your work?”
“I guess you can never cut off your own feelings completely. But for me, this case is easy. I am a normal person, and this book is clearly abnormal. That's putting it politely. They're terrible, the things Trehearne writes about. I can imagine him doing them, but no one else. So for me, the hearing is straightforward. He has to be stopped because he is dangerous.”
“During the hearing, you frequently refer to stories or actions as perverse. Indeed, you have just called Mr. Trehearne a pervert. He once asked, I believe, how you define ‘perverse’. Could I ask you again?”
“Again, all that question needs is a commonsense answer. Ask anyone in the street if a thing is perverse and they can answer you straight away.”
“Mr. Trehearne suggested that your definition of perverse was 'something you would be embarrassed to admit enjoying.' Is that a good definition?”
Priscilla just could not resist the anger rising inside her. “No, it is not! It's just a good example of Trehearne's weasel way with words. Ask anyone what's perverse and they can tell you.”
“Excuse me, but I am just looking for an example. One of the stories, one of the first stories, had two women sharing a man. Another had two men sharing a woman. How do you personally feel about that?”
“It's disgusting.”
“So it ought to be banned?”
“So making money by writing books about it ought to be banned. I believe strongly that sex belongs in the bedroom and nowhere else.”
“Why should the book be banned? Conceivably, two men sharing a woman might be degrading to women, but a story of two women sharing a man ought to be different. And the story of the oil field engineer and the laundry boy, Joan, had no women in it at all.”
“But that was awful! I can't imagine how Trehearne got involved in that. Or what made him enjoy doing it and writing about it afterwards.”
“There's a point here that interests me. You represent the people of Britain. You are employed by the Authority. In this case, you are dealing with a book about a wide range of sexual activities, activities that happen more or less frequently around us everywhere. But your own attitude toward sexuality seems to be quite restricted. Do you feel you have enough experience of life to comment on this book?”
Priscilla bridled at the criticism. “I have a normal experience of life. I don't see a problem with commenting on a book that's so sexually extreme.”
“Might I pursue exactly what you feel is sexually extreme? What are your feelings about some of the topics raised, say, lesbian activities.”
That was a loaded question. Negative comments about lesbians always brought very strident protests. “Er, I have nothing against lesbian activities. In private, of course.”
“Really? That's interesting. How about oral sex?”
It was too much for her. “You're just trying to embarrass me by talking about dirty things. I'm not going to answer you.”
The interviewer was merciless. He knew he had got his teeth into a sensitive area and he was not going to let go easily. “I'm a little surprised at a person in your position having difficulty expressing an opinion on such a topic. In a recently published women's magazine survey, eighty-four percent of respondents said they had oral sex frequently, either actively or passively or both, and ninety-four percent said they enjoyed it on occasion. What do you think of those figures?”
Priscilla struggled to recover. “Firstly, I don't believe them. They are not representative of the country as a whole. I can't believe ninety-four percent of women enjoy it. That's completely ridiculous. And I certainly don't want to read about it in Trehearne's book!”
“You see the difficulty, don't you? It may be that your attitude to sex is not representative of the public. You may be fighting against the general feeling of a democracy in trying to ban this book. The audience at the hearing may be right.”
“I don't believe that for a minute. It's my job to show this country just how perverted Trehearne is and how he treats women. If I do that, the book will be banned and I consider that's a very good thing.”
The interviewer looked at her intently for a moment, then raised his arm to cut. His interest in her switched off with the lights. “Thanks a lot, Priscilla. That's all we need. You'd better get back to the hearing, and I have to do the intro and wrap-up.”
She walked back to the hearing with the uncomfortable feeling that her attempt to bolster her case by using the me
dia may have done more harm than good. The next story was about Trehearne's red-haired witch again. She was beginning to hate the woman.
The Powder-Puff Club
Some airports, on some days, can be delightful, and today there was nothing about the clean and spacious halls of Bangkok's international airport that could possibly disturb Debbie's feeling of happiness. For months now she had looked forward to being here, and she was so excited at actually arriving that even the silent Immigration officer was a glad sight. In fact, he looked quite handsome in his immaculate colonial uniform. He thumbed through her passport and read each stamp with unnecessary thoroughness. He looked up and Debbie found herself looking into an ageless Asian face. He was composed and tough, very tough she felt. His eyes were like deep black pools.
At last he smiled. “How long will you stay in Thailand, Miss Ryder?”
“Three weeks—I'm on holiday.”
“You know it is not possible for me to give you a visa for three weeks? Only two weeks is permitted at the airport.”
“But...nobody told me.” Debbie was shaken. This could make a mess of her whole holiday. “But I'm meeting my sister. For three weeks. I didn't know.”
In a burst of movement, the Immigration officer slapped the passport onto the counter in front of him and pounded it with a stamp. A quick scrawl with his pen and he handed it back. “Check the date on your visa, Miss Ryder, and do not try to stay longer or we will fine you for each day you are late. Have a good holiday.”
She fumbled her things together and headed off to collect her baggage. As she stood waiting, she opened her passport and looked for the visa. Well, bless his uniformed heart! The departure date he had written onto the stamp was a full month away. How kind of him, she thought, and I bet he would have thrown me out of the country if I had asked him to do it for me. I think I'm going to like Thailand.
Meeting people at airports always bothered her. All those people hurrying about, and she was expected to link up with the one she wanted. She stood on tip-toe and tried to see over the crowd, trying to spot the brown-haired lady she wanted. And there she was, half hidden behind a pillar and smiling at her joke. Her sister Pat, looking fit and sun tanned. They ran together.
Later in the taxi, Debbie stared at the passing landscape. It was unimpressive. New factories and offices lined the busy highway. Recent Japanese cars and pick-ups swept by. “I hadn't expected it to be so…so Western. It's so modern.”
“Well, it is and it isn't. You wait until we get a bit nearer to town. When the road crosses the klongs and you can see some of the old-style houses. Then it doesn't look Western. Doesn't look poor, either. Just different—Thai, I suppose... Anyway, what have you been doing? You look so white!”
“Of course I'm white! You know what I'm like. The most I can manage is a few freckles. And don't forget it's still winter in England. We don't all live in endless sunshine, you know. You're so brown it's sickening. You should try being red-haired for a while.”
“Never mind. The men should love you here. They tell me the Thais don't really like brown skin, so all the girls do their best to stay out of the sun.”
“I've made one conquest already. The Immigration man gave me a visa for a month.”
“What! That's impossible! What did you offer him?”
“Nothing, I swear. I just smiled at him. He was really nice, but I don't suppose I'll see him again.”
The taxi slowed as it reached the continuous traffic jam that was Bangkok. It was terrible, and this late in the afternoon the traffic should all have been heading in the opposite direction. They inched forward and the girls fell silent as they watched life passing by around them. It was crowded, it was cramped, but it was not totally disorganised. The little shops looked well-ordered and interesting and the street had been cleaned. It was nothing like the horror stories of Asian squalor that her friends had treated her to when she announced her holiday in Thailand.
Nor did the people look unusual. Physically exotic, yes, but basically just ordinary people doing ordinary things, shopping, walking along the streets, getting in and out of taxis. The girls looked striking to Debbie. They all had two things going for them; they were slim and they had beautiful black hair. Add to that deep black eyes and a complexion that Western girls would happily murder for, and they all looked good. She began to look at them closely, and realised their faces were far from uniform. The diversity of appearance was as great as on an English High Street, always accepting the Asian mould. Of course, everyone had black hair—there were no blondes or red-heads. Still, she could see why Thai girls had such a wide and appreciative population of male admirers. Just looking at them made her feel huge and clumsy.
They crept up to some road works. The bridge over a small klong was being replaced, and the traffic was taking turns over a temporary Bailey bridge. Through the open frame-work of the bridge, Debbie looked out over the black velvet water of the klong. Backing up to it on either side stood a confusion of wooden houses. Dark, unpainted hardwood had been cobbled together into a crazy maze of buildings and rooms overhanging the canal. Many houses had small platforms floating on the water. On one of them a woman crouched, washing her laundry in a plastic basin. Her batik sarong flamed against the black water.
As they neared Sukhumvit, the buildings became taller and the shops more specialised and expensive. Debbie grinned when she read the name of their hotel—the Nana. Perhaps it sounded more elegant in Thai. The lobby was certainly nothing to complain about, an acceptable international gathering place, complete with soft music. But there was a problem. “I booked a double room,” explained Pat, “but here that means a double bed as well. They're fully booked so we can't change. It's a very big bed though. You don't mind, do you? We can talk all night.”
It was certainly large, half as wide again as a normal bed. Perhaps it was meant to accommodate a whole Thai family. Debbie did not mind. Since her sister had gone to Australia, they did not see each other often, but they still felt very close. Suddenly she felt exhausted. She would take a quick shower, a snack in the hotel coffee shop and then she would try out the grand bed.
As she lay drifting into sleep, Pat was reading beside her. “Tell me again what we're doing tomorrow.”
Pat smiled at her sleepiness. “Poor little girl! First of all we'll have a couple of days sight-seeing in Bangkok. Then to the beach at Phuket for as long as we like, and if there's time, we'll fly up to Chiangmai. But don't fuss about it. Go to sleep and we'll make it up as we go along.”
She woke to the sound of a mosquito whining in her ear. She tried to slap at it but surely missed. A grey dawn crept through the open curtains, and it took a moment to remember where she was. They had turned off the air-conditioner and opened the window. The rumble of traffic below must have been going on all night. The air felt moist and comfortably warm, and she had kicked off her sheet in the night. Across on the other side of the bed, Pat lay uncovered, her hair disordered on the pillow. She looked very brown and the even tan of her back was unbroken by any shadow of a swimsuit. Pat had been showing the full roundness of her bottom—Debbie remembered how she always used to complain that it stuck out too much—she had been showing it naked to the sun. And who else, she wondered? Debbie could not imagine that she had suddenly turned into a nun. Pat shut up in a camp in the middle of the Australian desert with a whole mine full of tasty men—she must have been up to something. She was probably the sexiest thing for hundreds of miles around. She would be treated like royalty. As if she knew she was being looked at, Pat rolled over. Her eyes flickered and shut again. “Go back to sleep,” she muttered and snuggled into the pillow. She looked so child-like Debbie wanted to mother her.
They went down for breakfast earlier than Pat would have liked, and were ready for the road before most of the hotel's guests. Pat had decided that they would make their own way and turned down the taxi drivers' offers of guided tours, or even of a ride into town. She had set her heart on riding in a tuktuk. Debbie foll
owed along, content to leave things in her hands.
As they stood outside the hotel, a tuktuk puttered up on the wrong side of the road, executed a suicidal U-turn across the traffic and jerked to a halt in front of them. It was a very light three-wheeled vehicle, a sort of motorised rickshaw made up from a motor scooter and a lot of imagination. Debbie climbed into the covered rear compartment while Pat negotiated with the driver. She watched in admiration. Little sister was so competent. She had armed herself with a note of her destination written in Thai by the hotel doorman, and she obviously knew what the fare should be. Debbie sat back and relaxed.
The tuktuk could not claim to be a comfortable way to travel. Its insubstantial body rocked wildly over any bumps. Nor was it peaceful as the small two-stroke engine roared and coughed beneath them. Being open, it gave no protection from the exhaust fumes of other vehicles, and passing buses were no fun. Its smallness allowed its driver to snake through gaps in the traffic that were almost invisible and they certainly felt a sense of intimacy with the life of the small streets.
They started with the flower market, and the day went on in a whirl of temples and palaces. Debbie felt impossibly hot. England in winter was no preparation for this. The tropical city air felt stifling and heavy, and no breeze brought relief. The temple courtyards were peaceful, but peacefully crowded. By mid-day, she found the ornate sculptures and rich gilding beginning to drift past her as temple-fatigue set in. Pat had not wilted at all, in fact she looked just as fresh as when they set out. The climate seemed to favour her. Debbie was just about to beg for mercy when Pat waved for their tuktuk[e3] and whisked her off again, but this time back to the Nana. Debbie threw her hat and clothes onto a chair and tumbled thankfully into a cool shower.
After lunch, she fell asleep. Pat woke her much later. “Come on, lazy! We've got to go out and hit town.”
“What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
“It's eight o'clock. I've been booking our trip to Phuket—for which you now owe me an airfare—and I reserved a really nice place to stay. On a rubber plantation. We're going tomorrow, so we'd better stock up on Bangkok night life while we can. I was talking to a nice German in the coffee shop, and he told me where to go. He says it's quite safe but not to carry too much money, just in case of pickpockets. Come on! Get up or I shall pour cold water over you. You can't spend your entire holiday sleeping.”
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