by Tom Sharpe
Indecent
Exposure
Tom Sharpe
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Also by Tom Sharpe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446474631
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books in 2004
10
Copyright © Tom Sharpe, 1984
Tom Sharpe has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 1973 by
Secker & Warburg
Arrow Books
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London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099466529
About the Author
Tom Sharpe was born in 1928 and educated at Lancing College and Pembroke College, Cambridge. He did his national service in the Marines before going to South Africa in 1951, where he did social work before teaching in Natal. He had a photographic studio in Pietermaritzburg from 1957 until 1961, and from 1963 to 1972 he was a lecturer in History at the Cambridge College of Arts and Technology.
He is the author of sixteen novels, including Porterhouse Blue and Blott on the Landscape which were serialised on television, and Wilt which was made into a film. In 1986 he was awarded the XXIIIème Grand Prix de l’Humour Noir Xavier Forneret and in 2010 he received the inaugural BBK La Risa de Bilbao Prize. Tom Sharpe died in 2013.
Also by Tom Sharpe
Riotous Assembly
Porterhouse Blue
Blott on the Landscape
Wilt
The Great Pursuit
The Throwback
The Wilt Alternative
Ancestral Vices
Vintage Stuff
Wilt on High
Grantchester Grind
The Midden
Wilt in Nowhere
The Gropes
The Wilt Inheritance
1
It was Heroes Day in Piemburg and as usual the little capital of Zululand was quite unwarrantably gay. Along the streets the jacarandas bloomed unconscionably beside gardens flamboyant with azaleas while from a hundred flagpoles Britons and Boers proclaimed their mutual enmity by flying the Union Jack or the Vierkleur, those emblems of the Boer War which neither side could ever forget. In separate ceremonies across the city the two white communities commemorated ancient victories. At the Anglican Cathedral the Bishop of Piemburg reminded his unusually large congregation that their ancestors had preserved freedom from such assorted enemies as Napoleon, President Kruger, the Kaiser and Adolf Hitler. At the Verwoerd Street Dutch Reformed Church the Reverend Schlachbals urged his flock never to forget that the British had invented concentration camps and that twenty-five thousand Boer women and children had been murdered in them. In short Heroes Day provided everyone with an opportunity to forget the present and revive old hatreds. Only the Zulus were forbidden to commemorate the occasion, partly on the grounds that they had no reputable heroes to honour but for the most part because it was felt that their participation would only lead to an increase in racial tension.
To Kommandant van Heerden, Piemburg’s chief of police, the whole affair was most regrettable. As one of the few Afrikaners in Piemburg to be even slightly related to a hero (his grandfather had been shot by the British after the Battle of Paardeberg for ignoring the order to cease fire) he was expected to speak on the subject of heroism at the Nationalist rally at the Voortrekker Stadium and, besides, as one of the town’s leading officials, he was obliged to attend the ceremony at Settlers Park where the Sons of England were inaugurating yet another wooden bench in honour of those who had fallen in the Zulu wars some hundred years before.
In the past the Kommandant had been able to avoid all these engagements by pleading the impossibility of being in two places at the same time but since the police had recently been allocated a helicopter, this year he was denied that excuse. At intervals throughout the day the helicopter could be seen chattering across the city while the Kommandant, who disliked heights almost as much as he did public speaking, sorted through his notes in an effort to find something to say whenever he landed. Since his notes were ones he had used annually since the Congo Crisis years before, their illegibility and general lack of relevance caused some confusion. At the Voortrekker Stadium Kommandant van Heerden’s speech on heroism included the assurance that the citizens of Piemburg need have no doubt that the South African Police would leave no stone unturned to see that nothing disturbed the even terror of their lives, while at Settlers Park his eloquence on behalf of the nuns who had been raped in the Congo, coming as it did after a passionate plea for racial harmony by a Methodist missionary, was considered not to be in the best of taste.
Finally, to round the day’s business off, there was a parade of his men at the Mounted Police Barracks at which the Mayor had agreed to award a trophy for conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty.
‘Interesting what you had to say about those nuns,’ said the Mayor as the helicopter lifted off the ground at Settlers Park, ‘I’d almost forgotten about them. Must be twelve years ago that happened.’
‘I think it’s just as well to remind ourselves that it could happen here,’ said the Kommandant.
‘I suppose so. Funny thing the way kaffirs always seem to go for nuns. You’d think they’d like something a bit more jolly.’
‘It’s probably because they’re virgins,’ said the Kommandant.
‘How very clever of you to think of that,’ said the Mayor, ‘my wife will be relieved to hear it.’
Below them the roofs glowed in the afternoon sun. Built in the heyday of the British Empire, the tiny metropolis still possessed an air of seedy grandeur. The City Hall, redbrick Gothic, loomed above the market square while, opposite, the Supreme Court maintained a classic formal air. Behind the railway station, Fort Rapier, once the headquarters of the British Army and now a mental hospital, stood outwardly unaltered. Patient
s shuffled across the great parade ground where once ten thousand men had marched and wheeled before departing for the front. The Governor’s Palace had been turned into a teacher training college and students sunbathed on lawns which had once been the scene of garden parties and receptions. To Kommandant van Heerden it was all very puzzling and sad and he was just wondering why the British had abandoned their Empire so easily when the helicopter steadied itself over the Police Barracks and began to descend.
‘A very fine turn-out,’ said the Mayor indicating the ranks of police konstabels on the parade ground below.
‘I suppose so,’ said the Kommandant, recalled from past splendours to the drab present. He looked down at the five hundred men drawn up in front of a saluting base. There was certainly nothing splendid about them, nor about the six Saracen armoured cars parked in a line behind them. As the helicopter bumped to the ground and its blades finally stopped turning, he helped the Mayor down and escorted him to the platform. The police band broke into a rousing march while sixty-nine guard dogs snarled and slobbered in several iron cages vacated for the occasion by the black prisoners who were normally confined in them while awaiting trial.
‘After you,’ said the Kommandant at the foot of the steps that led to the platform. At the top a tall thin luitenant was standing, holding the leash of a particularly large Dobermann Pinscher, whose teeth, the Mayor noted with alarm, were bared in what appeared to be an immutable snarl.
‘No, after you,’ said the Mayor.
‘I insist. After you,’ said the Kommandant.
‘Listen,’ said the Mayor, ‘if you think I’m going to dispute these steps with that Dobermann …’
Kommandant van Heerden smiled.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘It’s stuffed. That’s the trophy.’ He lurched onto the platform and pushed the Dobermann aside with his knee. The Mayor followed him up and was introduced to the thin luitenant.
‘Luitenant Verkramp, head of the Security Branch,’ said the Kommandant.
Luitenant Verkramp smiled bleakly and the Mayor sat down in the knowledge that he had just met a representative of BOSS, the Bureau of State Security whose reputation for torturing suspects was second to none.
‘I’ll just make a short speech,’ said the Kommandant, ‘and then you can award the trophy.’ The Mayor nodded and the Kommandant went to the microphone.
‘Mr Mayor, ladies and gentlemen, officers of the South African Police,’ he shouted, ‘we are gathered here today to pay tribute to the heroes of South African history and in particular to honour the memory of the late Konstabel Els whose recent tragic death has deprived Piemburg of one of its most outstanding policemen.’
The Kommandant’s voice amplified by the loudspeaker system boomed across the parade ground and lost in the process all trace of the hesitancy he felt in mentioning the name Els. It had been Luitenant Verkramp’s idea to award the stuffed Dobermann as a trophy and, glad to see the thing moved from his office, the Kommandant had agreed. Now faced with the prospect of eulogizing the dead Els, he wasn’t so sure it had been a wise decision. In life Els had shot more blacks dead in the course of duty than any other policeman in South Africa and had been a constant offender against the Immorality Laws. The Kommandant looked down at his notes and ploughed on.
‘A loyal comrade, a fine citizen, a devout Christian …’ To the Mayor, looking down at the faces of the konstabels before him, it was clear that Konstabel Els’ death had indeed been a great loss to the Piemburg constabulary. Certainly none of the faces he could see suggested those admirable characteristics which had evidently been so manifest in Konstabel Els. He was just coming to the conclusion that the average IQ must be in the region of 65 when the Kommandant finished his speech and announced that the Els Memorial Trophy had been won by Konstabel van Rooyen. The Mayor stood up and took the leash of the stuffed Dobermann from Luitenant Verkramp.
‘Congratulations on winning this award,’ he said when the prizewinner presented himself. ‘And what did you do to be so highly honoured?’
Konstabel van Rooyen blushed and mumbled something about shooting a kaffir.
‘He prevented a prisoner from escaping,’ the Kommandant explained hurriedly.
‘Very commendable, I’m sure,’ said the Mayor and handed the leash to the konstabel. To the cheers of his fellow policemen and the applause of the public the winner of the Els Memorial Trophy staggered down the steps carrying the stuffed Dobermann as the band struck up.
‘Splendid idea giving a trophy like that,’ the Mayor said as they sipped tea in the refreshment tent afterwards, ‘though I must say I would never have thought of a stuffed dog. Highly original.’
‘It was killed by the late Konstabel Els himself,’ the Kommandant said.
‘He must have been a remarkable man.’
‘With his bare hands,’ said the Kommandant.
‘Dear God,’ said the Mayor.
Presently, leaving the Mayor discussing the advisability of allowing visiting Japanese businessmen to use Whites Only swimming pools with the Rev. Schlachbals, the Kommandant moved away. At the entrance of the tent Luitenant Verkramp was deep in conversation with a large blonde whose turquoise dress fitted her astonishingly well. Under the pink picture hat the Kommandant recognized the features of Dr von Blimenstein, the eminent psychiatrist at Fort Rapier Mental Hospital.
‘Getting free treatment?’ the Kommandant asked jocularly as he edged past.
‘Dr von Blimenstein has been telling me how she deals with cases of manic-depression,’ said the Luitenant.
Dr von Blimenstein smiled. ‘Luitenant Verkramp seems most interested in the use of electro-convulsive therapy.’
‘I know,’ said the Kommandant and wandered out into the open air, idly speculating on the possibility that Verkramp was attracted to the blonde psychiatrist. It seemed unlikely somehow but with Luitenant Verkramp one never knew. Kommandant van Heerden had long ago ceased trying to understand his second-in-command.
He found a seat in the shade and looked out over the city. It was there that his heart belonged, he thought, idly scratching the long scar on his chest. Since the day of his transplant operation Kommandant van Heerden had felt himself in more ways than one a new man. His appetite had improved, he was seldom tired and above all the erroneous belief that at least a portion of his anatomy could trace its ancestry back to the Norman Conquest did much to alleviate the lack of esteem he felt for the rest of himself. Having acquired the heart of an English gentleman, all that remained for him to do was acquire those outward characteristics of Englishness he found so admirable. To this end he had bought a Harris Tweed suit, a Norfolk jacket and a pair of brown brogues. At weekends he could be seen in his Norfolk jacket and brogues walking in the woods outside Piemburg, a solitary figure deep in thought or at least in those perambulations of the mind that the Kommandant imagined to be thought and which in his case revolved around ways and means of becoming an accepted member of Piemburg’s English community.
He had made a start in this direction by applying for membership of the Alexandria Club, Zululand’s most exclusive club, but without success. It had taken the combined efforts of the President, the Treasurer and the Secretary to convince him that being blackballed had nothing to do with the colour of his reproductive organs or the racial origins of his grandmother. In the end he had joined the Golf Club where conditions of membership were less rigorous and where he could sit in the clubhouse and listen with awe to accents whose arrogance was, he felt, authentically English. After such visits he would return home and spend the evening practising ‘Jolly good show’ and ‘Chin up’. Now as he sat dozing in his chair he was well content with the progress he was making.
To Luitenant Verkramp the change that had come over the Kommandant since his operation suggested some sinister and secret knowledge. The advantage Verkramp had previously enjoyed by virtue of a better education and a quicker wit had quite disappeared. The Kommandant treated him with a lordly tolerance tha
t infuriated the Luitenant, and greeted his sarcastic remarks with a benign smile. Worse still, Verkramp found the Kommandant continually interfering with his attempts to stamp out Communism, liberalism and humanism, not to mention Anglicanism and Roman Catholicism and other enemies of the South African way of life in Piemburg. When Verkramp’s men raided the Masonic Hall Kommandant van Heerden raised the strongest objections, and when the Security Branch arrested an archaeologist at the University of Zululand whose research suggested that there was evidence of iron workings in the Transvaal before the arrival of Van Riebeck in 1652 the Kommandant had insisted on his release. Verkramp had protested vigorously.
‘There were no black bastards in South Africa before the white man came and it’s treason to say there were,’ he told the Kommandant.
‘I know all that,’ the Kommandant replied, ‘but this fellow never said there were.’
‘He did. He said there were iron workings.’
‘Iron workings aren’t people,’ the Kommandant pointed out and the archaeologist, who by this time was suffering acute symptoms of anxiety, was transferred to Fort Rapier Mental Hospital. It was there that Verkramp first met Dr von Blimenstein. As she pinned the patient’s arm behind his back and frogmarched him into the hospital Luitenant Verkramp gazed at her broad shoulders and heavy buttocks and knew himself to be in love. He would visit the hospital almost daily to enquire about the archaeologist’s progress and would sit in the doctor’s office studying the details of her face and figure before returning to the police station like a traveller from some sexual El Dorado. There he would sit for hours constructing in his mind’s eye a picture of the lovely psychiatrist out of the jigsaw fragments of his numerous visits. Each trip he would bring back another tiny hoard of intimate details to add to the outline he knew so well. Once it was her left arm. Another time the gentle swell of her stomach ridged by the constriction of a girdle or one large breast hard in the confines of her bra. Best of all, one summer day, the briefest glimpse of inner thigh dimpled and white beneath a tight skirt. Ankles, knees, hands, the occasional armpit, Verkramp knew them all with an intimacy of detail that would have surprised the doctor and then again might not have.