Richard Finch MP was again the centre of attention; that is to say, of approval from sporting men and the outspoken disapproval from some of his fellow MPs, especially Gwendoline Twaddle (La, Birmingham Crosspatch). Depending on whose version you accepted, he had either been involved in an undignified brawl in a pub in the East End of London, or he had won a serious, albeit clandestine, wrestling match.
What happened was this: Richard, knowing about the match in advance through his membership of NHB Wrestling plc, had gone to watch a fight with his friend Jim Abell. He had grounds for concern. A well-known heel, who wrestled under the name of The Balham Bodywrecker or BB, was to wrestle a younger relative newcomer, whom Richard had known in the Army, fighting as Superdooperparatrooper, aka Super. Super’s real name was Roddy McSpunk and he had been a Lance Corporal in Richard’s company, 4 Coy, 5 Para. He was still in the Army, where Richard, knowing McSpunk’s capacity for getting into trouble, hoped that he would remain for as long as possible. Supplementing his income by participating in unlicensed fights in East End pubs while still serving did not constitute keeping out of trouble. Nor was Richard confident that McSpunk could hold his own against the BB, tough though the small Glaswegian undoubtedly was.
Richard’s misgivings were justified, and made worse by a negligent or biased Referee. After he had shouted “Foul!!” three times, at parade-ground volume, the Ref told him to shut up – which Richard refused to do – while the BB challenged him to take over from McSpunk. Richard cheerfully agreed. He sprinted to the changing rooms, stripped off his dark suit and reappeared at the gallop in black trunks, wristbands and boots. (He had been wearing the trunks and wristbands under his suit, anticipating this development.) He was recognised by some of the ‘fancy’:
“It’s Dick Rock!” they cried happily. ‘Dick Rock’ had been Richard’s wrestling pseudonym.
Damn and blast! thought Richard, whose identity as Dick Rock did definitely not feature in his entry in the MPs’ Register of Interests; even though it had earned him quite a lot of money in the past.
The BB was now up against an equally experienced and even less scrupulous opponent than himself, who did not hesitate to use unorthodox holds and moves, including body punches. Richard collected a few marks and bruises in the course of the bout and later had to apply sticking-plaster to a cut on his forehead. Eventually, after a bloody and sweaty bout, Richard managed to get the BB into an acutely painful suspended surfboard, one of his signature holds, sweating and screaming curses, until he finally submitted. Amid raucous cheers Richard pulled off the shattered BB’s trunks and threw them over his face before cantering off to get showered and changed. There was by this time plenty of blood on the mat; mainly, but not all, the BB’s. Richard had an important sitting of the House of Commons that evening. It was a three-line whip. Unfortunately someone, with whom Richard promised himself a face-to-face meeting later, had taken photos and leaked them to the media. The images of his undeniably impressive physique might have been flattering to Richard’s ego but the publicity was inconvenient, coming so soon after the Great Norfolk Rat Hunt and the subsequent acrimonious Parliamentary debate, in which Richard had spoken for the Government. It could be an opportunity for Richard’s humiliated enemy, Mrs Gwen Twaddle, to get her own back. That is certainly what she thought. In vain did Twaddle’s Researcher, Mr Harradence, advise her to ‘back off’, pointing out that there was nothing in Erskine May to suggest that MPs should not engage in prize-fighting; indeed, a few Corinthian gentlemen MPs had done so during the Regency.
“I’m fed up with you and your precedents!” yelled Mrs Twaddle. “Whenever I have an inspiration it seems to be your role to block it! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Sometimes I don’t know whose side you are on, Harradence!”
“It’s part of a Researcher’s duty to stop his MP or Peer from scoring own goals,” said Mr Harradence firmly. “The Rat Hunt debate was a good example. You departed from our pre-agreed line-to-take…”
This was still a very sore subject with Mrs Twaddle. “Shut up Harradence!” she yelled. “Bugger off, you.. you bloody Mongol pansy!”
Yet another ceramic object smashed against the door-case as Mr Harradence left. Mrs Twaddle’s aim had fortunately not improved.
As requested, Mr Harradence buggered off. As sometimes happened these days, he suddenly needed a drink urgently. This time however he did not seek it in any of the fourteen bars of the Houses of Parliament. Instead, he headed for The Dangling Commoner, whose threshold he had never crossed before in his life. He now did so very reluctantly. He was about to parley with the enemy; with Richard Finch, a man whose abrasive debating style he admired, while simultaneously deploring much of what he said and did.
Foreseeably, Richard was in the bar, surrounded by fans, who included a few far-right MPs, Peers, amateur wrestlers, boxers and local Cockneys. They were celebrating his (or Dick Rock’s) victory over the BB, which had been written up in an evening newspaper: ‘Cambridge Blue batters the BB’. Richard still had the sticking-plaster on his face to prove it. He was nursing a pint of Real Ale. He suddenly looked up and recognised Mr Harradence hovering at the street door.
“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!” shouted Richard. “Wotcher, Harradence!”
Mr Harradence winced at this hearty greeting, ‘Wotcher!’. It reminded him vividly of the Boat Club at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he had spent an uncomfortable year before transferring to the more congenial surroundings of the London School of Economics and Political Science. He had been ducked in the River Cam and subjected to other indignities by richer and more macho undergraduates. That experience, as much as any other, had caused him to become a Socialist and had led, indirectly, to his present employment by Mrs Twaddle. Mr Harradence was definitely in dangerous territory. He now glanced uneasily around and spoke, with nervous formality:
“Mr Finch, an unusual circumstance forces me to request a confidential and off-the-record meeting with you…”
“You mean that you wanna see me now, without interruption and in any case before this evening’s debate?”
Mr Harradence nodded mutely.
“In that case, say so!” said Richard, who was amused, intrigued and suspicious. “We can go into the little private bar. It’ll be free. It’s only used for functions these days.”
Mr Sonthiel, the landlord, quickly opened up the private bar and offered Mr Harradence a drink, He asked for a Bloody Mary.
Richard was amused. “I expect you mean a Bloody Gwendoline?” he asked mischievously.
Again Mr Harradence nodded mutely and took a pull at his drink. “I’m at the end of my tether,” he finally admitted. “Gwen is impossible to work for. She’s rude, demanding and foul-mouthed. She goes through secretaries as other people go through Kleenex tissues. I may as well tell you that she plans to notify the Speaker that you have been guilty of conduct unbecoming of a Member of Parliament and have engaged in an affray to the great perturbation of the lieges,” he sighed miserably.
“Well, she’s out of luck,” chuckled Richard. “Mr Speaker will not be presiding this evening. Mr Deputy Speaker Hollis, who is a former Army Officer and a friend of mine, will be. He’ll throw her Motion of Censure or whatever she chooses to call it, out of the window.”
“But that’s not why I called on you here,” pursued Mr Harradence. “It’s only the last straw. More seriously, Gwen has started to fuck-up my weekends, which are the only times when I can see my fiancee…” (Ah, now we’re getting to the point… thought Richard.) “For example, this weekend: On Friday evening I have to accompany Gwen to rural Essex to spy out Lord Snodsbury’s estate, Snodsbury Abbey. It totally disrupts my plans. But she says that if her constituency secretary, Mr Butter, and other minions can manage it, so should I.”
Richard’s grin was getting wider and wider. “She’s got a nerve. Apart from disrupting your social life, Lord Snodsbury is the holder of a Great Office of State; a Judge; and notably intolerant of fools. Why does she want to visit that tumbledown old place, anyway?”
“She thinks he is tax dodging. He does not pay any taxes on the Abbey, which is officially registered as a ruin. But he spends almost every weekend there during the Parliamentary Session. It follows that the Abbey may be less of a ruin than we think. If so, she hopes to expose his alleged tax-fraud. In any case, as an historical site, she says that ‘the people’ ought to have access to it! As if I cared! But I have to accompany her there to witness what, if anything, is going on!”
Richard suddenly looked serious. “You should get out of it; I mean that. Lord Snodsbury is not someone you’d want to have as an enemy. Even I, who agree with him on many matters and am – touch wood – on relatively good terms with him as a rule, find him frankly a bit scary. After all, he is among other things the President of the Court of Star Chamber.”
Mr Harradence choked on his drink.
“What?!! That surely cannot still exist?”
“It can and it does. It was never actually abolished. Its continued existence is largely down to Lord Snodsbury and previous Lord Snodsburys. It recently fined a Trade Union three million Pounds for being a riotous and seditious assembly. And Lord Snodsbury handed down the verdict in person.”
Lord Snodsbury was an alarming person to meet at the best of times. For his rare appearances in the Lords he wore his approximation to modern dress: what would have been fashionable in about 1910: frock coat, waistcoat and spongebag trousers. Tall and sinister, death-pale, he stalked the corridors of power. He was more usually to be seen his official uniform, the dress of an early eighteenth century judge: knee-breeches, crimson gown, full-bottomed wig and black tricorne hat. He sometimes added a flowing black cloak for dramatic effect and carried an ebony sword-cane. MPs and other Peers avoided him like the plague; the temperature of any room seemed to drop the moment he walked in. Richard Finch, braver than most, was at his most correct and polite when circumstances absolutely required him to be in Lord Snodsbury’s presence. It looked as though those circumstances might be about to arise again.
oooOOOooo
“Snodsbury Abbey, Essex. Ruined. Mainly 13th century, with later additions. Formerly the only house of the uniquely English military and hospitaller order, the Snodsburyites. Extended and fortified at the time of the Reformation by Hugh Bigot, the last Prior and first Baron Snodsbury. This building is not open to the public. Requests for access are not answered. Repeated requests for access may elicit a threatening reply. Trespass is inadvisable. The Abbey occupies part of a major Ancient British earthwork, Snodsbury’s Castle, which is likewise not open to the public. There is reportedly archaeological evidence that it was more than once besieged by the Romans. A distant prospect may be enjoyed from the village of Snodsbury Cross, six miles away...” (From Pevsner’s The Buildings of England)
oooOOOooo
That Friday evening a party consisting of Mrs Twaddle; Mr Harradence; Mrs Twaddle’s Constituency Secretary, Mr Butter; and three volunteers from her constituency, were occupying makeshift hides in a rural lane opposite the gates of Snodsbury Abbey’s extensive grounds. Some of them bore cameras and binoculars.
Frankly, thought Mr Harradence, this looks like a waste of time. Those old gates have not been opened for ages; they seem rusted together. They lean at a drunken angle. The bits of Snodsbury Abbey that I can see from here look genuinely ruinous. Gwen has brought us all here on a wild-goose chase. Silly old bat! Had my plans not been disrupted, I should now be dining and drinking with Araminta: if, that is, we are still engaged. Gwen’s disrupted our plans once too often.
Mrs Twaddle was as usual in a foul mood. This was partly due to the ridicule with which she had covered herself when attempting to draw Mr Deputy Speaker’s attention to Richard’s unbecoming conduct in the wrestling match. She had been laughed out of court; the Deputy Speaker, who knew and liked Richard Finch, chuckling more than most.
It was growing colder all the time. The harsh blast of a distant trumpet roused them from their apathy. It could mean only one thing: the approach of Lord Snodsbury who, like the Dukes but unlike any other Marquess, had the long-standing right to have his presence announced by a personal trumpeter. Mrs Twaddle and her party hastily shrank back into their surroundings.
A cavalcade was approaching from the direction of the former Great North Road. First came two outriders mounted on black horses. They wore eighteenth century liveries, entirely in black, with black cloaks and black plumed cocked hats. Their faces were masked. One carried a trumpet of antique design, on a black cord. Then a large coach, drawn by more black horses, driven at speed. The windows were curtained but one was open. A pale claw-like hand, bearing an important-looking signet ring and emerging from ruffles of Mechlin lace, extended from behind the curtains and hung out of it. Its terrible owner was inside, still dressed in his judicial finery.
A further black-clad horseman preceded a second coach, whose windows were not curtained. Through the nearer one could be seen the Grecian cameo features of Maud, Marchioness Snodsbury, frozen in rage, which was her normal state of mind.
Further horsemen followed Milady, including a muscular man in a skin-tight jester’s outfit; presumably Lord Snodsbury’s court fool. He bore a bauble and seemed cheerful and jaunty, unlike the others. Like the others, he was masked.
As Lord Snodsbury’s suite approached the park gates, a strange transformation took place: the gates seemed to straighten themselves up; the rust fell away to reveal elegant black-painted ironwork, with gilded details, including the Snodsbury coronet. The gates swung open and the Snodsburys began to process down the drive. They then shut.
A full hunter’s moon moon was rising as the Snodsburys crossed the wide ramparted earthwork of Snodsbury’s Castle, littered with ancient broken masonry; the detritus of two thousand years of construction and destruction. Some sheep, which had been grazing there, moved aside. As his lordship approached Snodsbury Abbey, another curious transformation began to happen. The ruin began to look less ruinous by the minute: the Abbey seemed to rebuild itself, course upon course of masonry; light streamed from mullioned stained-glass windows; a moat had appeared where before there had been none; a drawbridge crashed down; gates swung open; a portcullis creaked up. The Snodsburys crossed the drawbridge and halted in the courtyard, which was now illuminated by flaming torches. Through his bird-watching binoculars Mr Harradence saw servants help them alight from their carriages, while very large, furry dogs capered around and obsequiously kissed the hands of Lord and Lady Snodsbury. From time to time they would emit a welcoming howl.
Then, as a cloud covered the moon, the portcullis crashed down; the gates closed and the drawbridge was drawn upwards. The lights were extinguished. Snodsbury Abbey appeared as it had been before; a dark, ivied ruin. Only the sheep remained, contentedly cropping the grass inside the Ancient British fortification.
“Blimey!” said Mr Butter.
Mrs Twaddle was bristling with indignation. “I was right! There’s something very fishy going on here. I mean to find out!”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea!” said Mr Harradence, and received some foul invective for his pains. “Right, Gwen”, he thought. “You deserve everything that may now happen to you.”
The gates were once more firmly shut and no amount of pushing would get them open again. Then Mr Butter noticed a small stile in the wall; the party, huffing and puffing, climbed over it and into Lord Snodsbury’s grounds, which – apart from the sheep – now looked very deserted.
“Where can that old reprobate be?” muttered Mrs Twaddle.
“Here!” came a sepulchral and amplified voice, presumably from a hidden loudspeaker. “Here and waiting for you! And you are trespassing on my land!”
“Just what do you think you are doing…?” quavered Mrs Twaddle.
“See them off!” shouted Lord Snodsbury, without revealing where he was, although it was evidently nearby. Nor did he make it clear to whom the instruction was being issued, but Mrs Twaddle would soon find out.
At this point a number of the Snodsburys’ very large dogs came running from the direction of the Abbey. Ignoring the sheep, they came straight for Mrs Twaddle’s party and sat round them in a circle, staring at them. Some put out pink tongues and panted happily, as though in anticipation of feeding-time.
“I bet this comes within the scope of The Dangerous Dogs Act!” hissed Mrs Twaddle.
Mr Butter, who had recently vacationed in Yellowstone National Park, whispered: “I don’t think these are dogs.”
He received a glare from Mrs Twaddle. “So what are they then? Wolves? They’ve been extinct in England for hundreds of years!”
“They don’t look very extinct to me!” murmured Mr Harradence.
At this point the whispered and not very enlightening conversation was interrupted by a merry phrase of music. Lord Snodsbury’s jester now appeared and sat on a convenient fallen megalith, playing a tune on a recorder while he watched the Twaddle party with amusement. Mr Harradence recognised the tune: ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’. The jester was still masked; he wore his jester’s belled hood and coxcomb as well, so his identity was effectively hidden. He was clearly not to be trifled with; his costume emphasised his formidable physique. In addition he wore a large, flaunting scarlet codpiece which, under less-stressful circumstances, Mrs Twaddle would have found intensely offensive: ‘flaunting toxic male sexuality, aggression’ etc. As it was, the wolves preoccupied her.
The jester played another tune on his recorder. The wolves now moved closer and began to herd Mrs Twaddle and her party across Lord Snodsbury’s park. In this way they walked several miles, with the wolves and the jester setting a cracking pace. Finally, exhausted and in a state of extreme agitation, they found themselves at another gate, miles from where they had left their cars. The jester signed to them to get out through it, which they did. It swung open and clanged shut behind them. Looking back, they saw the wolves still watching them through the bars. A few moments later the jester ran off, laughing happily, with the wolves capering around him like so many fun-loving spaniels. The jester’s peals of boyish laughter were the last straw for Mrs Twaddle. She used unparliamentary language. Mr Harradence by contrast had quickly recovered his commonsense and proposed that they should follow a sign which indicated that Snodsbury Cross village was not far away. There, they might find shelter for the night.
They did, although it was not what they really wanted. Snodsbury Cross’s only hotel turned out to be a Temperance Hotel run by Primitive Methodists with, therefore, no bar. They had needed something rather stronger than fruit juice, barley-water, tea or coffee, which were all that were on offer. A miserable night ensued, as the hotel was not only alcohol-free; it was also rather chilly. It was however preferable to a night in the open air, or a late night car journey to London or Birmingham, where Mrs Twaddle’s constituency was, and where most of the party were based.
oooOOOooo
The next working day – Monday – Richard, who had spent the Saturday in his constituency of Lynchfield and Flogham – was resting and reading papers in his Westminster flat high in the towering and antiquated building of The Dangling Commoner. He was disturbed by a call from the landlord, Mr Lemuel Sonthiel.
“A nobleman to see you, Sir. What shall I say?”
“A bloody Peer? British or Irish? Look, people aren’t supposed to know I live here. Security, you know. If it’s on business, tell him I’m still on my way back from Worcestershire. I’ll be in my office in the House tomorrow.”
Richard could almost hear Mr Sonthiel grinning. “No, Sir, I don’t think it’s about business. He’s been ‘ere before: Sir Toby Bloodgood, Baronet and rat-hunter!” Mr Sonthiel sounded both amused and impressed.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Richard’s day had suddenly brightened. “Send him up!” Toby was one of the best-looking of Richard’s younger friends; they had become acquainted before the Great Norfolk Rat Hunt Debate and had later enjoyed energetic group-sex with Toby’s friend Tom D’Arcy and Richard’s friend Jim Abell.
Toby appeared soon after this, having forgotten about the trip step on the staircase, fallen and bruised his leg. He was still limping and using foul language when Richard let him in through the secret door in the panelling of the store-room.
“I came to view your battle-scars from your match with the BB,” said Toby. “Wasn’t our son-et-lumiere show for Mrs Twaddle and party a wild success!”
“It certainly was. Lord Snodsbury was in an almost benevolent mood today. And La Twaddle doesn’t know what to think or say. If she recounts what she thinks she witnessed, she’ll probably be told by her Whip to see a psychiatrist, give up alcohol and/or give up her seat in Parliament, causing a by-election. So she’s snookered! Meanwhile her excellent researcher, Eugene Harradence, is threatening to resign. He’s caught a severe cold which might yet turn to pneumonia and his fiancee has issued an ultimatum! La Twaddle will probably have to offer him a massive pay-rise to stay on.”
“I’m surprised,” said Toby, “that La Twaddle didn’t recognise you in your jester’s disguise. It didn’t leave much to the imagination!”
“To the best of my knowledge, La Twaddle has never seen me other than wearing a dark suit!” said Richard coolly. “Un less she reads the amateur wrestling Press, of course. You have the advantage of her!”
“Yes Sir!” Toby grinned. “So, may I see your honourable battle scars, or has the Balham Bodywrecker done you major, horrible damage?”
“No... there are some ugly bruises, now turning purple. I’m still sore. Getting undressed can be painful.”
“I’ll help you!” Toby smirked at Richard.
“You’d enjoy that, would you?”
“Yep!”
“I should be flattered. I’m almost old enough to be your father; at least I could be if I’d been a very precocious bad boy!”
“You don’t look it and I bet you were!”
Richard, groaning slightly, bent down to remove his shoes – highly polished black oxfords – and neat, dark blue socks. He hung his jacket and tie over a chair and stood up, straight and erect.
Slowly and carefully Toby unbuttoned Richard's white shirt. He slid his hand inside. Richard gave a sharp intake of breath.
“Sorry; did I touch a sore spot?”
“You did. You’ll see in a moment. Don’t stop!”
The shirt was off and Toby was now looking at a large dark-purple discoloured patch on Richard’s normally pale and flawless skin. There were a few long scratches as well.
“Wow! You’re a wounded hero and no mistake!”
“Exactly! I thought I might have busted a rib, but my doctor says I haven’t. Even so... Nor did riding that spirited nag on Friday evening help matters. Take a look at my right leg.”
Never self-conscious about his body, which was in exceptionally good shape for a man on the wrong side of thirty, Richard shed his trousers. Naked, apart from small black briefs, he grinned at Toby.
“Tobias, you have me at a disadvantage. I feel vulnerable. Get your kit off!”
“All in good time. Wow! You’ve taken some punishment, even if you did win in the end. You’re a good bloke.” Toby gently kissed Richard and ran his hands over him. Richard’s briefs were now round his thighs. Toby gave his cock an affectionate squeeze.
Toby had exactly the kind of looks that Richard tended to go for: regular features, square jaw, good skin, and he looked you straight in the eye. In fact he looked, in every sense of that word, ‘straight’. He could have been the impeccable hero of any number of boys’ adventure stories. He was also very fit and strong. Richard had fallen for him at the Great Rat Hunt, when he had noticed Toby’s symmetrical, muscular legs encased in riding-breeches and boots. Then he had seen the handsome face.
Phwoar! That’s for me, Richard thought hopefully. And, unexpectedly, it was. Despite his appearance, Toby was cheerfully bisexual; Old Etonians often were, in Richard’s experience.
“I’ll do the work, since you’re a wounded hero,” said Toby. He shed his clothes quickly, to reveal a muscular body with an all-over tan.
Minutes later, Toby was fulfilling his promise, riding Richard’s cock while their hands were clasped in a fierce grip. Their eyes locked.
“Want to come now?”
“Yes!” shouted Richard. A few moments later, he experienced one of the best orgasms of his life. Then he watched as Toby jacked himself off. After a shower, they rested on Richard’s enormous bed. Toby rolled onto his stomach.
“What the fuck is that on your back?”
“It’s a tattoo. Or rather, two tattoos. They’re tribal. That one like wings across my shoulders is the main one and the small one…”
“- Above your ass-crack -”
“Is supposed to be protection against malignant spirits!”
“Well, it hasn’t protected your ass against me and it isn’t going to, either! Wait until I’ve recovered!”
Toby was now resting on top of Richard, his legs between Richard’s legs. “Do you really have to attend that bloody debate tonight?”
