London, November 1965
Viggo
I open bleary eyes at the shrill ringing of the telephone on my nightstand and reach out a
trembling hand to lift the receiver.
“Yeah?” I manage to croak, as I search for my cigarettes, cursing as I knock the pack onto the floor.
“Viggo? Get yourself into the office. I have a lead for you. I want you on a train to Yorkshire by noon, so pack a bag before you leave. I’ll expect you in an hour.”
*Sonofabitch* “This ‘Swinging London’ is hard work,” I think, as I lean over and retrieve the pack of cigarettes from the floor, coughing as I light the first one of the day.
I stab the button on my bedside radio and on Wonderful Radio London, Mick Jagger is telling me to get off of his cloud. *If it’s all the same to you, Mick, I’ll attempt to get off of this bed first, before I graduate to anything advanced*.
I stumble into the bathroom and start the shower over the bathtub. As usual, the water pressure is so pathetic that I could pee with more force. I just don’t get British plumbing. Sighing, I step in and under the barely warm water and pee while I shower to save time.
For the last few minutes, the water is completely cold, but it serves to clear my head a little. I stumble out, rubbing myself dry and put the coffee on in the kitchen, trying to remember the events of last night.
There had been another party, of course, at some model’s apartment, with the usual collection of trendy photographers, actors, pop stars and pirate radio DJs. The whisky had flowed, the pot had been smoked and in the early hours coffee had been served with a special “sugar frosting” and people had begun to take their clothes off.
That was the point at which I had “made my excuses and left” as they say in The News of the World, when they are running an investigation into the sex racket. I am, after all, a serious investigative journalist on a quality newspaper and I can’t afford to be tripping or stripping during the working week.
So I left alone, walked home alone, fell into bed alone and woke up alone. To tell the truth, out of all those “beautiful people” at the party, there was no one who tempted me at all, clothed or unclothed. Maybe I am becoming jaded from all the candy on offer and work wise, I am not interested in exposés of people who expose themselves all too readily.
What I need is a nice juicy political scandal to get my teeth into. I don’t mean one connected with hookers, like the Profumo affair of a couple of years ago, which reverberated all through British Society and was a factor in the Tories losing the General Election last year. I don’t care who is fucking whom. What I like to expose is the soft underbelly of financial corruption and now that the strong coffee and second cigarette are making me feel more human, I feel the tingle of anticipation that the lead my Editor has for me may be just the thing I need right now.
Exactly one hour and five minutes later, I am packed and reasonably alert, sitting in the Editor’s office at The Sentinel and being briefed on my assignment.
Another hour and I am on the train to Bladesby, flicking through the slim dossier I have been handed.
The cardboard folder contains a biography and photo of Sean Bean, local businessman and leader of the Labour Council in this northern industrial city. There is some sketchy information about the city itself, the detail to be filled in by the reporter on the local newspaper, The Bladesby Express, who has been working on this story and will meet me from the train.
I light another cigarette and look at the grainy picture from the archives. This guy is probably around my age, pretty young to be a senior in local politics, though not to have his own successful business, what with youth culture and the growth of young entrepreneurs.
His business is the building trade, though, solid and traditional, but surprisingly it’s not a family business and he seems to have worked his way up himself. Interesting guy, even if he is a crook as the Express people are convinced.
I study his features. He’s a good looking guy and his face is a strong one, full of character. He’s not exactly smiling in this photo, more a kind of satisfied smirk. I reckon he is used to getting what he wants and he likes it that way.
Closing the folder, I look out of the dirty, rain-lashed windows as the train reaches the outskirts of the city and passes through the usual, grey, semi-derelict industrial landscape. Typical of these northern cities in decline and we could be a million miles away from ‘Swinging London’ instead of a couple of hundred.
The train finally clanks and grinds to a halt and I shoulder my bag and emerge onto the concourse, to be greeted by my contact, who has a firm handshake and a strong local accent,
“Hello, Viggo, I’m Dan Hagman of The Express. Pleased to meet you. We’ve booked you into a decent pub, The Black Bear. Not what you’ll be used to in The Smoke, of course. We are not right sophisticated up here. Hope it won’t be too rough and ready for you.”
I detect from the twinkle in his eye that the piss is being gently extracted and grin back,
“Hi Dan. As a simple, uncouth, exiled Yank, I am sure it’ll do me just fine.”
Sean
I am awake before the alarm clock starts ringing. Years of getting up well before dawn still rule my sleep pattern. I don’t mind, especially not nowadays when I have to restrain myself from going to the pub and getting pissed almost every night like I used to. It’s one of the concessions I’ve had to make to get me where I am now. At least I wake up without feeling more dead than alive.
Sometimes I envy the mates I had when I started working. In a way, life is so simple for them, as it was for me then. Work all day, at night go to the pub, and get pissed, or pick up some girl and shag.
Ever since I was a small kid my parents had warned me not to follow in my father’s footsteps, not to go down the pit, as his father and grandfather had done before him. It’s a hard and dangerous life, and their hopes for me – their only son – were up high.
Of course I disappointed them; I preferred playing football and mucking about with my mates above school. So instead of being a teacher, or even better a doctor, I ended up working as a builder.
I’ve done it all, and I know all about the practice of building. Amazing though, while doing it, I discovered I had a talent for management. Edward, the head of the company noticed it too, and within a few years I became his right hand and partner. Five years later Edward died, there was no family and he left it all to me.
I already had a considerable salary then, had worked my arse off all those years, so I had earned it. But when the solicitor talked to me after the funeral, I knew life would never be the same. With the very solvent company behind me, I could have the things I had always craved.
I lived in a very nice flat then, very luxurious compared to what I grew up with. I sold it and instead had the company build me this house. Over the years, I have spent a lot of money on it, fulfilling almost every dream I ever had. Of course I took care of my parents too, even though I couldn’t get them to move from their council house.
The first year, I just enjoyed my new life. I still worked very hard, intending on improving the company. Then suddenly one morning, when I drove to work, there was some road construction going on. I had to make a detour, and I passed the cinema where I used to go as a kid. My mates and I loved going there, even though there was still a war on.
I remember seeing Hopalong Cassidy in one of the cowboy films, and how we tried to replay it after the film. The cinema was beautiful then – well in my mind it was – with a large stage in front of the screen where comedians and jugglers played in the break and I can still see the rich red velvet curtains.
Now that I drove by, I saw the ruin, the outside of the building blackened, the walls full of graffiti, the door and windows covered with wooden planks. It was as if my eyes opened to the ruin of my city, and I drove around for almost an hour, looking at all the places I knew so well, but which were now either fallen into disrepair, or had been flattened in the Blitz. I realized my city, the city I loved so much, was dying. Where once big industries ruled, decay was clear.
I also realized that I owed a debt to it, that I had to do something about it. I thought about it for a few days, and then I joined the local Labour party. My parents always were left wing, and so was I of course. I truly believed that working people should have access to the same things that the rich had.
I was never really all that interested in active politics before, but now I embraced them. Reading articles from the city’s archives, I came to the conclusion that British industry was dying, and would never come back to life again. There was too much cheap foreign competition and not enough investment.
So I started thinking about new strategies, and I felt the answer lay in tourism. After all, we are situated near to some of the most beautiful countryside in England, The Dales and the Peak District. Of course there was a lot of work that needed to be done to make this town attractive for tourists; building work. And I owned the largest building company in town; it was as simple as that. I dreamed of clearing my city centre of dereliction and slum housing.
Having joined the Labour Party, I was pretty soon elected a councillor. My influence grew quickly and soon I became the Leader of the Labour Council in Bladesby. Now I could really make a difference.
I light the small lamp on my bedside table and look around me. Yes. I remember where I came from very well, and I don’t intend to forget it. The small room I slept in as a boy, bitter cold in wintertime, the windows frosted with the curtains sticking to them, buried deep under the blankets, listening to the sound of my dad scurrying around the house, getting ready for work in the pit.
We washed ourselves in the small kitchen, the gas burner on to give some warmth. Now, getting out of bed, I turn on the radio as I walk naked to my bathroom. It’s wonderful to enjoy the steaming shower while I listen to Barry McGuire’s Eve of Destruction.
Life is good.
Viggo
The Black Bear turns out to be a very nice little pub in the city centre, which hasn’t been messed around with and still has brass everywhere and the original Victorian fittings. There’s no music, just conversation and they serve a mean ploughman’s lunch with a generous slab of cheddar cheese, crusty bread and crisp, home-made pickled onions, packing a fiery punch.
I pay for the food and the first round of the local brew, Bladesby Bitter and Dan fills me in a little on the background to his city with evident pride.
It turns out that he too is the son and grandson of a coal miner, like this Bean guy I am here to investigate. Like him, he escaped the pit, in his case, because he had a schoolteacher, who recognised his intelligence and helped him to get a scholarship to the grammar school.
Straight from school he had gone to work for the local paper, but soon had to go fight in World War II. He had managed to come through unscathed, returned triumphant to marry his childhood sweetheart and raised four children. I looked at the photos he showed me proudly and made suitable comments.
He picked up where he left off at the Express and had been content to stay there. It is clear that he loves this place and is an authority on its industrial history and its two soccer teams, United and City, with their tribal rivalries.
Eventually, by the third round of drinks, we get on to the changes in the city over the past few years, which naturally leads us on to Sean Bean. Dan indicates to me that it’s not a good idea to talk in public about this influential person and asks the landlord to show us up to my room.
It’s a small room, but clean and pleasant and just down the hallway from the bathroom. I put my bag on the bed and we sit down, Dan pulling a thick, dog-eared dossier from a battered satchel.
It contains detailed notes and reports, plus a wealth of clippings from various newspapers and he suggests that he leaves it with me, so I can read it at my leisure, so long as I don’t let it out of my sight.
Meanwhile, he fills me in on the investigations.
On the face of it, this guy is a pillar of the local community. He’s the shining example of the local boy, made good, starting from nothing and ending up at only thirty five with a thriving business, Leader of the Council, surrounded by his own personal cabinet, all loyal to him.
He seems determined to repay his city, pushing forward slum clearance and regeneration schemes, improving council housing and encouraging new building, supporting local charities and being on the Board of his favoured soccer team, United, the Reds. Dan happens to be a Blues, City supporter.
He is photographed attending all manner of civic functions and charity dinners with a series of beautiful women on his arm. A most eligible bachelor, it is said that he has never married, because he was always working too hard to find the time.
So far, so wonderful, but in spite of all the success and the plaudits, there have been rumours and stirrings for some time.
“Sure it’s not just jealousy, Dan? I’ve been over in England a couple of years and I figure that the English don’t like success. Over in the States, we love our local heroes, because they make us believe that the American Dream can happen to anybody, that we could all make it if we worked hard enough. Over here, you love to knock people off the pedestal, I’ve noticed.”
“Maybe you’re right, but as you’ll see from the file, there’s substantial reason to suspect corruption. People have noticed that Council contracts tend to be given to Bladesby Builders, that’s Bean’s company, or associated companies, more often than not. Naturally, the carping started coming from rivals and opposition councillors, but lately some of his own side have started getting a bit uncomfortable.”
“Okay, but there’s more, right?”
“Well there are even more rumours over the big, capital projects. Bean is associated with this firm of architects called Urban Developments. You’ll have heard of them.”
I nod. Karl Urban is a very successful architect, coming to prominence for his work in the north of England, but also having completed successful, award winning projects in London.
“My source tells me that there are heavy bribes involved in the company getting work. Urban has been awarded several big contracts up here. The word is that there may even be government involvement. The name of one particular Minister has been mentioned, which is why we’ve gone national and invited you in. This could be big, Viggo.”
“I appreciate this, Dan and I’m happy to be working with you on this. I need to meet this guy. I can ask to do a profile on him for my paper. My file says that the Government is about to form a Northern Development Advisory Board and he’s tipped to be asked to chair it. It’s a useful hook to hang the interview on.”
“Good idea. His contact details are in our folder. You’ll need to go through his assistant. One other thing I should maybe mention……”
“Yes?”
“There’s also been the odd rumour about his preferences – you know, that he maybe likes to play for the other team.”
“Were not talking United and City here, are we Dan?” I say as nonchalantly as I can.
Sean
Later, when dressed in one of my blue working suits – good fit, but not reeking too much of money – I make myself a cup of tea and some toast in the kitchen. My P.A., Harry, will call at half past eight and then drive us in my car to my office.
Not that he’ll make it on time. It is funny, but if I don’t have a really urgent date this early, Harry seems unable to arrive in time. I am always the one who has to wait for him. It’s never the other way around. Harry comes from this posh background, and that’s probably the reason.
He’s good at what he does though, and I trust him with almost everything. Something seems to make us a deadly combination. He knows things, and deals with things that are beyond my comprehension. He’s clever, but also very, very boring. The newspaper said a while ago “Bean has charisma”, well poor Harry certainly has not.
He has taught me a few things about money too. I am a wealthy man, but not even remotely wealthy enough to do things for my city on the scale I do now. I have had to make concessions to achieve what I have done. In the beginning it made me feel uneasy, even made me wake up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding and sweat breaking loose. Now I know it is an inevitable price I have to pay.
I have so many plans for this city – my city – and I need big money for that. So what the fuck if I pull a few strings and let my building company take far and away the largest share of new building projects. And yes, Karl Urban and his people helped financially to get me higher up on the political ladder, but we needed an architect anyway, and his company is the very best, so what’s the big deal?
Everything will be for the benefit of Bladesby and its working class people, and I am proud about that. Of course I live a nice life too. I have this big house, a very nice car, and a wardrobe full of designer clothes I can wear to social events. I managed to get on the board of my beloved Reds football team, which cost me, but it still feels like a boy’s dream. I love to have it all, but on the other hand I work very hard for it too.
When my intercom buzzes, I startle from my reverie, and go outside to meet Harry, tossing my car keys at him.
“Morning Harry,” I say. He nods and then starts telling me today’s agenda before my arse even hits the car seat. Fucking boring he is, and I can’t resist taking the piss out of him a little.
“You’re late, had a wild night with your girlfriend, did you?”
Harry blinks at me and for the moment, the thought of him and his very decent fiancée having a wild night makes me grin broadly. *Someone should give the poor girl a good shag, or even better him*, I think, when see the blush creeping over his pale cheeks. *But not me, thank you*.
“Come on Sean, let’s be serious,” he says, pushing his glasses back on his nose, “we have a very busy day ahead of us." By the time we reach my office he has briefed me about today and he didn’t lie when saying it would be a busy one.
Even my lunch is scheduled and I groan when I see who will be my lunch partners. There’ll be water and orange juice, that’s for sure. Luckily dinner will be more pleasant and I feel better when I hear that Julie will accompany me tonight. She’s fun.
I am expected to bring a girl to the social events I attend, and there is a constant flow of young, eager women who don’t seem to mind being occasionally brought back by Harry after a good night kiss, and my pleading other obligations.
With some of them I even have sex, like with Julie, and it's mostly good for both of us, because there is a genuine affection. I’ve always stated, to the press, but also to people like Harry and even my own family, that I am too busy to marry and haven’t met the right one yet. And in a way that's true.
Harry and I never talk about it, and sometimes I wonder if he suspects, but if he does it never shows and I have been very discreet. He and I both know how important it is for me to keep my personal life clean. The last few weeks rumours have reached us that the Government is about to form a Northern Development Advisory Board, and maybe, just maybe, they will ask me to chair it.
From that position I could do so much more, so I am very careful in how I present myself to the outside world.
In my office, we talk over some minor things for the day, and then Harry turns around to go to his own big office he has in my building now. I have my finger on the button to call in Meg, my secretary, when he hesitates at the door.
“Maybe you should consider getting married Sean,” he says, “I am sure Julie would make a great wife.”
“Shut up Harry, “I say, giving him a glare. “I am not going to marry someone I don’t love.”
It’s not the first time he has brought it up, and it will probably not be the last time too, but he knows when he’s defeated and he leaves.
His day will be filled with filling in my coming weeks I suspect, and I sigh.
Viggo
After Dan has left, I go down to the bar and get a bottle of whiskey and a glass to take up to my room.
I sit up in bed, smoking and sipping, reading the file on Bean.
So many of the articles mention his charisma and nearly all of them gush about his talent, his commitment, his charity work and the string of women he turns up with at public events.
There’s clearly a pride in the local boy who has done well, with a thinly veiled envy from male writers and an obvious lust from the females.
One woman features in more of the pictures than the rest. The caption under the one I am looking at in the social column reads “Sean Bean and Miss Julie Pierce photographed at the fundraising ball for Bladesby Youth Project.”
Beneath, the woman columnist speculates on whether we can expect wedding bells soon, but says that the couple declined to comment. She makes it clear that although she and the other local women would be heartbroken, in her not so humble opinion, it’s about time this most eligible bachelor was hitched and started working on a dynasty.
I look at the photo and try to read the body language. He certainly seems more relaxed with her then the others, where his pose is formal and his smile fixed, but I can’t help but wonder at the last thing Dan said. I’m not sure and I am supposed to have a special sense for this kind of thing. When I finally meet him in the flesh, I’ll be able to tell.
*Stick to the point, Mortensen* I force myself to drag my thoughts away from interesting speculation and focus on the reason for my presence here. Carefully I go back through all the reports and the notes made by the hacks here, making a few of my own and noting the names of people I need to talk to.
Finally I switch out the light and go to sleep, convinced that there is definitely something to this story. Tomorrow, I will contact Bean’s people and try to arrange a meeting with the man himself.
At first, that seems to be easier said than done. After the “full English breakfast”, which nearly puts me back into bed again, I call the number Dan supplied me with for Bean’s office and get first the receptionist and then his secretary. She tells me politely that I will need to speak to Harry, “Mr Bean’s Personal Assistant”. Apparently Mr Bean is a very busy man and Harry keeps his appointment diary. She adds that although she will put me through to Harry, I should understand that Mr Bean always has appointments booked weeks ahead.
I ask her to say that I represent the Sentinel and want to do a profile on her boss and after a short wait I am put through to this Harry, who, to my surprise, talks like the Royal Family.
Harry has apparently heard of me and when I explain about the profile, he pauses and then asks me whether that is my usual line. He says that he thought I was an investigative journalist. There are no flies on Harry.
I agree that I am probably best known for my political exposés, but I happen to be in the area on vacation, visiting friends and my boss has called me to ask me to try and fit in a profile interview. It’s to be part of a series about up and coming young people, who will be the architects of the future Britain. I mention the new Northern Development Advisory Board and how the word in Westminster is that Sean is a shoo-in for the job.
There is a silence, in which I can practically hear the cogs in Harry’s brain turning, weighing up the advantages versus the disadvantages.
Finally, he says that he thinks the profile would be a good move for Sean, but the problem is to fit it in. I tell him that I am only here for a week, but I am prepared to meet any time, however early or late. I’d also need some pictures and because I don’t have my own photographer with me, I can probably get one from the local rag to accompany me.
There’s a rustling of pages, then he comes back and asks me if I could make an evening meeting, the day after tomorrow. I jump in right away and close the deal and when I hang up, it has been agreed that I will be ready with my photographer for 8pm and Harry will have us picked up. In the meantime, he knows I won’t mind him double checking with my editor that I am who I claim to be and the assignment is bona fide. I tell him to go ahead by all means.
I call Dan to tell him about the meeting and ask him for a photographer. He replies that he will send young Perkins, who is a likely lad and will go far. He admits he is a little surprised how easily I got the agreement from Harry the Gatekeeper, but speculates that the clincher was the Development Advisory Board. It seems that Bean badly wants that appointment.
“So this Harry isn’t local, then?”
Dan laughs. “Oh he’s local, lad, as local as me and Bean. Just he’s from a different class and went to Ampleforth, the famous Catholic Public School up here, then to Oxford.”
“Public School, meaning private here, right?” I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me over the phone.
“That’s right,” he chuckles. “It’s the Catholic Eton. Harry is ultra respectable and engaged to a nice girl from a similar background. None of your permissive society for him. He’s nobody’s fool, though and Viggo, you need to be careful, because nor is Bean.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Dan, I really cannot wait to meet this guy.”
Summary: Set in 1965 in a fictional Northern city. Sean is a sucessful businessman and local politician and Viggo is an investigative journalist.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: Corruption of the FleshChapters: 6 Completed: Yes
Word count: 26240 Read: 6046
Published: 05 Aug 2009 Updated: 05 Aug 2009