Free Wilt on High by Tom Sharpe Page B

up his own arsehole.’
    ‘Well, metaphorically I suppose you could …’
    ‘Literally,’ snarled McCullum, and turned the pages of the book. ‘How about this? January second “… have the illusion I am charming and beautiful … blah, blah … but would powder my nose if I wasn’t found out … blah, blah … The anus is clotted with hairs …” And that’s in your blooming Forster’s diary. A self-confessed narcissistic fairy.’
    ‘Must have used a mirror, I suppose,’ said Wilt, temporarily thrown by this revelation. ‘All the same his novels reflect …’
    ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interrupted McCullum. ‘They have social relevance for their time. Balls. He could have got nicked for what he did, slumming it with one of the State’s sodding hatchet men. His books have got about as much social relevance as Barbara bloody Cartland’s. And we all know what they are, don’t we? Literary asparagus.’
    ‘Literary asparagus?’
    ‘Chambermaid’s delight,’ said Mr McCullum with peculiar relish.
    ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ said Wilt, who had no idea what the beastly man was talking about, ‘though personally I’d have thought Barbara Cartland’s work was pure escapism whereas …’
    ‘That’s enough of that,’ interrupted the warder, ‘I don’t want to hear that word again. You’re supposed to be talking about books.’
    ‘Listen to Wilberforce,’ said McCullum, still lookingfixedly at Wilt, ‘bloody marvellous vocabulary he’s got, hasn’t he?’
    Behind him the warder bridled. ‘My name’s not Wilberforce and you know it,’ he snapped.
    ‘Well then, I wasn’t talking about you, was I?’ said McCullum. ‘I mean everyone knows you’re Mr Gerard, not some fucking idiot who has to get someone literate to read the racing results for him. Now as Mr Wilt here was saying …’
    Wilt tried to remember. ‘About Barbara Cartland being moron fodder,’ prompted McCullum.
    ‘Oh yes, well according to your theories, reading romantic novels is even more detrimental to working-class consciousness than … What’s the matter?’
    Mr McCullum was smiling horribly at him through the mesh. ‘Screw’s pissed off,’ he hissed. ‘Knew he would. Got him on my payroll and his wife reads Barbara Cartland so he couldn’t stand to listen. Here, take this.’
    Wilt looked at the rolled-up piece of paper McCullum was thrusting through the wire. ‘What is it?’
    ‘My weekly essay.’
    ‘But you write that in your notebook.’
    ‘Think of it like that,’ said McCullum, ‘and stash it fast.’
    ‘I’ll do no …’
    Mr McCullum’s ferocious expression had returned. ‘You will,’ he said.
    Wilt put the roll in his pocket and ‘Fireworks’ relaxed. ‘Don’t make much of a living, do you?’ he asked. ‘Livein a semi and drive an Escort. No big house with a Jag on the forecourt, eh?’
    ‘Not exactly,’ said Wilt, whose taste had never been drawn to Jaguars. Eva was dangerous enough in a small car.
    ‘Right. Well now’s your chance to earn 50K.’
    ‘50K?’
    ‘Grand. Cash,’ said McCullum and glanced at the door behind him. So did Wilt, hopefully, but there was no sign of the warder. ‘Cash?’
    ‘Old notes. Small denominations and no traceability. Right?’
    ‘Wrong,’ said Wilt firmly. ‘If you think you can bribe me into …’
    ‘Gob it,’ said McCullum with a nasty grunt. ‘You’ve got a wife and four daughters and you live in a brick and mortar, address 45 Oakhurst Avenue. You drive an Escort, pale dogturd, number-plate HPR 791 N. Bank at Lloyds, account number 0737 … want me to go on?’ Wilt didn’t. He got to his feet but Mr McCullum hadn’t finished. ‘Sit down while you’ve still got knees,’ he hissed. ‘And daughters.’
    Wilt sat down. He was suddenly feeling rather weak. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
    Mr McCullum smiled. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. You just go off home and check that piece of paper and everything’s going to