Max Markham is the author of Indigo Bird – An Erotic Novel. For more information on the author and his work, please visit Max Markham’s Section on this website.
Novel No 1 is out in paperback ; Novel No 2 is with the publishers; please find attached a short extract from Novel No 3. You might enjoy it.
RICHARD FINCH AND KARL MARX
Not long after we had all returned from the Falklands, Richard, Tori and I had decided to spend a day exploring North London. We visited Keats’ House in Hampstead; took lunch at The Flask; then walked across to Highgate to admire the outside of Coleridge’s house, which was not open to the public. We had an hour or so to kill before the Highgate pubs would open. That is how we came to be visiting Highgate Cemetery, which was at this time in a state of jungly disrepair.
This cemetery is divided by a lane into the Old and New Cemeteries. The Old Cemetery is the more picturesque and it belongs to the Church of England. This is the part in which Mr and Mrs Robert Browning are buried. The New Cemetery is non-denominational; it accommodates Catholics, Orthodox, Jews, Buddhists, arrant agnostics and atheists. Anyone at all could be buried there, in fact. One of my Victorian collateral ancestors, the poet Horatio Whibley Blenkinsop (a Catholic convert) was buried there in an eccentrically-designed mausoleum. I wanted Tori to see it. This is also the part where Karl Marx’s tomb and massively hideous monument are to be found. I had forgotten that that day was the last day of April and that the next day would be the First of May; a sacred feast to Marx’s votaries and admirers. Some of these were already present, depositing wreaths and sprays of pink and red carnations in front of the memorial. At this point I recalled that I was accompanied by two of Marx’s most mordant critics. On most political issues Richard was well to the right of Genghis Khan. Tori, on the other hand, was an American Democrat; in some respects a very advanced Democrat. However this did not extend to sympathy for the Soviet Union, of whose human rights record Tori was bitterly critical. Rightly, she thought that it was as bad as the Third Reich’s. She was also fiercely outspoken in her views. She viewed the bunch of Hampstead thinkers with disapproval.
“That man,” she said in her cut-crystal Bostonian accent, “has done so much harm, and just look at them!” The Hampstead thinkers were not amused. They were even more aghast when a rock came sailing through the air and smashed on Karl Marx’s nose. No actual damage had been done, but an act of sacrilege had been committed. An angry, gesticulating small crowd converged upon us.
Richard was in his element. Minutes later, about four leftists were lying senseless on the path, while the others stampeded. Richard was jumping up and down, trying to provoke more mayhem, but the survivors were in full flight, screaming that they were going to call the Police. I had more serious concerns; having no desire to appear before the Bow Street Magistrate; or to feature in a tabloid newspaper headline – “Colonel in Cemetery Riot”; “Falklands Heroes in Drunken Brawl” (we were not drunk, but you know the media); “Right-wing thugs disrupt Marx Act of Remembrance” – seized Tori by the wrist and plunged into the dense undergrowth that covered much of the cemetery. I whispered to Richard where we were going and left him to deal with any remaining Marxists. Presently the mausoleum of Horatio Whibley Blenkinsop was looming above us. I had the key, opened the door and pushed Tori inside. I then pulled it shut behind us.
The tomb was a slightly derelict, but not unattractive, small funerary chapel. Horatio, who had lived a quite worthy life and produced a number of volumes of verse, mainly on religious themes, had clearly thought that the life to come would be an enjoyable affair. The frescoed walls of the chapel depicted flowers, palm trees, tropical birds (accurately); saints and angels (fancifully). There was a small altar. There were a couple of pretty stained-glass windows. Horatio resided in a highly-ornate sarcophagus to the right of the altar. His long-suffering Secretary, Herbert Campion, occupied the equivalent place on the other side. I strongly suspected that they had been gay. Presently I heard Richard approaching, whistling. I popped out and drew him in with us. He was mildly interested in the tomb. Then I heard something much more alarming than any policeman’s whistle: the resounding voice of Dame Geraldine Gibbons, President of the Friends of Highgate Cemetery. A former MP and promoter of good causes, she was a relation of both Horatio Whibley Blenkinsop and me, and was quite evidently on the warpath. She was accompanied by one of Richard’s victims.
“I agree that is it shocking and unacceptable. That is why my volunteers are closing the cemetery immediately. Yes; of course it will open at the usual time tomorrow. You will be able to hold your ceremony as planned. But now I have work to do!”
There was a muttering and inaudible noise.
“The situation is worse than you seem to realise, young man! Apart from the lack of respect, there are several rare bird species nesting in the cemetery at present. One is the Black Redstart. They must not be disturbed! No, I mean it. What has just happened is bad enough. I cannot allow you now to conduct a manhunt all over the cemetery. I and my volunteers will do that. We know which areas to avoid; that includes the most important wildlife habitats. You do not; nor do the Police. They can follow the logic of my argument; so should you!” (It is also the safest policy, I thought).
More mumbling.
“No; I will take that responsibility upon myself. Well, if the ‘fascists’ have taken refuge in one of the wildlife areas, they may have to stay there all night. I will not permit the birds to be disturbed any more than they already have been. No; that is my last word upon the subject. Miss Verity will now escort you to the exit. Anyway, you need to get a beefsteak on that black eye.” The voices receded.
Richard and Tori, who had met Dame Geraldine, were in stitches. I shushed them. Dame Geraldine, a woman of principle, was perfectly capable of prosecuting her own relations on behalf of her feathered friends, if her conscience told her to do it.
“We’re stuck here until Geraldine and her helpers leave,” I said.
“Oh well, at least we have some reading material,” said Richard. This was true. We had browsed in a Hampstead second-hand bookshop and had come away with purchases.
Richard now carefully dusted the top of Horatio Whibley Blenkinsop’s sarcophagus with his handkerchief and seated himself on top of it: legs stretched in front of him, back to the wall. He lit up a Russian Sobranie cigarette and used a dry holy water stoup as an ashtray. He unwrapped his purchase, A History of Orgies by Burgo Partridge, and puffed away contentedly. The rich fumes of his Sobranie filled the tomb. Tori hunkered down with an old book on natural history. I began to read a Victorian novel. We shared some chocolate that I had brought. Presently the sounds of the hunt died away and the light began to fade. We emerged cautiously into the evening breeze.
The first discovery was that the main gate to the cemetery was now padlocked. The walls were topped with broken glass. We would have to seek another way out, unless we wished to risk nasty cuts or to spend the night as guests of Horatio Whibley Blenkinsop. The thought of Horatio’s ghost did not worry me. The thought of Dame Geraldine did. Eventually we walked to the bottom of Highgate Hill, where the cemetery wall is low and surmounted by a row of ornamental railings.
“Anyone interested in leaving?” came Richard’s voice. He was now standing on the pavement outside the cemetery, grinning.
Richard, who was exceptionally strong, had simply loosened two of the old railings; they came away in his hands. We lifted them out and climbed through the gap. Richard then carefully replaced them. He looked at them thoughtfully and made a note on the flyleaf of A History of Orgies. We then plodded off to find the nearest Underground Station.
Although Tori pressed him to stay for dinner with us, Richard had other business. He promised, however, to call on us for breakfast the following day, which was a Sunday. We were all due to attend service at the Guards’ Chapel at eleven in the morning. This was a ritual that we liked to observe in London. Tori and I liked the old-fashioned service, using the Authorised Version of the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. Richard, who was not noticeably religious, also liked it for this reason. Besides which, he had been in the Brigade of Guards and some of his friends, mostly killed in Ireland, were commemorated in the chapel. And of course the church music was superb.
Richard appeared on time and immaculate in a dark suit, bowler hat and carrying a furled umbrella. He was unable to keep a straight face however; his eyes were alight with mischief. As he tucked into breakfast with the enthusiasm of a famished tapeworm, he asked that we put on the television news.
The first thing that met my eyes was Karl Marx, as I had never seen him. His tomb had been daubed with red, white and blue Humbrol paint, which had now set solid. The paint cans were set on his head at a jaunty angle. It would probably require a charge of dynamite to remove them. In the foreground were indignant Communists and Socialists complaining about this “sacrilege”. A furious Dame Geraldine also gave an interview. As we watched, a team from the Soviet Embassy were making a hurried and not very successful attempt to clean up the mess.
“The tomb is vandalised almost annually,” said Richard cheerfully. “The Russians always end by picking up the bill. Now watch this!”
A Russian was now trying to dislodge one of the Humbrol paint cans. He succeeded. There was then a small explosion. CS gas grenades detonated. BBC journalists, Russians, leftists and Dame Geraldine fled in disorder; gasping and retching, with streaming eyes and nostrils. Richard was in stitches.
“I knew that those loose railings would come in useful,” he chortled. “Now, fun-lovers, off to church! And, since it is the first Sunday in the month, we’re invited for wine, sherry or coffee in the Mess afterwards. Andiamo!”
The Indigo Bird
An Erotic Novel by Max Markham
James Graveney, a young Major in a respectable regiment, is outwardly conventional. In private James is bisexual, with a strong urge for his own sex. Gay sex, however, is illegal in the Army, so he is discreet about this.
James’ world is turned upside-down when he meets Lieutenant Richard Finch. Richard is intelligent, charismatic and exceptionally handsome. He doesn’t mess around. He gets what he wants, and is completely unscrupulous about how he gets it. Richard will stop at nothing to achieve this, including Machiavellian deception and a cunning and brutal murder. James starts responding to Richard, cautiously at first, then gets swept along on the great love affair of his life.
The Indigo Bird is a rollercoaster of surprises set against backdrops varying from the jungles of Belize to London, the English countryside, and Ireland, and the scene is set for more shocks and adventures. [Read more...]
The Indigo Bird is available through Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords.com, Amazon Kindle US, Amazon Kindle UK, and any other good bookstore.
