Aldiss, Brian - Brothers of the He050& Where the Lines Converge

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Author : Brian Aldiss
Title : Brothers of the Head
and
Where the Lines Converge
Publisher: PANTHER GRANADA PUBLISHING
Published: 1979 ISBN: 0586 049940
---------------------------------------------------------------
for darling WENDY
first to hear of
The Bang-Bang
rockin-anna-rollin
in the back of a Volvo
proceeding
like a bat out of Hell
from Hunstanton
'Well, I was shocked...'
----------------------------------------------------------------
Introduction by Roberta Howe
This volume is a memorial to the unhappy life of my brothers - their strange, unrealized, dual life.
Although it ended in murder, and many people who like to pronounce on such things have said that my
brothers' entire existence was a form of slow murder, they did enjoy happier tunes. It is not an easy
matter for any of us to weigh up the balance of joy and sadness in another life, even one as close as my
brothers' was to mine. Perhaps when we grow up we should not be so concerned with judging such
things, but simply get on with the job.
When Tom and Barry were young lads, they did not realize that they were marked out from all other
children. One thing was as strange to them as another, all was accepted without questioning. Father took
us to live on L'Estrange Head when mother died, at which age I was only a tot of three and the boys
mere babies. In the wild surroundings of the Head, we children were thoroughly at home. We all loved
this beautiful spot in which I still remain. I'm thankful they returned to the Head in the end, before the last
act of their tragedy was played out.
We could name all the plants growing on the Head, thanks to the teaching of our father. Down in the salt
marshes, where the land is still regularly washed by the tides, grows a plant called the grass wrack. The
wreck is often immersed in the sea for long periods. It can even flower under the water, and nature so
provides for it that its pollen is water-borne. I often think of that humble plant in connection with my dead
brothers. They also had their flowering, however submerged it might have been.
Nobody can deny that our family, the Howes, and the neighbours on the mainland, with few exceptions,
looked on poor Tom and Barry as a stigma, a freak of nature. The boys, poor innocent mites, were
never properly forgiven because mother - who was greatly liked by everyone - died in giving birth to
them. At the height of the boys' fame, when they were universally popular, the feelings against them
changed to feelings of pride. But there was never any real concern for their terrible situation and, when
the end came, back came the old disgrace. Ever since, I have known ostracism, useless to deny it.
Laura Ashworth, who played a positive part in the life of Tom and Barry, would perhaps say that the
only shame lay in feeling shame, in these enlightened days. But it must be remembered that we live in a
remote and backward part of the country, and that the Howes had their origins here. Little has changed
on the coast of which L'Estrange Head forms part. Indeed, there has been recession rather than
progress, for my Aunt Hetty has told me how Deep-dale Staithe was a fine harbour in her young day,
until the channel silted up. It would be impossible for a grain boat to navigate now.
Of course, with my brothers' lives always beside me, as it were, I am still torn with emotion when I let
myself dwell on it. I was unable to write their story myself, not only because of strong feelings but through
my incapacity as an author; so I have put together what has been said by others concerned in the drama.
Going through the pages that result, I can only reflect that Tom could have become a happy man but for
the last twist of ill fate. Most of his life was still before him. As for Barry ' there was so much more to him
than the anger and violence on which many people have dwelt. Barry hated his fate even more than Tom;
yet hatred was not the only feature of his nature, by any means.
As for 'the other'... I'm long over my horror now, and think of it as one more grain ship that never sailed.
'The other's' channel to the sea was silted up even before it came into being. Pity seems to be more
appropriate than fear or shame.
Here I wish to thank all who contributed to the narrative, with particular thanks to Laura Ashworth for
her counsel and to Mr Henry Couling for financial aid. I thank Paul Day for permission to publish
excerpts from his songs.
I also have to thank John James Loomis of the Canadian Broadcasting Authority for permission to
include part of a taped interview made in connection with his TV biography, 'Bang-Bang You're Deadly'.
----------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER 1
Henry Coding's Narrative
I am a partner in Beauchamp-Fielding Associates, a London firm of solicitors who have built up a
particularly valuable connection with what is commonly called 'the pop world', which is to say the legal
and managerial problems connected with the exploitation of cheap music and young people. My first
encounter with the Howe twins, Barry and Tom, came as a result of this aforesaid valuable connection. I
was acting on behalf of Bedderwick Walker Entertainments.
Since the Howe twins represented a somewhat special case, I had agreed to see them, and more
particularly their father and legal guardian, in person. I took an Inter-City train from King's Cross to
Lynn, where a car awaited me to take me to Deepdale Staithe, a hamlet on the North Norfolk, coast. It
is a desolate part of the country. Civilization has scarcely obtained a foothold there, in all the centuries
these islands have been occupied. No doubt a permanently active east wind has much to do with this
state of affairs; only a moron would hesitate before fleeing to the nearest city.
The bleakest point along this stretch of coast is arguably L'Estrange Head, a natural feature lying
between the summer resorts of Hunstanton and Sheringham. It is neither a true headland nor a true island.
To determine its geographical status under law, one would have to decide whether its baffling system of
marshes, creaks and rivulets link it with or divide it from the mainland.
There was not at that time, and I imagine there is still not, any way whereby one could drive a car on to
L'Estrange Head. The lanes which strike out towards the marshes from the Deepdale Staithe-Deepdale
Norton road, to wind across Deepdale Marsh and Overy Marshes, peter out in bog, or at embankments
built long ago to guard against the floods which perpetually harass this unfortunate coastline. One can
imagine that the entrenched attitudes of the locals is such that their initiative may run to dykes but never to
roadways.
Be that as it may, one chilly April day I found myself stuck in Deepdale Staithe for half-an-hour, while
my chauffeur persuaded a local man called Stebbings to take me by boat out to the Head, where the
Howe family had its residence.
Stebbings was what might be termed a character. He was a young man, still in his teens, not
unprepossessing, with a sandy sprout of beard and a habit of not quite looking you in the eye. He
handled his boat and its snorting engine nonchalantly. Throughout the whole trip, he insisted on talking to
me in the local dialect. I scarcely listened, so busy was I huddling in my coat and endeavouring to keep
warm. The wind came in chill off the North Sea.
We took a winding channel which, according to Stebbings, was called 'The Run'. The tide was low and
we progressed between mud banks for the first part of the way. So we got into the harbour and then
through more open stretches of water. The view all round was desolate in the extreme. I could make out
a couple of ruinous windmills standing above the expanses of reed and grass, then my eyes watered, and
I resigned myself to wait. The motion of the boat made me queasy.
At last, Stebbings - who had obliged me by naming every sort of bird which flew over - brought us to
the Head, to a beach which he called Cockle Bight. A short plank walk served as a jetty. He helped me
ashore.
"I hear you be a-going to buy they twins off of old Howe," he said.
"I suppose half of Deepdale Staithe knows my business, since there can be nothing else to talk about
here."
"A rotten bit of business it is, if you ask me."
"I was not asking you, Mr Stebbings, thank you all the same."
He said nothing to that, looking away from me. I asked him the way to the Howes' house and he pointed
to a low blob in the distance. A slight apprehension passed over me; I made him renew his promise to
return for me in two hours, before the incoming tide could prove too formidable an obstacle for his
engine. He then swung his boat about and headed back to the Staithe with a cheery wave to me. I was
left standing on my own.
The Head was a solitary place, built of shingle and sand, sparsely covered by vegetation, open to
whatever weather the heavens chose to deliver. It was hard to imagine why anyone should wish to live
here - but imagining was not my trade. Business brought me here; business would take me away again.
Cockle Bight was an extensive half-moon bay of sand which gave place to low grey dunes. I looked at
the pebbles and stones beneath my feet. Every one of them carried, on their westward side, a tiny fan of
sand, where a few grains had found protection from the prevailing wind. That same wind whined about
my ears. On all sides were water and low land, the two elements divided by strips of sand or reed. The
reed was always in motion. Deepdale Staithe was just visible across land and water. Stebbings' boat had
already disappeared round a bend in the channel. To one side and ahead lay open water, the
unwelcoming North Sea. I took one look at this wilderness and set off towards Howe's place, holding
my coat lapels about my throat.
Hundreds of tern wheeled up from a concealed lagoon, sped seawards, and disappeared. L'Estrange is
a bird sanctuary, preserved by the National Trust. Albert Howe is its warden. I could find no blot on his
record of service. His is a job for those who prefer a lonely life, or have reason to wish to shun other
people.
Terns and gulls were the only signs of life. Then I climbed a line of dunes and saw two boys fighting
some way off. Locked together, they stood in waving grass, their figures outlined against the waters of
Deepdale Bay. They punched each other with concentration.
I paused. Isolation lent a supernatural quality to their violence. As I went forward again, the dark figures
tumbled over and disappeared into a sea of grass.
Arriving on this bleak Head, one perceives only a flat and tumbled expanse of land, encroached on in
most directions by the North Sea. However, a walk across it provides a different picture. I was following
a faint track which led up and down through shallow depressions and low mounds; all about was a world
of miniature valleys, narrow eminences, tiny cliffs, and secret hollows. Dunes of yellow and grey sand,
scantily covered in vegetation, marched towards the skyline. These features had been shaped more by
the forces of wind and water than by the passive ground itself, as bone is shaped by pressure of tendon
and blood.
In order to negotiate a dale, I had to jump a clayey creek and climb a bank. There were the lads, fighting
in a hollow almost beneath my feet
I had heard no sound from them. The constant noise of air, water, and reed accounted for that.
Startled, I looked down at where they sprawled, fighting each other steadily with a machine-like hatred.
They might have been sixteen years of age. They were of similar build, stocky, with broad backs. They
dressed similarly. They wore the nondescript blue jeans which were the prevailing fashion with young
people of both sexes at that time, and woollen sweaters. Despite the chill of the day, they went barefoot.
The great difference between them lay in their faces. The boy who rolled with his back on the ground
had fairish hair and a long face. His face was red with exertion; one eye had been partly closed by a
blow, so that he appeared to leer up at me with what would be termed in court 'a malevolent expression'.
His cheeks were stained by tears and dust, his hair was full of sand.
His brother had black hair which stood stiffly up from his skull. His face was round, even squat, his
brows low, his mouth bright and flat against his cheeks. He also glared at me. I saw immediately that this
dark boy had a deformity, a second head, growing from his left shoulder.
These were the Howe twins, Tom and Barry.
"Hello," I said. "I've come to collect you."
They turned identical surly looks at me, nimbly leaping up. I thought for a moment they were going to
attack as they faced me defiantly. Then they turned as one, still locked together, and went bounding off
across the dunes.
It was clear to see then that they were one, inseparably joined in the middle, just as my client had stated.
I stood watching them go, clutching my throat, rattled by coming on them so suddenly. They were
making for the huddle of low buildings Stebbings had indicated as their home, the best part of a kilometre
distant.
There was nothing to do but follow after, keeping to the trail which now led through rabbit-clipped turf.
Nearing the buildings, I came to a piece of ground which someone had at some time attempted to bring
in to cultivation. A few cabbage stumps formed the sum total of its crop. More poor tokens of rural living
followed: an old broken boat lying upside down, abandoned lobster pots, a collapsed workshed, a
fenced patch of ground which contained a flower-bed and some hens in a coop. Beyond stood the house
and another building.
The house was built of stuccoed brick up to window level and lath and plaster above that. One side was
painted with tar or bitumen and was propped by a large old beam. The general impression was
ramshackle.
Afternoon sun made the windows bleary. It was a sick-looking house. Paint had long since peeled from
porch, door and window-frames.
An oddity of the site was that the house had been built directly to the south of a stone ruin, so that all
view of the sea was excluded from its chief windows. Presumably the builder had intended to protect the
house from the more savage storms blowing in off the sea. Ordnance Survey maps label the ruin
L'Estrange Abbey.
Almost as soon as I had tapped on the door of the house, it opened and a man's head appeared.
"Yes."
I said, "I am Henry Couling of Beauchamp-Fielding Associates. You are expecting me."
"You'd better come in." Neither his face nor his voice betrayed much more expression than his
window-panes. He never gave me his name, but it was apparent from the start that he was Albert Howe.
Howe was in his early fifties, a spare man with a suggestion of strength about him. His complexion was
brown and weathered, and brown was the colour of his sparse hair. His dress was a khaki shirt with a
flapping leather jacket over it, stained cavalry twill trousers, and a pair of boots of vaguely military design.
He stood aside to let me in.
It was not exactly a welcome, but I was glad to escape from the wind. The door opened straight into a
parlour in which a fire of driftwood was burning. So cheering a sight was it that I immediately moved
across to the hearth and stooped to warm my hands.
"Is it always as cold as this on L'Estrange Head?" I asked looking up at him. He remained - rather
stupidly, I thought -by the door.
"It isn't so bad today," he said. "We heard the cuckoo this morning, across them marshes."
He jerked his head in indication of the direction of the marshes to which he referred.
His was a melancholy room. The ruin of the abbey cast permanent shadows into it. A light bulb burned
overhead, picking out in sickly detail a profusion of birds and small animals which covered the walls.
Rough shelving housed these stuffed mementoes of the living world outside; where-ever one looked,
dead eyes glinted. A well-loaded bookcase stood in one corner. Table and chairs and two old battered
armchairs completed the furnishing. The room lacked, as they say, a woman's touch; despite the fire, it
felt cold and damp, and smelt of old seaweed, as if high tide had been known to lap over the threshold of
the door - a not unlikely assumption, I reflected.
A kitchen led off on one side, its door standing half-way open. A dog barked sporadically there, as if
tied up and not hopeful of improving its position. I looked in that direction, to find two pairs of eyes
observing me; two heads were immediately withdrawn.
As I rose, I saw that a loaf of bread and the leavings of a poor meal lay on the table, together with a
dead seabird. The seabird was stretched out on a board with its pinions taped outspread and its gizzard
slit open.
Howe came awkwardly back from the door and sat at the table, where he proceeded to finish a mess of
bread, cheese and pickle on his plate. As if aware of a certain social boorishness in what he was doing,
he glanced up at me and gave a jerk of his head, coupled with a quick funny expression and a wink, as if
to say, "This is the way I am."
Drawing myself up, I said, "I take it that you are Mr Albert Howe, sole surviving parent of the twins,
Thomas and Barry Howe."
"Tom and Barry, that's right. The twins. I expect you'd like a cup of tea. Robbie! Tea, gel!"
This last call was echoed by activity in the kitchen, and presently a girl came forth with a big brown
teapot. Setting it down on the table, she poured a mug of tea and shyly proffered it to me.
She was a good-looking girl in a countrified way, with big hazel eyes and a complexion as brown as her
father's. Her hair was plentiful, hanging down between her shoulder-blades in an old-fashioned plait or
pigtail. Like her brothers, she wore faded jeans and went barefoot, a slovenly habit, especially in women.
Her figure was well-developed; I judged her to be twenty years of age.
There was less unfriendliness in her gaze than in her father's. As I accepted the mug of tea and sat down,
unbidden, at the table beside the impaled bird, she said, "So you are the lawyer as has come to take my
brothers away."
I patted the briefcase I had brought with me. "I am acting on behalf of Bedderwick Walker
Entertainments, with whom I understand your father is keen to come to an agreement. I have a copy of
the contract here, Mr Howe, and will be happy to familiarize you with its contents. We can go over it
clause by clause, if you so desire, provided I am able to meet Stebbings and his boat at your jetty in
approximately two hours' time."
Howe crammed the last of his crust into his mouth, masticated for a while, and then said, "It's for the
best, Robbie, I keep a-telling you. The boys can't hang around here for ever and a day, not now's they're
growed up."
"That's correct," I said, snapping open the briefcase. "The contract guarantees you and your sons a
substantial salary, payable monthly, for a period of three years. It gives Bedderwick Walker the option of
renewal of contract for a further two years, at a fee subject to negotiation. Bearing in mind that
Bedderwick Walker will invest a considerable amount of money in training and projecting your sons, the
arrangements are eminently generous."
"You're still taking my brothers away from home," said the girl. "Who will look after them, I'd like to
know."
Ignoring her, I spread the contract out before Howe, pushing aside the butter and a jar of pickle.
"I trust that your sons are ready to return to London with me?"
"They're willing enough to go, yes."
He looked up with a helpless expression, and said to his daughter, "Robbie, see as they're all packed,
will you?"
As Howe picked up the contract to study it, I saw his hand was shaking. He had well-shaped hands,
with long fingers. He watched Robbie as, without another word, she padded into the kitchen on her bare
feet.
"It's hard to know what's best, Mr ..." he said gazing at the dead bird as if addressing it. "May and I got
on so well, we helped each other with everything as came up. That's her in the photo over there."
He pointed to a framed photograph of his dead wife, standing on the mantelpiece. A sepia face stared
out at the world from under a large hat.
"I'm sure she would be happy with the contract as it stands."
Still he wouldn't bring his attention back to the document.
"That May was a very fine woman," he said. "One of the best, that she was."
I offered no comment.
"It wasn't my fault she died. Nor did I ought to really blame the lads for her death, because they couldn't
help coming into the world the way they was. Though I feel bitter at times ... Anyone would. I took up
taxidermy when she went - got just about every bird as ever visits the Head pinned up here on my walls,
Mister... Though I haven't got a roseate tern, which is uncommon scarce these days ..."
He managed this speech with another comic face, giving me another wink and a jerk of the head as he
changed the subject away from his dead wife, almost as if he were making fun of himself. The effect was
somehow as sinister as it was ludicrous, and I directed his attention to the contract.
We went through the document carefully, Howe showing himself to be less foolish than his gauche social
manner suggested. In my profession, I am accustomed to dealing with people who live solely for money.
Albert Howe, I discerned, was indifferent to it; he wanted a fair future for his sons and believed he had
secured one; the question of remuneration was a minor one to him. This factor alone set him apart from
ninety per cent of the population.
As he signed the copies of the contract, the daughter appeared again, wearing a torn plastic apron over
her jeans. She began to clear the table.
"The boys are ready, Dad," she said. She sniffed as if she had been weeping.
"Come forth, lads, don't be shy!" called Howe, jerking his head.
The dog barked in the kitchen, and Tom and Barry came forth.
Contrary to my expectations, the twins were conveyed to London without difficulty. They loitered on the
way to the jetty but raised no objection to climbing into Stebbings' boat when it arrived. They waved
farewell to their sister in rather a perfunctory fashion.
As previously arranged, the car awaiting me at Deepdale Staithe conveyed us straight to London; I
surmised that a rail journey might have its difficulties. Apart from visits to hospital and one appearance on
a medical programme on BBC TV (the appearance which had inspired Zak Bedderwick to sign them
up), the Howe twins had scarcely left L'Estrange Head, never mind Norfolk, until now. The journey
passed without incident. They were interested in everything, especially when we entered the environs of
London. It was dark when I deposited them at Zak Bedderwick's flat.
The car then drove me to my own apartment, where I was glad to take a sherry and a warm bath, and
play myself Telemann sonatas.
Zak Bedderwick was every inch a business man. He was successful in the competitive world of pop
music, and would have been equally successful in banking or oil. As such, he was in my opinion a rarity.
Most of the big names in his field can grasp neither their own business nor rock-and-roll. At this time,
there was nobody to rival his flair or the range of his activities.
He had appointed a manager by the name of Nick Sidney to concentrate on the Howe twins and lick
them into promotable shape. The twins stayed in Zak's flat overnight and no longer. The next morning,
Nick Sidney arrived promptly at ten o'clock and took them down to Humbleden. I doubt if Zak ever saw
them personally after that occasion; like everyone else, he had a morbid curiosity to inspect Siamese
twins at first hand; once that curiosity was satisfied, his interest was purely financial.
The rest of the story hardly involves me. Bedderwick Walker was not my only concern, and at this
period I became increasingly involved with a lawsuit pending over the nefarious actions of a certain
Foreign Affairs Minister of a certain African state.
In any case, little news filtered out of Humbleden. Humbleden had been designed for that end.
Humbleden was one of Zak's country places. It was a grand Georgian mansion (with part of an earlier
Tudor manor still preserved) standing in two hundred acres of ground with its own private lake and
airstrip and a view across the Solent. What went on there was nobody's business. All the same, rumours
trickled out.
Nick Sidney's training methods were known to be rather rigorous. He was a man in his late thirties,
thick-set and running slightly to fat, with a shock of greasy curly hair. He had been a second division
football team manager before becoming first a disc jockey and then part of Zak Bedder-wick's
entourage.
Sidney went to work immediately on the Howe twins. He got them cleaned up and groomed and
suitably dressed, and christened them officially with their professional name, the Bang-Bang. Tom and
Barry Bang-Bang.
Musical training commenced the day after they arrived at Humbleden. There were one or two
second-string Bedderwick groups which Sidney could have used for backing. Instead, he chose a
heavier group, the Noise, then being led by the guitarist and songwriter, Paul Day.
The Noise was in some disarray. Morale was low ever since its leader, Chris Dervish, committed suicide
by driving his Charger Daytona into Datchet Reservoir immediately following a Noise concert in the
Albert Hall. The Noise wanted a new image and a new direction; the Bang-Bang wanted a new noise.
The two went together.
Nick Sidney had virtually built the Noise and their multi-million dollar success story, as well as Gibraltar
before that, and he set to work with a will on licking his new team into shape. He had to begin at the
beginning, by teaching the Howe twins to play a few basic chords on guitar and to project their singing
voices. Fortunately, the twins - like every other youngster on the globe - were familiar with the
conventions of pop. They disliked being prisoners of Humbleden; they had no objection to becoming
prisoners of fame.
Their rages, their frequent outbreaks of recalcitrance, were dealt with by Nick Sidney with the zest he
had shown towards Nottingham Albion. On the one end of the scale, he employed cold water hoses and
a new-fangled electronic stun-gun; on the other, he employed the more traditional lures where pop
groups were concerned, the three D's of the trade, drugs, drink and dollies.
Despite these inducements, progress was slow. I saw Zak on one occasion, just after he had returned
from what he always termed 'the Manor'. Zak was quietly fuming at the lack of response from the Howe
twins. I recommended sending for the sister, Robbie or Roberta, of whom the twins were obviously fond,
to see if that improved matters, but Zak brushed the suggestion aside. He wanted the Bang-Bang to sink
themselves into their new roles, not to be reminded of the old ones. A preliminary tour for the
Bang-Bang, on a Northern circuit and with a tie-in with Scottish television, was already scheduled for a
few months ahead. As far as Bedderwick Walker were concerned, the operation had to start earning
back its investment as soon as possible - any refinements to the act could come later, etc., etc. Of course
I had listened to similar talk many times before. Training hooligans to bellow and strum was nothing new
in the music business. Nor was failing to do so necessarily an obstacle to a profitable career.
But the day came when my gogglephone gonged and Zak's face looked out at me, voicing a new
complaint.
"Henry, hi. You know of a magazine called Sense and Society?"
"I do. One of the Humanistic Sanity group of magazines. Left wing, of course. Circulation not more than
25,000 a month. Influential among middle-of-road socialist circles, you might say. What of it?"
"I've just had an anonymous phone call. Sense and Society have tune-tabled for future publication an
article on the exploitation of teenagers by the middle-aged, treating them as another underprivileged
minority. The article will instance pop groups and make particular mention of the use of freaks to attract
live audiences, complete with details of cruel training methods, including use of electronic weapons. How
do we stop them?"
"That shouldn't be difficult. Humanistic Sanity depends for their liquidity on voluntary contributions,
including a substantial one from the Borghese Tobacco Corporation, who happen to be clients of ours.
Will the information in this proposed article come within appreciable distance of being accurate?"
"That's what I'm afraid of. It's being written up by a woman."
"I'm sure you can manage that better than I."
"This isn't just a dolly, Henry. She's old. Thirty-five. You know her name. Laura Ashworth. Dervish's
girlfriend. Daughter of the clergyman who was in the news a few years ago."
"I recall."
"She's a contributor to Sense and Society or whatever the damned thing's called. You know how she
hates me, silly bitch. If she lets out some of the murkier details - particularly if she links the Bang-Bang's
name with Chris Dervish -as well she might - then our goose is cooked just as our publicity machine gets
into gear. Ashworth could do us a moderate amount of damage. I want you to get her off our necks."
While he was making threatening noises, I was thinking. Laura Ashworth was an emotional woman. She
thought reasonably clearly until her adrenalin started flowing. There were ways of getting it flowing again
which could guarantee she never wrote her article.
"I don't see why we should have to trouble the Borghese Tobacco Corporation, Zak. You have trouble
with the Howe twins and you have trouble with Ashworth. Why not put the two sides together and see if
the problems don't iron themselves out? I suggest you entice Ashworth on to your payroll and despatch
her forthwith to Humbleden. She will not be able to resist the chance of reliving some of her former
glories."
That was how it worked out. Ashworth accepted Zak's offer. Whatever her intentions were about
discovering 'the truth' about Humbleden - which she knew from Chris Dervish's time - may never be
revealed. A friend of mine wrote a letter to the editor of Sense and Society asking him if he knew that
one of his female contributors had taken up employment with a right-wing organization with considerable
摘要：

Author  :BrianAldissTitle   :BrothersoftheHead             and          WheretheLinesConvergePublisher:PANTHERGRANADAPUBLISHINGPublished:1979  ISBN:0586049940 --------------------------------------------------------------- fordarlingWENDYfirsttohearofTheBang-Bangrockin-anna-rollininthebackofaVolvopr...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：90 页 大小：213.79KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

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