Ched Evans, Rolf Harris and the mini morality plays we face in our everyday lives
ONE of the greatest novels of the 20th century was written by a rapist. Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon, published in 1940, l aid bare the crazily skewed l ogic of the Russian Revolution and i ts grotesque consequences.
In 1951, Koestler raped the feminist filmmaker Jill Craigie, who was married to Michael Foot.
Although this fact didn’t emerge until the late 1990s, one biographer believes the Hungarian-British writer to have been a serial offender – it is certainly clear he was aggressive towards women.
So how does one read Darkness at Noon today?
The book is undeniably a masterpiece, brooding and complexly intelligent in the best Eastern European tradition – and, as one of the earliest literary expositions of the Soviet catastrophe, it remains a hugely important work.
But the man who wrote it was a beast, responsible for one of the most heinous crimes there is. A moral judgment on the part of the reader is therefore required: can you separate the nature of the artist from the quality of the art?
I have a shabby old 1943 edition of the book and confess that whenever I open its pages I feel chilled by the thought of what its author would go on to do a few years later. But still, I open it.
We are probably faced with these mini morality plays more often than we realise.
Browsing through the Waterstones winter sale in Edinburgh last week, I spotted a half-price children’s book by Rolf Harris who is, of course, in prison for indecently assaulting an underage girl.
I was, I have to say, stunned to see it on the shelf. Who in their right mind would buy a book by a convicted paedophile for their child? What were the staff thinking? Should I say something?
But then… what if someone did want to buy it? I could exercise my choice not to – beyond that, what did it have to do with me? Nothing, I guess.
Uncomfortable
Well-known people who do bad things can force us into uncomfortable positions: it feels necessary to have a firm opinion, even though you don’t really know the person and haven’t particularly studied the evidence.
It’s only made harder if the individual bolshily sticks around rather than disappearing quietly into obscurity.
Those who have a desire for rehabilitation are expected to observe a significant period in sackcloth and ashes.
The former Cabinet minister Jonathan Aitken served seven months for perjury in 1999, during which he found God and after which he became an elegant advocate of prison reform.
Lord Profumo, after resigning from government, started cleaning the toilets in an East End charity and continued to work there until the end of his life. Redemption approved. What they’re not supposed to do is behave like Ched Evans, the convicted, unrepentant rapist footballer who won’t go away.
I have been struggling for a while now with the following question: why do clubs keep trying to sign him?
First came his old side Sheffield United, which tried to re-employ the player on his release from prison, only backing down after a national outcry, a 150,000-signature petition and a warning from the Olympian Jessica Ennis-Hill that she’d want her name removed from the stand that bears it at the club’s Bramall Lane ground.
Such was the venom that greeted this attempt, I thought that was probably that: Evans’s career was over.
Surely no other club would be daft enough to provoke public condemnation and risk a permanent stain on its reputation by happily fielding a rapist? After all, football teams rely heavily on public goodwill and loyal association.
But on it went: next, Hartlepool United approached the player, then the small Maltese outfit Hibernians, then Oldham Athletic and most recently Grimsby Town. On each occasion the cycle followed a similar, humiliating path from tentative offer to hurried withdrawal.
Now, we know the world of football isn’t exactly over-burdened with intellectual zip, but even the most slack-jawed, vacanteyed bench warmer could have spotted the likelihood of trouble.
We also know that the beautiful game has about as much moral scruple as Bernie Madoff, and therefore the interest in Evans is unlikely to be driven by a passionate commitment to the principle of a young man having served his time and deserving a second chance. So what gives?
Last week, I found myself in conversation with a board member of a mid-sized English football team.
I asked him to explain why clubs kept throwing themselves at Evans – they must be mad or stupid, I said.
I was taken aback when he confessed his own side had considered doing the same, if only briefly.
‘It’s simple economics. He’s a really good player – I mean, really good – and can be got for buttons. He could be cleared in due course.
‘After that you’d be able to sell him on for millions. Money’s tight, so what small club wouldn’t consider it, even if only as a thought experiment?’ Cash. Of course. It’s about cash.
The matter of Evans’s guilt is central to the story. He was convicted of an appalling offence – having sex with a 19-year- old woman too drunk to have given consent – for which he served half of a five-year prison sentence.
Evans insists, like many before him, that he didn’t do it – that the act was consensual. Various senior football figures have suggested this may indeed be the case.
His supporters point out that the Criminal Cases Review Commission (CCRC), which investigates potential miscarriages of justice, is investigating his case and has, unusually, fast-tracked it to the top of the queue.
But let’s be clear: this is not because of some strong belief of the CCRC’s that an obvious wrong has been done.
It says its decision is based entirely on the high-profile nature of the case, the sensitivities involved and the fact that Evans, now 26, is in a profession that is time-limited.
It may or may not decide to send the case back to the Court of Appeal.
Destroying
Were Evans to be cleared, it would be unreasonable for anyone to stand in the way of him resuming his career.
Indeed, he should be supported: a great i njustice would have come close to destroying a young man’s life.
But I would argue that the opposite must also be the case. The law – its observance and enforcement – is the best way we have of ensuring society remains sane.
In Evans’s case, it will have spoken, and more than once. If his guilt is confirmed, he should not play professionally again.
There’s something else. Football is a wonderful game with a ghastly culture. Worst of all is its misogyny – how many grotesque tabloid tales have there been of orgies, of team-mates sharing and swapping girls like cuts of meat?
How many of its swaggering young stars have found themselves facing a rape accusation after a night on the town?
What example does it all set for the boggle-eyed boys who desperately want to follow in their heroes’ hallowed footsteps in every way?
And what, ultimately, would be the message sent to those boys if a convicted rapist is allowed simply to pick up where he left off?
Something like: ‘Rape’s bad, but it’s not that bad. In fact, you don’t even need to say sorry. Here’s a large cheque. Welcome back, son.’
While he was in prison, Evans worked as a painter and decorator to fund a healthy diet. There’s a thought. It might not pay the wages of a 35-goals-a- season man – what does? – but you can make a damn good living from the trades.
Football is important but not to the point we should separate the nature of the artist from the quality of the art.
So unless the law dictates otherwise, I suggest Evans should apply all his stubborn resilience to slipping off into obscurity and finding himself a new career.