Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 10
Dave does a bit of breaking and entering, and nearly tops himself in the process.
TWO DAYS LATER, Dave let himself into Fabulous Keen’s apartment. He had a large collection of keys from his days when he had been an errand boy for M&R Pell, Seed Merchants, and the key he’d had cut still fitted. He had thought of everything: he was wearing a smart suit and tie in case any of the neighbours observed him entering, so they would assume he was ‘respectable’.
The spacious penthouse apartment, in a luxury block overlooking the Thames, had changed somewhat since Dave had last visited it as a fifteen-year-old. It still looked like the lair of a James Bond villain, but the dazzling white had been replaced with groovy, green-patterned wallpaper and vast, hideous, orange psychedelic paintings, relieved only by a Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus poster. The long white sofa had gone and there was an equally-long black leather sofa encased in a white plastic surround escorted by two uncomfortable-looking Bauhaus leather-and-chrome chairs. There were further chairs in the form of a pop-art, giant yellow hand, and a ‘matching’ one-man, open, yellow submarine, which the sitter climbed into. It was the ultimate in 1970s décor.
Welcome to Book Two of my dark comedy thriller series, Read Em And Weep.
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The bar remained the same, with its awesome collection of alcohol that he had previously sampled and had made him violently sick. In fact, the whole room was making him feel queasy, all over again. Perhaps it was because the ‘conversation pit’ was now converted into a sunken Jacuzzi, in the shape of a love heart.
Even Dave’s poor sense of taste felt affronted by it.
The dramatic, futuristic, Picassoesque TV cabinet was gone and, in its place there was a white ‘flying saucer’ shaped colour TV that looked like a giant eyeball and seemed straight off the set of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey. One of the new Betamax video recorders was underneath it.
There were still the religious paintings and statues of Mary Magdalene, clothed and unclothed, and a dais with an impressive gold bust of her head, its beauty marred by that ancient skull in the middle. Taking pride of place, alongside his endless awards, were framed messages from the Pope and a relic of the True Cross, with its certificate of authenticity.
Dave turned the eyeball on and watched Fab presenting Tomorrow’s Britain live so he could keep an eye on the time. Fab was putting a futuristic electric car, an Enfield, through its paces, driving it out of the White City car park, down the heavily-polluted road to Shepherd’s Bush. He emerged from the little orange runabout to announce, ‘Only 103 of the Thunderbolts have been built. They cost nearly three thousand pounds! But in ten years time, we will all be driving one of these super-size “spangles”.’ He coughed on the fumes pouring from the congested traffic in Wood Lane.
‘Because the infernal combustion engine is finished. Its time is up.’
Dave moved onto the bedroom. The black leather waterbed was also gone. In its place was a giant ‘medieval’ four-poster bed, fit for a Knight of St Pancras, and, Dave assumed, it was Keen’s heraldic coat of arms proudly attached to the top horizontal beam. To one side was a large writing desk, with what Dave recognised as a comptometer: an old-school, enormous, electro-mechanical calculator.
But it was Keen’s wardrobe that Dave was interested in, and the reason he was here. He slid one of the doors back and, just as before, inside there was a range of Keen’s trademark Nehru suits with their distinctive collars.
As a teenager, he was awed by Keen’s distinctive fashion style and tried in vain to imitate it. One year, with his Christmas money, he’d actually ordered a made-to-measure Nehru suit just like them. He’d described the jacket collar to the baffled Co-op tailor very clearly. ‘No. No. Not a Beatles jacket collar. It’s got to stand up. Like Fabulous Keen’s jackets. Like Manfred Mann’s!’ Unfortunately, the Co-op had still got it wrong. It had come back as an ordinary jacket with the bottom half of the lapels sliced off; the top half still lay there, flat on the garment. The suit, with its ‘sawn-off’ flat lapels, looked horrible, and he had only worn it once. There was only so much humiliation he could take from his mates.
And there it was: Keen’s ceremonial white robe with its four-feet-high purple hood, now with an accompanying purple robe, too. It was the most scary uniform imaginable. Was that why the Knights wore them at their secret ceremonies, Dave wondered. To induce fear? But in whom, and why?
Or maybe, simply because they were part of a Spanish Holy Week tradition that inspired their founder, Father Faber-Knox, when he was living in Seville, to found his order of Knights? It was a tradition that went back to the Inquisition and flagellants who, either voluntarily or as a punishment, were flogged as penance for their sins, and were required to hide their faces.
Certainly, he knew the Knights were connected with his family. His mother had been a Virgin Soldier, an organisation closely associated with the Knights. Mr Pell, the seed merchant, his boss and his father’s boss, was a Knight. He remembered how his father had furiously smashed in their TV screen with a cricket bat when he was watching a drama about the Spanish Inquisition.
He carefully folded the garments in their transparent dry-cleaning bag into the sports bag he had brought with him. He was only borrowing them. He’d bring them back next week, and Keen would be none the wiser.
Joy had loved it when Greg had appeared in a witch’s cloak, possibly once worn by a young Mrs Thatcher, to present his new serial Slaves of War Orphan School, featuring a sinister witch headmistress clearly based on Maggie.
Well, the Spanish Inquisition robes would definitely trump Mrs Thatcher’s cloak. And Joy would be crazy about the story he had to go with them. He’d finally cracked it.
His mother appeared beside him. ‘You just had to do it, didn’t you?’ she sighed. She drew heavily on a Park Drive. ‘Just don’t leave any sign that you were here, okay? Because this man is seriously dangerous.’
‘What do you mean “don’t leave any sign”?’ he protested. ‘What about you smoking? That’ll tell him someone’s been in his apartment.’
‘It’s etheric smoke. It doesn’t leave any trace.’
‘So everyone thinks you’re just a figment of my imagination? How very convenient.’
‘Well, now you’re here,’ she grimaced, ‘you’d better check that desk for clues, too.’
‘Clues?’
‘To find out who murdered me, Mr Detective. Or had you forgotten that’s the reason I came back?’
‘What exactly am I looking for, Mum?’ he asked, as began rummaging through the drawers of the desk. “Evidence that he was the Blackout Strangler? The Soho serial killer who strangled four women?’
‘Evidence that will shove his halo down his throat,’ she growled.
‘Like a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about women he murdered?’ Dave speculated.
‘He’s too smart to leave any incriminating evidence.’
‘Maybe something on the other suspects?’ Dave pondered. ‘The Canon. Mr Czar the coroner. Mr Peat. They’re all Knights of St Pancras. Or Mrs Czar? She was a Virgin Soldier with you. Or Mr Cooper? Or how about dad? My legal dad, I mean.’
‘Why would evidence about Cooper or Peter be here?’ she arched a perfect eyebrow. ‘Just keep looking, Inspector Clouseau.’
Her sharp manner reminded Dave of Joy, which he realised was why he was so comfortable around the editor of Shandy.
‘Although I’m not convinced Keen can be a murderer, mum,’ pondered Dave. ‘I mean, he’s a national treasure.’
‘That’s part of his camouflage, son. And be careful going through those things. When your hand is in the hound’s mouth, withdraw it gently.’
‘Good advice.’
‘Irish expression. We give a lot of advice.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
He had gone through all the left-hand drawers of the desk now, and in the bottom one, he found several copies of typed information about the Knights. He remembered it from when he was an errand boy and used to deliver packages to Keen. It was exactly the same document: ‘Knights of St Pancras. Opening Ceremony. Closing Ceremony. Diagram of Lodge Room. Report of the Secretary. Order of Service.’
‘Better take one,’ said Jean. ‘Could be useful.’
It looked just as boring as when he first read it as a fifteen-year-old, but Dave didn’t want to argue with her, so he put the papers in his sports bag.
Then he checked the right-hand drawers of the desk. In the top one he found The Enchiridion of Indulgences, a book that meant nothing to him. It had a list of ‘norms and grants’, works and prayers for indulgences and explanations, none of which he understood.
He chewed on a liquorice pipe to help him concentrate. Something to do with time off in Purgatory, yet it also said there was no time in Purgatory.
There was also a ledger in the same drawer with daily entries and figures in the credit and debit columns. Dave could just about make out Keen’s spidery handwriting: Charity walk 500 credit. Donation to the blind 100 credit. Lourdes Pilgrimage 5,000 credit. Hospital visit 1000 debit.
A further search of the remaining drawers revealed nothing else of any significance.
‘Look, mum,’ he sighed. ‘I’m a comic book editor. Editor of Aaagh! and The Spanker – You can’t expect me to solve your murder.’
‘You promised.’
‘I’m not smart enough.’
‘You come up with ingenious ideas for crazy kids to copy.’
‘That’s different and, actually, kids are using my ideas to wreak their revenge on adults.’
‘Now.’
‘I used to hate kids. But not anymore. I’m not sure why,’ pondered Dave. ‘Maybe it was standing up to Cooper?’
‘Because he used to love playing games on kids and you were subconsciously imitating him?
‘I guess.’
Dave turned his attention to the grey, gunmetal comptometer. ‘Adding and calculating machine. These things are on the way out now. They’re almost antiques.’
‘I remember them from the war,’ agreed Jean. ‘I didn’t want to be stuck in an office behind a mechanical abacus. That’s why I went to work at The Eight Veils.’
‘You know, I’ve always wanted to have a go on one.’ said Dave. ‘It’s like something out of Bletchley Park.’
He turned it on. It was a massive, heavy machine, with a moving carriage and endless rows of numbers that clattered and whirred around as he got it to add and subtract. Gaining in confidence, he set it multiplication and division tests. He watched enthralled as the carriage rolled noisily backwards and forwards, making a thunderous sound like a cross between an underground train and a machine gun.
‘This is brilliant,’ he said. ‘But what’s Keen doing with it? Hey – I’m going to set it a really tough task. Divide a figure by zero. That should, theoretically, keep it going for infinity.’
‘That’s what he’s concerned about: infinity,’ said Jean. ‘What’s going to happen in the afterlife. That’s why he keeps a credit and debit ledger of his crimes and his good deeds.’
As Dave set the machine its new task, his mother sneered to herself. ‘But he can climb Croagh Patrick in his bare feet, it still won’t save him.
To Dave’s delight, the comptometer thundered noisily backwards and forwards, then began growling and heaving, ‘overflowing’ with the calculating challenge. It came to a standstill, the numbers going crazy as it went into an infinite loop.
Disappointed the carriage wasn’t moving any more, he went round to the back of the over-revving machine and leant over it to investigate what was wrong.
‘Do you realise, Mum?’ he said excitedly, ‘If I can get this to keep working, I could solve the mystery of infinity?’ His tie dangled down and the comptometer seized hold of it, sucked it into its innards and began strangling him.
‘I warned him,’ his mother continued. ‘When Jenny was found strangled, I told him, “You can dress a goat in silk, and he still remains a goat. But your day will come, Johnny boy. Live horse and you’ll get grass.” ’ She rasped out the words with a dark Celtic menace.
‘Guuhhhh!’ said Dave as the tie was sucked deeper inside the comptometer, tightening around his neck. His strangulated cry was drowned out by the coughing and wheezing of the machine in infinity mode.
‘I said to him, “The lamb of God will stir his hoof through the roof of Heaven and kick you in the arse down to Hell”,’ recalled Dave’s mother. ‘And he knew it. Oh, yes. He was afraid I had The Sight. That’s why he stopped.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette. ‘There were no more stranglings after Jenny.’
Positioned round the back of the machine, Dave couldn’t see where the ‘stop’ button was, so it continued to strangle him as he tried blindly pressing random buttons without success. It just seemed to make it worse, judging by its groaning and heaving and straining sounds.
‘Have a look at the ledger, Dave,’ she said, flicking through the book.
‘And, by the way, could I really do this if I was a product of your imagination? Although,’ she reflected, ‘I suppose you could still be imagining me doing this.’
But Dave, desperately trying to free himself, was too distracted to hear her.
‘Yuuuggh!’ he said, flailing helplessly.
‘So every time he does something good, like a charity walk, or raising money for a hospital, he awards himself time off in Purgatory. That goes in the credit column, so he can be sure he’s always in the black. Wonder how he calculates the bad stuff? Probably with that book of indulgences.’
Dave’s head was pulled down close to the carriage, as the ever-changing numbers spun on their relentless journey to infinity. His ear mere inches from the machine, the noise was thunderous. He was trapped there until the end of time, or until the machine caught fire, burned out, or Keen returned – whichever came first. Probably Keen returning, although the machine was becoming unbearably hot and starting to smoke ominously now.
As best he could, he desperately twisted his head to look around him, but there was nothing to cut his tie off with, to stop the strangulation.
Jean continued to leaf through page after page of the ledger, with all its complex calculations. ‘But I’m not sure St Peter would accept these figures. Even if Keen did threaten to kick his teeth in.’
With his vision starting to darken around the edges, he realised he would have to turn off the power at the wall socket. The cable led from the back of the machine, across the desk and disappeared over the side, hopefully to a socket below.
The comptometer was heavy, especially so when crouched over and half-strangled by it, so Dave began to drag it across the desk.
He reached the edge and, unable to turn his head to look, blindly reached out his arm, feeling a surge of relief as his hand found the plug. He yanked it from the socket, finally switching off his tormentor. The blood rushing in his ears and his choking wheeze were loud in the sudden silence of the apartment.
‘Hrrrrrgh!’ said Dave, finally able to breathe again.
‘What are you doing down there?’ asked his mother irritably.
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘I need to get my tie out of the machine,’ he said, still intimately connected to the comptometer. With no power, the mechanical calculator refused to release its prize. So he had to switch it on and off again a few times, starting and stopping it, and, after a few unsuccessful attempts, it finally, grudgingly, released the garment and he was able to stand up. His tie was mangled and smeared with oil as he shifted the comptometer back into the centre of the desk and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘So you understood about indulgences?’ she asked irritably.
‘Absolutely. It’s like pre-paid sin. Buy one, get one free.’ Suddenly, he and Jean both heard the sound of a footstep outside the bedroom door and they exchanged apprehensive glances.
‘It can’t be Keen,’ whispered Jean. ‘Not yet. Tomorrow’s Britain is only just over.’
‘So who’s out there?’
Goodnight, John-boy is the first book in the Read Em And Weep series and is on sale digitally or as paperback.