Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 19
In which Dave sends Greg down a sewer, and Cooper the newsagent squeezes Dave for a tenner in exchange for info on his mother's murder.
Welcome to Book Two of my dark comedy thriller series, Read Em And Weep.
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If you’re new to the Read Em And Weep series, start with Book One: Serial Killer.
‘WELCOME HOME, GREG,’ grinned Dave. His assistant editor had just come back from his trip to the States with Leni and, by way of celebration, Dave was sending him down a sewer.
It was the latest Aaagh! challenge from the readers. A giant sewer pipe ran through the vast, eerie basement of Fleetpit House. It was the River Fleet storm relief pipe. When the water level rose above a certain point in the sewer system, the flow was diverted into this relief tunnel. So, in that parched summer of 1976, it was safe for Greg to descend into the sewers.
Greg had told Dave and Joy very little about his glamorous American trip, other than that Megahits and Sassy Girl had been successfully launched onto the US market, although there was no job forthcoming on the glossies, after all. Instead, Leni seemed to be using Greg as her personal assistant. But he still had high hopes that she would promote him to managing editor soon, and this was why he was still going out with her and putting up with her eccentric behaviour.
Dave and Joy knew there would be great opportunities for them to take the piss out of him, so they got him drunk in the Hoop and Grapes on his return and encouraged him to tell all.
Wearing a fringed suede jacket and cowboy boots with two-inch heels, he stood at the bar with them, and they noticed he was wincing and holding his back. That seemed like a good opening gambit for their interrogation.
‘Are you all right, Greg?’ said a concerned Joy. ‘You seem to be in some pain?’
‘It’s my back,’ explained Greg. ‘Had to carry a suitcase with all her healing crystals and sacred stones in. She never goes anywhere without them.’
‘A suitcase full of rocks? That must have weighed a ton. Must have cost her a fortune?’ probed Dave.
‘Normally. But she told the airline she needed the crystals for her health. You know the way diabetics carry special food everywhere? Well, she carries special rocks everywhere. So they had to make an exception for her.’
‘Oh, they’d never buy that!’
‘Have you ever tried arguing with Leni?’ said Greg bitterly. ‘It’s just easier to give in. So I did my back in.’
‘So then you went to Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon and up into Hopi Land?’ prompted Joy.
‘Yeah, the Third Mesa,’ scowled Greg.
‘That must have been exciting!’ said Joy.
‘It must have been amazing,’ agreed Dave.
‘We did sweat lodges. Slept under the stars. She’s a regular visitor. The Hopis can’t stand her, of course, but you know Leni, she’s completely oblivious. I probably shouldn’t say anything about that,’ said Greg, recalling some awkward incident.
‘I’ll get some more drinks in,’ said Dave.
Plied with more alcohol, Greg elaborated. ‘So we went and saw a Tribal Elder and she asked him what she could do to help the Hopis. So this old guy looks her straight in the eye and says, “The best thing the white man – or the white woman – can do, is to go away and leave us alone.” “Ja, ja” says Leni. “You are so right.” ’
‘She didn’t take the hint?’ enquired Joy.
‘This is hilarious,’ said Greg, now pretty drunk. ‘No, I shouldn’t really say …’
‘Come on, Greg, you know you want to,’ encouraged Dave.
‘Well …’ grinned Greg, ‘She thinks she’s some kind of Hopi Messiah. She thinks she’s the True White Brother.’
‘Surely she would be the True White Sister?’ said Dave.
‘Although she is built like a man,’ said Joy.
‘Double-D?’ said Dave. ‘Something wrong with your eyesight, Joy?’
‘I meant, she’s got to be over six foot tall.’
‘The True White Brother can be either gender,’ Greg explained. ‘According to Hopi prophecy, at the time of Purification, the True White Brother will appear, all powerful, and no one can stand against him. All must listen to him or great evil will befall the world. If he comes out of the East, the destruction will not be so bad. But if he comes out of the West, he will have no mercy.’
‘And you and Leni came out from the West, from LA!’ said Dave. ‘Oh, shit! That’s worrying.’
‘So that’s what she means when she talks about preparing for Purification,’ said Joy fearfully. ‘This is scary stuff, Greg.’
There was enough ammunition here for Dave and Joy to take the piss out of Greg for weeks.
‘But how can they recognise the True White Brother? How do they know it’s Leni?’ asked Joy.
‘Because he will bring with him the Holy Tablets of Stone, and–’
‘Ah! That’s so that’s where the stones come in!’ said Dave excitedly.
‘That’s right, so then she–’ started Greg. He stopped as he saw the look on their faces.
‘No, please. Carry on,’ said Dave. ‘ Tell us more about the True White Brother. Joy and I both seek spiritual enlightenment.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Joy. ‘I want to know how Leni gets her rocks off.’
‘Oh, fuck off, the pair of you,’ said Greg.
* * *
The exotic and colourful Third Mesa and Hopi Land seemed a long way away now, as Greg, wearing protective clothing and a helmet, descended into the Fleetpit sewer pipe with a cameraman and a worker from the Water Board. ‘Bye, Greg,’ waved Dave cheerfully as he watched his sullen assistant disappear into the echoing, eerie depths, and the lid was firmly clamped down on them.
Satisfied that Greg’s dreams of fame and fortune were dashed, Dave wandered off into the murky vaults of the building, where half an acre of famous magazines and comics, going back nearly a hundred years, were stored. This was where they both belonged, Dave reflected. Nothing good had ever come out of Fleetpit. It was always associated with darkness, death and failure.
It was believed that the name Fleetpit came from the site having once been a Roman burial pit or a cock fighting pit or a plague pit or a cesspit or a bear pit. Or possibly all of them. As Dave was fond of saying, ‘Our comics have brought shame on a plague pit.’
Certainly, there was a Bear Alley close to Fleetpit, as well as a Gunpowder Alley. Dave’s personal theory was the name Fleetpit came from the manufacture of gunpowder. He had read that ‘gong’ farmers – or ‘night soil’ collectors – from all over London were charged by the King, with or without the consent of the householders. They would then bring their slopping barrels back to the Fleet factory and pour them into giant pits. Vast vats of ‘gong’ would be stored here. ‘Not that different to today,’ thought Dave, as he glanced at the endless rows of bound volumes of old publications and artwork wrapped in brown paper.
The gong would then be heated up, processed and converted into gunpowder. Sir John Evelyn had singled the Fleetpits out for criticism as a foul and polluted stain on London in his Fumifugium: or The Inconvenience of the Aer and Smoak of London dissipated (1661). He recommended that sweet-smelling trees should be planted around the Fleetpits to purify the air and take care of the foul fumes. Evelyn was actually the merchant of death who owned the Fleetpits and he had written the book so he could get the site cleaned up at the taxpayers’ expense.
‘Psst! Son! Over here,’ a voice called to Dave from the darkness. It was Mr Cooper. He’d been going through a sack of young readers’ letters he’d stolen from the But Why? office when everyone had gone home. Stealing the readers’ 35p postal orders to join the But Why? Club, which entitled them to a special question mark metal badge, a membership certificate personally signed by “Big Q” and a book of answers. He threw the forms, the readers’ letters and the envelopes in the furnace, then counted the postal orders up. Nearly twenty quid. Not a bad haul this time. Depriving kids had reminded him of the good old days when he was a newsagent and regularly humiliated them, especially Dave, his bastard son, and now here he was walking right by; he had to be good for a few quid.
The scar-faced storeman beckoned Dave to join him over in Aisle 13, the Black Museum of Comics. Dave had stayed out of his way ever since he discovered the ex-newsagent was his father, but he couldn’t avoid him forever. ‘I was wondering if you could spare your old man a tenner?’ the browncoat whined.
‘Why would I give you anymore money … dad?’
‘I’m skint, son.’
‘Your problem, not mine.’
‘But I’m going to be out of a job soon.’
‘Good.’ Dave started to leave. ‘Then I won’t have to look at your face every day.’
‘Don’t be like that, son,’ the storeman followed him along Aisle 13. ‘It’s ’cos they’re closing Fleetpit down soon.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Dave. ‘This place will never close.’
‘They’re moving to a new building. Across the water. Not just Fleetpit Publications, but the parent company, everything’s gonna be published there in future.’
‘What?’
‘So all this is going to be destroyed.’
‘No. It’s not possible.’
‘It’s true,’ leered Mr Cooper.
‘But … it’s a hundred years’ worth of popular publications! The History of the Second World War. The Great War. I’ve even seen The History of the Crimean War. Over in that corner.’
‘Really beautiful old books? Massive, weigh a ton?’
‘They’re the ones. With wonderful illustrations, protected by rice paper.’
‘Flogged them last month.’
Dave reeled from the news. ‘But they can’t. They’re part of our national heritage.’
‘Dave, no one gives a fuck.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I do. Changing times. I was a newsagent, remember?’
‘Not the bound volumes? Not the back issues of The Fourpenny One?’
‘Yeah. They’re all due to be incinerated.’
‘But I’d know.’
‘That’s probably why you don’t know – ’cos you’re a … fan.’ The storeman spat out the word. ‘So you fans, who love all this kind of shit, and complain about us using artwork to block up drains and as dartboards, can’t make a fuss. That’s why Fleetpit have kept it very quiet. See?’
The thought that the old hotel was finally closing down and its great cultural heritage, good and bad – mainly bad – would be thrown away, shocked Dave. The bowels of Fleetpit were about to be finally emptied and vast piles of the nation’s popular culture would end up in flames or on rubbish heaps. It was a huge scandal in the making. But he had too many problems of his own. He daren’t make a fuss.
‘I can’t get involved. Goodbye.’
‘But you are involved, son. When Fleetpit House shuts down, you’ll be homeless.’
‘So I’ll need to hold onto my money.’ Dave headed for the exit.
Mr Cooper called after him. ‘If you pay me, I’ll tell you who killed your mother.’
Dave stopped. He turned back. ‘That’s easy … dad. I think you killed her. And, looking at your face. I know you did.’
‘That’s why I couldn’t say nothing to the rozzers, Dave. ’Cos I had the motive, and they’d have fitted me up. But it’s not true, son. Honest. But I reckon I know who it was.’
‘Who?’
‘Wedge first.’
Deep down, Dave didn’t believe it was Cooper, even though he knew he was capable of it. But Cooper knew more about that time when his mother disappeared than he could ever know. He had to solve her murder. If he didn’t, she would just keep driving him crazy until he did. He was holding her at bay for the time being, but not forever. He handed Cooper two five-pound notes.
‘Thanks, Dave.’ Cooper’s hideous face twisted in a smile. He beckoned him to sit down on a pile of bound volumes of The Fourpenny One. He sat opposite him on a stack of Tranny magazines and Radiogram Fun comics. ‘All right. I’ll tell you. It was the nig-nog. The one she met in Nigeria. I reckon he done for her.’
‘Ernie? Fuck you.’
‘Do you want to know the truth or not?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘That last year, before she disappeared, he turns up. Gets a job on the docks. Lived in Draughtboard Alley. She was giving herself airs and graces, swanning round in her furs, when all the time she was secretly having it off with a darkie.’
‘Ernie was a good man. He taught me to play football. I liked him. He had no reason to kill her.’
‘Ah!’ said Cooper. ‘But when your mum and I were together, she poured out her sorrows to me. And, of course, I’d be all sympathetic-like.’
‘Just tell me what you know.’
‘Back in Nigeria, Ernie was her houseboy and he was very respectful towards her. ’Cos they daren’t touch a white woman, Dave. See? Oh, no. Not out there. What? Wife of the District Officer? They’d cut his knackers off.’
‘Wasn’t she busy bringing up Annie?’
‘The bratling? That’s what she called your sister. She wasn’t the mothering type. She said a baby don’t need its mum once it’s off the tit. So she had all that spare time on her hands.’
Dave gritted his teeth, trying hard to ignore Cooper’s offensive words. ‘What happened?’
‘Ernie would come in and read poetry to her, ’cos she liked that, see? But he still kept his distance. Still shows her proper respect. Probably ’cos he was scared. So in the end she had to take her clothes off and say to him, ‘I want you to do the same to me as your boss does.’
‘Then why would Ernie strangle her?’
‘He could fly off the handle, see? Get really angry. I saw them together, a few days before she disappeared. In the park. I’m listening on the other side of the bushes, like, and he’d got the hump because she wouldn’t go away with him and start a new life together. That’s what he wanted. He said he wanted to take care of you and Annie, too, and he was earning good money on the docks. But she said no. Well, what could he offer her, Dave? Six kids and a council house. That’s why I reckon he done it, Dave.’
Cooper leered as he saw the expression on Dave’s face. ‘He’s a nig-nog, Dave. What do you expect?’
Dave picked up a bound volume of The Fourpenny One and smashed Cooper hard across the face with it.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Dave,’ Cooper snarled after him as he walked away. ‘I make a bad enemy.’
Cooper had told him important information about Ernie. He didn’t believe Ernie had killed Jean, but it had filled in some of the gaps in her past. But he hadn't answered the most puzzling question of all: why would his mother have slept with Cooper?
Goodnight, John-boy is the second book in the Read Em And Weep series and you can buy it digitally or as a paperback.