Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 21
In which Dave's attraction to Joy's armpits wears a bit thin, his dead mother relentlessly hounds him to avenge her murder, and he discovers a link between Fab Keen and the Major.
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.
IT WAS a Saturday morning, and Dave was lying next to Joy, reflecting that their relationship was going really well. She was starting to understand his needs as well as her own. She wasn’t shaving under her arms, for example. She knew he had a fur fetish and she was trying to relate to it. Anything weird or unusual, Joy was up for. It was missionary position sex that was not for her. So he figured he was on a winning streak.
Joy turned to him. ‘Dave,’ she said, ‘I know it’s a fetish, and, of course, I approve of fetishes. The weirder they are, the better.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘But–’
‘But what, Joy?’
‘Do you always have to have sex with my armpit? Armpit sex is getting boring.’
‘We could switch to your other armpit, if you like?’
‘Not really. I don’t really understand it, Dave.’
‘It’s because your armpit is furry on the inside. It’s Eldorado. I’d love to crawl into it. I’d love to live in your armpit, Joy.’
‘Okay. But we still need to make progress.’
‘Progress?’
She shot him a warning look. ‘You need to up your game, Dave.’
‘I do?’
‘Definitely. If you want our relationship to work. Why don’t we find something else in my book?’
‘Okay.’
Joy brought out a coffee table book with different positions and opened it at random. ‘Let’s see…what about this one? Position 22. That looks fun.’
‘Position 22? Definitely not. That is completely out of the question.’
‘What’s wrong with position 22?
‘I don’t like the number, Joy. It’s a bad number.’
‘It’s not like it’s 666.’
‘Let’s go back to your armpit.’
‘But there’s so much more to me, Dave. I need to feel the rest of me is valued, too.’
‘But it is. And it’s not just your body that fascinates me, Joy. It’s your mind, too.’
‘Really? You’re not just saying that?’
‘No. There’s your thrift. You can go through a charity shop like a plague of locusts.’
‘That’s a nice thing to say,’ smiled Joy. ‘Thanks, Dave. Okay, Let’s watch something instead. I got a Twilight Zone tape from the States.’
‘Cool.’
Joy was keen to try out her new Betamax player.
The episode unfolded. It featured a dancer who was hospitalised for exhaustion. A nightmare and a series of creepy events lead her to the hospital morgue, room 22. When she leaves the hospital, she is booked, by coincidence, on Flight 22. She relives her nightmare, doesn’t take the flight, and the plane explodes in mid-air.
‘I thought “Twenty Two” was a pretty good episode,’ said Joy afterwards.
Dave scowled heavenwards. ‘Okay, okay. Okay. I get the message. It’s a little on the nose, isn’t it?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That weird coincidence in the Twilight Zone. “Twenty Two”.’
‘I believe in coincidences. I think they’re like omens trying to tell us something,’ said Joy.
‘You’re probably right. I think coincidences are going on all around us, all the time, and we don’t take any notice of them usually. And then, for some reason, our subconscious brings them to our attention.’
‘Because of a guilty conscience or something?’
‘I prefer the “or something”. Whatever it is, I don’t care.’ Dave looked heavenwards again and muttered, ‘You’re wasting your time. Okay?’
‘We should do stories like Twilight Zone in comics.’
‘Maybe in Aaagh! ? Give me a proposal. If you wrote a Twilight Zone-style series that would really impress your dad.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Joy sullenly, rolling a spliff.
‘Why not?’
‘I sent him my favourite episode of White Death, which I was really proud of. The one where the natives of Bikini atoll die in the fall-out following a nuclear test.’
‘Their children play in the radioactive “snow”, with tragic consequences.’
‘Then the fucking scientists responsible are attacked and eaten by White Death as they test the water around the islands for radiation.’
‘Yeah, that was brilliant, Joy. I like the double meaning of white death.’
‘And you know what my dad did? The tosser! He wrote back, “Why are you wasting your talents and education writing for children’s comics? Let me introduce you to people on The Guardian and New Statesmen so you can have a career in real journalism.” ’
‘What a snob,’ said Dave.
‘No! He’s not a snob,’ said Joy touchily. ‘Don’t you insult my dad. Okay? He’s just a bit …“North London”.’
‘Well, it was a bit harsh,’ said Dave.
‘I thought so. I’ll show him,’ she growled. ‘I’m going to make it without any help from the great Lawrence of Fitzrovia.’
‘Good for you. Good for you.’
‘’Cos writing for The Guardian doesn’t change a thing, Dave. It’s preaching to the converted. Whereas we’re reaching impressionable kids.’
‘Scaring the hell out of them with White Death makes a lot more sense,’ agreed Dave, chewing on his liquorice pipe. ‘You realise they’ll be having nightmares about great white sharks coming to get them for the rest of their lives?’
‘I hope so,’ said Joy drawing on her spliff.
He tried to reassure her. ‘It’s interesting, Joy. You’ve got a dad issue. I’ve got a mum issue. So we compliment each other.’
‘What do you mean I have a dad issue?’ snarled Joy. ‘I have no such thing. How dare you? How fucking dare you?’
‘Oh. Okay. So we should ignore what our mums and dads want us to do.’
‘Well, yours is dead. So that’s easy for you.’
‘If only,’ sighed Dave.
Seeking advice on how he might up his game, Dave thought he would have a boys’ night out at The Eight Veils. Greg was away for the weekend. Leni had a pilot’s licence, and she had hired a monoplane for the weekend. They were flying over Wiltshire looking for more of the recently discovered ‘saucer nests’ that were starting to appear in the wheat fields. She wanted Greg to take photos of this strange new phenomena. As the True White Brother, she needed to be there to welcome the aliens. So it was just Dave, Ron and the Major drinking in the Soho club.
‘You’re worrying unnecessarily, Dave,’ said the Major. ‘All this modern nonsense about whether you’re satisfying women or not. Who cares?’
‘You’re sure?’ said Dave uneasily.
‘Absolutely,’ said the Major. ‘You need a real woman who is just happy you’re screwing her. Not some dickless bloke. Isn’t that right, Ron?’
‘I tried telling him, Major.’
‘I’d rather shag a sandbag,’ continued the Major. ‘Oh, by crikey, yes. Seriously, Dave,’ he said, twirling his handlebar moustache. He was still wearing his all-year round, threadbare, camel hair coat with velvet collar, despite the heat, and had his trusty portable typewriter by his side. ‘How badly do you want to get laid to put up with that abuse? You could abuse yourself. Take out the middle woman. I’ll give you a subscription to Members Only.’
‘Or there’s Naked City down the road,’ suggested Ron. ‘I’ve brought my torch, so we can read the prices.’
‘I’m not sure. Even a scary lay is better than no lay,’ mused Dave.
‘We’re men of the world, Dave. You should listen to us,’ said the Major. ‘Ron here is a mine of information on the opposite sex. Right, Ron?’
‘That’s right, Major.’
‘He started that romance comic in the 50’s. Forces Sweetheart.’
The two of them chanted, ‘On land, sea and air, she’d go anywhere!’
‘She was the Forces Sweetheart, dreaming of a dashing officer …’ said Ron.
‘… but sweaty privates were all she had to look forward to!’ said the Major.
‘She was a military mattress!’ they roared together.
‘But I’m out of date now,’ reflected Ron bitterly, knocking back another drink. ‘Over the hill. You think I’m for the chop. Got nothing to offer anymore. Right, Dave?’
Oh no, Ron,’ Dave lied smoothly. ‘You’re like a vintage wine that matures with age.’
‘My last success for the trendy teenage market was over ten years ago with Tranny.’
‘It was very “gear” in its day, Ron,’ Dave reassured him. ‘It’s fast. It’s fab. It’s 78rpm.’
Dave went up to the bar to get another round and a packet of cigarettes for Ron. The Major and Ron had introduced him to Paula, the owner, who had run the club since the forties.
‘The cigarettes are 22p, love, and with the drinks, that’s two pound twenty all together.’
‘Of course,’ sighed Dave.
‘I remember when your mum brought you in as a baby,’ said Paula, a heavily made-up, glamorous septuagenarian. ‘You would crawl around on the carpet.’
‘Ah. So that’s why I love the smell of stale beer.’
‘You were a funny looking thing,’ said Paula appraising him with an expert eye. ‘Which is odd, ’cos your parents were both very good looking.’
‘Thanks. My self-esteem needed lowering.’
‘Your mum did well for herself. I was so pleased for her.’
‘She often talked fondly about you, Paula. I actually named a couple of my stories after you.’
‘The gentlemen want it, they got to pay for it, that’s what I told your mum. “Pearls for my girls. Furs from sirs.” And she loved her furs, did your mum.’
‘You don’t remember which furs?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Chinchilla? Mink? Sable? Marten? Rabbit?’
‘It was so long ago now, dearie. Ah. Your poor mum. I was sorry to hear about her disappearing.’ Paula looked meaningfully at Dave. ‘You do know she was quite a naughty girl before she got religion?’
‘And afterwards,’ sighed Dave.
‘And why not? You didn’t know if you were going to die, with the bombs, so what was wrong with a knee trembler in the blackout? Made you feel alive. I was just the same in the first war.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. We were very naughty. It was worse than the sixties back then. And drugs? You lot think you discovered them, but we had cocaine, marijuana, and opium, too. Chinese laundries was where you got ’em in my day. Did I ever tell you I danced with Ivor Novello, dear? That kept my home fires burning.’
‘Hurry up with those drinks,’ called the Major.
‘Didn’t Fabulous Keen used to work here?’ asked Dave as he gathered up the drinks.
She didn’t answer, so he persisted. ‘Wasn’t he your doorman?’
Paula looked grim-faced, the lines on her face standing out through her white make-up. ‘I don’t want to talk about John Keen.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s dangerous.’
Dave put the drinks down again. ‘In what way?’
‘Drug-dealing. Pimping. Tried to get my girls on the game.’ There was fear in her eyes as she added, ‘You don’t want to mess with Keen, dearie. He may be a “national treasure” now, but he’s the nastiest piece of work I’ve ever met, and I’ve met more than my share.’
‘He left? Or what happened to him?’
‘The Major saw him off,’ she said, nodding in the writer’s direction. ‘Ask him about “Fabulous” Keen.’
‘That must have taken some guts.’
‘Well, someone had to get rid of him, Dave,’ she said. ‘Someone had to stand up and be counted.’
Goodnight, John-boy is the second book in the Read Em And Weep series and you can buy it digitally or as a paperback.