Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 25
Dave could see why such an upper-class character, with a sense of entitlement that went back hundreds of years, would feel he had a droit de seigneur on vulnerable kids.
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.
DAVE FINISHED work in time to sneak up to his turret home and watch the regional news. It had extended coverage of the funeral of Canon Williams who, the reporter announced, had died of a heart attack. She described his distinguished career. He had gone to public school, then joined the army; the Royal Horse Artillery, where he acquired a reputation as a fine horseman. This was followed by the priesthood, the English College in Rome, and parish priest of St Mary’s. His many achievements included setting up a Boys Town in the Far East. Dave wondered idly why he hadn’t set up a Girls Town, but, of course, he knew the reason why.
There was nothing about his reputation for violence. Dave recalled that business about the hosts. In the Sundays following his First Holy Communion, he’d kept the hosts on his tongue and taken them home and hidden them in his Warfix foreign legion Fort Africa. Inspired by the illustration on the box, which showed foreign legionnaires enthusiastically, but bloodlessly, bayoneting Bedouins, he’d enjoyed many great games with the legionnaires protecting the hosts. Canon Williams had to be called and Fort Africa was exorcised. The Canon had to eat all the stale hosts and wasn’t very happy about it. While his mother was out of the room making some tea, he’d belted the boy round the face and called him a ‘blasphemous little shit’.
Dave could see why such an upper-class character, with a sense of entitlement that went back hundreds of years, would feel he had a droit de seigneur on vulnerable kids like Konrad. And why his mother would form a ‘friendship’ with him. After all, she had been trained by Paula to attract gentlemen. She had aspired to enter his elite world, but, to the Canon, she would have always been Mary Magdalene.
Dave was glad he was dead.
The Canon’s coffin was escorted by the Knights of St Pancras, who wore their usual funereal top hats, black suits and cloaks, and carried silver canes. He recognised Mr Peat amongst the knights and Mr Czar, the coroner. He must have been essential for the death certificate, passing off the Canon’s murder as ‘natural causes’.
The knights had many members in the police and medical professions and would have called in favours to avoid an enquiry that would have exposed their secret ceremonies and activities to public scrutiny. There was no sign of Fabulous Keen, though.
But he did see his old headmistress, Mother St Vincent, ‘Vinegar Bottle’, now more hateful, ancient and vinegary than ever, following the funeral cortège. She was pushed in a wheelchair by Mrs Czar, as lovely as ever in her Virgin Soldier robes. He tried to banish his lecherous thoughts about her, but his mind wouldn’t permit that. Mrs Czar reminded him of Mrs Robinson in The Graduate. He would have loved to play the part of Benjamin, who was seduced by Mrs Robinson.
‘To the Canon,’ said Fabulous Keen. He was resplendent in a turquoise Nehru suit with silver stripes.
‘To the Canon,’ said the other three, chinking their glasses.
‘I like to think,’ said Fabulous, ‘he’s paid his dues and he’s up there in Heaven, riding across the sky.’
‘With servants waiting on him in the clouds, and his silver service with him,’ said Mr Peat sarcastically.
‘Don’t fucking mock, Bill,’ sneered Keen. ‘You’re not an Angry Young Man anymore. You’re not Jack fucking Kerouac.’ Peat blanched under Keen’s withering look.
Keen turned his attention to the film on his eyeball TV, and shook his head.
‘See that? You see that? That is disgraceful. They should be ashamed of themselves.’
Mr Peat winced. Mr Czar chuckled. And Detective Inspector George Wallace grinned.
‘My Godfathers,’ said Fab, shaking his head, and continuing to avidly watch the tape. ‘You were definitely right to confiscate this, Inspector.’
‘I’m going to miss the Canon,’ said Peat, trying not to look at the images on the TV, and wriggling uncomfortably in the Bauhaus chair.
‘Yes, we all will,’ agreed Keen. ‘He took one for the team.’
‘He took one for you, Fab,’ said the Inspector.
Keen nodded. ‘I’d be dead if it weren’t for him. You know, I’ve been giving it some thought, and I still think our mystery man is a pro.’
‘I have to admit, the werewolf mask was a master stroke,’ admitted Mr Czar. Despite being a second generation White Russian who had settled in Britain, he still spoke with a thick Russian accent.
‘Gate-crashing one of our ceremonies to make his hit,’ said the Inspector, ‘he must have balls of steel.’
‘He’s got more front than Brighton and Margate,’ agreed Keen. ‘Anything from the prints on the shooter?’ The Inspector shook his head.
‘I want you to find out his name, where he lives, what he does, and why he wants to kill me,’ said Keen. ‘And then I’m going to nail this bastard.’
He was distracted by the TV again. ‘Now that should definitely not be allowed. Bloody hell. Can you freeze frame it?’ The Inspector operated the Betamax.
‘Thanks. I still haven’t got the hang of this bloody machine. That’s the one. Look at that. Amputees. Oh, that is disgusting.’
‘Supposing it is a professional,’ said Mr Czar, ‘you realise he will try again?’
‘And I’ll be ready this time.’
‘Then they’ll send another, and another, until the job is done. They won’t stop until you’re dead. You know that’s how it works.’
Mr Peat sighed. He was now sitting, rather more comfortably, on the Pop Art yellow hand. ‘I still say you’re blowing this out of all proportion, Fab. I just don’t think this man is part of an organisation, or is a professional hitman. He sounded genuinely scared to me.’
‘So what does our chemistry teacher believe?’ asked Keen.
‘Well …’ said Mr Peat cautiously, ‘It’s like I said at the time, I think he’s an idiot savant. I mean, who else would leave a liquorice pipe in your desk?’
‘Maybe a boy?’ suggested Mr Czar. ‘From one of the homes?’
‘Have to be a big lad,’ said the Inspector.
‘Some of them are,’ nodded Mr Czar. He leaned forward. ‘What if he was at one of your parties, and has some … grudge against you? Saw your robes in the wardrobe, and read about our Brotherhood.’
‘Why should any kid have a grudge against me?’ asked Keen indignantly. ‘My parties are a great opportunity for them to network, meet important people, make something of themselves.’
‘They get strange ideas sometimes. And, whoever it is, he has inside knowledge.’
‘I talked to the wardens,’ said Keen. ‘They checked their records. Who was allowed out that evening. They say it’s impossible.’
‘Kids wouldn’t have the balls to pull a stroke like this,’ agreed the Inspector.
‘So we should be looking for a lone nutter,’ Mr Peat insisted. Keen, Mr Czar and the Inspector looked at him with derision.
‘Sure. Like Lee Harvey Oswald and Sirhan bloody Sirhan,’ said Keen.
Goodnight, John-boy is the second book in the Read Em And Weep series and you can buy it digitally or as a paperback.