Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 7
‘Oh, my God,’ said Dave. ‘I had no idea what the Major was up to, Inspector. I blame myself, I really should have paid more attention.’
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.
FIDDY CHUCKLED TO HIMSELF. He was loving every minute of this. His wolf-like, piercing blue eyes drank in Dave’s performance. It was a little rehearsed, true, but it was not bad for an amateur. Not bad at all. Lacked a little of the conviction a professional villain would have given it, but credit where credit was due, the lad was trying hard.
They had arranged to meet in Ye Olde Cock Tavern across the road from the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand. Dave had to cancel his drink with the others in the Hoop and Grapes to celebrate the death of Everlasting Love. He couldn’t risk the others overhearing.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Dave. ‘I had no idea what the Major was up to, Inspector. I blame myself, I really should have paid more attention.’
‘Very good,’ grinned Fiddy.
‘And you say that two adults – a priest and a teacher – were killed? By kids using these methods the Major had sneaked into his Caning Commando story?’
‘Two we know of. There could well be others.’
A shocked Dave shook his head sorrowfully. ‘That’s … that’s just awful. What … what can I say, Inspector?’
‘Yes, Dave,’ smirked Fiddy. ‘What can you say?’
‘What was the Major thinking of?’ ruminated Dave, continuing his performance of a lifetime. ‘He can’t be right in the head. You know he was a prisoner of the Japanese? Worked on that railroad. Must have suffered terribly. D’you think he maybe took one beating too many?’ Dave looked inspired. ‘Yes, maybe that’s why he did it, Inspector. It affected his mind. He had to get back at the world for all the terrible things that were done to him.’
The cop leaned purposefully forward. ‘We know about the Major, Dave. “The Major” – aka Battle of Britain fighter pilot ‘Tiger’ Thomson, aka Desert Rat Lieutenant ‘Nobby Clarke’, real name John Taylor, private in the army catering corps. Following the fall of Singapore, he was indeed a POW on the Thai-Burma railway.’
‘So he’s a fantasist? And he’s been acting out his fantasies in a kid’s comic?’ A shocked Dave took in this information. ‘I see … yes … it’s all starting to make sense now.’
‘When he returned to Britain he used forged papers to take up the post of housemaster at St Swithin’s College for boys. Before leaving under a considerable cloud, along with the school fees.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Dave sorrowfully. ‘So you can’t trust a word he says? If he was, for example, to deny that he was encouraging his readers to kill adults, you couldn’t believe him. Could you?’
‘From his court appearances,’ Fiddy continued impassively, ‘we know The Major was also a bus conductor, a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman, and a tally man, collecting hire purchase debts, but forgetting to pass on the money to his employers. He was guilty of similar absent-mindedness as a bus conductor, not just living out of his own bag, but other conductors’ bags as well. And when he vacuumed a lady’s carpet, he claimed her jewellery got sucked into the dust bag by mistake.’
‘A man like that is capable of anything,’ sighed Dave. ‘And then he finally hit rock bottom and became a comic book writer.’
Dave started to relax. With the Major’s long record of dishonesty, his denials of any wrongdoing would cut no ice with the police. He was the perfect patsy.
‘Now, I did some checking,’ continued Fiddy. ‘I went right through my grandson’s collection of The Spanker. I read every single Caning Commando story.’
‘So you saw his whole descent into insanity? Tragic. Tragic.’ Dave shook his head sadly.
‘It was enlightening. Because, you see, Dave, the homicidal incidents in question only start appearing in the Caning Commando when you took over as editor.’
‘Me? I guess that’s just coincidence,’ shrugged Dave.
‘Showing the readers how to make a Molotov cocktail, a pipe bomb, an undetectable poison, potassium nitrate rocket missiles, electrocute people, and so on.’
‘The Major’s name is on the scripts,’ Dave said defensively.
‘But I’ve got hold of one, and I can see where there’s an addition made with your typewriter.’
Fiddy showed Dave the document that Deep Throat had given to Harry.
‘You see …? Just there. You’ve added the bit where the Oberspankerfuhrer holds the Commando down in a bath of water and he survives by breathing air through the plughole.’ The detective chuckled. ‘Bet there were a few kids lost their teeth on that one.’
‘I don’t remember. I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ said Dave, stroking his chin.
‘And you just need a bit of time to think what it could be?’ prompted Fiddy sympathetically.
‘Yes, please,’ said Dave.
Fiddy grinned triumphantly at him and waved the incriminating script in his face. ‘I’ve got you, Dave. Bang to rights.’
The guilt was written right across Dave’s face.
A judge, who spent most of his time in the Tavern when he wasn’t on the bench, staggered drunkenly past them on his way to the exit. He was Dave’s personal Nemesis and, once before, had observed his guilty expression and accused him of unspecified but undoubtedly heinous crimes.
‘Detective Inspector! Good to see you,’ boomed the florid-faced judge.
‘And you, My Lord,’ responded Fiddy. ‘You’re not at the Bailey now?’
The judge’s face dropped. ‘Appeals. Boring. Need to get back there. Criminals getting away with it. We need longer sentences: bring back national service; birching; the rope.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, My Lord.’
‘The cat. A good flogging is all the cosh-boys understand.’
‘Absolutely, My Lord.’
The judge’s eyes rested on Dave. ‘You! I know you!’
Dave squirmed. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. You.’ His eyes lit up as he remembered their previous encounter and smiled knowingly. He turned to Fiddy. ‘So you finally got him. Good work, Inspector. He eyed Dave up and down. ‘I knew from just one look at you, you were guilty of some revolting and callous crimes, some despicable and depraved malefactions, some heartless and inhuman acts that would appal even such as myself, who is inured to acts of evil. I shall look forward to seeing you in my court, young man.’
‘I’ll do my best to arrange it, My Lord,’ said Fiddy.
The judge prodded Dave in the chest. ‘Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.’ Then he lurched off out into the Strand.
Dave realised it was all over. When the truth came out how he was leading kids astray, he would be vilified as a complete animal, a heartless brute, the beast of Fleetpit. They wouldn’t send him to a psychiatrist, they’d send him to a vet.
He decided there was nothing for it but to play the insanity card. ‘It’s because of my childhood, Inspector. What happened to me every Saturday when I went to get my weekly comic. I’m not right in the head, you see? I tock when I should tick.’
‘Now, Dave…’ said the cop, lighting a cigarette.
‘I’m nuts, Inspector. It wouldn’t be fair to send me to prison. If you do, I’ll build a spaceship from fruit tins and escape. I’ll make a paste that will dissolve the bars of my cell.’
‘Let me explain …’ continued the cop.
‘He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s. Everyone chooses Sherlock’s. He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s ...’ Dave muttered fearfully.
‘You’re not going to prison,’ explained the cop.
‘You’ve got a padded cell for me instead?’ Dave breathed a sigh of relief. ‘This is a victory for human rights. For democracy. Thank God we’re living in the enlightened nineteen-seventies.’
The Inspector stared at him. ‘Calm down.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get us some more drinks.’
Dave was even more hyper when he finally returned from the busy bar with two more pints. ‘I’m not a number, I’m a free man,’ said Dave, laughing triumphantly.
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Fiddy coldly. ‘We haven’t much time. That’s why I flew over from Spain especially.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s my grandson Timmy’s birthday in seven weeks. I want him to appear in a Caning Commando story. It’ll be the best birthday surprise he’s ever had: to open his favourite comic and see himself alongside his hero, Carpet Bumming the Hun.’
Fiddy handed over some photos. ‘Here’s some recent photos of the boy. And me, too, if you can fit me into the story.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ agreed Dave. ‘It will be a story to treasure. This is such a relief, Inspector. ’Cos you know, I really thought I was fucked back there. I was sweating worse than Lonely, the tramp in Callan.’
‘I noticed,’ said Fiddy, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘But wait! Seven weeks?’ said Dave, ‘that’s not enough time. There are print schedules and artists to consider and I don’t know if I can write a kid into a story that easily.’
The cop looked solemnly at him. ‘I think you can, Dave.’
‘Actually, I think I can.’
‘I really think you should, Dave.’
‘I really think I should.’
Fiddy got up and slapped Dave on the back. ‘Good man. Me and the wife will be over again for Timmy’s birthday, of course.’ He looked warningly at him. ‘So make sure it’s a good story. Know what I’m saying …?’
‘It will be a masterpiece, Inspector.’
Fiddy smiled happily to himself, ‘I can’t wait to see his little face light up.’
‘And that other business?’ Dave asked nervously. ‘The – er – you know, those … changes I made to The Caning Commando?’
‘I don’t give a fuck about them,’ said Fiddy.
Dave struggled to comprehend. ‘No … of course not,’ he said uncertainly
Fiddy looked at Dave for a long moment with his husky-blue, cold, hard eyes.
‘You see, Dave, I hate nonces. Just the thought of one of them messing with my grandson makes my blood boil. They deserve to die, Dave. Slowly.’
‘Oh, absolutely. Nail their heads to the floor, Krays-style, right?’ said Dave.
‘That was the Richardsons,’ said Fiddy flatly. ‘And I actually had something else in mind.’
‘Oh, sorry. Yes, of course. Nailing their heads to the floor would really be letting them off lightly.’
‘So if kids decide to get their own back on some nonce, why not?’
The detective turned to leave, pushing his way through the evening heavy drinkers as he headed for the door. He looked back expressively at Dave.
‘Mind how you go, son.’
Goodnight, John-boy is the first book in the Read Em And Weep series and is on sale digitally or as paperback.