Serial Killer Chapter 34

In which Dave dresses as his mother and has a brain bypass

Dave chuckled over the scenes of Alf Mast in drag. The Major was a little more risqué than usual. But if anyone complained, he would remind them of Dick Emery mincing along the street as Mandy, a busty peroxide blonde, with her famous catchphrase, ‘Ooh, you are awful … but I like you!’

With his knowledge of evil chemistry, Dave had added the poison details to The Caning Commando story and where it could be obtained. The encounter with Mr Cooper had brought out the darkness in his soul once more. But he was consoled by the knowledge that his mother was real, even if she existed on some other plane of reality. Greg seeing her proved it. His description of her was remarkably similar to the way he saw her himself.

His mother explained how it came about. ‘What happened to you as a boy, Dave, opened a door in time and allowed me to come through it.’

‘A psychiatrist would say it opened a door to psychosis.’

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‘So we must take full advantage of it,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve considered my proposal?’

‘Yes, but I really think I’ve done enough. Look at this room,’ he said. ‘I’ve made it just the way it could have looked when you were alive.’ He indicated the beige-painted apartment, full of old furniture he had discovered stuffed away in the back of one of the attic rooms. She regarded it without enthusiasm.

‘You see, mum?’ he said proudly. ‘Not a lava lamp in sight.’

‘A frumpy brown three-piece suite with antimacassars?’

‘I bought the antimac-thingies for it, specially,’ he interjected. ‘So, if I wear brylcreem, it won’t leave a grease mark.’

‘And a fading floral standard lamp with tassels and a valve radio made of finest bakelite?’

‘Great finds, weren’t they?’’

‘And didn’t cost you a thing,’ she sneered.

‘No …’ said Dave uncertainly. ‘I didn’t want to spend any money.’ He looked nervously over at her. ‘Just in case you weren’t real. But now I know you are.’

She pointed an admonishing finger at him. ‘That’s why we need this psyche merger.’

‘No. No, really, I can’t face it,’ he protested.

‘You’ve read Aldous Huxley?’

‘Yes,’ he sighed. It annoyed him that she seemed to have full access to his mind, to his memories, to his favourite songs, but he had no access to hers.

‘So you know how it works.’ She leaned forward purposefully. ‘We have to disable the function of your brain as a reducing valve because it’s restricting your conscious awareness.’

‘Are you sure you’re not getting me mixed up with the radio?’

She smiled a sinister smile, her lips red and lustrous, her eyes gleaming and hypnotic. ‘Once your brain is disabled, everything will be revealed.’

‘But I’ll look stupid,’ he protested.

‘That’s never stopped you before.’

‘More ridiculous than Alf Mast in Hamburg.’

‘Just tell Greg you’re taking the afternoon off, ‘she purred soothingly, ‘come up here and try it. What have you got to lose?’

‘My sanity?’ he suggested fearfully. ‘No, mum, I need to think about it.’

‘Don’t think. That’s the mistake.’ His mother was all-knowing; she had the confidence he lacked. He must believe in her. ‘We have to bypass your brain, son. Greg confirmed I’m real. What more evidence do you need?’

Dave looked up at the shadowy femme fatale standing over him, as beautiful as any of the classic movie stars in their furs and high heels.

‘You’re right. I’ll do it,’ he said with new-found determination.

In preparation for his brain bypass, Dave purchased his mother’s feminine attire in a thrift shop. The shop stank of unwashed clothes the moment he walked through the door and was densely packed with old garments, piles of worn-down shoes in cardboard boxes and men’s crumpled, sweat-stained jackets.

These outfits were not ephemera, but clothes meant to last a lifetime, and had fulfilled their purpose, right down to the very last moment before their owners died. The shop was populated by down-at-heel, little old ladies, careful mothers with children, make-do and menders, and mouth-breathers: slightly strange people who stared fixedly and perplexed at other people, with an air of mild suspicion. This was understandable when the other person was Dave.

Ignoring the mouth-breather panting close by him, Dave made his selection with a little help from his mother. Sniffing disdainfully at other options he offered her, she pointed out a classic fifties floral tea dress: square-shouldered, with little shoulder pads, a prim-buttoned collar, and flared so the wearer could dance in it. Dave held it against himself, did a twirl for her, and she approved it. He couldn’t find women’s shoes that would fit him, but she told him he could settle for a pair of 1950s brown, battered, lace-up shoes.

He then went on to a wig-makers in Paddington and described his requirements: a long blonde wig fashioned in a fifties style like Jean Maudling’s. It was a pity the assistant couldn’t see her standing next to him, but she still understood and made suitable adjustments. He tried the wig on; it was perfect. ‘Is it for fancy dress?’ the assistant asked.

‘Oh, no. It’s so I can dress up as my dead mother,’ Dave replied in all seriousness. The assistant thought he was being droll, and laughed. So many people made that mistake with Dave.

His make-up, purchased from Boots The Chemist on the way home, was simple enough: red lipstick, face powder and rouge cheeks. His mother showed him how to do it. Applying mascara was beyond him, but he did have an attempt at lining his eyes with a brown eyeliner with some assistance from Jean. He had also helped himself to a pair of Joy’s vintage seamed stockings from her drawer. They would only go up to his knees and he tied them with elastic to stop them falling down. That was also as far, physically, as he was prepared to go to turn into his mother. His moth-eaten fur boa provided the finishing touch.

When he was finished, standing there in his fifties-decor turret, he stared at himself in the mirror and did a double-take. He gasped that Alf Mast, dressed in drag on the Reeperbahn, looked more alluring than he did. Jean Maudling agreed, but reassured him that it really didn’t matter. It was only a symbolic act. He had to believe he was her in order to have full access to her mind. He had to trust her.

He looked nervously at himself in the mirror again and the niggling doubts started to seep back in, but she was ready for them. She reminded him that, no matter what the sceptics might say, she had already transformed his life for the better. He knew she was right. So, yes, he was ready for the next great step.

She slowly walked towards him, an image of classic beauty, his dark muse, his inspiration, his mother back from the dead, and the two figures merged and became one.

And as his brain bypass kicked in, it hit him. His head spun with the power and the vision and the astonishing new reality he was seeing for the first time.

It was like being in the vaults of Fleetpit House. Suddenly, he could see endless rows of memories on countless shelves in his mind. But not in colour: in grey and white. They were coming at him faster and faster, like speeded-up film. It was hard to keep track of them. He was drowning in them, flooded by them, like the River Fleet bursting out of its sewer pipe and engulfing the basement of the publishing house. There was so much information he was now aware of, his mind couldn’t cope with it all. The new mixed in with the old. The familiar with the unfamiliar. Old classics like the Queen’s coronation. The Pope’s coronation. Winning the Knights of Saint Pancras Christmas raffle. Nicking money out of the missions charity box. They speeded by him, along with incredible new recollections that he had once erased from his consciousness but were now recovered and startled him with their sensational and meaningful nature. They shot by so fast, but with just enough detail to recognise them; although he didn’t want to pull them out of the fast-flowing memory stream yet. Later, when there was more time.

The speeding torrent hurtled onwards, effortlessly tearing down the walls of repression as if they were cardboard. So many memories of his mother. Happy memories. Sad memories. Previously blocked memories. But not intimate memories. They stopped at the bedroom door. With Dave trying to enter, finding it was locked, and rattling it furiously, and Jean calling out, ‘Why are you back from school?’ ‘‘Cos they sent us home early. Can I come in? Mum?’ ‘No. I’m busy.’ A man’s voice, ‘Tell him to go away, Jean.’ ‘Is that Mr Peat, mum?’ ‘Yes. He’s helping me.’ ‘What are you doing with Mr Peat, mum?’ ‘Choir practice. Go away.’

And not just Mr Peat. There was Ernie. He loved Ernie. ‘Mum. Mum.’ ‘Yes. What is it? Leave the door alone.’ ‘I saw Ernie come in. What’s he doing in there?’ ‘Repairs.’ ‘Why did he come through the back door? Why didn’t he come through the front door?’ ‘Stop asking so many questions.’ ‘What are you doing with Ernie, Mum?’ ‘I told you. Repairs. Go and watch TV.’ ‘But I want him to play football with me.’ ‘Go away.’ ‘Ernie will you play football with me?’ Another male voice, a deep voice, ‘Hey, Dave. We’ll play football another time. Okay, buddy?’ ‘Please, Ernie?’ His mother’s voice. ‘Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s got to learn he doesn’t get what he wants.’ ‘Please, Ernie?’ ‘Dave, If you keep rattling that bloody door, I’m going to lock you in your room again.’ ‘Please, please.’ ‘All right that does it. You asked for this, young man.’ ‘Let me out. Let me out. Let me out! If you don’t let me out, I’ll tell dad.’ ‘Don’t you try blackmailing me, or you’ll get the hiding of your life.’ Memories and feelings, too. Jealousy. Anger. Rage. ‘Stop it! Stop it. All right. All right. If you promise to stop kicking your door, Ernie will play football with you tomorrow when we meet him in the park. But you mustn’t tell your father. It has to be our secret. Okay?’ ‘Okay.’ ‘All right, now you be a good boy and I’ll let you out shortly.’

Doors were always being locked. It was why Dave liked keys.

Yes, there was a lot to sort out.

The torrent of memories was starting to calm down now into a smooth running stream when he heard sounds of another stream from the bathroom outside, down the corridor. It was in use and his heart skipped a beat. No one had been up here in all the months he had been in residence. He listened again.

There was someone in the shower.

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Serial Killer by Pat Mills & Kevin O’Neill is the first book in the Read Em And Weep series and is on sale digitally or as paperback.