Serial Killer Chapter 35

In which things get a bit 'Norman Bates'.

Forgetting he was in female attire, he had to investigate. Dave descended the five steps from his eyrie to the main, warren-like attics. The corridor outside was lined with piled boxes containing failed magazines. They weren’t of any archive value and therefore not stored in the vaults, but not approved for pulping either. They had simply been dumped and forgotten about. Dave slipped between them to the bathroom, his bathroom, unchanged since the nineteen-forties, when it was used by hotel staff who lived in the attic rooms. The door had long lost its bolt, so Dave entered.

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The room was decorated with austere, now largely cracked cream tiles with black trims; its shell lights gave it a touch of Art Deco; and there was a roll-top bath with a classic Edwardian shower above it. There was a shower curtain concealing the person’s identity. He stepped forward and pulled it back.

Beneath the shower’s jets of steaming hot water was Joy.

She stared aghast at the Norman Bates-like figure looking at her nude body. They both screamed at the same time, in mutual shock.

Greg had told her there was a disused bathroom on the top floor of Fleetpit House that no-one used, and had plenty of hot water. Joy reminded him she had a power-shower at home, but, as Greg had pointed out to her, why spend money on hot water when it’s available for free at work? She immediately saw the sense of this. So he had checked upstairs and told her the coast was clear: it was the perfect time, he said, for her to nip up and have a shower. He was very keen, insistent even, she took a shower that very afternoon.

Joy hadn’t recognised “Mrs Maudling” as Dave with his wig and make-up on. He needed to keep it that way, so he turned and ran.

She had no idea who the intruder was, but she wasn’t taking any chances – nor was she a victim. Wrapping a towel around herself, she sprinted out into the corridor, picking up a Stanley knife that a workman had left on top of some boxes, and pursued “Mrs Maudling”. ‘Come back here, you fuckin’ wrong ’un!’ she shouted.

Dave could see the knife-wielding Joy was in no mood for explanations: he remembered her introduction to S&M at the My Gang party. His only chance was to leg it further along the corridor and then down the fire escape.

She ran on after him and was gaining on him, her blood lust up. He saw he would never make the fire escape, so he dived into one of the main storage rooms instead. It was the one that had the old furniture in as well as boxes and boxes of magazines. He thought about hiding behind the boxes, but there wasn’t time, so instead he ran over to a huge old oil painting propped up against a wall and crouched fearfully down behind it.

Seconds later, Joy entered, her Stanley knife at the ready. By now she knew it was a man dressed as a woman but hadn’t yet made the connection that it was Dave, likely suspect that he was. All she was focussed on was that her prey was cornered and was afraid of her, so she was starting to enjoy herself. She scraped her knife along the cardboard boxes. ‘Come out … come out … wherever ye are …’

Dave briefly considered coming out. Joy had, after all, been surprisingly magnanimous when she found him in furgrante with her coat. But all his fears of being discovered, dressed as his mother, and being sectioned had built up in his mind, perhaps out of proportion, and left him in a sheer state of funk; he couldn’t risk sharing his father’s terrible fate. Instead, he repeated his fear mantra to himself: ‘He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s. Everyone chooses Sherlock’s …’

Still dripping wet, the woman in the towel carried on searching for her quarry, running her knife along an old radiator. ‘After a bit of the old in-out were ye … ye pervert?’ she growled. As Dave cowered behind the massive, heavy ornate framed painting of the Battle of Agincourt that had once graced the dining room of the Fleetpit Hotel, that was the very last thing on his mind. ‘I know you’re in this room and I’m going to fuckin’ chib ye, pal …’ she warned. Joy’s mother had been in some classic horror movies, sometimes on the receiving end of slashers, so she knew how these things were done.

She approached the painting: somehow she sensed her prey was behind it. Perhaps she could hear his panting breath through the battlescape. ‘This will sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra-violence,’ she snarled. It sounded much worse than Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, when said in a Glaswegian accent.

Then she ripped angrily down through the oil painting. Maybe if it had been a painting of the Battle of Bannockburn, she might have shown it more respect, but she didn’t care about an English battle and slashed right through it. On the other side, a petrified Dave saw the vicious blade running perilously close to his face.

He squealed in terror, instinctively pushed the massive painting forward, so it keeled over and collapsed on top of her, bringing her to the ground. Screaming, he ran from the banshee. He could hear her swearing and slashing her way out of it as he ran from the room and made a beeline for the fire escape. He ripped the fire door open and was out onto the metal landing, breathing in the freezing February air, as he realised, to his horror, his pursuer was all too soon back on her feet and was closing in on him again. So he hared down the freezing metal steps at high speed, knowing she would be right behind him.

And she might well have done, if the weather had been more clement. But, aware she was clad in just a towel and it was February, even Joy saw she would have to reluctantly abandon the hunt. Instead, waving the Stanley knife, she stepped out onto the top of the fire escape and snarled ‘Psycho!’ down at him.

Entering his office floor, Dave realised it was a very long corridor to the comparative safety of his office, where he had some clothes he could change into. It would be hard to reach it without being observed, and already he could see editorial and art staff further up the corridor bustling in and out of offices. There was only thing for it: he would have to go to ground. And there was only one place to do it: the Ladies, which was just a few steps ahead of him. He slipped inside and, fortunately, there was a vacant cubicle.

With the door safely bolted, he could calm down and work out his next move. He looked around at the unfamiliar walls and was surprised to see that the graffiti was rather more verbose than in the Gents. He started to read them to unwind. ‘Ladies!’ one announced, ‘who’s your top tippy for a fuck?’ A list of guys followed, added to by a number of users. The names included Greg, Emil, ‘Jamie from accounts’ and that ‘bit of rough but tall, good looking browncoat’. Dave was mortified to see his name was not suggested.

More graffiti announced ‘Emil loves Judy forever’ with a love-heart. Someone had crossed this out and written, ‘Emil’s got a small dick.’ On the opposite wall it said, ‘Who’s had to deal with Deep Throat Barclay?’ A long list followed. Then ‘I fucking hate Gilbert O’Sullivan’ was inscribed with considerable vehemence nearby. Probably one of the teenage mag journalists, thought Dave, because other teen-idols were written below it with abusive comments next to them. Further graffiti requested the user to: ‘Add your mark if Greg shagged you.’ There were a lot of marks.

He needed to have a pee. He hadn’t realised before just how loud his stream was, released from higher up, compared with the more dainty, womanly tinkle he could hear in the adjoining cubicle. To his guilty ears, he sounded like an incriminating Niagara. Finally, everything seemed quiet outside and he figured it was safe to emerge. He could check himself in the mirror and tidy up his appearance in preparation for him to run that final gauntlet back to his office.

To his surprise, Bridget Paris, the editor of Pinafore, was there. She had taken off her blouse and was washing her armpits. He saw she was wearing a surprisingly sexy, lacy black bra and had a number of unmistakeable love bites on her upper torso. This was in stark contrast to her outer sedate and tweedy image. But, even more exciting, she was endowed with a lot of underarm hair. Now she was half-naked, it came to him where he had seen her before. She was one of the stars of Wink!, his favourite wank magazine. And other, semi-legal classics from the world of ‘mushroom publishing’, so-called because they were produced in damp basements. It was her hirsute nature that had stood out to him from the other photo models.

She turned to look at the strange, blonde member of the third sex who emerged from the cubicle and he couldn’t help himself. He blurted out in a falsetto voice, ‘Stalag Sluts on Heat!’ The blood drained from her face and he knew he was right. ‘Y-You must have me confused with someone else,’ she stuttered.

‘No. White Slavers … Soho Vixens … Houkhir Hooker …,’ he continued in his pseudo-girlish tones.

She took a step back, appalled that someone knew about her closely-guarded secret past, especially as she was about to apply for a more up-market job within the Fleetpit group. She looked searchingly at “Mrs. Maudling”. ‘What magazine are you on …?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Mumsy’, lied Dave, still attempting a feminine voice. Then added as an afterthought, ‘For Today’s Young Mums.’ And shot out the door. This information about Bridget Paris could be useful, and he might be able to use to his advantage later, he figured, but right now his immediate problem was getting back to his office without discovery.

Journalists were still milling around in the corridor and there was no way they wouldn’t see him for what he was, with most unfortunate consequences.

But he also saw that Vera the tea lady had left her trolley nearby, while she took some teas into an office. He’d seen countless movies where the guilty wheel hospital trolleys down corridors to escape. Why not a tea trolley?

So, head bowed, he trundled it away, and, yes, it worked; none of the staff gave him a second glance as they passed.

He sped onwards, the cups and saucers rattling: he only had to turn the corner of the corridor and he would reach The Spanker office – and safety.

He found himself, unaccountably, singing the TV ditty ‘John Collier, John Collier, the window to watch.’ He was only twenty yards from The Spanker when Frank Johnson’s door opened and the head of juveniles put his head out and called for two teas.

For a moment, Dave hesitated and thought of making a dash for it, but then the publisher continued, ‘And some digestive biscuits, please, Vera.’ He was locked in conversation with a colleague within, and the tea lady’s hulking and bizarre appearance had not registered with him.

Neither did Dave’s falsetto, ‘Coming up’ as he turned the tap on the urn.

‘My usual, and a strong tea for Colonel Horsfield, no sugar, Vera,’ said Frank.

He returned to his conversation with the Colonel. ‘Yes, ideally we should find Ron’s replacement before I depart. I couldn’t see him getting on with Len.’

‘And I would have some sympathy with him there,’ agreed the Colonel, ‘but, you know, we do need Len if we are going to expand into the American market.’

‘It’s a pity Ron has to go,’ said Johnson. ‘But he’s hopelessly behind the times and he will have a substantial redundancy package.

‘Indeed,’ said the Colonel. ‘Just as long as his replacement is nothing like that Greg character.’ He pursed his lips. ‘That purple velvet suit. Shameful. I never tolerated artistic types in the regiment, and I won’t tolerate them now.’

‘Yes, on reflection, his colleague, David Maudling, would be more suited to be managing editor,’ said Frank. ‘Solid, conservative, reliable and not ambitious, either. He’s not going to try and turn the comic world upside down.’ He knew this was just what the Colonel wanted to hear.

‘Now … where are those teas?’ he continued. ‘Ah, Vera.’

Dave had entered with two cups and biscuits on a tray. He was unaware of his appearance, not having had a chance to look in the mirror in the Ladies. Unaware that a stocking had slipped down to his ankle, one of the shoulder pads on his floral tea dress had come out, giving him a lopsided appearance, his wig was askew after his hasty descent down the fire escape, his lipstick smeared and his stubble was showing through his face powder.

Frank looked towards the tea lady, recognised Dave, and his face went white. The Colonel, however, never gave her a second glance. She was just a tea lady, after all, even if she was six foot tall.

‘I like the sound of this Maudling already,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’s the steady hand on the tiller we need. I should like to meet him as soon as possible.’

As Frank looked on in mesmerised horror, Dave brought the tray over. ‘Here we are, gents,’ said Dave in a piercing falsetto which alerted even the Colonel. ‘I’m afraid I’m out of digestives, so I’ve brought you some Jammy Dodgers.’

The Colonel took in the grotesque, smiling cross-dresser towering over him and shuddered. ‘Who … who is this?’

‘This,’ sighed Frank, ‘is Dave Maudling.’

‘Hello, Colonel,’ said Dave, still in a high-pitched voice, reaching out a friendly hand towards the recoiling managing director.

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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.