Serial Killer Chapter 36
'Well, I would only date girls who had fur coats. I’d see them home, but ask them to leave their coat. I’d send it home later in a taxi.’
There was a long moment, where the Colonel and Frank Johnson had looked towards him, waiting expectantly for his explanation. Now he was calmer, he was capable of more rational explanations and no longer feared that the men in white coats would come for him. He racked his brains for a suitable lie. The artists and writers Dave worked with were renowned for their excuses as to why they were unable to deliver their work on time. One writer said it was because rats had eaten his script, another that his leg was trapped behind a cooker for the weekend. Surely he could come up with something equally inspired?
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It would have to be brilliant. Something like one of Theo Baxter’s legendary excuses. Theo was another exceptional cartoonist, like Ken Royce. His excuses for late delivery were as highly rated as his artwork. There was that occasion when Theo claimed he had left his artwork behind at the Chinese laundry. It got swapped with his washing, which a bemused Ron had received instead. Meanwhile, Theo said the laundry still had his artwork and had removed ‘all those dirty marks’ from the pages: ‘the ink was very hard to get off’. Somehow, they’d succeeded, and so the pages were whiter than white and Theo would have to start the job all over again.
That was a hard act to follow, but Dave did his best. ‘It’s Oxford Rag Week,’ he explained.
‘But, Dave,’ said Frank, ‘you didn’t go to Oxford.’
‘Oxford secondary modern.’
It was enough to get him out the door, muttering something about a long tradition of pranking with another comic, although he knew his chances of now being made managing editor were zero.
Back in his office, a leering Greg was waiting, drinking in Dave’s grotesque appearance, doubling up with laughter as he clicked his pen in triumph.
‘You … you set me up, you bastard,’ said Dave.
‘What d’you mean?’ grinned Greg.
‘You made up that story that you saw my mother.’
Greg tried and failed to look serious. ‘I … I’ll look more ridiculous than Alf Mast in Hamburg,’ he said, quoting Dave’s conversation with his mother. Then doubled up again with laughter.
‘You listen at doors,’ scowled Dave. ‘That is contemptible.’
‘Well,’ shrugged Greg. ‘I learnt it from the meister, didn’t I?’
Joy had been the difficult one. After he had changed into masculine attire and removed his make-up, he went round to see her and explained he was the intruder on her shower and the reason he was dressed in female attire. He knew it was no good lying to her, she’d see right through him.
‘Ye daft gowk,’ she admonished him. ‘I thought this was the Fleetpit Hotel, not the Bates Motel.’
‘I understand, Joy,’ he said contritely.
But then he couldn’t resist adding, ‘Although, I have to say, it did concern me how easily you slipped into the role of the star of a slasher movie.’
‘It’s in the genes,’ she explained. ‘It goes with the accent.’
She insisted he needed professional help, and arranged a meeting with Marjorie Rayner, Britain’s number one agony aunt, who wrote a regular advice column for Mumsy for Today’s Young Mums.
Dave was fearful of her. He knew her reputation: ‘Balls busted while you wait. She is the Medusa of erectile dysfunction, Joy. One look from her and I’ll never get hard again.’
‘Haud yer wheesht!’ she ordered him, giving him a similar withering look and he knew he had to comply.
Two days later he was summoned to the office of the queen of the problem pages. Marjorie wore a pair of outsize spectacles and a very short mini-skirt. She was gaunt, late middle-aged and smoked 60 cigarettes a day. Haltingly, Dave started to tell her about his life. His obsession with fur. His lack of money. His lack of career. His lack of a woman. That was before they even got onto the subject of why he dressed up as his mother.
‘Were you ever happy, Dave?’ she asked him through her smoke cloud.
There was a long pause and then he replied with a more glum and deadpan expression that even Clement Freud could never hope to match. ‘Not that I can recall.’
‘You don’t enjoy writing?’
‘I enjoy writing the invoice. The invoice is the most creative part.’
‘You’ve never liked anything you’ve written?’
‘Well, the full stops were pretty impressive and I liked the ellipses, too.’
‘Joy said you were obsessed with fur. Tell me about that.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I would only date girls who had fur coats. I’d see them home, but ask them to leave their coat. I’d send it home later in a taxi.’
She interrupted him. ‘Dave, will you stop looking up my clout? You won’t find any fur there. Not anymore.’
‘Sorry. It’s just you don’t have a modesty panel.’
‘No. I must get onto maintenance about that. Now what about this awful newsagent?’
‘I remember one Saturday, especially,’ said Dave sorrowfully, ‘I was walking down to Mr Cooper’s and there was another boy ahead of me trying to enter his shop. He had bright purple ointment on his face; the treatment for impetigo.’
‘Gentian violet,’ nodded Marjorie. ‘Humiliating for kids.’
‘He had big bambi eyes and he was looking hopefully in through the door at all the confectionery. Mr. Cooper ran out holding a flit gun and sprayed him with DDT, warning him: “Get back! Get back! Keep your mittens on. The shop down the road will sell you sweets.”
‘Then he turned to me and smiled. “You’re always welcome, though, Dave. Come in. Haven’t seen you for three weeks.”
‘“I’ve been off sick with mumps, sir.’ I replied.
‘“Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve been saving your comic for you every week. You want all three, Dave? I think you do.” From the back of the shop, I could hear his wife telling him: “Leave the boy alone, Stan.”
‘Mr Cooper called back to her: “You like being in traction, do you?”
‘Then he turned to me and said, “Now, Davey, what is it you want?”
‘ “Please, sir … Can I have a f … f … f … f … fur … fur … fur …” ’
‘That’s it,’ said Marjorie triumphantly. ‘That’s it. That’s the reason for your obsession with fur.’
‘Fur … fur … fur … fur … fur … fur … fur … fur …’ said Dave. He was like a stuck record, he couldn’t stop.
‘And the solution is for you to face your fear.’
‘Fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur,’ said Dave, as he relived the memory of being given three fourpenny ones, one after the other.
‘It’s the only way you’ll be cured of your hang-ups. Now I know it will be difficult, because you can’t confront Cooper now, he’s probably dead or retired, and give him the hiding he deserves. No, I don’t believe in turning the other cheek, dearie. We need to fight back in this world. Never let the bastards get away with it. So you have to find a way to face your fear, because you have the strength and courage of an adult now, Dave. Do you understand?’
‘Fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur-fur,’ said Dave. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her Mr Cooper was very much alive and he was paying him £28.00 every Friday.
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.