Serial Killer Chapter 39
“Dear Caning Commando, Thanks for the tip-off about thallium. It worked a treat on our chemistry teacher. He deserved to die.”
With no suitable replacement, Ron had held onto his job as managing editor. But, because of Frank Johnson’s backing, Dave held all the cards on Aaagh! and when he laid them out and Ron read them: Panzerfaust, Street, Car-Jacks, White Death, Black Hammer, The Damned, Deathball, and Micky’s Mutants, he could have wept. For the end of his era, and a new world emerging, which he could never understand.
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As well as editing Aaagh! and The Spanker, Dave was developing Pop is a Weasel, about a dad who swindles a daughter out of her inheritance, so he could pay Mr Cooper. He had to get the serial right this time. There was a further incentive: if he impressed Joy, she might let him back into her bed. He still lusted after her. She was the only woman as beautiful as his mother, and there was no competition, now Greg was out of the picture, so he might just stand a chance. Perhaps he could try for another sympathy shag? There was plenty more misery where his Mr Cooper stories came from.
Meanwhile, his mother was pressing him to investigate her murder now that their psychic merger had been successful, and demanding he look through his memory files, but, so far, he had successfully fobbed her off.
With so much pressure on him, he really needed to take time out to relax and enjoy some entertainment. Dave’s idea of entertainment was rather different to other people’s. He had enjoyed seeing Greg’s vulnerable side when he got him drunk and was keen for more. Noting Greg was wearing his Billy Liar flying jacket and boots again, he thought he would distract himself by winding Greg up about it. He knew Greg had strong views on the ending of the film. It was about a Walter Mitty fantasist who lives in a dream world where he’s a hero – a character not unlike Greg himself.
‘Saw Billy Liar on TV the other night,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said Greg indifferently, not even looking up.
‘I have to say, I actually liked the ending.’
‘What?’ Greg immediately stopped work. ‘How can you like the ending? It’s terrible! It’s awful!’ he snarled.
Brilliant, thought Dave. Better than watching the movie.
‘How can you like an ending where Billy turns down the chance to go off to swinging ’60s London with the gorgeous Julie Christie, and instead settles for the grey, miserable streets of home?’ Greg ranted. ‘What is the matter with him?’
‘I thought Billy was being very sensible, Greg,’ said Dave mildly. ‘He was putting his family first. An example to us all.’
‘A no-hoper like you would think that. The message Bernie and I got, loud and clear, was know our place. Not to try. Not to reach for the stars. Even though the writer did, because the film had to be autobiographical. So why was it different for him? What was that all about, eh? Eh?’
‘You tell me, Greg.’ Dave settled back in his chair, making himself comfortable.
‘Social conditioning. I’m serious. Look at the endings of most films. Just how many dreams are crushed. That’s not accidental.’ Greg banged furiously on the desk. ‘It’s bloody deliberate!’ Dave loved it.
‘I understand, Greg,’ said Dave pretending to calm Greg down, ‘but I think the ending is telling us we shouldn’t take risks. Or we could end up being a bus driver like Simon Dee. Or worse. Working on The Spanker.’
‘Bernie and I watched it on TV,’ Greg seethed. ‘We were so pissed off, we went out and stole a car to cheer ourselves up.’
‘And look what happened to Bernie. You see, Greg …?’ Dave could have been at the cinema: only the popcorn and ice-cream was missing. ‘You should have concluded, as I have done, that there is no hope, there is no future for us.’
‘It was my turn, so we stole my favourite car,’ remembered Greg, his face clouding over again, as he thought of his dead best friend.
‘And would this favourite car of yours, by any chance, have been … a Citroën Avant?’ queried Dave.
Greg was taken aback. ‘How … how did you know?’
‘Oh. Just a wild guess really. Isn’t that the same car you always see the Gestapo jumping out of in French resistance films?’
‘You’re right. I knew where I could find one, parked at the top of North Hill. A beauty. We couldn’t get the forward gears to work, so we tried jumpstarting it in reverse. Fucked the engine, unfortunately.’
‘You see?’ said Dave knowingly. ‘Once again, it shows how we should all stick to that straight and narrow path, Greg. I do hope your Car-Jacks are more technically proficient than you and Bernie, when they’re stealing cars. We have a responsibility to our readers, you know.’
‘Too damn right! I’m checking with a garage when I write it.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. And I hope your own days of joyriding are behind you?’ asked Dave reprovingly.
‘Not really,’ grinned Greg.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Joy and I are back together again.’ Greg revealed.
‘Back … together?’ Dave’s face dropped.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Greg, a dirty grin on his face. ‘So … I’m Joyriding every night now.’ And he raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
This was not how Dave had planned his little entertainment to conclude. Rather, it was the way so many movies ended, according to Greg. With dreams being crushed.
Two days later, Greg had dropped his Billy Liar look and was in Spaghetti Western mode instead. He was unshaven, no poncho, but his sheepskin vest, denim shirt and cigar stub (instead of a Sobranie) made a strong Clint Eastwood statement. For an hour or more, he switched the butt from one side of his mouth to the other as he watched Dave hard at work. Finally, Dave had to ask him.
‘What is it …? What’s wrong, Greg …? Did you want me to apologise to your mule?’
‘I’ve been looking through the readers’ letters,’ he said, a serious expression on his face.
‘Okay …’
‘This one caught my eye. Here.’ Greg handed it across.
Dave read it out. ‘ “Dear Caning Commando, Thanks for the tip-off about thallium. It worked a treat on our chemistry teacher. He deserved to die.” ’ Dave examined the letter closely. ‘Unsigned. No name and address. Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, he can’t be serious?’ Dave’s expression gave nothing away. ‘He can’t really have poisoned him?’
‘That’s what I thought. Then I remembered a headline about ‘Chemistry teacher killed by his own experiment.’ So I looked it up in the news library.’ Greg passed over a photostat of the news clipping. ‘It was thallium poisoning.’
Dave read the article. ‘Looks like you’re right, Greg. Although, they seem to think Winsley got his flasks and experiments muddled up. Drank from the poison flask by mistake and it was Good Night, John-Boy.’ Although Dave was triumphant inside, there was no evidence of it on his face.
‘But the letter suggests it was deliberate,’ said Greg, watching Dave closely. ‘Because the kid hated the teacher so much.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Dave. ‘Although it does say here the headmaster is considering a ‘Geoffrey Winsley Chemistry Prize’ to be awarded annually in his memory.’
‘That’s irrelevant.’ Greg was grim-faced as he chewed on his cigar stub, more Columbo than Man With No Name now. ‘It looks like this kid got the idea of poisoning his chemistry teacher from The Caning Commando.’
Dave sucked sharply on his liquorice pipe. ‘You really think so?’
‘He admits it.’ Greg didn’t say more, but his eyes were accusing. He stood up and started to pace the room.
‘If that were true, Greg,’ Dave reflected, ‘then I must blame myself. I should have censored the Major.’
Greg clicked his pen. ‘But was it the Major?’ He stared searchingly at Dave. ‘Is that really what happened, Dave?’
‘What else?’ Dave shrugged. ‘You know what the Major is like.’
Greg leaned down over Dave’s desk and looked him in the eyes. ‘I thought maybe you’ve been doctoring the Major’s stories?’
‘Oh, come on, Greg.’ Dave looked appalled. ‘That’s too weird, even for me. I’m as horrified as you are by this.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Greg uncertainly. ‘I mean, I know how much you hate our readers and for a moment, I thought … well, never mind what I thought.’
‘I do hate them, yes, but I’m not a psychopath,’ said Dave reproachfully.
‘Well, the Major’s gone too far this time. We’ll have to report this to the police.’ Greg looked determined as he circled their desks. ‘Whatever Winsley did to those kids, nothing justifies poisoning him.’
‘I completely agree, Greg,’ nodded Dave. ‘On the other hand … the poor chap is dead now. And when they find the boy responsible, they will put him away for life.’
‘So …?’ Greg was indifferent. ‘He’s a psycho. Psychos need locking up.’
‘You’re right. But it will mean the end of The Spanker and The Caning Commando, unfortunately.’ Dave shook his head sorrowfully.
‘Who cares?’ Greg looked at the covers of The Spanker pinned up on the walls. ‘Good riddance to them.’
‘And the end of Aaagh!, too.’ Dave noted.
‘What? Why would it mean the end of Aaagh!’ asked Greg, suddenly concerned.
‘They’ll look at that, as well, just to make sure there’s nothing else kids can copy.’ Dave looked coldly up at Greg. ‘And they’ll see your Car-Jacks, with its presumably authentic details of how kids can steal cars.’
‘Very authentic. But that’s not fair.’ Greg was agitated by this suggestion, endlessly clicking his pen as he circled the desks like a caged animal. ‘I … I put a lot of work into that story! It means a lot to me!’
‘I understand,’ said Dave sympathetically. ‘The secret story of you and Bernie. But it will never see the light of day now. I’ll take the blame, of course. But Aaagh! is finished,’ Dave sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, man.’
Greg pondered on this for a while, rolling the cigar stub from one side of his mouth to the other again. After some deliberation, he reached a conclusion. ‘On second thoughts, maybe we should let it go, Dave …? Just this once …?’
‘You really think we should?’ Dave looked to Greg for guidance.
‘Well, we would be ruining the kid’s life.’
‘That’s true. I’ll be more careful in future. And …’ Dave held up the incriminating evidence. ‘I think I should rip this letter up now so the poisoning can’t be traced back to us.’
‘Okay,’ Greg promptly agreed.
As Dave tore up the letter, they heard the rattle of Vera’s approaching tea trolley.
‘I’ll get them,’ said Dave, standing up. ‘Tea or coffee, Greg? Two sugars?’
‘It’s okay’ said Greg looking darkly at Dave. ‘I think I’ll get my own tea.’
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.