Serial Killer Chapter 41
‘Who rattled your fuckin’ chain?’ asked Joy. ‘You watch your mouth, you. I’ve made better men than you cry.’
Joy came into Dave’s office to reject his latest proposal, Pop is a Weasel. She explained why.
‘In girls’ comics, Dave, you can have a cruel stepfather or a cruel uncle, but readers will never, never accept a father would betray his daughter. Fathers are good and kind, and always there for us whenever we need them.’ Then her expression darkened. ‘Unless they’re led astray by a fuckin’ bitch. Sooo … I’m sorry, but I’ll have to pass on it.’
Dave was furious after all the effort he had put into it. He could have got through an entire roll of wallpaper in the time. ‘You’re not sorry, at all,’ he glared.
‘No. I’m not sorry, at all,’ she agreed.
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Then, to make matters worse, Greg entered wearing a sinister green cowl with the hood up.
‘You see, Joy?’ Greg said, giving her a twirl. ‘I wasn’t making it up. Straight out of Dungeons and Dragons.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said an admiring Joy. ‘That is definitely a witch’s cloak. You look brilliant in it, Greg. Doesn’t he look brilliant, Dave?’
‘Yes, he looks fucking amazing,’ scowled Dave, seething from his latest rejection.
‘And Mrs Thatcher really could have worn it when she lived in Colchester?’ Joy asked.
‘It’s possible,’ replied Greg. ‘When she was a scientist at BX Plastics down the road in Manningtree.’
‘Manningtree, eh?’ said Joy. ‘The home of Mathew Hopkin, Witchfinder General. Pity he missed her. Okay, let me try it on.’
Greg passed the garment across and it nearly drowned Joy.
‘But the fuckin’ bitch is taller than me,’ said Joy. ‘So it’s still possible it belonged to her.’
‘Which “fucking bitch” are we talking about?’ asked Greg, momentarily confused. ‘Oh, Mrs Thatcher? Yes.’
Greg explained to Dave. ‘In the 1940s, Thatcher lived in a huge Gothic house off Lexden road that my friend’s converting into a school, and he found this robe in the basement in a locked suitcase underneath a pile of coal …’
‘How absolutely un-fucking interesting, Greg,’ glowered Dave.
‘She lived up in a turret, just like yours,’ added Greg, trying to make it interesting for Dave.
‘And there was this ancient book of spells in the case as well,’ continued Joy. ‘Written in old French, right?’
‘Yes. Which my friend, annoyingly, sold to a local antiquarian book shop.’
‘We lost the grimoire,’ sighed Joy. ‘We could have found out what kind of black magic she practises.’
Greg put the robe back on. ‘But he gave me this cloak because he knows I love weird shit.’ He stroked Joy’s hair. ‘And I know you love weird shit, too …’
‘Oh, yes …’ she agreed. ‘And, traditionally, objects of evil are buried under coal so the demons can’t escape.’ She turned to Dave. ‘Isn’t that spooky …?’
‘Actually, Joy,’ said Dave, not looking up from his work. ‘I don’t give a shit.’
‘You will when you hear about Greg’s new story, Dave,’ Joy said excitedly. ‘It’s set in the 1940s, featuring the witch headmistress, Miss Thatcher. Wearing her dark cowl, she stands in the turret of her Gothic school, calling on evil spirits to empower her, and works the orphans to death. They slave long hours, with no school milk, and any rebellion is ruthlessly punished. Tell Dave the title, Greg.’
‘I’m calling it Slaves of War Orphan School,’ said Greg.
‘You like that, Dave?’ grinned Joy.
Dave stopped pretending to work and looked up. ‘No, Joy, I think it’s sick and it’s irresponsible of you to take the piss out of the leader of the opposition. It’s also too scary for your readers. Meanwhile, you turn down an excellent story like Pop is a Weasel. I see this as clear favouritism because you’re shagging Greg again.’
‘Talking of shagging,’ leered Greg, ignoring Dave, ‘we should do it there. She lived in a creepy room with stained glass windows at the very top of the house.’
‘Have sex in Thatcher’s old room?’ said Joy eagerly. ‘Feel her darkness all around us? Now there’s an idea.’
‘Like Rosemary’s Baby,’ said Greg.
‘Aye, okay,’ she smiled. ‘But you’d better take extra precautions, Greg. I dinna want a Thatcher’s baby.’ Dave fumed and sighed as she continued. ‘And wear that robe with nothing on underneath,’ she smiled. ‘Naked men in robes make me feel really horny.’
‘If I can interrupt your filth,’ said Dave, ‘speaking as a narcissist, I am only interested in other people’s lives when it is to my personal advantage. This is clearly not the case here, so could you both fuck off? Go on. Fuck right off.’
‘Who rattled your fuckin’ chain?’ asked Joy. ‘You watch your mouth, you. I’ve made better men than you cry.’ She pulled Greg away. ‘Let’s go to my office.’
In the Shandy office she smiled invitingly at Greg. ‘I’ll lock the door.’
‘Maybe draw the blind as well …’ said Greg.
‘Pity about Dave,’ he added. ‘He’s really throwing his toys out of his pram.’
‘Tough shit. He’s not a girls comic writer. He’s too heavy handed.’ She pulled Greg close. ‘He hasn’t got your gentle touch …’
‘You mean like … this?’
‘Mmm … Yes … Now take your clothes off, but leave the robe on … And tell me you are Lord of my Ring ….’
‘I am Lord of your –’
‘Not yet!’ she interrupted. As Greg started to carry out his other instructions, he looked across at her popularity poll. ‘Ah! I see my story’s still in the lead.’
‘Greg,’ she scowled. ‘Will you stop talking about fuckin’ work for once? Come on! Punctuate me! Punctuate me!’
He started to caress her and she sighed appreciatively.
‘So glad we’re back together, Greg. And I can’t wait to introduce you to my dad …’
‘Yes,’ said Greg lovingly. ‘So you’re sure he’s coming to the opening of your shop …?’
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.