Serial Killer Chapter 43
‘What do I do? As little as I possibly can. My name’s Dave Maudling and I’m a failure.’
Joy’s launch party for Time Machine looked like being a huge success. It was her big night, especially as her dad, the legendary Lawrence of Fitzrovia, was going to be there. Dave hadn’t wanted to go, but Joy said she’d kill him if he didn’t attend. But he protested, ‘I’m too old to be going to parties. I’m not a youngster, anymore.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Dave, you’re twenty-six.’
‘Oh, Joy, don’t remind me. I’m over the hill.’
Now he was here, he definitely felt out of place. Joy was wearing a Vivienne Westwood leather outfit with fetish zips she’d bought from Sex in the King’s Road. Greg, in his purple suit, was eclipsed by guys wearing ponchos, gold lurex pyjamas and tartan dungarees. Dave’s plan was to compete by not competing. This was why he was wearing an old grey jumper and shapeless brown cord trousers. He certainly looked different to everyone else. Noting the bartender expertly making up cocktails (Harvey Wallbangers, Tequila Sunrises, and White Russians), he protested to Greg, ‘Just what is the point of all this?’
‘It’s so you can pull, man.’
‘But I’m self-pulling. Calling my hand ‘Ursula’ works for me. It’s more economic. How much did your last date with Joy cost you?’
‘I never count the cost, Dave.’
‘Just as long as you meet her dad, eh?’
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Greg, clutching a manuscript of his novel, looked worriedly around the room. ‘Yeah, where the hell is he?’
‘But how much is a Kleenex these days?’ pursued Dave. ‘It costs me less than a penny a shot and I still end up with the same smirk on my face.’
‘He should be here by now,’ said Greg, starting to fret.
‘While you’re waiting,’ said Dave helpfully, ‘why don’t I introduce you to Barbara? I understand she’s a literary agent.’
‘Really? Oh, thanks, Dave,’ said Greg, lighting up a Sobranie. A gold-tipped, turquoise-coloured Sobranie Cocktail, this time.
‘Very queer,’ said Dave, disapprovingly.
‘Party time,’ explained Greg.
Dave put Greg together with the agent, a glamorous woman in her late forties. A little old for Greg, Dave thought, although that wouldn’t stop him. Dave knew Greg would sleep with Lawrence of Fitzrovia if it got him the gig.
The shop itself was as colourful as the partygoers. On the walls were famous clothes and props for sale. Joy clearly loved this sort of thing. The white tuxedo worn by Sean Connery in Goldfinger. A leather jacket from Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased). A three-piece suit worn by Peter Wyngarde as Jason King. A Thunderbirds puppet’s flight suit. Clapperboards from famous films. The genuine items of clothing were safely under glass or displayed high on the walls, but movie memorabilia replicas were also available, like sheepskin vests as worn by Clint Eastwood in the Spaghetti Westerns. Greg had been one of Joy’s first customers. Joy had considered adding Greg’s witch cloak, as maybe worn by Mrs Thatcher, but realised she couldn’t prove it. Dave thought about his plan to borrow Fabulous Keen’s outfit as the Grand Master: that would top them all.
There was a complete range of nostalgia and fantasy. Doctor Who Unit badges. Multicoloured Doctor Who production scripts Joy had filched on a visit to the BBC offices at Shepherd’s Bush (the shopping trolley she brought with her should have alerted them). Daleks in every imaginable size. Japanese robots in mint condition in their original boxes: no reproduction boxes and internally-rusted robots for Joy. Mr Machine. Mr Atomic. A rare silver Robby the Robot, and the Attacking Martian robot from a scene in The Man From Uncle.
American comics, art and cult books of every description. Fanzines like Just Imagine, about movie special effects. High Times, International Times, Mars Attacks! cards. Everything a movie or TV buff and collector could ever want, against a backdrop of cool film music from Get Carter, Bullitt, Easy Rider, The Graduate, and, of course, the two Johns: Barry and Williams.
Joy had put in a manager and two assistants to run the shop. She needed to stay with Fleetpit until she understood the publishing business and built up her contacts. The press called her the Time Lord, although, behind her back, her staff called her the Master.
Dave sipped his Harvey Wallbanger. Joy’s enterprise contrasted with Dave’s sloth, and he found himself admiring, in a resentful sort of way, her energy, her zest for life, her get-up-and-go, and all these celebrities she seemed to know whom she had invited to the launch: Gerry Anderson, creator of Thunderbirds; Diana Dors; and Jon Pertwee, the recent Doctor Who. Diana had popped in on her Saturday night party round with her husband, Alan Lake. Joy had known her since she was a kid, growing up on the film sets, and she was like a favourite auntie to her. Dave admired the fur Diana was wearing. He had lusted after the blonde bombshell since he had seen a famous photo of her in a mink bikini, matched only by Raquel Welch in her fur bikini in One Million Years BC.
Looking around him at the bright, bubbling partygoers, he could see the movers and shakers of the seventies. He provided a contrast, he told himself. Watching Joy mingling with her guests, he told himself she would see through their shallow, superficial nature, and want to be with someone more solid, grounded and genuine.
He decided to enjoy himself by doing the only thing he was any good at in parties: raining on everyone’s parade and sucking the light out of the room. There were plenty of opportunities. He got talking to a production design assistant, who told him he was working on an upcoming film called Star Wars. ‘It’s going to be massive. It’s going to change everything,’ said the assistant excitedly.
‘I’m afraid I beg to differ,’ interrupted Dave. ‘Old battered spaceships, eh? I have to be honest, that just sounds awful. You need to understand that audiences want to escape into fantasy. Oh, no. I can’t see Star Wars being a hit.’ Watching the designer move on hastily made him feel good inside.
He then went on to praise a director for an episode of a TV series he knew he hadn’t directed. Told him it was his all-time favourite episode. ‘Now that episode was brilliant. Unlike the others. They were crap.’
He met a fantasy novelist whose work he was familiar with. He said how much he loved it, that it had been a massive influence on his life. He thus had the author’s undivided attention who looked forward to having his ego preened. Instead, Dave proceeded to tear his latest book apart, chapter by chapter.
‘So, who exactly are you?’ asked the seething author, making the mistake of going on the attack.
‘I work with Joy,’ revealed Dave.
‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’ said the writer, as they watched her laughing with Diana Dors.
‘Tell me about it,’ nodded Dave.
‘So,’ the novelist sneered, eyeing up Dave’s unfashionable appearance. ‘Are you one of her groupies then? One of her admirers?’ He smiled knowingly at Dave. ‘Do you worship her from afar …? You long for a gorgeous woman like Joy, who is just too far out of your league, but who you know, deep down, you’ll never have?’
‘Actually, I’m one her “screwpies”,’ said Dave.
‘You?’ said the writer in disbelief. ‘You?’ He took a step back. ‘You’ve actually screwed Joy?’
‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Dave. The smug smile on his face told the novelist he wasn’t lying.
The author stormed off, knocking over a plate of vol-au-vents.
Next, Dave persuaded a science fiction artist to talk animatedly about his work. Then, making use of his height, he deliberately looked over the artist’s head, smiling and nodding at other guests.
The party was turning out to be fun. If he had anything to do with it, the room would be pitch black by the end of the evening.
There were several party girls working the room, as intent on success as Greg, looking for producers, directors or successful-somethings. He watched admiringly as one of them did her thing, Piña Colada in hand. He guessed it was Joy’s friend Sofia, because she was wearing an expensive yellow and black, zebra-striped Biba trouser suit. ‘You’re a film accountant?’ she said to her mark. ‘Oh, wow! That’s so exciting. So cool! You do all the balance sheets? Cool! Oh, my God! Oh, wow! That sounds so interesting. That’s fantastic. That is amazing.’
She was so impressed by the excited accountant that she constantly patted him approvingly. It was only as she moved on that Dave observed she had expertly extracted a tenner from his pocket. Dave approved of that. It was good to meet someone as twisted as himself.
Then it was his turn, and Sofia checked him out, just in case he was a potential Steven Spielberg. There was no clearly identifiable dress code for directors or producers, so one could ever be sure. ‘Hi,’ she smiled her best party girl smile at him, leaning forward to reveal a lot of cleavage. ‘I’m Sofia. What do you do?’
Keeping a hand firmly on his wallet, he responded, ‘What do I do? As little as I possibly can. My name’s Dave Maudling and I’m a failure.’ Then looked at her glumly with a long, unforgiving, silent stare. Like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner. It was designed to make her feel very uncomfortable.
‘And you’re a complete cunt,’ she responded with a big smile, before breezing past him to her next target.
Dave wasn’t sure whether Joy had been talking about him or Sofia had made an instant assessment of his character.
An excited Greg came across to talk to Dave. ‘Hey, Dave, Barbara loves the sound of my book. She’s really excited by it.’
‘I rather thought she might be, Greg.’
‘Yeah, but what should I do?’ Greg pretended there was a problem. ‘She wants me to come back to her place so she can do an all-nighter on it. Then she’s going to ring the publishers in the morning.’
‘An all-nighter, eh? I’m so happy for you, Greg.’ It was just as Dave had planned.
‘I’m just concerned about Joy,’ pondered Greg. ‘You know? That she might not understand?’
‘Course she would, Greg,’ said Dave, providing absolution in advance, before Greg went off to sin.
‘You think?’ Greg started to click his pen.
‘Definitely,’ reassured Dave. ‘It’s business.’
‘But Joy is still a woman.’ Greg’s pen was clicking faster now.
‘You say that. But remember what the Major calls her …? A dickless bloke.’
‘That’s true,’ pondered Greg. ‘Because it could be my big break, Dave. Barbara’s with one of the big agencies. She wants to sign me up.’
‘Go for it, man.’
‘That’s good advice, Dave.’ Greg smiled. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Shortly afterwards, Joy came over and slumped in a chair beside Dave, drawing heavily on a joint. ‘Wanker,’ she sighed.
‘I know,’ said Dave sympathetically.
‘He is such a wanker, Dave.’
‘I did try to stop him, Joy, but he said he needed to see what it was like to have sex with an older woman.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ she looked perplexed.
‘Greg. He went off with a book agent.’
‘He’s such a slut,’ she scowled. ‘But he’ll be lucky.’
‘I take it you mean Barbara won’t be?’
Joy smiled a conspiratorial smile. ‘I put bromide in his drink. Thanks for that suggestion, Dave.’
Dave grinned. ‘I like to share my knowledge, Joy.’
‘No, I’m talking about my dad.’ She was suddenly very sombre. ‘He can’t make it. He’s “got to fly out to Africa”. To do an interview with the leaders of the MPLA. Can you imagine? The civil war in Angola is more important than his own daughter!’
‘Ridiculous,’ agreed Dave.
‘This is my big night,’ she wailed. ‘He should be here for me.’
‘Doesn’t he know how important this is to you?’ Dave asked sympathetically.
Joy shook her head. ‘He hates popular culture and despises comics.’
He tried to comfort her. ‘But he must approve of your subversive agenda? Reaching kids when they’re young?’
‘Ha! If it was a comic coming out of Soweto, drawn in coloured chalks on walls and washed away by the winter rains, he would.’
They pulled their chairs back as more guests came in, and Joy waved a quick greeting to them.
‘Does he know you’re the writer of White Death?’ Dave continued.
She looked down at the floor. ‘I sent him the first script. And you know what he did?’ She bit her lip. ‘He sent it back, pointing out spelling mistakes and grammatical errors.’
She burst into tears. ‘He blue-pencilled my love!’
Dave put a comforting arm around her. ‘I am so sorry, Joy.’
She leaned into him, silently sobbing into his chest for a long time.
Thanks for being there for me, Dave,’ she breathed. ‘You’re a good friend.’
Finally she whispered:
‘Dave …’
‘Yes, Joy?’
‘Don’t try and undo my bra strap.’
‘Sorry. I was confused by all the zips.’
‘They’re for show. They don’t go anywhere.’
‘So I realise.’
‘Like us, Dave.’
‘But now Greg’s out of the picture again,’ he whispered, ‘I thought you might be up for some punctuation or even … punk-tuation?’
‘Ha, ha,’ she laughed an awful laugh. ‘Very good.’
‘I am the Man with the Golden Pun.’
Then she scowled. ‘No. Fat chance. You punctuated me once, Dave. That was it.’
‘Oh, Joy,’ he said reproachfully, ‘you make me sound like a puncture repair kit.’
‘You might need one: for your inflatable doll. Because it is never going to happen again.’
‘I could be your rock, Joy.’
‘Aye. A millstone round my neck.’ And she went off to talk to Jon Pertwee.
He was making progress, he thought. And once she saw the new girls comic story he was working on, that would change everything. It was a winner. Better than Feral Meryl and the other stories on her popularity chart like Hop Along Heidi, Nell of Doom, and Swimmer Slave of Mrs Tide.
His mother was inside his head again, breaking into his thoughts, trying to direct his attention to a bookshelf. She said it was important, but getting off with Joy was more of a priority than finding his mother’s murderer.
‘It’s in the past, Mum. You’re dead. Get over it.’
‘Just look at the bloody shelves,’ she insisted.
‘I don’t see why I should.’
‘Dave, is your apathy some kind of defence mechanism?’ she fumed. ‘Because you’re scared of what you might discover?’
‘Don’t psychoanalyse me, mother. I’ve read R.D. Laing, you know.’
‘So is there is a psychological reason …? Or are you just a lazy little sod?’
Dave considered the question carefully, and finally gave his opinion. ‘I think I’m just a lazy little sod.’
Eventually, however, he gave in, and she directed his attention to a glossy coffee table book entitled Blackout London.
As the party milled around him, Dave found himself absorbed in the book. The author described criminal life in wartime London. Juvenile delinquency was so bad that the remand homes were full, and closed their doors. Kids stole Tommy guns and held up cashiers in a series of armed raids. A teenager was convicted of fraudulently claiming National Assistance, after supposedly being bombed out of his home nineteen times.
After recent events, Dave was starting to see the criminal potential of kids. It must have been how Fagan felt, he thought, when he assembled his Artful Dodgers to do his dirty work for him.
He looked curiously at the photos. They were certainly atmospheric: smoking gave them a foggy haze, and he could almost smell the reek of tobacco in the air. But there, amongst the images, he was surprised to see a photo of Fabulous Keen in his pre-smiling days. He was looking coldly at the photographer. The caption described him as a doorman at The Eight Veils.
Even before his Nehru collar period, he looked the epitome of elegance, yet despite the hat and double-breasted suit, there was something about him that troubled Dave. Finally, he realised why. His expression reminded him of Mr Cooper.
There was another photo of worse-for-wear revellers at The Eight Veils: a drunk aristocrat, a gangster, British and American officers and two glamorous beauties.
With a startled thrill, Dave realised one of them was his mother. The caption described her with her maiden name: Jean Ryan, a nightclub singer. Dave stared at the grainy black and white photo, studying the young woman who was to become his mother. She was looking straight into the lens, unlike her companions, who were caught mid-pose, smoking; laughing; drinking. Not Jean. One slender, penciled eyebrow was arched sardonically, and a small, secret smile played on her lips. For all her youth, Dave could see she exuded … what was it? Confidence …? Yes … but it was more than that. It was power.
The other glamour girl was Jenny Clarkson, described as an exotic dancer and singer, Jean’s best friend.
The text explained that this was the last photo taken of Jenny before she was murdered by a Soho serial killer, the Blackout Strangler, who was never caught.
Dave read the accompanying chapter for more details. Between 1942 and 1945, four women, two of them possible sex workers, had been killed by the Strangler. The murder weapons were an electrical flex, silk stockings, copper wire and, in Jenny’s case, her own scarf.
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.