After work, Dave left the imposing, Edwardian building that was Fleetpit House, with its splendid Neo-Baroque ornamentation, two magnificent Dutch gables and an accompanying tower, and went over the road to The Hoop and Grapes to gain some Dutch courage before facing the Demon Barber.
On the wall next door, someone had daubed ‘George Davis is Innocent’. To Dave, it seemed to read, ‘Dave Maudling is Guilty.’
Inside the pub, standing at the bar with his pint, he just wanted to fret. His arrested development was about to lead to his arrest. He thought about all those parents who had written to The Spanker to complain about what had happened to their Little Johnny after he imitated the Caning Commando. The pain, the tears, the visits to A&E. He’d laughed about them at the time, then thrown their letters in the bin. But once they read Barber’s exposé, they’d make the connection and contact the police. What if it had gone further? What if … a kid had already died? He’d wanted that, hadn’t he? He hated the readers. He felt lightheaded, and wiped his sweating brow, trying to marshal his thoughts. Yes, of course he’d wanted it, he hated them. But the parents would now realise the Caning Commando was responsible. He was responsible. Maybe there were several deaths. Maybe … He clutched at the bar, holding onto it, breathing deeply.
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But then the reassuring words of Stevie Wonder’s “Don’t You Worry ’Bout A Thing” cut into his thoughts. Fat chance. He knew his mother was the DJ because she often communicated with him through songs.
She was trying to help, but it wasn’t helping. The reassuring lyrics did not reassure him. He didn’t know how to handle it. He was reaching out in vain. He wanted to feel bad.
But she paid no attention and kept playing the track over and over, insisting he stop worrying. She didn’t understand: he needed to worry.
So he tried to silence her by thinking more lustful thoughts about Joy. How cute and sexy she was. Yes, the editor of Shandy had definitely turned him on. She’d finally thrown that rusting ‘on’ switch in his brain. Although, he then thought despondently, what chance would he possibly have when she was into Greg? No chance.
He was doomed to imagine jealously them doing all sorts of things from the confines of his dank cell in Wormwood Scrubs, where he’d be serving life and trying to keep out of the way of sexually frustrated axe-murderers.
He shuddered, enjoying the familiar feeling of failure. Yes, that was better. ‘Hello, darkness, my old friend.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said his mother. ‘Their relationship is not going to last much longer.’
‘How can you know that, mum?’
‘A mother knows these things. Trust me.’
‘That is ridiculous. Look at me. Okay? Then look at Greg. All right? What do you see? He looks like Terence Stamp and she’s a gorgeous Chelsea girl.’
‘Marble Arch girl, actually, dear. You’re getting confused with the magazine.’
‘What difference does it make? I still haven’t got a hope in Hell.’
‘Like I’ve told you so many times, all you have to do is get rid of that terrible safari suit. Greg set you up. He wanted you to look like a dog’s dinner. I did warn you about him, didn’t I? I never really liked that young man. And then you just need to lose some weight, and the right opportunity will come along.’
‘It’s never going to happen. Get real, mum.’
‘Well, you keep telling me I’m not real.’
People in the pub were starting to stare, noticing him talking to himself, so he drank up and left.
He had enough weird fantasies of his own without paying attention to his mum’s fantasies that he would somehow one day – against impossible odds – score with Joy. This was why he didn’t like spending too much time on his own with his mother. They’d always end up getting into these arguments.
‘Why don’t you pick a more appropriate song?’ he muttered under his breath as he walked down Farringdon Street. ‘How about “Slippin’ into Darkness?” ’
That seemed to silence her and he was pleased to be left alone in his slough of despond as he turned right into Fleet Street.
It was a surprisingly warm October evening, and he found himself sweating in his safari suit. He pushed his way through the dark evening throng of hard-drinking, drug-taking, scoop-hungry hacks spilling out of newspaper offices and heading for their locals.
He was briefly comforted by the ad on the back of a red Number 6 bus: “Swears and Wells. The world’s largest furriers.” He had spent many a happy hour browsing in their Oxford Street store.
He passed the Punch Tavern over on the other side of the street; its colourful and welcoming tiled exterior also cheered him up. It reminded him of fairgrounds, trips to the seaside, and the happier days of his childhood.
And then he saw the massive, gleaming, black and green, Art Deco ‘Black Lubyanka’, the Daily Express and Sunday Express building, and his heart sank once again. It was the H.Q. of the newspapers the Demon Barber worked for.
He wondered what sort of prison he would be sent to. It wouldn’t be as bad as the Soviet Lubyanka, of course, but it would still be bad, especially when the other cons found out what he had done. He’d have to spend his sentence in solitary.
Soon after, he approached the equally forbidding, red brick London offices of Angus, Angus and Angus of Aberdeen, the great publishing rivals to Fleetpit, and his previous employer. Inscribed on the side of the building in appropriately fading letters were the words Kith and Kin, the name of the austere magazine for the elderly he was seconded to when he worked for the company in Scotland.
It was while he was a sub-editor on Kith and Kin that Dave had discovered he was a narcoleptic, prone to fall asleep at any time of the day. Reading a Kith and Kin romance would do it. It hadn’t kept him on the edge of his seat, rather he had fallen off it. That was before that unfortunate business with Mrs Angus’s fur coat. It was so cold up in Aberdeen, and Mrs Angus had loaned him one of her old fur coats to put on his bed and, well, he couldn’t help himself. The minx. So to speak. That incident had brought his employment with the Scottish publishers to an abrupt end.
He didn’t really want to walk past the building: there were too many uncomfortable memories. He was depressed enough already. So he crossed the road, stopping at a traffic island in the middle. There was a dank gents public lavatory in its depths and wafts of stale urine billowed up from below. Avoiding an Evening Standard red and white zebra-striped van, a competing Evening News truck in bright yellow livery, and a bolshie Robin Reliant, he crossed to the far side.
Finally, he reached the narrow-fronted Ye Olde Cock Tavern opposite the Royal Courts of Justice.
He glanced across at the vast, forbidding Gothic pile with its statues of Jesus, Solomon, and Alfred the Great, staring disapprovingly down at him, and shuddered. It seemed more like Dracula’s castle than the Law Courts. All that was missing was a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder. Its pollution-blackened façade looked particularly uninviting and sinister in the dark, even though acid rain had washed the rows of its arches white. Like it was baring its fangs in anticipation of his fate.
Then he took a deep breath and plunged into the dark, smoky, cavernous interior of the tavern. For hundreds of years, famous writers had used it as their watering hole: Samuel Pepys, Doctor Johnson, Lord Tennyson, Charles Dickens – and now the soon-to-be-infamous Dave Maudling.
He squeezed his way past gowned barristers and portly judges to join Greg, Joy and Ron, who were already on their second round.
‘He’ll call you when he’s ready,’ said Ron, nodding to the snug that served as the Demon Barber’s office.
Ron was wearing his demob mac, unfashionably belted high around his waist, contrasting with Greg’s grey Aquascutum leather trench coat, and Joy’s fur coat. She was now in her pink satin trouser suit and talking vehemently to Ron’s mini-skirted secretary Sharon.
‘Ron’s warned me not to wear this tomorrow. Can you believe it? It’s the seventies and trouser suits are forbidden. Coming to work in hot pants is fine, but wear long pants, and you’re sent home. What next? No pants?’
Ron, Greg and Dave noted her vehemence. ‘Look at her filling Sharon’s head with rubbish about trousers,’ said Ron. ‘My dog doesn’t wear trousers, so why should they? Makes as much sense. Pint of falling down water, Dave?’
‘I think I need a pint of blackout, Ron.’
‘Blackout?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away. The usual’s fine.’
Dave found himself drooling over Joy. She looked almost as gorgeous as the fur coat she was wearing.
Greg went over and interrupted her in mid-rant. ‘Is your dad back in the country?’
‘No. I think he’s in Cambodia.’
‘Did you send him my last manuscript?’
Joy looked puzzled. ‘Why would I?’
‘Because a nod from him could really open doors for me.’
Joy smiled lovingly at him. ‘You’ve got talent, Greg. You don’t need my dad. And neither do I. We can make it without him.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Greg uncertainly.
‘Yes,’ reassured Joy. ‘It’s 1975. There’s no glass ceiling anymore. Everything is possible today.’
For a moment, a trace of anger crossed Greg’s face, then was quickly erased. ‘Cool.’ He reached down into the briefcase at his feet, pulled out a notebook, and scribbled something in it.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Joy curiously.
‘Jotting down ideas for my next novel.’
‘Excellent,’ she said.
Actually, he was writing angry words about Joy. Angry, four-letter words.
This was why he always kept his notebook close by. He couldn’t risk tearing out the pages once he’d released his feelings about what a stupid, unhelpful, rich, arrogant, privileged cow she was who always believed she was in the right. He suspected Dave went through the wastepaper bins after he had gone home.
What he didn’t realise was that Dave already knew about the notebook, had taken photocopies, and was biding his time for the right opportunity to use it against him.
‘Yes. Just you and me, darling,’ smiled Joy. ‘That’s all that matters.’
‘You’re absolutely right, darling,’ agreed Greg, returning her smile. ‘Do you have your dad’s address in the jungle?’
The Demon Barber looked out from his ‘office’ in the snug. ‘Maudling …?’
Dave nodded.
‘Five minutes.’
Five minutes to his doom. Another wave of paranoia passed over Dave. He stepped away from his cheerful companions, needing some time to compose himself.
He became aware that a drunk, red-faced judge was staring in his direction. Try as he might, Dave couldn’t seem to avoid the judge’s accusing, all-knowing eyes.
In his guilty mind he could hear the judge saying, ‘David Maudling, the jury has found you guilty of murder. You have claimed your inner demons ordered you to kill, however the Police and Crown Prosecution Service do not accept this, and have rightly rejected your plea of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. You have also claimed that the real culprit is a certain ‘evil newsagent’, who every Saturday, when you were a little boy, would punch you in the face as a joke. Whilst I do not condone such behaviour, unfortunate events happen when we are young and we learn to put them behind us. They do not give you the right to inflict your bitterness on a new generation of innocent children. You are a cold, calculating serial killer. You will go to prison for life and, in your case, Maudling, life will mean life. Take him down.’
Dave backed fearfully away from him. The judge must have recognised the expression on Dave’s face from his long years on the bench because he suddenly pointed a perfectly manicured, but claw-like finger in his direction. ‘Yes. You are guilty, sir. You are guilty.’
‘M-me? I’m sorry. I don’t understand,’ burbled Dave, looking guiltier than ever.
The judge smiled knowingly. ‘Oh, I think you do, sir. I think you do. I have been quietly observing you and I know that look so well. I don’t know what you’ve done, sir, but you’ve done something.’ He pursed his thick, ruddy lips. ‘Something … very bad.’ Dave’s horrified face confirmed it. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen that look so many times on the faces of defendants in the dock.’
His red, malevolent face was now very close to Dave’s. ‘Just before I sentenced them to ten years’ imprisonment.’
‘Fuck,’ thought Dave. ‘It must be written all over my face.’ Normally, he prided himself on never giving anything away.
‘I-I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said lamely.
The judge stabbed his finger three times into Dave’s chest. ‘Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.’
A female barrister intervened. ‘I must apologise,’ she said to Dave. ‘He’s intoxicated.’ She took the judge by the arm. ‘Now come along, Cecil. Let’s get you a taxi.’
‘I’m not drunk, Joan. I’m fortified with brandy,’ protested the judge as she led him away.
It was not a good omen.
James Barber emerged from the snug again. He was a huge man wearing a flamboyant pinstripe suit that George Melly would have admired, with a napkin around his neck.
Joy rolled her eyes and whispered to Sharon. ‘The Demon Barber. He’s a monster. They say Tolkien based Sauron on him.’
‘I’m ready for you now, Maudling. Step into my office,’ he boomed.
Dave obediently entered the snug.
His life was ruined. He’d have to bring forward his plans to end it all. Go to Helsinki, the suicide capital of the world, and come back in a pine overcoat.
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.