The Caning Commando was the brainchild of the Major. He had a Carry On film sense of humour, which Dave and the readers shared. ‘It’s time to Carpet Bum the Hun!’ was the most popular catchphrase in school playgrounds, alongside smirking references to female teachers as ‘Bumpy Men’, which sometimes led to real-life thrashings.
From its first appearance in the number one issue of The Spanker in 1960, the series was hugely popular, which owed much to the artwork by Roger Baker, a disabled ex-serviceman, originally discovered by the publisher when he was producing impressive chalk pavement art and begging for change in Farringdon Road market. Roger brought ‘something of the night’ to the Commando, a vampiric darkness and mystery that made him a scary bogie-man for many boys, so they were relieved he was ‘on our side’ and caning for Britain.
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The Major had been a prisoner of war of the Japanese, that much was certain, but the rest was in some doubt. His rank and scholastic qualifications, for instance, which enabled him to obtain the post of housemaster in a public school, and inspired the character of Victor Grabham. Dave suspected he’d never risen above corporal.
He wore a threadbare camel hair coat with a velvet collar, but was always immaculately turned out, sporting a magnificent handlebar moustache. He lived life ‘on the hoof’, on the run from wives, debt collectors, bookies and ‘the rozzers’. He carried a portable typewriter around with him and could write a story, have a conversation and make a bet all at the same time. Dave remembered their first meeting. The Major had looked up from completing a script and introduced himself: ‘My name’s the Major and I earn more money than the prime minister.’
Then he checked his watch:
‘Fifteen minutes. Two minutes off my existing record.’ He handed the manuscript across to Dave who was pleased that it was not typed on the back of a court summons like the last one. Although the summons was not in the Major’s name. Dave wondered how many names the Major had. He was impressed by his speed. He hoped that one day he would be able to write complete crap that fast.
‘Thanks, Major,’ he said. ‘Another literary masterpiece.’
‘’Cos I used to teach boys, you see? And thrash ’em. Before taking up writing.’
‘After you had that problem with the school fees?’
‘Not so good with the old arithmetic. Easier to subtract than add.’
‘And the lead on the school chapel roof that got blown away in a storm.’
‘Nothing the Beak could make stand. Rather like the roof, eh?’
He was always paid in cash, so he headed on to Ron’s office, announcing in his booming voice, ‘I’ve come for my readies.’
He eyed up Sharon, Ron’s secretary and, in the worst tradition of the seventies, commented within her earshot, ‘Look at the form on that. I could get my oats there. Ride her to the finishing post. Have you rogered her yet, Ron?’
Sharon scowled. Ron said nothing.
Then, adding insult to injury, the Major removed the detachable collar from his shirt. ‘Got some lipstick on it last night.’
Ron turned to his secretary. ‘Sharon, could you do the Major’s collar?’
A glowering but acquiescent Sharon had no choice but to take the offending item away to clean it.
Ron then handed the Major a thick wad of pound notes for the scripts he’d written, complimenting him: ‘You’re still number one, chum.’ The Major looked at the money but never counted it. He could tell from the feel it was all there. He’d nod and put it away. ‘Come in handy. You’ve got to feed and water them to get them to drop their drawers.’
Then the two of them went off for a liquid lunch at The Hoop and Grapes, onto the Cheddar Cheese, followed by Ye Olde Cock Tavern opposite the High Courts in the Strand. Finally, the two cocks would end up in The Eight Veils in Soho.
As a result, the Major was often more unwell than the legendary drinker Jeffrey Bernard and this was to Dave’s advantage. The Major kept no carbon copies of his manuscripts, never read them back or looked at the finished version in the comic, and often had no idea what day of the week it was, let alone what he had written about. He was the perfect patsy for Dave. Because, for some time, whenever a suitable opportunity presented itself, Dave had been secretly altering the Major’s stories, writing in evil ideas for his own pleasure that he hoped the readers would try at home with lethal results.
He was aware just how influenced they were by comics. There had been complaints from parents about other stories giving kids dangerous ideas: the firework-fuelled, kid brother-piloted, dustbin spaceship. Playing submarines in an old abandoned fridge, and using mum’s tablecloth as a parachute while jumping off a council flat roof. No brains required.
He’d started by adding a scene where the Caning Commando and Corporal Punishment go swimming at night in the old quarry near their school when they see German paratroopers land.
Then the plucky pair visit the War Office in London and Alf Mast was taken ill after eating his beloved fish and chips. Dave added him drinking Thames water ‘for medicinal purposes’.
As there were no complaints, he’d upped the ante by having the Caning Commando make gas bombs from household cleaning products. If there was any comeback he could always say, ‘I didn’t know kids could make mustard gas. At least not in dad’s shed.’
It was funny. Just like getting a punch in the face every Saturday was funny. He knew Mr Cooper would think it was hilarious. When Dave talked about hating the readers, everyone thought he was joking and couldn’t possibly be serious. They assumed it was just part of a grouchy act, like W.C. Fields, who was believed to hate children. But it was no act. He was hiding in plain sight.
His dream was to edit his readers, a hundred here, a hundred there. It was true he would never see the results of his work, but neither does a bomber pilot when he drops his payload.
Dave’s need for revenge for his childhood humiliations had to be satisfied. His readers were going to pay with their lives and the Caning Commando was the perfect murder weapon.
If there was an investigation, he’d blame it on the Major. No one would believe his denials. It wouldn’t be Sharon feeling the Major’s collar, it would be the rozzers.
Greg looked over expectantly for Dave’s reaction to the latest episode of the Commando. ‘Okay, Danno, what have we got …?’
Dave scowled at Greg’s quote from Hawaii Five-O. ‘Do you think you could possibly not talk in TV clichés today, please?’
‘The story about the number three cane and Mr Yvette. It’s crap, isn’t it?’
‘Ah, Greg … Greg … complete crap is our goal,’ Dave smiled. ‘If I can ever achieve a completely crap issue, I’m a happy man. I wouldn’t wipe my arse with The Spanker. That would be disrespectful to my arse.’
‘The Caning Commando is unfunny and pathetic,’ said Greg venomously.
‘It’s what our readers deserve, Greg. They’re not carbon-based sentient life forms.’
‘They’re still our readers. They’re paying your wages, Dave.’
‘I’d rather they paid my redundancy. And I think we should stop referring to them as “readers”. We are catering for the hard-of-looking, you know.’
He grinned gleefully as he continued. ‘I should remind you the Caning Commando comes from a long tradition of stories catering for the British working class’s unhealthy obsession with caning and public schools, which goes all the way back to the classic Fags Army published in 1914.’
‘Fags Army!’
‘Four Fags, the servants of the senior boys, decide to join up under age and fight for King and Country.’
‘Sounds awful,’ said Greg.
‘You liked If. That was about public schools and caning.’
‘I preferred Privilege,’ Greg replied, suddenly brightening up. ‘Did I ever tell you about that movie?’
‘Let me think …’ pondered Dave. ‘Yes …yes, I believe you might have done,’ said Dave, his sarcasm lost on his assistant.
‘It’s about a rock star, played by Paul Jones, who becomes a messiah for the masses.’
Dave pretended to look interested. ‘And, er, wasn’t that the film you saw with your best friend, Bernie?’
‘Yes. The night before he was sent to a detention centre for stealing cars.’ Greg looked sad. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, you may have mentioned it,’ said Dave breezily. ‘Once or twice.’
‘I haven’t been going on about him again, have I?’ asked Greg, looking guilty.
‘No, not at all,’ reassured Dave.
‘Bernie was much better looking than Paul Jones, you know?’
‘I believe you said.’
‘He was so handsome,’ recalled Greg, thinking back to happier days.
‘Yes. I remember from all those photos you showed me,’ said Dave kindly.
‘Would you like to see them again?’ asked Greg, reaching into his case. ‘I’ve actually got them right here with me.’
‘No,’ said Dave hastily. ‘Maybe we could look at them later?’
‘They didn’t really do him justice, you know?’ said Greg enthusiastically.
‘No …?’
‘Yes. He could have easily been a movie star.’
‘Well, he certainly ended up like one,’ said Dave. ‘James Dean. That car crash.’
‘Yes …’ said Greg sighing. ‘He was addicted to cars. Stole an E-type Jag and lost control.’
Dave could see Greg’s eyes filling with tears, as they often did, when he talked about his friend’s death. Dave wondered if he was secretly gay. He suspected he was; he never seemed to be that into Joy or other women. If so, he might be able to use it against him in the future.
Dave liked to have secret files on people, and regularly went through Greg’s waste-paper bin, looking for evidence of hidden sides to his character that he didn’t want his colleagues to know about.
‘It was so tragic what happened to Bernie,’ said Dave gently. ‘Any time you want to talk about him, mate, I’m here for you.’
* * *
Ron Punch entered, irritated and harassed by an interruption to his usual sedentary life. But he still walked with a proud military bearing: shoulders back, chin forward, sporting a blazer with his veteran’s badge. ‘Just had publicity come to see me. A German kid nearly killed his British pen friend and they’re blaming it on The Caning Commando.’
‘No? Really?’ said Dave, hiding his delight.
‘Seems the British kid played the Commando and the German played his arch enemy …’
‘The Oberspankerfuhrer?’ interjected Dave. ‘Leader of the feared Wackem SS, he drives around in his Underpanzer.’
Greg raised one eyebrow and continued in an arch, German accent. ‘His much feared canes ver attached to ze periscope of a U-Boat for six months, so zey’re hardened in brine.’
‘Also known,’ Dave concluded, ‘as ze Blue Man becos his arse vas frozen solid on ze Russian Front.’
‘Pack it in, you two,’ snapped Ron. He shook his head, baffled. ‘I don’t know what the Major was playing at, but he had a scene where the Oberspankerfuhrer interrogates the Commando by shoving him underwater in a bath.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Dave.
‘Nothing. But the Commando survives by pulling the plug out, and breathing air through the plughole.’
‘Ah, yes … I remember,’ said Dave.
He remembered very well. It was one of numerous scenes he had added to the Major’s stories.
‘Well, the kid only had to go and imitate the Commando, didn’t he?’ said Ron.
Brilliant, thought Dave, just as he had hoped. But he looked up, sober-faced, at his managing editor. ‘So what happened?’
‘What do you think?’ said Ron.
‘I have no idea,’ said Dave innocently.
‘Suction pulled his face against the plughole, smashed his teeth in.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Dave, hiding a smirk with his hand.
‘Which he swallowed,’ continued Ron.
‘That’s … terrible!’ gasped Greg, trying to hold back a guffaw.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Dave, hoping his own smirk had gone. ‘I feel … really bad. Still, at least he’ll get a lot of money off the tooth fairy.’
‘Although …’ queried Greg, ‘if he swallowed his teeth, that’s not much fun for the tooth fairy.’
You’re right,’ agreed Dave, ‘After the kid recovered them, he wouldn’t want to put them under his pillow, would he?’
Ron scowled at their levity.
Dave tried to look serious. ‘I should have taken that scene out, Ron. It was stupid of me.’
‘Not half as stupid as the kid,’ reassured Ron. ‘And the Major. He should have taken more care.’
‘Even so,’ said Dave, ‘is the boy all right now …?’ The expression on his face was serious and concerned, even as the demons inside him were laughing their heads off and singing, ‘All I want for Christmas are my two front brain cells.’
‘Apparently. Although I’d like to know what was he was doing with a German pen friend in the first place?’
‘Good point,’ said Dave, glancing meaningfully at Greg. ‘Fraternising with the enemy.’
‘Anyway, James Barber wants to do a fucking interview.’
‘ “The Demon Barber of Fleet Street? He always goes for the jugular”?’
‘That’s him,’ agreed Ron. ‘Sounds like he’s going to make a big song and dance about the Commando caning Germans.’
‘It’s pathetic,’ said Greg indifferently. ‘Who cares?’
‘Some people have no sense of humour, Ron,’ commented Dave, looking in Greg’s direction. ‘German arses were funny. Are funny. And always will be funny.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to do it, Dave.’
‘Me?’
‘I can’t. If he starts saying we shouldn’t be making fun of Germans, I’ll just get mad.’ Ron looked far away. ‘I lost all me chums on Sword Beach. A one-man reunion is no fun, Dave.’
Dave nodded sympathetically. Then added as an afterthought, ‘But it’s a cheap round.’
Ron pursed his lips, and continued. ‘We had this sort of trouble back in the days of the Fourpenny One. Kids complaining about getting black eyes and punches in the gob ’cos of the title. Moaning nancy boys. Part of growing up. Punch up the throttle was character building. From your old man, it was a sign of affection.’
‘Yes,’ said Dave, remembering. ‘A punch in the face was great.’
‘So he’s going to interview you.’
That was all right, thought Dave. He would express regret, but blame everything on his writer. Barber might want to talk to the Major, but he led too dubious a life to ever talk to the press. So Dave could say anything he liked. And a lot of people would find the kid trying to suck air out of the plughole as hilarious as he did. It was just a pity he couldn’t claim credit for his ingenious idea.
‘Then he wants to look through all the Major’s recent scripts to see exactly what he wrote.’
‘What? Why?’ Dave was taken aback.
‘Well, to make sure there’s nothing else kids could imitate and hurt themselves with.’
‘Why would there be?’ asked Dave defensively.
‘I know. I know. But we’re living in changing times, Dave. The world’s gone fucking mad. There’s all these stupid Health and Safety rules coming in. Kids have to be protected now. For fuck’s sake. They keep this up, kids won’t be allowed to play in the street or climb trees anymore. It’s all bollocks.’
‘Yes. Yes. It’s all bollocks,’ agreed Dave.
Dave was thinking desperately. Maybe he could lose all the scripts? Burn the evidence? Yes. That’s what he would do. So there would be nothing to incriminate him. The missing Major scripts would be like the missing Nixon Watergate tapes. There’d be no smoking gun here.
‘I’ll get all the scripts out now, ready for him,’ said Greg helpfully.
‘No, no, now wait …’ said Dave hurriedly, but Greg had already gone to a filing cabinet.
‘Here we are,’ smiled Greg, producing a fat wad of Caning Commando stories.
‘Good lad,’ said Ron.
Dave watched horrified as Greg put the files on the desk. This was not going according to plan.
But all was not lost. He decided he could come down to the office in the middle of the night and bin the files. Blame it on the cleaner. No problem.
‘Here. D’you want to take them away now?’ said Greg, offering the files to Ron.
Dave looked aghast and gasped, ‘Wait …’ but too late.
‘Thanks, Greg.’ Ron picked them up, then turned to Dave. ‘Oh, yes. And he definitely wants to interview the Major, too.’
‘Ha,’ said Dave smugly. ‘Good luck with that one.’
Dave just knew that was never going to happen.
‘Barber insisted. So I said I’d arrange it and make sure the Major was stone-cold sober to answer questions.’
‘The Major …? Sober …?’
‘It has been known. And, when he is sober, he can be surprisingly coherent and he actually has excellent memory. Are you all right, Dave? Your face has gone white. That’s not a problem, is it?’
‘No, no.’
‘You’re not all right? Or it’s not a problem?’
‘It’s not a problem.’
Ron patted the files under his arm as he departed. ‘Just the Oberspankerfuhrer driving round in his underpanzer. Nothing to worry about, eh, son?’
* * *
Dave hadn’t thought it through. He had never figured on a Fleet Street investigation by someone as relentless as Barber. The ace reporter would see all the places he’d changed the Major’s story and written in endless ways the readers could harm themselves. Not just breathe air through the bath plughole, but drink the Thames for its health-giving properties, have a relaxing swim at night in the old quarry, make Molotov cocktails, chlorine gas, potassium nitrate rocket missiles, calcium chloride guns, mustard gas bombs and … he was screwed. He couldn’t even say they must have got the formulas from his source; The Radioactive Laboratory. Following complaints from parents, it had been withdrawn from sale in the late 1950s, possibly because it was in breach of the Geneva Convention prohibiting chemical weapons.
There was no way out. No escape.
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.
This story has taken a dark turn....and I love it! I honestly await each episode of Serial Killer with manic glee. Masterful!