Serial Killer Part II: Chapter 15
On the Central Line, Dave leaned back and relaxed. His mother was sitting next to him, but as it was a busy compartment, and they were talking about murder, it made sense to converse by thought.
‘You don’t need a detective after all, mum,’ Dave thought. ‘Dad said it was the Canon. Case closed.’
‘I’m afraid there’s a little more to this case than your father’s accusation,’ thought his mother.
‘Can’t you just confirm he’s right. It was the Canon. Right?’
‘Dave,’ she replied angrily. ‘You’re not only the world’s laziest serial killer, getting kids to harm themselves without lifting a finger, you’re also the world’s laziest detective.’
‘I think that’s a little harsh, mum,’ he responded. ‘I do have other things on my mind right now. Apart from you.’
‘I’m aware of that: Joy. And I’m pleased about that, at least. She’s a big improvement on chasing after fur coats.’
‘And I don’t think you appreciate the whole raison d’être of my crimes is that I don’t have to be physically present at the murder scenes.’
‘Yes. You’re not just a lazy serial killer, you’re a cowardly serial killer.’
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‘And an undetectable one. The heat’s off me on The Caning Commando now. All the attention is on Blitzkrieg! Banned before it was born.’ Dave smirked. ‘So I can slip easily under the radar.’
Jean Maudling looked at him with derision. ‘And that’s the height of your ambition, is it? To be an anonymous, invisible killer?’
‘That’s a little unfair. Think of God. He is everywhere and he is nowhere. Like myself.’
‘Don’t you have any real ambition, son? Don’t you want to achieve something? To get on in life?’
Dave thought about the question between Oxford Circus and Tottenham Court Road. Finally, he gave his answer, ‘No.’
His mother looked exasperated. ‘But you’re interested in Joy. So you’ve got to ask yourself: what do you have to offer an ambitious young woman?’
‘A boil-in-the-bag lifestyle and all the laundry she can lift?’
‘She’s going to expect you to move up the career ladder.’
‘Well,’ pondered Dave, ‘my ultimate ambition is the editorship of the Mirror.’
Jean looked excited. ‘Daily Mirror?’
‘Budgie Mirror.’
She groaned and looked away.
‘Look, mum,’ he thought. ‘I really would like to help you solve your murder.’
‘You’re my son. It’s your duty,’ she insisted.
‘I’m sure that’s true. But if I’m really honest …’
‘Be honest.’
‘I’m just too much of a shit.’
The compartment was filling up now, and, as if to emphasise his point, he remained seated while an elderly man and a pregnant woman with a toddler and lots of shopping were standing directly in front of him. His mother also gave up her seat and joined the strap hangers.
‘Yes,’ he thought comfortably. ‘I’m afraid I have to refuse the quest.’
His mother glared down at him. ‘You’re not interested in who killed me? Or how?’
Dave shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘You don’t care whether I was shot? Poisoned? Strangled?’
‘Dead is dead. I got over you, mum. I moved on.’
‘Well, you can’t refuse the quest.’ She looked menacingly at him. ‘You saw how I could control you in the church? I can do that any time I like.’
He scowled up at her. ‘Oh, so it’s like that, is it? Mind control. Like The Manchurian Candidate. Laurence Harvey’s mum did the same thing to her son.’
‘Sometimes that’s what it takes, when boys don’t do what their mothers want.’
‘That’s okay. Then I won’t be responsible for my actions. I can plead diminished responsibility.’ He smiled gleefully. ‘I can say my mum turned me into a zombie.’
‘Good luck with that one,’ she smiled thinly. ‘Now. I want you to think back to what you remember about the Canon. Remember the church procession …?’ The Virgin Soldiers …? The Knights of Saint Pancras …?
‘Bloody hell, mum. Homework?’
* * *
The church procession at Dave’s primary school. His mother was a Virgin Soldier, ‘Soldiers for the Blessed Virgin’, a women’s organisation linked to the Knights of St Pancras. The Soldiers were dressed in blue and white robes and head-dresses, like nuns, so they looked like sexy nuns. To Dave, anyway, who spent a lot of time evaluating grown-ups for their looks and sexiness.
Two of them, at least: his mother and Mrs Czarnecki. Both were young mums, wore make-up with their outfits, and looked rather fetching. ‘Mrs Czar’ as everyone called her, was a Pell, a member of the grain merchant family, and had married a solicitor and coroner. The other two Virgin Soldiers, however, looked like Mother Theresa, although not as attractive.
The four Virgin Soldiers carried a statue of Our Lady on a bier, leaving St Mary’s church, next to his primary school and the convent of the Sisters of Sorrow, and heading in the general direction of King Edward VIII dock, because Our Lady was also the Star of the Sea, and they were going to drop flower garlands in the water for her.
They were flanked by the Knights of St Pancras. Dave was very impressed by them, although they looked more like funeral directors than Knights. He thought they guarded the train station. They wore top hats, black suits and cloaks with splendid red, gold and blue linings, and carried silver top canes. Every one had a different coloured lining. Dave would have loved to have collected them as cigarette cards. When they weren’t guarding the train station, Dave knew they worked with the Virgin Soldiers, helping the poor of the parish.
They included Mr Czar and Canon Williams, their chaplain. He was wearing a beretta and a most stylish, flared, long black cassock, which showed his tall figure off to great advantage. For this special occasion, he wore over his cassock a white, pleated, embroidered rochet tunic with lace inserts, which reached down to just below his knees. A gold cross added a finishing touch.
Dave was amongst the small boys and girls, marching in pairs, dressed all in white, with the girls looking like miniature ‘Brides of Christ’, escorted by the Sisters of Sorrow. Sorrow was the nuns’ speciality, so Dave was on his best behaviour for once. It was claimed that rumours that the headmistress, the ancient Mother St Vincent, ‘Vinegar Bottle’, used a bicycle pump to punish bad children was just a silly story made up by her pupils, but Dave knew better.
Women of the parish wearing their Sunday best, dutifully proceeded after them. A long Brueghel-like procession of the sorriest and ugliest lost male souls in Christendom followed. Many of them were as afflicted as Brueghel’s 16th century peasants. Dave thought of them as Opportunity Knocks for lepers. A young police constable was also on hand, to divert traffic.
The procession brought out the anti-clericalism in the crowd. They started jeering at the Canon: ‘Look at that priest in his petticoats and his long black dress.’ … ‘Mystical mumbo jumbo! It’s just an excuse to get out the dressing-up box’ … ‘Yeah. They’re all nancy boys!’
Then a Wycliff preacher addressed the crowd. ‘They keep their nuns prisoners in their convents. And him,’ pointing to the Canon, ‘he has a harem of nuns.’
There was a shocked gasp from the onlookers. ‘Yes,’ the preacher continued, ‘I’ve heard cries of newborn infants from that convent, but no babies have ever been seen.’
‘How dare you?’ retorted the Canon. ‘Why, my own sister is a Sister of Sorrow.’
He appealed to the crowd. ‘It’s all lies. Look at Mother St Vincent here. Look how happy she is.’
The nun confirmed his words, giving the audience a vinegary glare, clutching her bicycle pump, hidden in the dark recesses of her robes, ready to deal with anyone who disagreed.
The preacher persisted with his accusations. ‘They say the priest’s body is sanctified, so it is not a sin for him to have carnal relations with a nun.’
This was too much for the outraged Canon. His father had been a Lieutenant Colonel in the Indian army and he himself had been a cavalryman before taking holy orders. ‘Right! You’ve asked for this, Fletcher!’ he snarled.
He laid into the preacher, delivering a hefty blow to his jaw. The preacher retaliated and knocked the Canon’s beretta off, which caused Dave great amusement. The fracas was wildly entertaining for all the children in the procession. Dave couldn’t stop laughing, despite his mother urging him to stop, and even the Brueghels seemed to be enjoying it in their own way. Dave was hoping Vinegar Bottle would get her bicycle pump out. Women in the procession fainted and were lifted away over the heads of the onlookers to safety. The Canon and the preacher continued to lay into each other until, eventually, the Knights pulled them apart.
The young policeman was completely out of his depth and unable to restore order, and a police inspector was called and there was a heated three-way conversation between the inspector, the Canon and the preacher.
Finally, the preacher was forced to acknowledge the truth. Some weeks before he had made similar accusations in his prayer meetings. In response, the Canon had invited him to visit the Convent of the Sisters of Sorrow. He had to admit he had found the nuns were happy there, being sorrowful, and there had been no impropriety. He had made it all up.
‘You see why I was so angry with him, Inspector,’ explained the Canon.
The preacher added lamely, ‘But they’re still ignorant of Christ’s teaching to shut themselves away like that.’
It was a victory for the Canon and the Church. He strode on triumphantly, his LBC – Long Black Cassock – flapping in the wind, and the procession obediently followed in the direction of King Edward VIII dock, singing “Faith of our Fathers”. The Knights, their canes at the ready, formed a protective cordon in case of further trouble.
Faith of our fathers, living still
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword.
At the dock, as seagulls wheeled and shrieked overhead, everyone posed for a photo for posterity. At the front there was the bier with the statue of Our Lady, and the children, the Sisters of Sorrow and the Virgin Soldiers positioned themselves behind it. The Canon stood behind the Virgin Soldiers with his back to the water. The Knights flanked them on both sides. The women of the parish and the Breughels were not considered important enough and milled around behind the photographer.
As a punishment for laughing, Dave was also left out of the photo. He wandered off sulkily, following the edge of the dock, balancing on the heavy chains, staring into the oily waters to see if there were any fish, and watching the swans cruising in the open water beyond the ships. Then he turned back to return to the group who were still being photographed.
Looking across the water at the backs of the posed company, he stiffened with outrage and clenched his fists at what he saw.
How … how dare he?
The Canon was fondling and squeezing his mother’s bottom.
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.