The My Gang party had just begun when Dave joined it. It started after the dreaded browncoats had gone home. They were not cute and cuddly like the Mr Shifter chimpanzees in the PG Tips adverts. To shift a chair from one office to another was bad enough, but to pile up desks, unscrew conventional light bulbs and replace them with red ones, and precariously dangle a mirror ball from some overhead pipes was quite another. This was the exclusive responsibility of the browncoats, and the party-goers’ actions could have resulted in an all-out strike.
One storeman, however, was there: the ‘Phantom of the Fleetpit’. He had sensibly removed his coat so he wouldn’t cause a panic. He didn’t actually care what they got up to. He was only interested in Dave. So he watched him for a while as he handed over his Black Tower to join the Mateus Rosé, Blue Nun and other bottles assembled on a desk. Emil, the editor of My Gang, welcomed guests. He was standing tall in silver platforms with rainbow-coloured three-inch soles, wearing bright orange leather dungarees with a turquoise paisley shirt underneath.
‘Love your orange dungarees,’ said Dave insincerely, warming up for his main event with Joy.
‘They’re not orange, they’re tangerine,’ said Emil.
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Dave also brought a selection of his confectionery along for the party, but none of the party-goers seemed that interested in it, apart from the sherbert. Not understanding what it was, in the semi-darkness, Emil sampled it. He tried snorting it with the straw provided, then rubbing it on his gums and told Dave it was pretty good.
Eventually the Phantom lost interest and decided to go home. There was one more thing he needed to know about Dave before he made his move.
The music started off rather badly because only the review albums none of the staff wanted were available. Rollers, Osmonds, Jackson 5 and Glitter which nobody had the remotest interest in, even though they claimed in their magazine they were crazy about these ‘hunks of the month’ and ‘dishes of the day’.
Worse – someone had put on Judge Dread’s piss-take of “Je T’Aime”. In it, the Judge discovers the alluring female making advances on him is actually a ‘Transmistor’. To which the latter replies, ‘Oh, come on, dear! This is 1975.’
There was a chorus of ‘Get that off!’ from the party-goers.
Thankfully, someone had gone up to the offices of the real music magazines and helped themselves to some Bowie and Zeppelin, and the party improved to the sound of “Young Americans”. But thinking about the way the staff took all the best albums home gave Dave the germ of a rather good idea for a story for JNP 66.
He moved through the throng, looking for Joy. In between sampling lasagne and nibbling pineapple on sticks, people were talking about getting away on a Laker flight to the sun for Christmas. Y Viva España!
Someone was describing the Sex Pistols, who were currently gigging at art colleges. He talked about John Lydon wearing an ‘I hate Pink Floyd’ tee-shirt and Dave tuned in to their conversation because his sister Annie hated Pink Floyd, too. He liked prog rock himself, which led to huge arguments with her.
Even so, he liked the idea of the Pistols. Their anti-establishment attitude struck a chord with him. They could also fit the story he was planning for JNP 66. It was slowly starting to take shape in his mind now.
He saw Joy, wearing a Sergeant Pepper jacket, being hit on by Emil and realised, with a sinking heart, he stood no chance against this pinnacle of seventies fashion.
‘What can I get you?’ Emil asked, smiling condescendingly down at Joy. ‘Babycham? Avocaat snowball?’
‘Whisky,’ said Joy.
‘Right back.’
She rolled a joint while she was waiting and looked uncertainly around her. She didn’t like teenage girls magazines very much. She described them as being for ‘simps’: simpering fools.
‘So,’ said Emil on his return, ‘as I was telling you, key parties: forget them. They’re just not cool anymore. The new big thing is S&M.’
‘What’s S&M?’ asked Joy, baffled.
‘Guess,’ he said towering unsteadily over her.
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘A Satanic version of M&S? Brushed nylon nighties with pentagrams on them?’
‘Ha, ha. No. Some women really enjoy S&M, you know? It’s the surprise, the excitement, the shock that they love.’
‘The shock? It doesn’t involve electricity?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, but the effect on women is electric. But it has to be a complete surprise to work. You must have no idea what is coming.’
A puzzled Joy took a drag of her spliff. ‘Okay, so what is S&M?’
‘I’ll show you,’ he said and gave her a resounding slap across the cheek.
She punched him back hard in the face, knocking him off his killer heels so he collapsed on the ground, blood streaming from his nose.
‘Works for me,’ she smiled.
She left Emil dabbing at his bloody nose with a couple of concerned partygoers gathered around him, and joined Dave. ‘I’m really missing Greg,’ she admitted. ‘I think he’s gone off me.’
‘Surely not?’ said Dave, looking concerned.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, I fail to understand his appeal to you, Joy.’
‘I met him at party like this. It was the wake for Gulp! when it was merged into Laarf! He stood there silently, scowling at everyone.’ She smiled as she remembered. ‘He looked so cool.’
Dave tried a scowl himself.
Joy observed it. ‘I said a scowl, not a stroke.’
Dave nodded and looked away, biting his lip, and shaking his head sorrowfully.
‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’ asked Joy.
‘It was the mention of Gulp! being merged into Laarf, Joy. It brought back … memories.’
‘Memories?’
‘Yes. Terrible memories. It … It reminded me of when the Fourpenny One was merged into The Spanker.’
‘So?’ shrugged Joy unsympathetically. ‘What’s so special about the Fourpenny One?’
He slumped down onto the floor, visibly upset and Joy joined him. ‘Come on. What’s this all about?’
‘I’m a troubled man, Joy. I need to offload something terrible that happened to me. You see, I have issues from my childhood which I’ve never talked to anyone about before, which I know someone as sensitive as yourself could help me with.’ He looked sadly ahead of him. ‘It probably explains why I’m such a failure as a man and a writer.’
Joy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is this something to do with fur again?’
‘Not on this occasion. It was The Fourpenny One. The comic every boy had to buy, or you were a pariah in the playground. But to obtain it, I had to face certain demons on a weekly basis.’ He paused. ‘This is actually very painful for me.’
‘Go on, Dave,’ said Joy, looking concerned.
And he slowly, haltingly, proceeded to relate what Mr Cooper did to him every Saturday.
How one week he saw his beloved comic attached to a bulldog clip on one of those strings of magazines high above him. He’d reached up to take it and it was just within his grasp …
Then a hook appeared and removed it.
It was held by a smiling Mr Cooper, his wife standing beside him. Dave looked desperately to Mrs Cooper for help.
‘I’d like to help, Davey,’ said Mrs Cooper apologetically. ‘Really I would. But I don’t want to walk into a door again. You’ll understand when you’re older.’
‘Get back there,’ Mr Cooper said to his wife, ‘Or you’ll have eyes like a panda.’ She bustled into the back.
‘Don’t get yourself involved with women, Dave,’ the newsagent advised. ‘They’re nothing but misery. Stick to your comics and when you’re older, you can move to the spinner rack.’ He nodded in the direction of the sweat mags. ‘That’s all you need. You don’t have to backhand a magazine.’
He took The Fourpenny One off the bulldog clip. ‘Now tell me what you want.’
Dave hesitated.
‘Come on. You don’t want to collect two next week.’
‘Stan,’ called the newsagent’s wife from the back. ‘Leave the boy alone.’
‘It’s a game we play. Right, Dave?’
‘Stan!’
‘I won’t tell you again,’ he warned her.
Mr Cooper prepared his fist. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Please, sir, can I have a Fourpenny One?’
Once again the newsagent’s fist slammed into Dave’s face.
By the end of his graphic account, Dave’s head was slumped forward on Joy’s lap and she was stroking his head. She was truly shocked by his revelations. ‘So he punched you in the face every week …?’
‘Oh, Joy, I used to pray for a printer’s strike, but it never happened.’
‘It explains so much,’ said Joy thoughtfully.
Dave’s head nuzzled closer to her breasts.
A thought struck her. ‘But couldn’t you have gone to another newsagent?’
‘Unfortunately,’ sighed Dave, ‘his brother owned the next shop.’
‘Or complained to someone?’
‘If I complained to a teacher or a policeman, they’d give me a fourpenny one for wasting their time. They’d tell my dad and he’d give me another fourpenny one for telling tales. In fact, Joy, you’re the first person I’ve told who hasn’t given me a fourpenny one.’
‘No one complained?’
‘Never. Particularly if the adults were in a position of authority. Mr Cooper wore a brown jacket, so he was in authority.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘The golden rule for kids was, you never told.’
Dave and Joy held each other even tighter, stroking each other’s backs. ‘Yes, Joy, happiness is a foreign country to me. I have reached the shores of Despair and settled there. I’m just six feet of emotional scar tissue.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Joy looking at him with such compassion. ‘Don’t say that.’ Their lips met and they exchanged a long, slow, lingering kiss.
‘Was that all right?’ he asked her nervously.
‘A bit liquoricey, but, aye, okay.’
Dave’s hand moved round to her front and she didn’t resist. ‘Poor Dave. You’ve been through so much.’
His hand moved upwards, as they lay together on the ground, keeping up with the rest of the party-goers, who had mostly paired off by now. ‘If only you’d had a father like mine to protect you. Brave, dashing, rugged.’
‘Lawrence of Fitzrovia’.
‘He’s reported from every war zone in the world. No man can ever measure up to him. He was clubbed to a pulp by the Chicago police. Tortured by the KGB.’
‘So similar to my own story, Joy. Brutality. Darkness. Privation. Physically we’re very alike. Except I’ve got more fingernails.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Joy. ‘Fingernail inspection. Before you go down there,’ she pointed to herself. ‘Which hand?’
He obediently held up his right hand.
She checked it carefully. ‘Clean. No sharp edges. Carry on.’
‘Where was I?’ said Dave, temporarily thrown.
‘You were going to tell me more, Dave. Hold nothing back. It’s the only way you’ll heal.’
‘Yes. Neither of us should hold back, Joy …’
Neither of them had. In fact, things were considerably advanced now.
Then Joy gently stopped his hand and whispered, ‘No. Not here. Let’s go back to my flat.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ They might have gone up to his turret, but that was still his closely-guarded secret.
They sat up and exchanged another long kiss as they prepared to leave.
Joy slipped on her fur jacket, which only added to Dave’s lust. This was going to be a night to remember. ‘Thank you for listening, Joy.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ she murmured.
‘You’re a true friend,’ he said continuing to caress her.
‘Mmm.’
They were glued to each other.
‘You’re so understanding, Joy … Oh, by the way: you haven’t got the painters in, have you?’
Joy punched him in the face. It was a fourpenny one Mr Cooper would have envied.
‘Fuck off. Or I’ll deep-fry your bollocks.’
Emil watched sympathetically as Dave held his nose, looking for something to staunch the blood with.
‘S&M?’ he asked enquiringly.
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.