It was bitterly cold in Dave’s apartment in Fleetpit House. There was hot water in the bathroom, but no radiators in any of the rooms. But he had a solution to look forward to: the Christmas present he was going to buy himself. Meanwhile, he froze.
His sympathy shag plan, as suggested by Greg, had gone wrong, but he still yearned for Joy. It didn’t make sense. He had never been obsessed about a woman before. He wondered if it was because she was Scottish. He always felt drawn to Scotland and had fond memories of working for Angus, Angus and Angus in Aberdeen. The Scots seemed to understand and care about comics, whereas they were largely indifferent to them at Fleetpit.
However, his first job at Angus, Angus and Angus had been writing the horoscope for the Aberdeen Argus. His prediction for the week ahead for Sagittarians read: ‘Bleak. Bleak. And perhaps bleaker. Looking forward to a bleak Christmas.’ Not for the first time, they told him he was not taking his job seriously.
So, at age 20, he was moved to the senior citizens’ magazine group, which included Kith and Kin, Health and Wealth, and Housebound, although the latter had closed recently, as so many readers couldn’t get down to the newsagents. At least that was Dave’s theory.
A new chapter of Serial Killer drops every week – sign up for free so you don’t miss it!
If you’re new to Serial Killer, start here at Chapter 1.
He had worked on Kith and Kin for some weeks, reading Mills and Boon-style story submissions where granny was always right and if only her granddaughter had listened to her wise advice. He would regularly fall asleep at his desk.
So he was transferred to Widow and Wallet, where he suggested features on ‘cooking for a coronary’ and ‘looking for Mr Die Right.’ He wrote Nurse Carter’s ‘Last Writes’ column. He advised his readership, ‘Make sure his life is insured. He could drop off at any time.’ ‘Buy a decent size plot before your minds have gone completely.’ And, when it was cold and snowing, to invite a relative to nail up their front doors, so they couldn’t go out and hurt themselves.
Sinclair Angus, the editor, explained to Dave that what he referred to as his ‘Goons sense of humour’ was not appropriate; the magazine gave valuable and sensible advice to widows in their time of need. Dave was trying hard to be more appropriate, but then came that regrettable business with Mrs Angus’s fur coat, resulting in his instant dismissal.
But despite his differences with them, Dave had an affection for the company and all things Scottish. He felt at home in Aberdeen and missed his friends up there.
So, during the Three Day Week, two years earlier, he had tried to get his old job back. The Cold War was at its height. Everyone thought Britain was on the edge of a revolution. Rubbish was piling up and rotting in the streets. Rats were everywhere. Leicester Square was a mountain of black bin bags.
He asked to meet his old employers in their Fleet Street office. He waited in the interview room, a dim light overhead, and a single piece of coal alight in the grate. Presently, he heard the squeak of new shoes heading down a corridor. It was joined by a second pair of squeaky shoes. And then a third. Dave recognised them immediately from their squeaks as Angus Campbell, Angus Ross and Angus Murray.
The three editors entered. Angus Campbell and Angus Ross were around thirty, but looked about seventy. Angus Murray was of indeterminate age. They all wore similar tweed sports jackets, Pringle jumpers, cavalry twill trousers and squeaky, highly-polished, brown brogue shoes.
‘Soooo … are you looking for a wee bit of work, laddie?’ enquired Angus Murray.
‘Actually, I was hoping to get my old job back, sir,’ said Dave deferentially.
‘Well, two years having passed; Angus, Angus and Angus are prepared to forgive and forget,’ Angus Murray looked sternly at Dave. ‘the matter of Mrs Angus’s fur coat.’ Dave hung his head in shame. ‘So we will consider bringing you back into the fold.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Angus Murray looked across at the tiny piece of coal burning in the grate. ‘Aye. Perhaps it is time for you to come in from the cold.’
‘I should like that very much, sir,’ said Dave meekly.
‘But there are some matters we need to clear up.’ He nodded at Angus Ross, who had brought Dave’s file with him.
‘First,’ said Angus Ross, ‘there are the Scottish jokes you’ve been allowing in The Caning Commando, about tossing cabers.’
Dave looked suitably contrite.
‘And what Scotsmen wear under kilts. We have them listed in your file.’
Dave looked even more contrite.
‘I would remind you,’ said Angus Campbell, ‘that Angus, Angus and Angus have a monopoly on jokes about the Scots. Only our Scottish jokes are funny.’
A humble Dave nodded his head in agreement.
‘We don’t appreciate the English mocking how careful we are,’ said Angus Ross severely.
‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said Dave. ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’
Angus Ross made a note of this in Dave’s file with the tiny stub of a pencil. It was worn down so far that he had put it into a metal extender so it could still be used. It was a device Dave remembered was commonly used at Angus, Angus and Angus.
The other two Anguses silently and respectfully watched Angus Ross do this, and Dave wondered if they had their own pencil extenders or whether they all shared this one pencil extender between them.
Angus Murray continued the interrogation. ‘Now. There is the question of your private life. Have you met a lassie …? Are you married yet, laddie?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve yet to meet the woman of my dreams, sir, although I live in hope,’ said Dave, continuing to crawl.
‘You don’t want to leave it too long, laddie,’ warned Angus Ross. ‘You could be left on the shelf.’
The Anguses all looked enquiringly at each other. ‘In view of the reason you left Aberdeen, your matrimonial status, or the absence of it, is a matter of some concern,’ said Angus Murray. The other two Anguses nodded their agreement. They looked meaningfully at Dave.
A subservient Dave waited respectfully for them to elaborate.
There was a long, long silence.
Finally Dave broke it. ‘So have I got my old job back, sir?’
‘Well, we’d have to pass this back to Old Mr Angus,’ said Angus Murray. ‘He still remembers what happened rather vividly, but … nooo, laddie, you have not.’
Dave stood up and scowled at them. ‘Well, you can all fuck off then.’
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.