Serial Killer Part II: Chapter 25
The idea of these commentaries is to remember some of Kevin’s classic humour so there’s a sequence below that still makes me laugh today, nearly twenty years after it was written. It’s the sex scene between Joy and Dave which was all Kevin.
Starting from ‘This is the seventies…’ and ending with ‘So. That’s it, is it?’
When I read it today, I can still hear Kevin coming up with that whole sequence and the two of us laughing our heads off. We would have been in a bar at the time and it was probably the Oxo Tower bar which we regularly frequented. Kevin loved the energy in there. I did, too, but I wasn’t so keen on the prices!
The Billy’s Belly scene that follows was also very much Kevin. Both of us, of course, are great fans of Ken Reid.
It’s a reminder of what a great comedy dialogue writer Kevin was which I endlessly like to bring to readers’ attention. I want it to be remembered that he wasn’t just a brilliant artist, but a great writer, too - but I think his art probably overshadowed everything else. He never had any desire to develop his writing gift as far as I know. It would have meant investing in a computer, for a start, which he was resolutely against. He only, reluctantly, had email in the last decade or so. And it would have also meant considering the complexities of the writer’s craft which become particularly important on a text novel. Although he had a good understanding of plot, characterisation and so forth, I believe he preferred to be spontaneous. So he was happy with our arrangement on Read Em and Weep, especially the TV script versions which are followed closely in the novel, certainly on Book One. There were some moments where we clashed on Book One, but that’s inevitable with any creative enterprise. Adapting to a different media always raises challenges which I can get into another time.
A brief example just now: When Gareth Edwards, the TV producer, was interested in buying our TV version of this novel, he suggested that Greg should be black. I think Gareth completely misinterpreted our surprised reaction. This was because in the 1970s there were no black editorial staff, AFAIK, and there was an unspoken racism in the air. It could never have happened. So, for Kevin, it would have been impossible and even a deal-breaker because he would have seen it as fake. In fact, I think even the suggestion really annoyed him. I, on the other hand, would have been more pragmatic. Or - if you’re a purist - more likely to sell out. I would probably have agreed with Gareth, but with the proviso that having a black character couldn’t just be ‘stuck in’ (as it is in Peaky Blinders, for instance), it would have to be justified and commented on. I know that Kevin would have found that tough, because he was purist on the reality of every scene, but I flatter myself I could have talked him around eventually. However, I wouldn’t like to bet on it! We could both be very dogmatic!
I think that’s the difference between a natural, spontaneous writer, like Kevin, who never has to compromise and those of us who do it for a living. There’s no right or wrong here, simply living with the realities of the media, including the woke media of today.
Pat
The next day, a frozen Greg escaped to Liverpool Street, looking forward to the warmth of the train journey home to Colchester.
Dave, now in his civvies, went with Joy to see Jaws at the Odeon in Edgware Road. It had a massive curved screen, 75 feet wide and 30 feet high, and the great white shark seemed to leap out of the screen at them as Joy chain-smoked and Dave chewed nervously on his pipe. Unusually, there was no support film and every seat was taken.
The film was so exciting, Dave forgot to hit on Joy. Even though her fur was as gorgeous as she was. He snuggled up to it once or twice until she glared at him to stop. She’d taken it off, so this was understandable.
His mother had taken a back seat in his head over Christmas, ever since he had rejected her shocking new suggestion for cracking her case now that he’d drawn a blank with Annie. ‘No, we’re not having this conversation, mum.’
‘Hear me out, Dave.’
‘Sorry. I’m not listening.’
‘But you want to know who the murderer is.’
‘No, you want me to know who the murderer is.’
‘Well, I’m living inside your head, so what’s the difference?’
‘Mum, there are some things I will never, ever do, and what you are suggesting is number one on the list.’
‘But it’s the best way.’
‘No.’
‘We’ll talk about it later, dear.’
‘No, mother, we will not.’
As Dave and Joy came out of the cinema, he told Joy he had a surprise for her. He was going to take her somewhere special for a meal.
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‘Where? Where?’ asked Joy excitedly. She’d noticed he hadn’t brought her a present, or even a bottle, for Christmas and this would surely make up for it.
‘I want it to be a surprise,’ he replied. After Jaws, he felt it would be the perfect end to the day and a real treat for her.
They walked part of the way to their destination on the Seven Sisters Road so Joy could smoke a spliff. She talked about her plans for White Death, which sounded scarier than Jaws. It wasn’t just the opening Australian beach scenes where a bikini-clad swimmer is graphically eaten alive. Or the subsequent episode, after the fall of Saigon in April 1975, when an American gunship, fleeing Vietnam, ditches in the ocean and White Death goes into a feeding frenzy, feasting on the drowning soldiers. The follow-up episodes she described to Dave were even more nightmarish.
He definitely made the right decision choosing her shark story over Greg’s, he decided. Not that he had any choice.
‘Give me the job, or I’ll do a dirty protest in the men’s toilets,’ she had warned him.
‘No one would notice,’ he told her.
But he admired her determination, and Greg’s version was crap, anyway. His new comic was taking shape. He had really wanted call it Street, but he knew the board would never understand why. So he’d settled for Aaagh!, which was now the official title of JNP66.
They continued their journey by bus to Dave’s mystery restaurant. On board, Dave told her about Greg’s shark story and she howled with laughter at just how bad it was. It was important, Dave decided, to make Greg look really stupid, just in case his rival changed his mind and tried to get back with Joy.
From the way she was hanging onto his arm and laughing at his jokes, he had the distinct feeling he was going to get lucky tonight.
Greg’s version was called Moby Jaw. It featured a giant killer sperm whale that attacked and ate people.
‘Did you research this story, Greg?’ Dave had asked him. ‘Are there, in fact, any fresh water whales that swim up the Thames to spawn? And can they crawl onto the bank of the Thames, singing their mighty songs? Like this scene where Moby Jaw attacks people in Piccadilly Circus?’
‘It just crawls for short distances on its flippers,’ said Greg defensively.
‘Before reviving itself in a local swimming pool.’
‘It’s a stirring saga of the sea.’
‘The river, actually. And Inspector Ahab of the Yard is determined to track him down and kill him. How difficult is it to catch a whale in the Thames? I’d have thought it was No Hiding Place.’
Joy was doubled up laughing. ‘Oh, no more, Dave, please,’ she giggled as the bus pulled over at their stop on the Seven Sisters Road, ‘or I’ll wet myself.’
‘Yes!’ thought Dave. ‘Making Greg look a complete cock has earned me extra brownie points. I am definitely going to get lucky tonight.’
They walked the final short distance to the restaurant.
‘So what do you think, Joy?’ he smiled at her. ‘Are you ready for your Christmas treat?’
‘Aye, you bet,’ she said happily.
And he indicated his special surprise restaurant.
‘Here we are. What do you think, Joy?’
‘What … what is this place?’ said Joy, looking up at the unfamiliar golden arches and instinctively backing away from it.
‘It’s called McDonalds. It’s only the second McDonalds in Britain. There are going to be many more of them, Joy. You’re looking at the future.’
Joy went white and took a step back.
Dave was concerned. Perhaps she was coming down with something? He had better get her in the warm. He helped her through the welcoming doors of the restaurant.
Inside, Dave had a quarter-pounder with cheese for 48p. He just knew Joy would appreciate his Yuletide budget choice. Although she did seem rather quiet as she ate her McMariner fish burger for 30p.
‘You know what they say? “It’s a difference you can taste”, Joy,’ he smiled.
‘Aye. Aye. That is so true,’ she sighed, looking miserably around her.
She seemed rather withdrawn for some reason and he wondered if her depression was returning. He sipped his coke and held it up for her inspection. ‘It’s the real thing,’ he said conversationally.
She lit an ordinary cigarette and didn’t respond, so he started to sing the famous song: how he would like to buy the world a coke. But, for some reason, this was not to her liking and she stopped him with a glare. Perhaps he was out of tune?
Then she talked about some report her father had written on Coca-Cola, Guatemala and trade unions. She was very passionate about it and got quite angry at one stage, but it sounded pretty boring to him so he didn’t pay it much heed. He was too busy imagining them making love.
He wondered why the famous commercial bothered her so much. He knew she’d been at Woodstock, maybe it reminded her of it? Made her feel nostalgic? She was clearly not in the mood for ‘snow-white turtle doves’ just now. Maybe it brought back other negative memories of the sixties for her? Yes, that must be it.
‘The peace and love thing was difficult for you, wasn’t it, Joy?’ he suggested gently.
‘What do you mean?’ she growled menacingly, her Glaswegian accent coming out.
‘When you were at Woodstock? Letting the sunshine in?’
‘Screw the sunshine. I was totally out of my face.’
‘Yes, that’s what I meant. I couldn’t imagine you with flowers in your hair, dancing naked in the rain. Although I’d very much like to,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘You haven’t got a clue, have you, Dave?’
Still in soft drink mode, he sang his reply, ‘Help me find the way.’
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ she said.
She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘You have no idea who I am.’
She started to talk about her parents. They’d met in the Bohemian world of London’s Fitzrovia. Her Australian journalist father became famous for his savage attacks on the establishment: McCarthy, Malaya, Palestine. Her mother, Coira, was a beautiful and successful Scottish actress who stayed true to her working-class roots.
Joy explained that she tried to uphold the values her parents had impressed upon her. Despite their wealth, they had insisted she had an ordinary state education. Although, of course, she explained, the Scottish education system was infinitely superior to the English, anyway.
They had told her about the evils of the multinationals. ‘That’s why …’ she looked around the burger bar and tailed off.
‘Ah!’ Dave suddenly realised. ‘That’s why you like being here! So you can be true to your working-class roots? I knew it was the right choice.’ He felt very pleased with himself. ‘And they taught you about value for money, too.’ he added knowingly. ‘As you’re always saying, “Many a mickle makes a muckle.” Another Coke?’
She was lost for words.
Then she tried again. She explained she had a career plan in her head. Every magazine she worked on must lead her closer to her great goal.
‘And I’m going to make it entirely on my own,’ she insisted proudly.
‘Apart from when you got a job on Oz, thanks to your Dad’s Australian connections?’ suggested Dave.
‘Apart from Oz,’ she said hastily. ‘You see, Dave, everything I write and edit has to have a purpose.’
‘So what was the purpose of those dope reviews you did for International Times?’
‘Apart from those dope reviews. I need to understand popular culture in all its forms in order to create the future Glass business empire.’
‘Ah. So working on Everlasting Love will be useful?’
‘Apart from Everlasting Love. That’s just shit.’
‘So is most popular culture.’
‘And I intend to change that.’ She leaned forward purposefully, ‘I have a vision, Dave. Not just one Time Machine. But a chain of Time Machines.’
‘You’re going to be a Time Lord?’ said an awed Dave.
‘And I want to be a publisher, too. I can reach the masses in a way my dad never can. That’ll show him,’ she smiled to herself.
‘We connect with kids at the most impressionable time of their lives,’ she continued. ‘Look at all the stupid things they do because some idiot has put them in a comic.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Dave nervously.
‘Playing hide and seek in an old fridge. Putting fireworks through a letterbox. Playing on the bings. Slag heaps,’ she explained for the benefit of the Englishman. ‘Trying to breathe air through a plughole.’
‘So irresponsible,’ agreed Dave.
‘We have a huge influence on them. You know what they say? Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man.’
‘It was true in my case,’ agreed Dave. ‘Although The Spanker readers may need longer.’
‘Don’t you see, Dave?’ she leaned forward and whispered excitedly. ‘Comics are the ultimate in subversion.’
‘You … you’re the enemy within?’ Dave gasped.
‘Yes, Dave. I am the enemy within. And I’m not talking about that episode of Star Trek.’
‘You want to change the world? To make a difference?’ These were alien concepts to Dave.
‘Is that so wrong?’
‘It’s unheard of in comics.’
‘I know. I’ve heard Ron on the virtues of complacency.’
‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Dave. ‘Ron believes in stasis. Although not passionately. That would require effort.’
‘There’s this huge market out there waiting, and it’s all mine.’ She hastily corrected herself, ‘Ours, for the taking.’
‘I’m in awe, Joy. Speaking as a man who has always cherished failure, who knows there is no light at the end of the tunnel, who sees no future for himself, except as editor of Budgie Mirror, I can only admire your dream from my rungless-ladder on the wrong side of the tracks.’
Her beautiful brown eyes filled with tears. Once again she was revealing that softer, gentler side that Greg insisted she had. She leaned forward and held his hands. ‘What happened to you, Dave? What did they do to you?’
‘Well …’ He took a deep breath.
‘No. No. I know. Let’s not get into all that again.’ She gently removed the liquorice pipe from his mouth. ‘You poor, pathetic, strange, innocent man-child.’
‘You sum me up so well.’
‘Come on.’ She stubbed a second cigarette out on her half-eaten fish burger and got up.
‘Where … where are we going?’
‘Home.’ She whispered in his ear, ‘I am going to fuck your brains out.’
‘Joy, that’s …’
‘No. Don’t speak. You’ll spoil the moment. Again. Let’s go.’ She turned to leave. ‘Hurry. Before I change my mind.’
Dave hurried. He noted that this sympathy shag idea of Greg’s really worked. He must be pathetic more often. And they should also eat at McDonalds more often.
Back at Joy’s, she was unaware of the cold, as usual. She stripped off and climbed into bed. No longer wearing his gorilla suit, Dave had a sense of what Greg had been through. An icy blast whistled through the apartment and he shivered, despite himself,
‘It’s the open plan,’ Joy explained.’I knocked down that wall with a sledgehammer.’
Dave felt it was expected of him to begin with a romantic prologue, but she quickly interrupted him, ‘Dave, there’s no need. Just get your kit off.’
‘But …’
‘This is the seventies, Dave.’ She held up her hand. ‘D’you see any rings? D’you see any babies? Come on. Hop in and hop on.’
He did and moments later he was embracing her. ‘Oh, Joy. This feels so right. You’re like exquisite white china. So delicate. So smooth, so …’
Joy frowned. ‘I rejected that script of yours last week. We’re going to have comic sex, are we? Rejected comic sex.’
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘You make me sound like a toilet.’
He tried again. ‘I long for your Holy Grail, Joy …’ he began passionately.
‘I hope you’re wearing a shield,’ she replied. ‘Let me see.’ She looked under the covers. ‘Oh. You’re a hobbit.’ He paused, mortified. ‘That’s all right. Come on. Take me, Dave. Take me now, you word beast. I want every paragraph. No editing. Punctuate me! Punctuate me!’
Then, as he eagerly responded: ‘I see … bog standard …’ Once again, he paused, stung by her criticism. ‘No. No. Carry on,’ she insisted. ‘It’s okay.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘If that’s what you want.’
She continued to make a running commentary on his efforts, trying, at the same time, to sound seductive and encouraging.
‘Have you found it yet? Dave, I’m not upside down. Not there. There. Where do you think you’re going now? You won’t get anything there. No. Not like that. Like that.’
Then, a few moments later. ‘So. That’s it, is it?’
Dave staggered off to the bathroom. The Christmas fare was having a lethal effect on him. His stomach was used to Vesta curries and Banquet boil-in-the bags. Not Christmas turkey and cheeseburgers.
‘Hurry back,’ she called after him. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’
Following a second, more successful round of love-making, Joy had a post-coital spliff and Dave chewed his pipe. He reflected that if Joy had worn her fur coat it might have been even better. But, he was still feeling pretty good about himself. He smiled across at her. ‘I’ve been in a ménage à trois with you and Godzilla.’
Joy finished her spliff and turned over to sleep without replying. ‘Of the two, you’re easily the scariest,’ he complimented her.
He mused further. ‘Actually, if you include the gorilla suit, we had a fursome.’
But Joy was sound asleep.
Later, Dave slept fitfully, his digestion still not back to normal. In his dream he was inside Billy’s Belly. There was an emergency in the processing hall. Steam was escaping from pipes and boilers. There was a distant ominous rumble. A workman warned, ‘Number three sump is down.’
The Foreman checked the meters. ‘It looks like the whole system is going to blow.’ He tried to have an urgent conversation with the brain department, but couldn’t get through. ‘Brains are not responding!’
The workmen turned controls and threw a series of levers in rapid succession. ‘We’ll be earning overtime tonight.’
The Foreman checked the meters again. ‘Methane gas escaping! Masks on, lads!’ He desperately turned a wheel as they donned old-fashioned gas masks. ‘Better out than in, for all our sakes.’
The rumbling increased. ‘Expect the worst!’ The pipes and valves began to shake violently. ‘It’s going to blow! Take cover!’
The masked foreman looked up horrified, ‘It’s a Grade 4 Krakatoa!’
There was a massive explosion as Dave’s dream and reality became one.
The sound woke Joy up. It was, indeed, a Grade 4 Krakatoa. As she came to, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. That smell. It was … unbelievable.
She looked up to see Dave spraying the room with her cans of Cupid’s Arrow, Modesty and Coquette.
‘Just dealing with my natural fragrance,’ he explained.
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.