This episode is based in part on my experiences of writing in a garden shed with John Wagner up in Dundee. I used a wallpaper roll so I could type at speed! Kevin doesn’t feature in this chapter, but he’s back in the next chapter which focuses on Angus, Angus and Angus of Aberdeen which was his brainchild!
I wish I had an audio recording of Kevin’s take on Angus, Angus and Angus. It had me in stitches. You’ll see what I mean next week.
Pat.
Mr Cooper smiled at Dave, who was now standing behind the sofa, desperately wondering if he could make it down the steps from his turret, out into the corridor of the main attic, along to the fire escape and down into the street, before Cooper attacked him.
‘Fancy us meeting again after all these years, Dave. I saw you in the vaults,’ he leered. ‘I liked the way you nicked that artwork from Aisle 13. You got some gumption, after all.’
Cooper didn’t explain why he was no longer a newsagent and had become a storeman. That would be to treat Dave as an equal, but nothing had changed – as far as he was concerned – since 1957, when Dave would walk into his shop every Saturday for his Fourpenny One.
‘So I’ll get straight down to business, Dave … £25.00 a week, inflation-linked, to cover your rent, otherwise I go to your boss and tell him you’re living up here. And that will also cover compensation for this.’ He touched his face gingerly. ‘It still hurts in this weather.’
Dave looked blankly at him.
‘So … what do you know? The cow never told you, did she?’ Cooper grinned.
‘T-told m-me what?’ Dave stuttered.
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‘She came into my shop that Saturday she disappeared.’ Cooper looked menacingly at his victim. ‘You must have been telling tales, Dave.’
‘No. No. I never told. You told me not to,’ replied Dave. He nearly added ‘sir’ on the end.
‘Yeah. ’Cos those are the rules. You never tell. Never be a grass, Dave. Never be a snitch,’ said the ex-newsagent.
‘I swear I wasn’t,’ said Dave.
‘She found out somehow … maybe the bruises on your face? Anyway, she sails in, all sassy-like, with her fur boa, done up to the nines – ’cos your mum was a looker, as you know, Dave …’ He paused. He was testing the water; waiting to see Dave’s response.
Dave said nothing.
‘Oh, yes. Your mum was quite a girl.’ He grinned and winked knowingly.
Again, Dave said nothing, his eyes empty of comprehension, so Cooper moved on.
‘ “What can I get you, darling?” I asks her. ’Cos I was always very polite with customers, as you know, Dave. And she says, “I’d like a Fourpenny One.” “Course you can, darling,” I says. “Dave not well today …?” and I hand the comic across, all innocent like. No games with your mum. ’Cos you must never hit a lady, Dave,’ said Cooper waggling a finger. ‘That’s against the rules. A tart, or your missus, well, that’s different.
‘But meantime, she’s slipped some brass knuckles on her hand. She screams, “I’ll give you a fourpenny one, you bastard,” and next moment, she’s smashed me in the gob with them!
‘Well, I’m so shocked, I don’t have time to give her a back-hander, as I normally would. Then she fucking hits me again. The cow. No provocation. I’ve done nothing, Dave.’ Cooper waved his hands expansively, an injured expression on his injured face. ‘Nothing. I’m innocent. Breaks me fizzog. I keel over and then she’s round the counter, standing over me, stamping on me wotsits, screaming like a fucking banshee, calling me this, that and the other; not the kind of language I like to hear from a lady, Dave.’
He paused, giving gravitas to this last statement. ‘Then she sails out, leaving me doubled up in agony on the floor.’
This was earth-shattering news to Dave. He had, in fact, told his mother about Cooper. She’d finally gotten it out of him, no longer convinced by his endless stories of getting into fights with other boys, walking into doors, and standing on rakes.
He had promised her he would never go into the newsagents again and, following her disappearance, he never had. He had lived a Fourpenny One-free childhood ever after, until he became editor of The Spanker, which incorporated his favourite comic.
He had no idea she had planned her revenge, using those knuckle dusters she had for her protection when she worked at The Eight Veils. Just as kids never told their parents what happened to them at school, parents never told their kids about their plans until after they were carried out. There was a mutual lack of communication. And trust.
‘That was the day mum disappeared,’ Dave recalled.
‘Well, don’t think I had anything to do with it, Dave,’ said Cooper hastily. ‘Oh, I would have swung for her, Dave, make no mistake, even if she was a lady, ’cos what she did was well out of order, but I was in hospital, see? So I couldn’t do nothing, could I? I was laid-up. I don’t know what happened to her. Poor cow. That’s assuming she came to a bad end and didn’t go off with a tally man. Which she could well’ve done, Dave. Oh, yes. I’m sorry to say this, but she liked her little bit on the side, did Jean.’ He leered knowingly.
‘No, no, I wasn’t suggesting you were involved for one minute,’ said the craven Dave. ‘No, please, perish the thought.’
‘It’s perished,’ sneered Cooper.
Dave could have said, ‘Don’t you talk about my mother like that, you bastard! She smashed you in the face, but you exaggerated your injuries. You fought back, killed her; dragged her body through to the back of your shop; buried it somewhere; then you went to hospital.’
But he didn’t.
‘Good,’ added Cooper. ‘‘Cos I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.’ He looked menacingly in Dave’s direction. Twenty years on, he was still a strong, wiry figure who enjoyed violence.
But, despite himself, the hatred for his persecutor welled up in Dave’s face, and Cooper saw it.
‘Something you wanted to say to me, Dave …?’ He stroked the knuckles of his fist in anticipation.
Dave felt his hatred dissolve into fear, and shook his head submissively, avoiding eye contact. ‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Very sure.’
‘Glad we’re sorted. So …I’ll be back for me wedge tomorrow night,’ he grinned at the wretched figure opposite. ‘Mr Quasimodo. Make sure you’ve got it for me.’
‘I will,’ confirmed Dave. ‘I will.’
‘You’d better. ’Cos I should hate to leave empty-handed …’ And with that, Cooper sloped off, leaving the door ajar.
Dave sat back in his chair, shaken to the core.
‘It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. He’s the killer,’ he trembled. ‘It’s so obvious. Oh, my God.’
He couldn’t stop shaking with fear.
His mother appeared on the chair opposite. ‘And you handled him so bravely,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Didn’t you, dear?’
‘No, mum,’ he corrected her. ‘I nearly shit myself.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, David,’ she frowned reprovingly.
‘I never knew you visited him with a knuckleduster that Saturday, mum. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, you might thank me for smashing his face in.’
‘You attacked him, and …and he killed you. Right?’
‘You’re the detective, dear.’
‘He practically told me he did it.’
‘Did he admit it?’
‘No. But it’s got to be him. It’s got to be.’
‘I’m pleased you’re upset about what happened to me, son.’
‘You bet I’m upset. He could kill me next!’
She looked up from lighting a cigarette and raised an eyebrow at his insensitivity.
Dave scowled. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You’re all right. You’re dead. And I could be if I don’t pay him off.’
Dave’s mind raced. ‘I have to earn some extra cash somehow. But how? How?’
‘It won’t be easy, son. I believe Joy just turned down your latest proposal, Penny Never Saw the Pitch?’
‘Yeah. What’s wrong with a story about a blind hockey player?’
‘And Paula’s Fit for the Poorhouse,’ she said, coolly blowing a smoke ring in his direction.
He irritably waved the smoke away from his face. ‘Based on my life in the West Ham Union Workhouse. Another masterpiece rejected.’
She took a long drag of her cigarette. ‘Then you might have to do the unspeakable and write for Laarf!’
Dave shuddered. ‘Oh, no. No. No. I haven’t sunk that low, mum.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, son,’ she said, and started to walk away.
‘No! Come back. You got me into this mess: you can’t leave me to sort it out. Help me. I need some support.’
She turned back towards him. ‘My mess?’
‘Well, you gave birth to me. It’s your job. You’re my mum.’
‘That’s true. Unfortunately. But what can I do, son?’ She leaned over and disdainfully flicked a little cigarette ash onto him. ‘I’m dead.’
She disappeared into the darkness, leaving the scent of her Sirocco perfume and cigarette smoke imprinted on his mind. He was sure if anyone had entered, they would have smelt it, too, proving he was sane.
Sane or insane, he was knocked for six. Writing for Laarf! was the only way to get the money. Despite constantly insulting Tom Morecambe, he never seemed to take offence, simply responding with his buzz-saw laugh.
Between the time he left Angus, Angus and Angus in Aberdeen, and went to work at Fleetpit, Dave had spent a year freelancing for Tom. His stories were in high demand, possibly because there was no competition. Other Laarf! writers were always mysteriously ill. He learnt later that it was somehow connected with the sound of Tom’s laugh. But Dave didn’t have a phone, so he was protected from its lethal side-effects.
He was joined a few months later by Martin Candor, another escapee from Angus, Angus and Angus. Establishing themselves in Dave’s garden shed, the two of them calculated that, in order to make any money, or indeed to eat, they would have to write a funny story for Laarf! every eighteen minutes.
This they endeavoured to do, using mass-production methods appropriate for a ‘fun’ factory. Dave discovered that if he removed a page from his manual typewriter, that he and Martin would then stop for a cigarette break, a joint break, a tea break, a coffee break, a lunch break, a cake break, a walk break, a fresh air break, a warmth break, a chat break, an argument break, a fierce argument break, a wasp-swatting break, a spider (named Fred) fly-feeding break, a game of mini-football in the shed break, a memorial service for Fred when he died from over-eating break, a game of volley ball using the washing line for a net break, anything other than the death sentence of writing for Laarf!
So, in order to keep the wheels of commerce turning, Dave figured there had to be a continuous roll of paper in his machine. He experimented, appropriately, with a roll of Izal germicide toilet paper. It had a suitably glazed surface but the sheets were too narrow. So he switched to wallpaper rolls instead, suitably cut down, and was soon able to churn out endless scripts for Laarf! without any lapse in concentration; producing sufficient stories to wallpaper an entire house.
Their circumstances were not helped by the fact that it was Aberdeen in the winter, and there was no heating or lighting in the shed. So they were muffled up against the cold. Their combined body heat in the intimate confines of the shed, together with heat and light from an old paraffin lamp, made it survivable. Dave had bought the lamp from a secondhand shop in Aberdeen, together with his wonky-legged barber’s chair. The lamp was probably used by wreckers to wave ships onto the rocks and it was still lethal, pumping deadly green fumes into the shed, requiring them to take air breaks every fifteen minutes.
After a year, they’d both had enough. Despite their considerable success, they were broken by the experience; they had to get out. Martin went on to a successful writing career elsewhere, and Dave took a staff job at Fleetpit. Certainly, his experience in the shed fuelled his hatred of those mindless readers who actually believed Laarf! was funny, and were responsible for keeping the ‘fun’ factory in business.
Oh yes, Dave thought bitterly, they needed to pay for that year in the garden shed.
The prospect of returning to the dark days of writing for Laarf!, of eternal Andy’s Anorak, Billy Blower and Dirty Barry, was a dismal one, but there was no alternative if he was going to save his hide.
Next week: Dave revisits his unhappy apprenticeship at Angus Angus and Angus in Aberdeen.
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.