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At the end of January, Dave put the first issue of Aaagh! to bed. It would be out on the streets in mid-March. Almost despite himself, he had produced the most explosive, angry, street-level comic of all time. By comparison, its rival Guts didn’t really have any, because it was produced by Angus, Angus and Angus. But Aaagh! had more than enough for both of them: quantities of them were depicted in all their intestinal splendour in Deathball, a gladiatorial death game, inspired by the film Rollerball and ten pin bowling.

Then Greg revealed that, next week, he was being interviewed by the board for the job of managing editor, replacing Ron.

‘Well done, Greg,’ said Dave, hiding his fear and resentment that his assistant was being offered the top job.

‘Thanks, Dave, but I haven’t got it yet.’

‘Oh, you will, mate.’

‘You’re right. I will,’ said Greg confidently.

‘And you deserve it.’

‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’ Greg sat back in his chair, imagining the hallowed Homework desk was already there in front of him. ‘And, when I’m in the command seat, I shall be making a few changes, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re afraid, or should I be?’ asked Dave suspiciously.

‘You should be. I’ll be putting a stop to your freelancing in office hours, for a start. So I wouldn’t buy any more rolls of wallpaper, if I were you.’

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‘But it’s one of the perks of the job, Greg. And you do more freelancing in staff time than any of us.’

‘Now. Yes. But on a managing editor’s salary I won’t need to, will I?’ Greg smiled. He clicked his pen excitedly. ‘I’m having lunch with the board at Rules. Isn’t that fantastic? Rules! Frank Johnson told me to get a new suit specially.’

‘Then it really is in the bag,’ said Dave glumly.

‘Looks like it,’ said Greg, continuing to click. ‘Although I don’t actually know what’s wrong with what I’m wearing right now.’

Dave saw his opportunity. ‘It’s maybe a little sombre, Greg. Black can be a bit depressing. Perhaps you need something more modern to make you stand out?’

‘Modern?’

‘If Johnson wants to get rid of Ron, you need to dress the exact opposite: young, cool – the epitome of seventies fashion.’

‘Ah. Sophisticated, you mean?’

‘No. Sophisticated is bad. It could make you seem old fashioned.’

‘Hmm,’ said Greg. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘You’ve got to look hip, Greg. I could help you choose if you like?’

‘I don’t know, Dave. Two men shopping for a suit together. It could seem a bit …’

‘Gay?’

‘Well …’

‘Come on. We’re seventies men, Greg. We’re both comfortable in our skins. I like fur and you like looking like Peter Wyngarde.’

Greg assumed Dave was offering his services to curry favour with his future boss. He was persuaded. Dave had then accompanied Greg to Bond Street and, every time Greg hesitated, Dave was there to reassure him.

The outfit Dave persuaded Greg to buy was a patterned, purple velvet suit with flared trousers. There was a velvet waistcoat, too, but Dave told Greg he needed to show off his Engelbert Humperdinck-style, white, Regency frilly shirt (with matching lacy cuffs) that should be worn open to the navel so the gold medallion and his hairy chest could be seen to best advantage. The silver platform shoes were the finishing touch, even if they were partly concealed by the flares.

For a moment, Greg hesitated when he saw the result in the mirror, but Dave had a final card to play. ‘Bernie would have loved to have seen you in this suit. He’d have said you looked … fabulous.’

‘You think so? We both bought identical blue mohair hipster suits once.’

‘You see? Men do go shopping together.’

‘Yes. And do you know, the seats on our trousers wore out at exactly the same time!’

‘I’m sure that was pure coincidence, Greg.’

‘It probably did look a little strange,’ recalled Greg. ‘The two of us dancing side by side with our arses hanging out.’

‘You should wear this for Bernie, Greg. In his memory. He’ll be right there by your side in spirit.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I’m sure of it. My mother is always there beside me.’

* * *

Rules is the oldest restaurant in London, specialising in serving traditional food: steak and kidney pie, beef and Yorkshire pudding, and apple crumble with custard. There was a bit of a clue there, if Greg had only taken the time to research the venue. But into the restaurant once frequented by such literary talents as H. G. Wells, John Galsworthy and Charles Dickens, had entered the face of comics for the seventies: Greg, wearing a suit Liberace would have envied.

He returned from his interview far earlier than expected, and Dave was now mining him for details, as he imagined the stunned reaction of Frank Johnson and the Fleetpit board of directors, consisting of ex-service officers, to this precursor to Austin Powers. ‘So, tell me again, Greg, what exactly did they say?’

‘They didn’t say much really. They were very quiet. They just kept staring at me.’

‘That’s a good sign, Greg. That’s positive. They could see, just from your suit, you were the man for the job.’

‘I hope so. You know those red plush, semi-circle seats they have in Rules?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t mix in your exalted circles, Greg.’

‘There were three directors sitting next to me, but they all kept edging away. Colonel Horsfield was almost sitting on Granville Roberts’s lap at one point.’

‘That was so he could admire you better, Greg.’

‘Colonel Horsfield had to leave in a hurry for some reason. He never touched his spotted dick.’

‘He’d made up his mind. It’s in the bag, Greg. Oh … ’ Dave leaned forward to inspect Greg’s chest. ‘Got a little bit of steak and kidney there, mate. In your hairs. That’s it.’

‘Oh, no! Supposing they saw it?’

‘Don’t worry about it. The medallion would have distracted them.’

It was a job well done, Dave concluded. Greg had broken the rules of Rules and that was even before he opened his mouth and told them how he was going to shake-up comics. All the suits wanted was another dull suit. Dave could do dull. He figured, once the dust had settled, he would now be in line for the job and the chance to replace Ron. He would appear for his interview at Rules in a sober terylene suit straight out of ‘John Collier, John Collier, the window to watch’.

Greg was lost in thought, clicking his pen, doing a post-mortem, endlessly replaying the interview in his mind, trying to see if Dave was right in his positive conclusions.

As he continued his ruminations, a sudden look of absolute fury crossed his face as he recalled the responses of the directors and what they meant. Then it quickly vanished to be replaced by a long, thoughtful stare. At Dave.

Unaware he was the subject of Greg’s attention, Dave had settled back and was enjoying The Caning Commando in the latest issue of The Spanker. He had begun to read the episode, set in Hamburg, when Greg interrupted him. ‘Dave, I meant to ask?’

‘Sure? What?’

‘That woman I saw you with the other night … who was she?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The woman who was up there with you in your turret.’ Dave was suddenly alert. He had only recently confided to Greg that he was living in the attic. Greg had become suspicious at his mysterious appearances and disappearances, so he had no choice but to confide in him and swear him to secrecy.

‘I was working late, so I came up to see you. See if you fancied a pint at The Hoop and Grapes, but you looked like you were busy.’ Greg looked knowingly at Dave. ‘She’s quite a looker, mate.’ He whistled approvingly.

‘Who?’

‘The woman in your room. The one you were talking to.’

‘What did she look like?’ Dave looked suspiciously at his assistant.

Greg shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Hard to say; it was dark.’

‘Did she have a classic retro look?’

‘Yes … I guess that’s how I’d describe her. The kind of clothes you see in old movies.’

‘Which era? Thirties? Forties? Fifties?’

‘No idea,’ said Greg vaguely. ‘I’m not a movie buff, like you. But they were definitely old.’

‘How old?’

‘Not sure. Let me think …’

‘About 32?’

‘Yeah. Yeah. 32.’ Greg clicked his pen as he pondered on the subject. ‘No. Maybe a little younger. I’d have said late twenties.’

And you actually, physically saw her in the room with me? In the flesh?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes. definitely,’ said Greg.

Dave leaned forward and looked intently at Greg. ‘This is really important to me, Greg. I’ve got to be certain. You definitely saw her? Sitting there? Talking to me?’

‘Absolutely. There’s no doubt. What’s the big deal? I didn’t come in, because I could see you were having a pretty intense conversation with her about something.’

‘Wow,’ said Dave to himself, absorbing Greg’s amazing revelation. ‘Wow.’

This was the breakthrough he was hoping for. Objective proof, from another witness, that his mother existed on some psychic plane and therefore his hallucinations were real. Well, stick that up your arse, psychiatrists. This changed everything. Now he would do what his mother wanted him to do.

‘Maybe you could introduce me to her sometime, Dave?’ enquired Greg. ‘Because I have to say she looked gorgeous, mate. But, of course, if she’s off limits, I understand.’

‘No. I’m happy to introduce you,’ smiled Dave happily. ‘Why not?’ Phantoms were, presumably, safe from Greg’s amorous advances. And with that comfortable thought, he returned to reading The Caning Commando.

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.

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