The Fandom of the Operator (18 page)

I knew instinctively that this was for me. This was where I belonged.

“Masser Gary buy Sandra drink?” asked my lady wife, the late Mrs Cheese.

“Indeed,” I said to her. “I’ll get you a cocktail.”

I ordered Sandra a Horse’s Neck – well, it went with her horse’s head. I was impressed that this time it didn’t come out of the drip tray and it had a cherry and a sunshade and a sparkler on the top.

The barman told me the price of it and I laughed politely in his face. “I’m with Mr Val Der Mar,” I told him. “A close personal friend. The drinks are on his publisher tonight.”

“Fair enough,” said the barman. “I was only trying it on. I’m saving up for a motorbike.”

“Stick to fiddling the till,” I told him. “A bottle of Bud for me and a hot pastrami on rye.”

The barman served me with a bottle of Bud. “The hot pastrami is off,” he said. “Irani terrorists broke into the fridge and liberated the last jar we had.”

“I hate it when that happens,” I said. “I once had a pot of fish paste liberated from my kitchen cupboard by members of Black September.”

“Horrid,” said the barman. “My mum was shopping in Asda and had her pension book nicked out of her handbag by Islamic Jihad.”

“Bad luck,” I said. “Weathermen ate my hamster.”

“Isn’t it always the way?” said the barman. “But you’ll have to pardon me, sir, because much as I’d love to go on talking toot with you regarding the crimes committed upon you and yours and me and mine by extreme fundamentalist groups and terrorist organizations and the distress that these crimes have wrought upon you and yours and me and mine, frankly, I can’t be arsed. And as I see Mr Jeff Beck up at the end of the bar calling out to get served, I think I’ll go and do the business. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

“Fair enough,” I said to him. “I hope you die of cancer.”

“Thank you, sir. And if I might be so bold as to mention it, your girlfriend’s left hand is weeping into the stuffed olives. Kindly tell her to remove it, or I’ll be forced to call the sissy boy bouncer, who will politely eject you from the premises.”

“I hope it really hurts when you’re dying,” I said.

“Thank you, sir. Coming, Mr Beck.”

I lifted Sandra’s hand from the olive bowl and folded its fingers around her Horse’s Neck. “Enjoy,” I told her.

“Thank you, Masser Gary,” said Sandra.

“Just call me ‘master’,” I said. “Master Gary makes me sound like a schoolboy.”

“Cheers, masser,” said Sandra, pouring her drink into the vicinity of her mouth.

“I think we should mingle,” I said to her. “There’s lots of famous people here and as I mean to be very rich very soon I want to get used to mingling with rich and famous people. I can get in a bit of practice tonight.”

“Masser,” said Sandra.

“Sandra?” said I.

“Masser, everyone wear mask tonight, yes?”

“Yes,” I told her. “Everyone wear mask, yes.”

“So how come barman recognize Mr Jeff Beck and Harry recognize Sultan of Brunei?”

“Ah,” I said.

“And how come you
know
lots of rich and famous people be here, if all wear masks?”

“I’ll confiscate your head again if you try to get too smarty-pantsed,” I said to Sandra. “Rich and famous people are still recognizable no matter whether they’re wearing masks or not. It’s only in stupid films like
Superman
where Clark Kent can put on a pair of glasses and comb his hair differently and not be recognized.”

“Clark Kent is Superman?” said Sandra.

“Shut up and drink your drink,” I said to Sandra.

“Drink all finished. Most of it go down cleavage.”

“Go and speak to Olivia Newton John,” I said, pointing towards the instantly recognizable pint-sized diva. “I’ll mingle on my own.”

And so I mingled. I mingled with the rich and famous. They’d all turned out for the occasion. Because that’s what they do, turn out for occasions. First nights, film premieres, fashion shows, “audience with” evenings. All those events are peopled with the rich and famous. Nonentities need not apply. Because, let’s face it, the rich and famous have to have somewhere to go. Something to do. If they didn’t, then they’d just have to stay at home watching the TV like the rest of us. So the rich and famous go to “do’s” where they’re on the guest list. It’s a very small world and the same rich and famous meet the other same rich and famous again and again. In fact, that’s all they ever meet. Which is why they have affairs and intermarry and divorce and do it all again. In the same little circle. And it’s a tiny little circle. There are two hundred and twenty-three of them. You can look them up and count them if you don’t believe me. There will always be, at any one time in history, exactly two hundred and twenty-three rich and famous people alive and all going to the same places at the same time in the world. Why? I just don’t know, but there it is.

Most of them turned up for Barry’s book launch that night. And I mingled with as many as I possibly could.

But I didn’t have any idea at the time where this mingling was going to lead me and I certainly wasn’t expecting the evening to end in the way that it did.

Which was not a pleasing way.

Although it was certainly different.

I really like the rich and famous. In my opinion, the rich and famous prove Darwin’s theory of evolution. It took millions of years for man to evolve into man. The state of manness that we are today. And no one has ever found the missing link, or the many missing links, that join the chain of human evolution together. But if you want to see the entire process played at fast forward as if on a video machine, then view the life of a self-made rich and famous personality. They start out as nothing – just another part of the great homogeneous mass of mankind, that great seething organism. But they evolve, they take on an identity of their own, an individuality; they rise from the collective primordial mire, they raise their heads, they
become
. It’s a complete evolutionary cycle. They demonstrate the potential of mankind. They are an example to us all of what is possible.

Not that most of them deserve their fame and fortune. Do me a favour!

Most of them are talentless cretins who just happened to be in the right place at the right time and
made
it.

Do I sound bitter about this? Do I?

Well, I’m not. I know that it’s true. But I do like them. And what I really like most about them is their excess. The way they waste away millions. I was brought up in a poor household and I was conditioned to be careful with my money. I spend a bit on clothes, but not a lot, and I never
waste
money. I was taught to understand the value of money. My daddy was really hot on the
value
of money, which was probably why he never gave me any. “Money must be earned and then looked after,” he used to say, which was another reason that I hated him. It’s hard to break away from that kind of early programming. The rich and famous are able to do that. They can squander, big time. They have it, so they spend it and they enjoy spending it. They don’t turn off lights after them, they don’t have to sniff the milk from the fridge to see if it’s fresh (it always
is
if you’re rich). They can buy the fluffy toilet rolls that cost that bit too much. They don’t give a damn for a “two for one” offer. They don’t say, “A watch is a watch. I’ll have this cheap one.” They say, “That’s a
really
nice watch. I don’t give a damn how much it costs, I’ll have it. And the car too, and the house – no, make that two houses. And a yacht.”

I sort of yearned to be like that. But it was different for me. I was programmed. I’d been conditioned. I had been taught to be frugal. So I didn’t know whether I had in me that special something that would allow me to squander money if I ever got to be rich and famous.

I thought I’d go and have a word with Jeff Beck. I’d heard that he’d bought himself some really expensive guitars. Had them handmade to his own specifications. Paid a fortune for them. I thought I’d like to shake the hand that played those exclusive guitars.

But although I hung around on the periphery of Jeff s group of chatting chums, I didn’t get the opportunity to say hello and tell him about how I’d seen him back in the days when he was paying his dues at the Blue Triangle Club. So I thought, stuff it, and went off to mingle elsewhere.

And while I was trying to find someone to mingle with, I found myself in the vicinity of the food table. And what a lot of food was on it, and all expensive too. It was quite a trouble getting into the
near
vicinity of the food table, there were so many rich and famous crowded around and filling their porcelain plates.
[20]
They do like to trencher down free grub, the rich and famous, which is another thing I admire them for.

I had to make my presence felt in order to get near that table. I had to tread on David Bowie’s toe and elbow Cat Stevens in the ribs, but when I did get myself right up close to the extravagant nosh I spied a most curious thing. I spied someone slipping silver spoons into their pocket.

Now I know that the rich and famous are not averse to this kind of behaviour. And I know that their status makes them immune from prosecutions. Like that secret law that allows people with expensive four-wheel-drives to park on double yellow lines, when the rest of us would get nicked for it. But I was strangely shocked to see it happening right before my eyes. And as this was Barry’s bash and those were Harry’s/Peter’s spoons, I was doubly offended by it.

I leaned over and grasped the wrist of the offender. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, for he was a he, “but I think you’ve inadvertently slipped a load of silver spoons into your pocket. I think we should perhaps go and discuss this matter outside.”

The offender turned to face me. He wore one of those burglar eye masks, the sort that the Lone Ranger used to wear. He also wore what appeared to be a prison uniform of the comic-book persuasion that have the arrowhead (or is it crow’s-foot?) motifs all over them.

“Blimey,” said the malcontent. “Blimey, Gary, it’s you.”

I stared once and then I stared again.

“Dave,” I said. “Dave Rodway, it’s you.”

“It was, the last time I looked,” said Dave. “But I don’t look often, in case I’m up to something. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

“I certainly do,” I said. “But what are you doing here? I thought you were doing a five stretch in Strangeways.”

“I absconded,” said Dave. “Stole the governor’s keys and his motorcar and absconded. It was dull in there and they wouldn’t let me work in the laundry room.”

“Well, bravo, Dave,” I said. “Let me get you a drink.”

“Nice,” said Dave. “But let me nick you one instead.”

“I can get the drinks for free,” I said.

“Where’s the sport in that?”

I let Dave nick us a bottle of bubbly, then we ejected a couple of Miracles
[21]
from a comfy-looking sofa and sat down.

“Cheers,” said Dave, pouring drinks, and we drank.

“This is brilliant,” I said. “Seeing you again. I’ve missed you, Dave.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Dave.

“I have,
a bit
.”

“I heard about Sandra. I’m sorry about that.”

“She’s over there, chatting with Olivia Newton John,” I said.

“She’s
what
?” said Dave. “But she’s
dead
.”

“
Was
dead,” I said. “I reanimated her, like with Mr Penrose. I dug her up first, though.”

“Well done,” said Dave. “You’re still into all that death and magic stuff, then? You’re still a weirdo. I’m glad. I thought you’d sold out to the system.”

“Me? Never.”

“So what are you doing? Up to no good? Wheeling and dealing? Being your own man?”

“Absolutely,” I lied. “The nine-to-five will never be me, as Sid Barrett used to sing.”

“Cool,” said Dave. “And what about Harry? Fell on his feet with this job, eh?”

“Bought a motorbike,” I said, draining my glass. “But what are you doing here?”

“I happened to be passing by – well,
running
by. I’d been perusing a civilian suit in a West End tailor’s and the alarm went off. The sissy boy bouncer saw my mask and thought I was a guest.”

“And so we meet up again. What a happy coincidence.”

“Yeah,” said Dave. “What about that, eh?”

We got stuck into the bottle of champagne.

“So,” said Dave, by way of conversation. “How is Sandra holding up? Is she – how shall I put this delicately? – is she, well, decomposing?”

“Sadly, yes,” I said. “I have to keep gluing bits back on. But they’re making all kinds of advances in the field of medicine nowadays, grafting and suchlike. I have high hopes for the future.”

Dave nodded thoughtfully and the eyes behind the mask followed a particularly delicious-looking young woman in next to no clothing, who was clicking her high-heeled way towards the ladies. “Look at the body on that,” said Dave.

“Yes,” I said, and I sighed.

“Sandra had a good body,” said Dave.

“Very good,” I agreed.

“Very curvy in all the right places.”

“Very curvy, yes.”

“And that little mole on her bum. And the way she whinnied like a pony when she—”

“Eh?” I said. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Dave. “All women have moles on their bums. And the posh ones always whinny when they, you know …”

“Do they?” I asked.

“So I am reliably informed.”

“I quite miss the mole,” I said. “It came off last week.”

“Shame,” said Dave. “You should get Sandra a new one.”

“A new mole? Where do you buy new moles?”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you buy one. I was thinking more that you
acquire
one.”

“
Acquire
one? What are you talking about?”

Dave set his glass aside and put the champagne bottle to his lips. He took a big swig and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She needs spare parts,” said Dave. “She’s your wife; you care about her. Her welfare should come first.”

“It does,” I said.

“Then get her some spare parts. If a leg gets ropy, get her a new one. Get her two. And a bum.”

“Her navel’s caved in,” I said.

“Then get her a new stomach, and tits.”

“She could certainly do with new tits,” I said.

“Then go the full Monty: get her an entire new ensemble. A whole new body. It would be great for her, like having a new dress. And it would be great for you. A new body. A
fresh
new body.”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “And a good one. I could dig one up for her, I suppose.”

“Use your brain,” said Dave. “Why dig up a dead one? It would already be going mouldy. Get her a new fresh body. Get her a live one.” He nodded towards the delicious young woman who was now coming out of the Ladies. “Get her
that
one.” And he turned and winked through his eye mask. “Sandra would really appreciate
that
one.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, but I knew exactly what he was saying.

“You know exactly what I’m saying,” said Dave. “How long have we been bestest friends, Gary?”

“For ever,” I said. “As long as I can remember.”

“And we trust each other, yes?”

“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could poke you with a stick.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean that we can trust each other in that what we say to each other will never go any further. We can trust
in
each other.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “How could it be any other way?”

“Exactly,” said Dave. “So we are honest with each other.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“So let’s be honest,” said Dave. “Where are you working, Gary?”

“At the telephone exchange,” I said. “I’ve been there for five years.”

“There,” said Dave. “That wasn’t difficult, was it?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t like lying to you.”

“Good,” said Dave. “So, I’ll ask you another question and you’ll give me an honest answer, yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

“OK,” said Dave, in a lowered tone. “To your knowledge, how many deaths have you been responsible for, Gary?”

I scratched my head. What kind of question was
that
? I mean, what kind of questions
was
that?

“I’m waiting,” said Dave.

I stared at Dave.

“How many?” said Dave.

“A few,” I said. “Maybe.”

“A few,” said Dave. “Maybe. And that would account for your daddy, the ice-cream man, and Count Otto Black and Sandra, by proxy. I might have been in the nick when Count Otto copped it, but I knew what he was up to with Sandra. And I recognized your hand in his tragic demise.”

I shrugged and made an innocent face, but as I was wearing a domino mask Dave couldn’t see me making it.

“So, that would be four,” said Dave. “You never actually laid a hand on them, but I know, and you know that I know, that you were directly responsible. I’m asking you how many others you have actually
killed
by your own hand.”

“It’s not so many,” I said.

“
How
many?” said Dave.

“About thirty.”

“
About
thirty?”

“Thirty-two. No, ’
three
.”

“Thirty-three would be the taxi driver I ran past earlier in the quiet street round the corner, I’ll bet.”

“You should have seen how much he wanted to charge us for the fare.”

“I’m not judging you,” said Dave. “I’m your friend. Your bestest friend. The fact that you are a serial killer does not affect our friendship.”

“Nor should it,” I said. “It has nothing to do with our friendship. Have I ever condemned you for being a thief?”

Dave shook his head. “You killed Captain Runstone, didn’t you?” said he.

“I did.” I sighed. “He was the very first – no, second, actually. He caught me in the restricted section of the Memorial Library. He was drunk and he tried to interfere with me.”

“Self-defence,” said Dave. “You’d have got away with that one.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind him interfering with me,” I said. “I quite liked it. But his breath smelt rotten.”

“You’d have gone down,” said Dave. “You were wise to keep quiet. But what about all the rest?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It was just here and there. People upset me. They make me angry. I hit them. I don’t mean to. Something just comes over me, or into me, or something, and I’m not myself, I just do it. There was the labourer, once, on a building site, where Mother Demdike’s hut used to be. He was a homophobe. Something came over me. I lost my temper. Stuff like that.”

“Well, I’m your bestest friend and I would never grass you up, as you know. It’s your thing. It’s the way you are.”

“It’s my daddy’s fault,” I said. “I’ve read a lot about this sort of thing. An abused child becomes an abusing adult. It’s in the programming.”

“Yeah, right,” said Dave. “But I’m not judging you. All I’m saying, and this is the whole point of this conversation, you love Sandra and so you should put Sandra first. And if that means sacrificing a few young, nubile, attractive women to acquire their bodies as replacements, then you should consider it. You would be doing it for your Sandra. The benefits for yourself would of course be secondary.”

“Yes,” I said and I nodded thoughtfully. “You have a good point there.”

“Of course I do,” said Dave. “And I took the liberty of placing the dead cabbie in the boot of his cab and helping myself to the keys. So, if you wish to acquire the nubile young woman later, I’ll be more than pleased to give you a hand.”