by E Day
Tim had a great knack for encouraging people to do things. All his friends knew they would most likely be disappointed in the things Tim planned but still would do them, since Tim could convince them of anything. The summer holidays had started, and he was trying to persuade people to go on a French holiday with him. Matt and Dave could not make it: Dave could not get the time off work and Matt had to play video games. Tim had already persuaded Mungo to come, but no one else. He was working on Alex, “It’ll be great: Mungo’s coming.”
“He is? Why do you want that twat to come?”
“He’s alright. And he has a beard.”
“Well that’ll come in handy. What’s it going to cost?”
“£215.”
“215 quid? For everything?”
“Yeah, bus to Dover, across on the ferry, bus to the coast, then we stay in a tent near the beach. Everything’s included, except food and drink.”
“Drink is a major expense for me.”
“Well you can buy wine for about 70p over there.”
“And a franc back on the bottle?”
“Shhhh…We haven’t got that far yet. Come on it’ll be brilliant.”
Against his better judgement Alex said: ”OK then.”
“Brilliant. I’ll book it tonight.”
“OK. I can’t pay you till next week.”
“S’Alright. Give us a check next week. I’ll book it for June 16th. We’ll go for 10 days.”
“Sounds good.” It didn’t really.
At 4AM on June 16th Alex was up and ready, anticipating a knock at the door so that his parents would not be woken, “Alex hur hur hur” said a voice outside. Alex opened the door. It was Mungo, “Don’t you knock?”
“Knock…knock ‘er up hur hur hur. Alright Alex!”
“Where’s Tim?”
“We’re going to pick him up next.”
“OK.”
“OK ‘er up hur hur hur.”
Alex was not sure if he was confused because of the early hour or if Mungo was making no sense. He decided on the latter. After picking up Tim the four of them: Mungo, Alex, Tim and Mungo’s beard headed for Dover. They parked Mungo’s car in a side road near Aylesbury bus station.
“Think it’ll be OK here for a week?” Mungo asked nervously.
“Yeah Wilf,” said Alex.
They entered the bus station, Tim with his chequebook handy in case of skinheads (see later). But there were none and they boarded a National Express bus to Dover and 6 hours later were on a ferry to France.
On arrival they boarded another coach, this time a French one, and headed for Cap D’Agde on the west coast. The bus was French, and so was the driver, and so were most of the vehicles on the roads. And so were the roads.
Up to now the lads had been silent, except for Mungo’s occasional mumblings, the early start not agreeing with any of them. But Mungo could not contain himself at the thrill of seeing many slightly different vehicles.
“See that van over there?” he asked Tim, pointing at an unremarkable green Citroen van.
“Yeah.”
“It‘s got different trim to the ones sold in England.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And they have different model numbers…” Mungo continued to talk but Tim had already switched off. Tim got up and sat by Alex who was sitting on his own behind the seat Tim had just vacated.
“What’s up?”
“Mungo is boring me.”
“What was he talking about?”
“Vans.”
“Oi Wilf.” Alex poked Mungo through the gap in the seats. Mungo leant over the seat backs, “Tim wants to know more about vans.”
“Really? I don’t think he does. Tim ‘er up hur hur hur.”
“No he’s right Wilf I do. I just got up to tell Alex coz I know he’s very interested in cars.” Which he was, “Are Peugeot vans the same here too?”
“Some are and some aren’t I think, because I saw a 106 van earlier that was the same as Mickey’s van. Do you know Mickey he lives over Southcourt?”
“Mickey ‘er up” said Tim.
And so the bus journey passed with much dull van conversation. For it was Roy’s command.
At 3:30 pm the bus arrived at the beach/campsite. Their accommodation was a pre-pitched tent with 2 beds, and the floor for a third person.
“Lets draw lots for the floor,” said Mungo as Alex and Tim flopped into one of the two beds. One each that is, because they are not gay, honest.
“No lets not” said Alex. And they didn’t.
The lads soon fell into a rhythm on the holiday. Each morning they would wake up. Then they would eat breakfast, get irritated by Mungo, eat lunch, take the piss out of Mungo, Mungo would wander off, Alex and Tim would feel guilty and they would find Mungo and go out to a night club or bar and get drunk. Then the whole thing would start again. Lather, rinse and repeat. The gaps in the day were usually filled by the lads lazing in the tent or buying booze or using the campsite’s shower block. One day Mungo returned from a shower, while Tim was eating a yoghurt.
“Pissed on yoghurt again eh Tim?” Asked Mungo. After he wandered off that afternoon Alex and Tim took this statement as proof of Mungo’s potential to be one of Roy’s disciples. As they discussed this over lunch in a cheap restaurant near the beach they noticed the table begin to shake. Then a booming voice said “HE WHO HAS A BEARD MUST BE THE NUMBER ONE.” Then there was silence and the table stopped shaking.
“See,” said Tim, “Roy wants Mungo to be the number one disciple.”
“Not necessarily. If that was him, and we don’t know for sure that it was, he could have been referring to…er…a singer with a beard…let’s say George Michael, being number one in the pop charts.”
“Yes that seems likely,” said Tim sarcastically, “I expect he told us so that we could go out and buy lots of copies of Wham’s latest single. Besides, George Michael is clean shaven.”
“Oh yeah. Ok then…Rolf Harris.”
“No. I know what Roy wants and he wants Mungo to be number one.”
“OK then he’s number one. Whatever that means!”
And Mungo stayed that way until one afternoon in Portsmouth many years later.
Although they were both fairly sure Mungo was the number one disciple, just to be sure they decided to assess some of his disciple characteristics. One day Mungo needed to cash a traveller’s check and wanted to know how to ask for 50-franc notes in French. Tim’s French was much better than Mungo’s so Mungo asked him for advice, “Tim I need some advice. What’s the French for I want my change in fifty franc notes?"
“I’m not sure Wilf. Let’s see.” Tim looked in his bag for his French dictionary. Quickly he looked up ‘ginger’ and ‘beard’, “Oh yeah, it’s ‘J’ai une barbe roux’.”
“Thanks Tim. J’ai un barb rous. J’ai un barb rous.” A dit Mungo, qui en actualment, a une barbe roux.
“That’s it. You off then?”
“Yeah to the bank. J’ai un barb rous. See ya.”
A couple of hours later Mungo returned. Tim was in the tent lying on his bed eating a yoghurt.
“Did you go to the bank Wilf?”
“Yeah just in time too: they were just closing. D’ya know there was this Citroen van parked outside and the roof was slightly…”
“Yeah. Did you have any problems?"
“Problems?”
“At the bank?”
“Oh! No.”
“So they understood that you wanted 50 franc notes?”
“Yeah no problem. You alright there? Hurr hurr hurr.”
“I’m off to the toilet.” Tim grabbed a bottle of shampoo as the toilet complex on the campsite housed the showers too.
“Off to do a poo eh hur hurr hurr with your shampoo? Shambapoo! Hurr hur hur.”
Tim did not know what to make of this but decided Mungo had passed the test. True the bank had understood him, but the fact that he believed Tim in the first place made him disciple mat
erial, and his ‘shambapoo’ comment cemented his discipleness. Tim felt pleased with his day’s work. Truly it was a special day when you discover the number one disciple. But it still sat a little uneasily with him. Was Mungo really Roy’s number one, or had they just decided he was, because he was Roy’s only disciple? Surely a system to objectively rate disciples would be needed, if they were to be ranked in order of discipilability.
Chapter 6. Skinheads at the Bus Station
Book of Aylesbury, Chapter 3 Verse 6
“And it came to pass that Roy would create the wonder that is Aylesbury. And Aylesbury would be the home of wondrous things. There would be two McDonalds and a Mexican restaurant, and many pubs, and a canal, and a council building, and Roy built all these, and saw that they were good.
But when Roy had built, and paid for, these things, he saith unto himself ‘WHERE SHALL I PUT EVIL PEOPLE IN THE PARADISE THAT IS AYLESBUR?. FOR EVIL PEOPLE HAVE NO HOME IN PARADISE BUT EVIL PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE TOO.’ So Roy thought long and hard, and decided a bus station would be a good place to house the evil, and a good place for buses to live. And Roy did build a mighty bus station. And in this bus station people did catch buses, but also evil people, especially skinheads, did live there in the grime.”
A few days after returning from France, Tim entered the 3 Chickens. He never liked this pub at the best of times. It was a working class pub on the edge of one of Aylesbury’s mystical roundabouts.9
Tim tended to stay out of pubs near Aylesbury’s town centre, having heard of tales of sea monsters and skinheads that roamed these pubs. Tonight he had reluctantly arranged to meet his friend Paolo in the pub.
The pub, like most pubs, was very smoky. Tim hated smoking but could tolerate it after a beer or two. The pub was fairly empty with only two tables occupied. Elvis McCartney was sitting at the bar. Elvis was an unemployed mechanic who had been in prison for GBH. Apparently. Tim sat down next to him.
“Alright Tim! How’s business?”
“Good. I just got my Viva fixed!”
“Yeah? Hey, have I ever shown you my tattoo?” he rolled up his sleeve showing a tattoo that sort of looked like Elvis. A bit.
“Huh! That’s good. Why have you got a tattoo of Liza Minelli?’
“It’s Elvis!”
“Oh yeah. Did you do it yourself?”
“Nah! Cost me 10 quid!”
“It’s very…rubbish.”
“Sod you. Hey Paolo was looking for you. Said he’d be back in 30.” Thirty seconds later Paolo walked in, “See”.
“Teeeeem! How’s it going?” Paolo was dressed in a denim waistcoat, jeans and a flat village people type cap. He and Tim had been friends since childhood. He was the nicest person Tim knew and Tim often told anyone who would listen (which was no one) that there was not a malicious bone in Paolo’s body.
“Good Paolo! Got the Viva fixed!”
“Niice! Hey I got new air horns on mine wanna see ‘em?”
“Yeah alright”. Tim was relieved to have an excuse to leave the pub, even though he had only been there for less than a minute.
Paolo’s Viva was parked outside. It was dirty green in colour with large brighter (and clashing) green stripes down the side. Paolo has painted these with some gloss paint left over from his mum’s kitchen decorating. He also added a large black “62” on each front door. The car’s engine was 1.3 litres but Paolo swore it was a little faster than the normal 1.3 so when he came to sell it he advertised it as a 1.3/1.8. He opened the door.
“Listen” he said to Tim rather redundantly, since a piercing air horn was already blasting a jolly tune, “It’s excellent aint it?”
“No. Let’s go for a spin.”
“OK. Let’s go.” Paolo said excitedly. And he and Tim climbed into the Viva through its windows. Paolo had welded the doors shut; to ‘be like the Dukes of Hazard’ as he put it. Neither of them were particularly svelte and this ‘cool’ entrance became anything but – both of them getting stuck and finally tumbling into the car in an ungainly heap. They both then quickly sat up into their seats and put on ‘nothing happened – we’re cool’ expressions on their faces.
Aylesbury bus station was a hellhole that existed underneath the building that housed Woolworths. It was laid out in a U-shape with diagonal bays on the outside of the U. There was also a central section within the U, for buses to park at, and chat with other buses. Paolo squealed into the bus station, the Viva moving like the powerful machine it wasn’t.
“Go Paolo,” said Tim laughing.
Pulling on his handbrake, Paolo parked in the centre of the U, sliding to a halt next to a number 48 bus. He switched the engine off.
“See Tim: did you feel the turbo boost?”
The two of them got out of the car and admired the largely drip-free paintwork. Periodically Paolo leant inside and gave his air horns a blast. The passengers on the number 48 bus were becoming increasingly annoyed by this, all except one who watched Paolo and Tim intently.
“Where’s Neil? He’s usually down here isn’t he?”
“Yeah…” Paolo was cut short as someone pushed him from behind. He hit the car’s bonnet hard. Tim wheeled round: there were a gang of skinheads, numbering at least 20 according to Tim’s later exaggeration. The skinhead who had pushed Paolo started to head towards Tim who ran round the other side of the Viva to escape. The skinhead chased him. Tim dived through the Viva’s driver side window and quickly closed it behind him. The skinhead turned his attentions to Paolo who started to run round the Viva whimpering. The skinhead gave up chasing Paolo and opened the Viva’s passenger door and got in.
“Please don’t hurt me I’m only a little boy” screamed Tim.
“You what?”
“I…I…I love you like my own father.” Tim cowered back against the driver’s door.
The skinhead laughed and raised his fist.
“I’ll write you a cheque for 200 pounds if you let me go.”
The skinhead drew his arm back. As he did, Tim quickly wrote and handed him a cheque, “Do you need to see my cheque guarantee card?” Asked Tim. The skinhead swung his fist at Tim’s face.
Just before the blow landed, Paolo opened the driver’s door and Tim tumbled out onto the bus station ground. Tim ran from the bus station as fast as he could. Which was not very fast. He ran and ran until his lungs were bursting, and he could not be bothered to run any further. He had run for 10 Tim-miles (about a mile) and had stopped in a deserted lane outside a house set on its own. He could not see any skinheads following him but he did not want to wait there in case they came for him.
As he left the bus station, the passenger on the 48 bus descended and approached the skinhead. It was Rastas.
Chapter 7. Silence of the Graham
Book of Serial Killers, Chapter 2 Verse 4
“And Graham was red of face for he had quothed much wine. And he did tell everyone who his favourite serial killers were and he did think it funny to say what he would like to do to people with a knife.”
Tim did not know whether the skinheads were following him or not. He decided he should not risk fate, and should get out of the area as quickly as possible. But he could run no longer so he decided he would have to hide. But there was nowhere nearby to hide. No trees or hedges large enough to hide even half Tim’s belly. The only place where there might be shelter was in the house in front of him. So he knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. This time he heard some muffled sounds and after a few seconds the door opened a crack.
“Alright mate!” Tim couldn’t see who had spoken since the interior of the house was pitch black.
“Hello. Do you think you could hide me from the skinheads who are chasing me?” Tim was desperate now – he had given his last cheque to the skinheads and they were still after him. Chequeless Tim felt that this stranger might be his only hope.
“Yeah come in. Do you like bombs?” With these words the door swung open and the speaker was revealed. It was a man of ave
rage height and build who appeared to be drunk. He was dressed in flak jacket and camouflage trousers. He beckoned Tim in. Tim entered the house.
It was very dark inside but Tim could just discern the narrow passage that they stood in. It lead to a door at the back which seemed to lead to several other rooms and pits and things.
“My name’s Graham. I like bombs, Clint Eastwood and killing people, but not really you understand.”
“What a strange man” thought Tim. Then he remembered how hungry he was, “Tell me Graham do you have a large bucket of ice cream that I can eat?” And so it was that Tim met Graham, potentially one of the 20th century’s most notorious serial killers. After Tim had eaten the ice cream he was still hungry and Graham made him some sandwiches out of some special meat that he kept in his basement.
“Thanks Graham. That’s really tasty. What kind of meat is it?”
“Er…animal meat.”
***
After a few hours Tim decided it was safe to leave Graham’s house. Just as he was about to say goodbye he heard a faint voice saying his name, “Who is it?” he asked. The voice grew louder “It is I – Squid: Roy’s angel.” And Tim saw before him a vision of beauty. A man yet not a man that shimmered with a celestial glow. Tim knew that someone as perfect as this must have been sent by Roy. Yet despite the fact that Squid was the epitome of other-worldly beauty he couldn’t help but feel that Squid bore more than a passing resemblance to himself and Roger Melly out of Viz. Tim realised that he was staring in awe at Squid and quickly averted his gaze, but before he did he saw that Squid was dressed in only an ill-fitting very large pair of underpants.
“Timothy”.
“Yes Squid?”
“You have found another disciple”.
And with those words Squid disappeared and Graham was standing in his place.
“Would you like to be Roy’s second disciple Graham?”
“Yeah alright mate. If you give me a hand cleaning up my basement. I spilt a bunch of red paint down there.”
Book of Serial Killers, Chapter 2 Verse 15
And Tim did help Graham clean that basement and the paint was not that hard to clean and was more of a dried blood colour. And Tim knew that Roy had made it easy to clean.”
“What are your special powers Graham?”
