Hybristophilia
The following article provides an accurate and detailed account of the interview between legendary Agony Aunt, Granny D, and 54-year-old spinster, Karen Nark.
In 2010, leading Harley Street Psychiatrist, Dr. Frederick Albrecht Müller MRCPsych, diagnosed Karen as having the disorder, Paraphilia, after she confessed to becoming sexually aroused when sending fan mail to high-profile criminals, particularly those who have committed atrocious crimes.
From a personal perspective, I considered it a great privilege to be asked along to such a clandestine meeting. It was an opportunity to witness, first hand, the mental agility of Britain's first lady of agony, Granny D, as she skillfully unraveled the complexities of the human mind.
The venue for our surreptitious liaison was a back street cafe in Scarborough, North Yorkshire, a mere stone’s throw from where Karen lived in a two-up, two-down prefab along with her arthritic Yorkie, Mr. Woo. The café, known locally as ‘Sleazy Tallow’, was Karen's choice. Finding comfort in familiar surroundings, it was the place where she would spend much of her time researching the history of her would-be suitors and scribbling draft letters to them on A5 sheets of perfumed paper.
The interior of the Café appeared to be an odious collaboration of yellows, greens and browns, possibly caused by the constant spitting of the chip fryer… Stan Patterson. At the time we arrived, Stan was lingering behind the counter polishing spoons on the lower half of his apron; an apron that read like an organic menu of microwaveable meals. He casually tossed the spoons into the cutlery tray and swept back his greasy black hair with the tattooed fingers of one hand, whilst digging deep into the crevice of his buttocks with the other. It wasn’t a move Lionel Blair would have been particularly proud of, but it did fulfil the criteria for multi-tasking, albeit in a naive sort of way.
“Table for three,” chirped, Granny D, despite the conspicuous absence of patrons.
Seemingly oblivious to her request, Stan retrieved a cheroot from beneath the counter and rolled it to the corner of his mouth like some third-rate actor auditioning for a spaghetti western.
“Hey, Mr. Motivator, do you think you could speed things up a little? I’ve seen scabs grow back faster than you move, and they’re a lot easier on the eye too.” Stan curled his lip in a vain attempt to smile, before proceeding to light the cheroot with a fake Zippo lighter decorated with the image of a cannabis leaf. The smoke shrouded his squinting eyes as it seeped from his mouth and clung to his sweaty face on its relentless path towards nicotine heaven. He withdrew the cheroot from his lips and nodded towards the table behind us. “There’s a menu waiting for yer on the table, Pet” he replied in a thick, Geordie accent, “Park your backsides and I’ll bring the bevvies over when you’ve decided what you’re ‘avin’. This week’s specials are ham and peas puddin’ wi’ a selection o’ hot or cold beverages for just under a fiver, and I’ll even throw in a free stotty for good measure. Or, if ya tend ta suffer from wind, you might wanna try a singin’ hinny wi’ a pot o’ coffee for a couple o’ quid, that’s leik a scone to the uninitiated.”
As Stan once again dragged on the cheroot, to his complete and utter shock, Granny D extended her arm and reached across the counter. Pulling a fistful of his apron towards her, she took the cheroot from his mouth and stubbed it out in the tin-foil ashtray by the side of the till. Stan instinctively coughed out the remaining smoke. “I won’t pretend to know what you’ve just said,” she growled, “but I rather think we’d be more at home with a window table and the English language, if it’s not too much of a task, that is.”
“Good ho,” replied, Stan, somewhat shaken, “A window table… Aye, I think we can manage that much.”
“Good. Now how about you pop over there with a dishcloth and some bleach, and remove the coffee rings and E. coli, before we get ourselves seated?
At the conclusion of her speech, Granny D released her grip and Stan rocked back on his heels. “No sooner said than done, Madam,” he replied, hurriedly collecting his dishcloth and surface cleaner and scurrying over to the window table. The three of us watched as Stan frantically sprayed and wiped down the surface three times before retrieving a menu from an adjacent table and placing it in front of us as we took our seats. “There,” commented Granny D, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
In 2010, leading Harley Street Psychiatrist, Dr. Frederick Albrecht Müller MRCPsych, diagnosed Karen as having the disorder, Paraphilia, after she confessed to becoming sexually aroused when sending fan mail to high-profile criminals, particularly those who have committed atrocious crimes.
From a personal perspective, I considered it a great privilege to be asked along to such a clandestine meeting. It was an opportunity to witness, first hand, the mental agility of Britain's first lady of agony, Granny D, as she skillfully unraveled the complexities of the human mind.
The venue for our surreptitious liaison was a back street cafe in Scarborough, North Yorkshire, a mere stone’s throw from where Karen lived in a two-up, two-down prefab along with her arthritic Yorkie, Mr. Woo. The café, known locally as ‘Sleazy Tallow’, was Karen's choice. Finding comfort in familiar surroundings, it was the place where she would spend much of her time researching the history of her would-be suitors and scribbling draft letters to them on A5 sheets of perfumed paper.
The interior of the Café appeared to be an odious collaboration of yellows, greens and browns, possibly caused by the constant spitting of the chip fryer… Stan Patterson. At the time we arrived, Stan was lingering behind the counter polishing spoons on the lower half of his apron; an apron that read like an organic menu of microwaveable meals. He casually tossed the spoons into the cutlery tray and swept back his greasy black hair with the tattooed fingers of one hand, whilst digging deep into the crevice of his buttocks with the other. It wasn’t a move Lionel Blair would have been particularly proud of, but it did fulfil the criteria for multi-tasking, albeit in a naive sort of way.
“Table for three,” chirped, Granny D, despite the conspicuous absence of patrons.
Seemingly oblivious to her request, Stan retrieved a cheroot from beneath the counter and rolled it to the corner of his mouth like some third-rate actor auditioning for a spaghetti western.
“Hey, Mr. Motivator, do you think you could speed things up a little? I’ve seen scabs grow back faster than you move, and they’re a lot easier on the eye too.” Stan curled his lip in a vain attempt to smile, before proceeding to light the cheroot with a fake Zippo lighter decorated with the image of a cannabis leaf. The smoke shrouded his squinting eyes as it seeped from his mouth and clung to his sweaty face on its relentless path towards nicotine heaven. He withdrew the cheroot from his lips and nodded towards the table behind us. “There’s a menu waiting for yer on the table, Pet” he replied in a thick, Geordie accent, “Park your backsides and I’ll bring the bevvies over when you’ve decided what you’re ‘avin’. This week’s specials are ham and peas puddin’ wi’ a selection o’ hot or cold beverages for just under a fiver, and I’ll even throw in a free stotty for good measure. Or, if ya tend ta suffer from wind, you might wanna try a singin’ hinny wi’ a pot o’ coffee for a couple o’ quid, that’s leik a scone to the uninitiated.”
As Stan once again dragged on the cheroot, to his complete and utter shock, Granny D extended her arm and reached across the counter. Pulling a fistful of his apron towards her, she took the cheroot from his mouth and stubbed it out in the tin-foil ashtray by the side of the till. Stan instinctively coughed out the remaining smoke. “I won’t pretend to know what you’ve just said,” she growled, “but I rather think we’d be more at home with a window table and the English language, if it’s not too much of a task, that is.”
“Good ho,” replied, Stan, somewhat shaken, “A window table… Aye, I think we can manage that much.”
“Good. Now how about you pop over there with a dishcloth and some bleach, and remove the coffee rings and E. coli, before we get ourselves seated?
At the conclusion of her speech, Granny D released her grip and Stan rocked back on his heels. “No sooner said than done, Madam,” he replied, hurriedly collecting his dishcloth and surface cleaner and scurrying over to the window table. The three of us watched as Stan frantically sprayed and wiped down the surface three times before retrieving a menu from an adjacent table and placing it in front of us as we took our seats. “There,” commented Granny D, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Tina by Lynch
It all seemed rather reminiscent of those early mod films made around the advent of Technicolor. The brown vinyl bench seats; the plastic orange lampshade suspended above the fake wood-grain veneered table top; the carpet with its brown and yellow patterned squares with rounded corners; and even the iconic print-on-board of a sultry, bear-shouldered island girl carressing a tree trunk.
With the muted crackling of an old transistor radio providing the ambiance, the scene was set for one of the most compelling interviews I have ever had the privilege to witness. I took out my recorder and laid it in the centre of the table. “Am I ok to start the recording?” I asked, to no one in particular.
“Fine by me,” replied Karen. I obliged by depressing the record button. Satisfied all was working, I leant towards the inbuilt microphone. “Interview commencing at 14.05; those present, myself, Tom Dade; Agony Aunt, Granny D; and interviewee, Karen Nark.”
“What the hell are you playing at?” interrupted, Granny D, “She’s not under soddin’ caution! Sorry about that, Karen, he’s been a bit overzealous ever since buying the box set of Midsomer Murders.”
A moment of awkward silence mercifully concluded as Karen announced her choice of beverage. “A Caffe Latte, please Stan’,” she croaked in her best, forty-cigarettes-a-day voice, “and easy on the milk." Stan flicked open his pad and began to jot down the order. “I’ll have the same,” said Granny D, “but with the addition of a spoonful of chocolate.”
“A Mocha?” replied Albert.
“Actually, I’d prefer the real thing but, hey, why not surprise me.”
“You may as well surprise me too,” I added.
Like an abnormally large meerkat, Karen stretched her neck to peruse the contents of the counter display cabinet. “I may as well give that Bavarian Slice a try while I’m at it,” she remarked, coyly, “It looks a bit lonely up there on its own.”
After taking a few moments to survey our surroundings, Granny D placed her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together to provide a chin rest. “No Mr. Woo, today?”
“No, I thought it was best if I left him at home. He suffers from piles, you see, and if I walk him too far he tends to sweat up between the legs and they pop out. When he wags his tail It looks like he’s smuggling grapes, poor little love.
"Hmm," replied Granny D, "Moving swiftly along, in your email, you mentioned that you get your kicks from writing love letters to convicted criminals. It sounds like a dangerous game you play, my dear. For the benefit of the tape, would you care to name names?"
“Now who’s being overzealous,” I commented, though received little more than contemptible glance.
"All in good time," smiled Karen, pausing as Stan placed a tray containing our drinks down on the table and stirred them with his rubber-tipped pencil, "Cheers, Stan. Put it on the tab, there's a love." Stan slid the Bavarian Slice towards her.
“’ey, the cream in this looks a bit on the crusty side, Stan; are you sure it didn’t start out life as a Pavlova?”
“You saucy mare! What are you trying to say?”
“Any chance of some discount? Look at it. There’s probably been a 2% rise in inflation since this was made.”
“aye, go on then,” sighed Stan, “you’ve twisted mi arm. Besides, the dog sniffed at it this morning and even he turned his nose up at it. It’s yours for 40p.”
“Smashin’, put it on the…”
“Aye, I know,” interrupted Stan, “Put it on the tab.”
“By ‘eck,” smirked, Granny D, “there’s no substitute for class.”
As Stan slid one of the cups towards me, the watery black liquid fired my curiosity, though not in a good way. “What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a subtle blend of Bovril ‘n’ Coke,” he replied, “plus a secret ingredient known only to miself. Av named it, Boke. I invented it usin’ some stuff I had left ower from the day befoer. It hasn’t really taken off yet but it will after a bit o’ tweakin’, mark my words.”
A single sip was enough to make my gums recede. “Taken off, you say? Taken what off?... tooth enamel?!”
“Admittedly, it’s not ready for the Dragon’s Den as yet, but it’s getting there.”
“It is absolutely vile!”
Visibly offended, Stan collected his tray and turned to leave. “Too much Tabasco,” he murmured, “I’ll have to cut it down to just one teaspoonful.”
"Ok, can we get on, please?" interrupted, Granny D, "Let’s get’s things rolling with you explaining what it is that turns you on when you’re writing to these, for want of a better expression, bad boys."
Karen's eyes seemed to glaze over, as though she was entering a trance-like state. "That's simple," she replied, "Have you ever seen an international singing star performing on stage; Robbie Williams, for example? When he gets up there in front of all those people, he undergoes a transformation. There are thousands and thousands of fans transfixed by his presence, every single one of them worshipping him, wanting to be in his shoes. It's pretty much the same when a Serviceman dashes out onto the field of battle to rescue a wounded comrade. One minute he’s just another Johnny then, all of a sudden, he's up there on a pedestal, surrounded by an aura of incandescent glory. It's almost as if these chosen ones have some kind of magical power; a power that makes them immortal. Huh, but then of course, these people would never want to waste their time on me, would they, despite all the letters and phone calls; all the sleeping in cars outside their houses; drinking cup-a-soups for breakfast; crapping in Quality Street tins and pissing in polystyrene cups. Until the coppers come along, that is, all high and mighty with their big, hairy hands and cock-end helmets. Move along, Madam, or you’ll be arrested under section 2A of the Protection from Harassment Act 1997. What a load of old bollocks! They wouldn’t know a section 2A if it jumped up and shat on their foreheads. At the end of the day, I guess I'm just not important enough for the celebs of this world. They’re obviously too busy peering out from behind their double-lined curtains to speak to me. The serial killer, on the other hand, sitting alone in his six-by-nine foot prison cell, he does want to know me. Like all the stars and all the heroes, he too has the power to make people sit up and take notice, it’s just that Joe Public isn't as keen to speak to him; and that makes him even more powerful. So when I write one of my letters to whoever takes my fancy, and it's in my own handwriting, which makes it all the more personal, I know I'll have his full attention, because I'm his link to the outside world. These people need me as much as I need them, if not more."
As this point, I felt it necessary to interrupt Karen and tell her that Granny D had actually left the table a couple of minutes ago and was now feeding the Donkey Kong gambler with one-pound coins and furiously hammering away on the nudge buttons like a woman possessed. I gained Granny D’s attention with a loud cough and, a few moments later, she reluctantly returned. She scowled at Stan who had been watching her every move. "If that fat, scruffy bastard goes on that machine and drops the jackpot after watching me putting all that coin in, I swear, he’ll find a size 5 patent-leather shoe, complete with diamante-encrusted buckle, heading straight for his manhood!” Granny D quizzically glanced at us both. “Now then,” she sighed, “where were we?"
“I was just explaining why I write to criminals.”
“Ah, yes, so you were. Sorry about that, I’m a proper sucker when it comes to the slots. You were saying what is it about writing to these weirdoes that does it for you?”
“These people, and that’s what they are, they’re ordinary everyday people that find something within themselves to do extraordinary things, they look forward to my letters. Take Fred West…”
“Whoa! You actually wrote to Fred West?! What did you say?”
“I asked him which was best for pointing, builder’s sand or sharp sand… what the hell do you think I asked him?!”
The response galvanised Granny D into a calm, deep-throated riposte that immediately induced Karen to recoil with fear.
“Well I don’t rightly know, fuck face, that’s why I’m asking!”
The threatening tone of Granny D’s voice drew a heavy blanket of silence over the proceedings; it was almost as if the Kray twins had just entered the room. Suddenly, the sound of a Knickerbocker glory glass shattering on the floor as it slipped from Stan’s trembling grasp filled the vacuum, and presented the welcome opportunity for Karen to acknowledge the presence of a pecking order.
“Sorry,” she murmured, in an almost hoarse tone, “I don’t know what got into my head.”
“My fist if you talk to me like that again,” Replied Granny D, “Apology accepted. Just remember, I’m stumping up for the drinks, so it’s me that calls the shots, ok?”
“Actually, it’s me that’s paying… for…”
The expression on Granny D’s face invited an immediate return to the former topic.
“I asked Fred why he’d done what he’d done. I asked him if he was remorseful. I even asked him why he hadn’t chopped Rose up and buried her in the cellar along with the others.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he didn’t want to talk about it, he just wanted to hold my slender body in his masculine hands. Then he said he wanted to stroke my pert breasts and press his coarse lips against my tender, youthful flesh.”
“Whose picture had you sent him?!”
“Mine, why?!”
“Just wondered… go on.”
“Well, after the first couple of letters, he became strangely aggressive. He said he wanted to have me from behind whilst throttling the life out of me, adding that there was enough room under the patio for one more.”
“Just one moment…” interrupted Granny D, as Stan discretely shuffled his way towards the gambler. “Oi! Fatso! Touch that machine and I’ll put your frickin’ face through it!”
Submissively lowering his head, Stan turned on his heels and casually sauntered back behind the counter like a scolded child.
“Sorry, you were saying…”
“It’s the same with some of the others too. The Crossbow Cannibal, the Yorkshire Ripper, The Suffolk Strangler; they all seem to have a nasty side to them.”
“You don’t say.”
Granny D paused to offer a brief glance in my direction, raising her eyebrows in so doing. “Let’s just say, for example, that one of these nutters escaped from prison and tracked you down. What do you think you would do, Karen? Live happily ever after? Hope to turn him into a reformed character? Maybe you’d do what those killer-couples do… go out on a killing spree like Brady and Hindley, or Bonnie and Clyde, or maybe Thelma and Louise?
“Thelma and Louise? Aren’t they fictional characters?”
“God, you are so naive. That’s just what the moviemakers want you to believe!”
“Well it’s not like that anyway. I have what’s called Passive Hybristophilia and, as such, I’m not a danger to other people.”
“Is that what they told you at the institute?” To emphasise the word ‘institute’, Granny D crooked her fingers to signify inverted commas.
“What are you suggesting?” questioned, Karen, pensively, “that I’m actually capable of murdering someone? Me? With my one O-Level in Social Studies, an NVQ Level 1 in Child Care, and an out-of-date first-aid certificate? What am I likely to do, nurse them to death? I’m sorry, but I rather doubt I fit the typical serial killer’s profile.”
“And what IS the typical serial killer’s profile, Karen?”
“I don’t know. Complex, I suppose. I was reading an article on Charles Manson the other day and he said, Look down on me, you will see a fool. Look up at me, you will see your Lord. Look straight at me, you will see yourself."
Granny D slowly stirred the lukewarm mocha and licked the froth from the spoon. “And where are you looking when you write your letters?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you looking down on them, up to them, or do you see yourself in them? You see, I think it’s not the killer you’re admiring, it’s his actions; the actions that give him his notoriety; the actions that you think you’re not capable of performing. So when you sit there writing your letters, you’re actually using the pen and paper to create a safe-haven, if you will; a form of barrier. Whilst the pen and paper appear to be little more than objects for jotting down your thoughts, they are, in fact, representing the middle ground between fantasy and reality. Is what you don’t seem to be aware of is that it’s not the pen and paper that defines the boundaries of desire and capability, it’s actually you, yourself!”
Whilst Karen sat there nonplussed, as did I if truth be told, Granny D leant towards me and raised the back of her hand to hide her mouth from Karen, so as not to be heard. “That tape recorder better be doing its job,” she whispered, “hell, I’m on fire!”
“I know,” I replied, “I knew all those years watching Frasier wouldn’t be wasted.”
Granny D returned her attention to Karen. “The point I’m making is that everything we do in life is a natural progression, a ladder if you like; and if you’re sad enough to write to these maniacs in the first place, then who knows what’s on the next rung up?”
Granny D glanced in my direction. “Actually” she said, “make a note of that analogy, I may use it in my next book.”
“Phew! I never thought of it like that,” said Karen.
“Think about it. These serial killers don’t just turn from Choirboys to bloodthirsty psychopaths overnight. They’ll start with something a bit more down-market, like torturing gerbils or something. Then they’ll move on to rape and buggery… not with gerbils, obviously, that would be a matter for the RSPCA; this is when they’ve turned their attention to people. It begins with some poor, naïve victim, and then another, and another. Maybe it’s someone they know like a family member, or a neighbour, or even someone that makes contact with them; someone that thinks it’s clever to write letters to them. He lures her into a web of lies and deceit, gaining her confidence bit by bit. Then, one day, when he finds himself within striking distance and she lets her guard down, it’s…” Granny D ran her finger across her neck to imitate a throat slash, “goodnight, Vienna! Before you know it, you’ve got a Coroner weighing out your organs for fun, and there’s a photo of you pressing your cheek against Mr. Woo in a passport photo booth, plastered all over the front page of the Scarborough Gazette.”
Karen stroked her neck as though living out the scenario. “Surely,” she said, nervously, “it would never come to that.”
“Wouldn’t it? You tell me; and what about Mr. Woo? They’d be no more walkies in the park for him. It’d be a long, cold needle, a short yelp, and the next thing you know, he’ll be hanging in a Chinese takeaway’s chiller cabinet waiting to be flash fried with the bean sprouts.”
Karen was becoming visibly upset. “They wouldn’t put him down, would they?”
“Of course they would, that’s if the psycho didn’t impale him on a stick of Scarborough rock first; and if it happened to be aniseed-flavour, it’d play havoc with his piles.”
Karen’s resolute spirit was, by now, sinking quicker than the Costa Concordia.
“What did you expect, putting him up for adoption? You said it yourself; his arthritis has got so bad that when he walks it sounds like a firecracker going off. No, if the Chinese didn’t call time on him, the Council certainly would; and we all know what they’re like. Ending up in a stir-fry would be the least of his worries. It’d be a makeshift bonfire down at the Council yard and Mr. Woo’s ashes would be cast into the air like cheap confetti at a Chav’s wedding. Whichever way you look at it, the mutt’s not going to come out of it unscathed.”
Karen’s eyes began to well with tears. Edging out sideways from behind the table, she got to her feet, whilst Granny D and I curiously observed her demeanour.
“What are you doing?” asked Granny D.
“I’m going to do what I should have months ago. I’m going to go home, I’m going to give Mr. Woo a great big huggy wug, and burn every last one of those damn letters that I received from those jailbirds. Fred West, Peter Sutcliffe, Ken Dodd, the lot!”
“Ken Dodd?”
“It wasn’t so much Doddy I had a thing for; it was one of his diddymen.”
“Well, I think you’ll find It’s for the best, Karen.”
“I know, Granny D; you’ve opened my eyes and made me see that there are times when a woman has to get her priorities right.”
“Absolutely!” agreed Granny D, her eyes flirting with the Bavarian Slice, “err, if you’re not coming back, do you mind if…”
“Go ahead,” replied, Karen, “you’ve turned my life around. It’s the least I can do.” And with that, Karen wandered from our lives just as inconspicuously as she had entered.
After Granny D had lost a further £12.50 in the Donkey Kong machine, we too said goodbye to Stan and his back-street café. Although we never heard back from Karen Nark, I am saddened to report on a rather unfortunate footnote to our visit. Our overnight stay in a sea-view guesthouse gave us access to a local news station, and that’s where we learned that the eradication of Karen Stark’s past had led to a house fire in which her prefab was all but destroyed. Fortunately, Karen escaped having suffered only first and second-degree burns, unlike Mr. Woo, who was consequently cremated when the pet-flap jammed due to the hinges being corroded by the inclement weather.
If you’re out there, Karen, please get in touch as there’s an unfinished chapter in Granny D’s new book, titled, “Mental Health Issues or Just Plain Crazy?” due for release later this year, or possibly next year if the publisher fails in his appeal against a tax-evasion conviction.
With the muted crackling of an old transistor radio providing the ambiance, the scene was set for one of the most compelling interviews I have ever had the privilege to witness. I took out my recorder and laid it in the centre of the table. “Am I ok to start the recording?” I asked, to no one in particular.
“Fine by me,” replied Karen. I obliged by depressing the record button. Satisfied all was working, I leant towards the inbuilt microphone. “Interview commencing at 14.05; those present, myself, Tom Dade; Agony Aunt, Granny D; and interviewee, Karen Nark.”
“What the hell are you playing at?” interrupted, Granny D, “She’s not under soddin’ caution! Sorry about that, Karen, he’s been a bit overzealous ever since buying the box set of Midsomer Murders.”
A moment of awkward silence mercifully concluded as Karen announced her choice of beverage. “A Caffe Latte, please Stan’,” she croaked in her best, forty-cigarettes-a-day voice, “and easy on the milk." Stan flicked open his pad and began to jot down the order. “I’ll have the same,” said Granny D, “but with the addition of a spoonful of chocolate.”
“A Mocha?” replied Albert.
“Actually, I’d prefer the real thing but, hey, why not surprise me.”
“You may as well surprise me too,” I added.
Like an abnormally large meerkat, Karen stretched her neck to peruse the contents of the counter display cabinet. “I may as well give that Bavarian Slice a try while I’m at it,” she remarked, coyly, “It looks a bit lonely up there on its own.”
After taking a few moments to survey our surroundings, Granny D placed her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together to provide a chin rest. “No Mr. Woo, today?”
“No, I thought it was best if I left him at home. He suffers from piles, you see, and if I walk him too far he tends to sweat up between the legs and they pop out. When he wags his tail It looks like he’s smuggling grapes, poor little love.
"Hmm," replied Granny D, "Moving swiftly along, in your email, you mentioned that you get your kicks from writing love letters to convicted criminals. It sounds like a dangerous game you play, my dear. For the benefit of the tape, would you care to name names?"
“Now who’s being overzealous,” I commented, though received little more than contemptible glance.
"All in good time," smiled Karen, pausing as Stan placed a tray containing our drinks down on the table and stirred them with his rubber-tipped pencil, "Cheers, Stan. Put it on the tab, there's a love." Stan slid the Bavarian Slice towards her.
“’ey, the cream in this looks a bit on the crusty side, Stan; are you sure it didn’t start out life as a Pavlova?”
“You saucy mare! What are you trying to say?”
“Any chance of some discount? Look at it. There’s probably been a 2% rise in inflation since this was made.”
“aye, go on then,” sighed Stan, “you’ve twisted mi arm. Besides, the dog sniffed at it this morning and even he turned his nose up at it. It’s yours for 40p.”
“Smashin’, put it on the…”
“Aye, I know,” interrupted Stan, “Put it on the tab.”
“By ‘eck,” smirked, Granny D, “there’s no substitute for class.”
As Stan slid one of the cups towards me, the watery black liquid fired my curiosity, though not in a good way. “What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a subtle blend of Bovril ‘n’ Coke,” he replied, “plus a secret ingredient known only to miself. Av named it, Boke. I invented it usin’ some stuff I had left ower from the day befoer. It hasn’t really taken off yet but it will after a bit o’ tweakin’, mark my words.”
A single sip was enough to make my gums recede. “Taken off, you say? Taken what off?... tooth enamel?!”
“Admittedly, it’s not ready for the Dragon’s Den as yet, but it’s getting there.”
“It is absolutely vile!”
Visibly offended, Stan collected his tray and turned to leave. “Too much Tabasco,” he murmured, “I’ll have to cut it down to just one teaspoonful.”
"Ok, can we get on, please?" interrupted, Granny D, "Let’s get’s things rolling with you explaining what it is that turns you on when you’re writing to these, for want of a better expression, bad boys."
Karen's eyes seemed to glaze over, as though she was entering a trance-like state. "That's simple," she replied, "Have you ever seen an international singing star performing on stage; Robbie Williams, for example? When he gets up there in front of all those people, he undergoes a transformation. There are thousands and thousands of fans transfixed by his presence, every single one of them worshipping him, wanting to be in his shoes. It's pretty much the same when a Serviceman dashes out onto the field of battle to rescue a wounded comrade. One minute he’s just another Johnny then, all of a sudden, he's up there on a pedestal, surrounded by an aura of incandescent glory. It's almost as if these chosen ones have some kind of magical power; a power that makes them immortal. Huh, but then of course, these people would never want to waste their time on me, would they, despite all the letters and phone calls; all the sleeping in cars outside their houses; drinking cup-a-soups for breakfast; crapping in Quality Street tins and pissing in polystyrene cups. Until the coppers come along, that is, all high and mighty with their big, hairy hands and cock-end helmets. Move along, Madam, or you’ll be arrested under section 2A of the Protection from Harassment Act 1997. What a load of old bollocks! They wouldn’t know a section 2A if it jumped up and shat on their foreheads. At the end of the day, I guess I'm just not important enough for the celebs of this world. They’re obviously too busy peering out from behind their double-lined curtains to speak to me. The serial killer, on the other hand, sitting alone in his six-by-nine foot prison cell, he does want to know me. Like all the stars and all the heroes, he too has the power to make people sit up and take notice, it’s just that Joe Public isn't as keen to speak to him; and that makes him even more powerful. So when I write one of my letters to whoever takes my fancy, and it's in my own handwriting, which makes it all the more personal, I know I'll have his full attention, because I'm his link to the outside world. These people need me as much as I need them, if not more."
As this point, I felt it necessary to interrupt Karen and tell her that Granny D had actually left the table a couple of minutes ago and was now feeding the Donkey Kong gambler with one-pound coins and furiously hammering away on the nudge buttons like a woman possessed. I gained Granny D’s attention with a loud cough and, a few moments later, she reluctantly returned. She scowled at Stan who had been watching her every move. "If that fat, scruffy bastard goes on that machine and drops the jackpot after watching me putting all that coin in, I swear, he’ll find a size 5 patent-leather shoe, complete with diamante-encrusted buckle, heading straight for his manhood!” Granny D quizzically glanced at us both. “Now then,” she sighed, “where were we?"
“I was just explaining why I write to criminals.”
“Ah, yes, so you were. Sorry about that, I’m a proper sucker when it comes to the slots. You were saying what is it about writing to these weirdoes that does it for you?”
“These people, and that’s what they are, they’re ordinary everyday people that find something within themselves to do extraordinary things, they look forward to my letters. Take Fred West…”
“Whoa! You actually wrote to Fred West?! What did you say?”
“I asked him which was best for pointing, builder’s sand or sharp sand… what the hell do you think I asked him?!”
The response galvanised Granny D into a calm, deep-throated riposte that immediately induced Karen to recoil with fear.
“Well I don’t rightly know, fuck face, that’s why I’m asking!”
The threatening tone of Granny D’s voice drew a heavy blanket of silence over the proceedings; it was almost as if the Kray twins had just entered the room. Suddenly, the sound of a Knickerbocker glory glass shattering on the floor as it slipped from Stan’s trembling grasp filled the vacuum, and presented the welcome opportunity for Karen to acknowledge the presence of a pecking order.
“Sorry,” she murmured, in an almost hoarse tone, “I don’t know what got into my head.”
“My fist if you talk to me like that again,” Replied Granny D, “Apology accepted. Just remember, I’m stumping up for the drinks, so it’s me that calls the shots, ok?”
“Actually, it’s me that’s paying… for…”
The expression on Granny D’s face invited an immediate return to the former topic.
“I asked Fred why he’d done what he’d done. I asked him if he was remorseful. I even asked him why he hadn’t chopped Rose up and buried her in the cellar along with the others.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he didn’t want to talk about it, he just wanted to hold my slender body in his masculine hands. Then he said he wanted to stroke my pert breasts and press his coarse lips against my tender, youthful flesh.”
“Whose picture had you sent him?!”
“Mine, why?!”
“Just wondered… go on.”
“Well, after the first couple of letters, he became strangely aggressive. He said he wanted to have me from behind whilst throttling the life out of me, adding that there was enough room under the patio for one more.”
“Just one moment…” interrupted Granny D, as Stan discretely shuffled his way towards the gambler. “Oi! Fatso! Touch that machine and I’ll put your frickin’ face through it!”
Submissively lowering his head, Stan turned on his heels and casually sauntered back behind the counter like a scolded child.
“Sorry, you were saying…”
“It’s the same with some of the others too. The Crossbow Cannibal, the Yorkshire Ripper, The Suffolk Strangler; they all seem to have a nasty side to them.”
“You don’t say.”
Granny D paused to offer a brief glance in my direction, raising her eyebrows in so doing. “Let’s just say, for example, that one of these nutters escaped from prison and tracked you down. What do you think you would do, Karen? Live happily ever after? Hope to turn him into a reformed character? Maybe you’d do what those killer-couples do… go out on a killing spree like Brady and Hindley, or Bonnie and Clyde, or maybe Thelma and Louise?
“Thelma and Louise? Aren’t they fictional characters?”
“God, you are so naive. That’s just what the moviemakers want you to believe!”
“Well it’s not like that anyway. I have what’s called Passive Hybristophilia and, as such, I’m not a danger to other people.”
“Is that what they told you at the institute?” To emphasise the word ‘institute’, Granny D crooked her fingers to signify inverted commas.
“What are you suggesting?” questioned, Karen, pensively, “that I’m actually capable of murdering someone? Me? With my one O-Level in Social Studies, an NVQ Level 1 in Child Care, and an out-of-date first-aid certificate? What am I likely to do, nurse them to death? I’m sorry, but I rather doubt I fit the typical serial killer’s profile.”
“And what IS the typical serial killer’s profile, Karen?”
“I don’t know. Complex, I suppose. I was reading an article on Charles Manson the other day and he said, Look down on me, you will see a fool. Look up at me, you will see your Lord. Look straight at me, you will see yourself."
Granny D slowly stirred the lukewarm mocha and licked the froth from the spoon. “And where are you looking when you write your letters?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you looking down on them, up to them, or do you see yourself in them? You see, I think it’s not the killer you’re admiring, it’s his actions; the actions that give him his notoriety; the actions that you think you’re not capable of performing. So when you sit there writing your letters, you’re actually using the pen and paper to create a safe-haven, if you will; a form of barrier. Whilst the pen and paper appear to be little more than objects for jotting down your thoughts, they are, in fact, representing the middle ground between fantasy and reality. Is what you don’t seem to be aware of is that it’s not the pen and paper that defines the boundaries of desire and capability, it’s actually you, yourself!”
Whilst Karen sat there nonplussed, as did I if truth be told, Granny D leant towards me and raised the back of her hand to hide her mouth from Karen, so as not to be heard. “That tape recorder better be doing its job,” she whispered, “hell, I’m on fire!”
“I know,” I replied, “I knew all those years watching Frasier wouldn’t be wasted.”
Granny D returned her attention to Karen. “The point I’m making is that everything we do in life is a natural progression, a ladder if you like; and if you’re sad enough to write to these maniacs in the first place, then who knows what’s on the next rung up?”
Granny D glanced in my direction. “Actually” she said, “make a note of that analogy, I may use it in my next book.”
“Phew! I never thought of it like that,” said Karen.
“Think about it. These serial killers don’t just turn from Choirboys to bloodthirsty psychopaths overnight. They’ll start with something a bit more down-market, like torturing gerbils or something. Then they’ll move on to rape and buggery… not with gerbils, obviously, that would be a matter for the RSPCA; this is when they’ve turned their attention to people. It begins with some poor, naïve victim, and then another, and another. Maybe it’s someone they know like a family member, or a neighbour, or even someone that makes contact with them; someone that thinks it’s clever to write letters to them. He lures her into a web of lies and deceit, gaining her confidence bit by bit. Then, one day, when he finds himself within striking distance and she lets her guard down, it’s…” Granny D ran her finger across her neck to imitate a throat slash, “goodnight, Vienna! Before you know it, you’ve got a Coroner weighing out your organs for fun, and there’s a photo of you pressing your cheek against Mr. Woo in a passport photo booth, plastered all over the front page of the Scarborough Gazette.”
Karen stroked her neck as though living out the scenario. “Surely,” she said, nervously, “it would never come to that.”
“Wouldn’t it? You tell me; and what about Mr. Woo? They’d be no more walkies in the park for him. It’d be a long, cold needle, a short yelp, and the next thing you know, he’ll be hanging in a Chinese takeaway’s chiller cabinet waiting to be flash fried with the bean sprouts.”
Karen was becoming visibly upset. “They wouldn’t put him down, would they?”
“Of course they would, that’s if the psycho didn’t impale him on a stick of Scarborough rock first; and if it happened to be aniseed-flavour, it’d play havoc with his piles.”
Karen’s resolute spirit was, by now, sinking quicker than the Costa Concordia.
“What did you expect, putting him up for adoption? You said it yourself; his arthritis has got so bad that when he walks it sounds like a firecracker going off. No, if the Chinese didn’t call time on him, the Council certainly would; and we all know what they’re like. Ending up in a stir-fry would be the least of his worries. It’d be a makeshift bonfire down at the Council yard and Mr. Woo’s ashes would be cast into the air like cheap confetti at a Chav’s wedding. Whichever way you look at it, the mutt’s not going to come out of it unscathed.”
Karen’s eyes began to well with tears. Edging out sideways from behind the table, she got to her feet, whilst Granny D and I curiously observed her demeanour.
“What are you doing?” asked Granny D.
“I’m going to do what I should have months ago. I’m going to go home, I’m going to give Mr. Woo a great big huggy wug, and burn every last one of those damn letters that I received from those jailbirds. Fred West, Peter Sutcliffe, Ken Dodd, the lot!”
“Ken Dodd?”
“It wasn’t so much Doddy I had a thing for; it was one of his diddymen.”
“Well, I think you’ll find It’s for the best, Karen.”
“I know, Granny D; you’ve opened my eyes and made me see that there are times when a woman has to get her priorities right.”
“Absolutely!” agreed Granny D, her eyes flirting with the Bavarian Slice, “err, if you’re not coming back, do you mind if…”
“Go ahead,” replied, Karen, “you’ve turned my life around. It’s the least I can do.” And with that, Karen wandered from our lives just as inconspicuously as she had entered.
After Granny D had lost a further £12.50 in the Donkey Kong machine, we too said goodbye to Stan and his back-street café. Although we never heard back from Karen Nark, I am saddened to report on a rather unfortunate footnote to our visit. Our overnight stay in a sea-view guesthouse gave us access to a local news station, and that’s where we learned that the eradication of Karen Stark’s past had led to a house fire in which her prefab was all but destroyed. Fortunately, Karen escaped having suffered only first and second-degree burns, unlike Mr. Woo, who was consequently cremated when the pet-flap jammed due to the hinges being corroded by the inclement weather.
If you’re out there, Karen, please get in touch as there’s an unfinished chapter in Granny D’s new book, titled, “Mental Health Issues or Just Plain Crazy?” due for release later this year, or possibly next year if the publisher fails in his appeal against a tax-evasion conviction.
