Maladroit Mal,
Nobody’s pal,
Taking a chance in the open.
Over local village green,
Geeing up the beauty queen,
Yelling great and horrible oaths,
Making bakers soil their loafs.
Maladroit Mal,
Nobody’s pal,
Taking a chance in the open.
Up the cut and down the dells,
Followed by unsavoury smells,
Ambling,
Shambling,
Crawling and
Gambolling.
Strolling,
Rolling,
Tripping,
Bowling.
Stumbling,
Bumbling,
Twitching,
Tumbling.
Maladroit Mal,
Nobody’s pal,
Taking a chance in the open.
6
The quality of weirdness has always been high.
BOB RICKARD
A True History of Billy Barnes
The child that is truly different rarely ever looks that way. It has always been instinctive in the herd to drive off the ‘different one’, no doubt to ensure the purity of the species. This is definitely the case with mankind. Children learn early to mock the fatty, or the thin kid, or the one with the ginger hair, but they’re not taught to, it’s instinctive, they can’t help themselves. They just do it. But the child that is truly different, the individual who will one day grow up and change society, alter the direction of the herd, this child often has a defensive camouflage. This child looks like all the rest.
But he’s not.
Billy Barnes looked like all the rest. He looked a bit like Dave Rodway, with those dark eyebrows. And a bit like Norman Crook, with that snubby nose. And he had Peter Lord’s shoulders, and Neil Christian’s knees and Peter Grey’s feet and so on and so forth. In fact he looked pretty much like everybody other than himself.
Which made him quite hard to describe, really.
But he was different.
And the difference was all on the inside.
Billy Barnes was a regular boffin. He was, quite simply, the brightest kid in the class. In the school, probably. But he kept it mostly to himself. Once in a while it bubbled right up, as in the notorious ‘man walks into the desert’ affair, which earned him considerable contempt and cut him right out from the herd for a while. But he was soon back, strictly low-profile, blending in with the rest and not looking out of place.
He was a subtle manipulator, Billy. Always up to something, but no-one knew quite what.
He was different, you see.
And he always had ‘business elsewhere’.
There are now well over one hundred thousand Billy Barnes web sites. These range from the official World Leader corporate pages that list Billy’s business interests as resource management, social engineering and off-world development, to the Unofficial Conspiracy pages that have Billy down as the sole cause of all the world’s ills.
Today the face of Billy Barnes is the best-known face on the planet, but you’d still find it hard to pick it out from an identity parade.
Exactly how Billy rose to his exalted position of ultimate controller has never been satisfactorily explained or fully chronicled before. Rumour has it that an unofficial biography, exposing Billy as an arch criminal, depraved pornographer and all-round bad egg, was withdrawn before publication and destroyed in the great Health Purge of 2001, along with all other books, newspapers and printed material. But that is only a rumour and the man who spread it is long dead, cut down cruelly in a freak accident involving handcuffs and an electric drill.
So what do we really know about Billy?
Well, not a lot.
We do know that at the age of twenty-three he went missing and that ten years later, at the age of thirty-three (which may or may not be a significant age), he reappeared and swiftly took control of just about everything.
But there’s an awful lot of unanswered questions. It is interesting that those who knew him at school remember him only as the boy who answered the ‘man walks into the desert’ question and for very little else. It is to be noted that all the great prophets have their missing years, and that each of them walked into a desert. Entering as a man, but returning as a son of God.
So what went on with Billy?
Well, let’s go back and see.
If you enter the village of Bramfield from the end where the common is, turn right at the mini-roundabout that everyone drives straight across, pass the restaurant that is always changing hands, the off-licence run by the bald bloke with the earring, and the newsagent’s where they sell the dreary greetings cards, you will come to the war memorial.
It’s only a very small war memorial, because it was built by public subscription and the public weren’t too giving, but it’s there all right if you’re prepared to look hard enough. And if you do look hard enough and you take the left where you find it, you’ll find yourself in the lane where Billy lived.
There is no road sign on this lane. The elders of Bramfield felt that the name of this lane was not in the best possible taste, so they had the road sign taken down. The name of this lane is Colin Regis Lane.
As you may know, the word Regis is tacked onto the name of a town to signify that some old king or queen of times past slept there and liked it very much, as in Lyme Regis or Bognor Regis. Exactly who Cohn was is now anyone’s guess, but he was obviously someone who caught the royal fancy.
Moving along this lane you will pass several fine-looking Georgian houses on the right. There is Lugger’s View, where Tim lives. Stoker’s Folly, where Tom lives. Barnet Villa, where Nick resides. And Colin’s End, which is presently unoccupied.
Moving further along you will come to the allotments, and presently, the yucky pond. The yucky pond is actually called Tinker’s Pond, but it is locally known as the yucky pond due to the excess of yuckiness that floats upon its surface.
The yucky pond is maintained by public subscription.
Opposite the yucky pond there stands a fine big house. All on its own with a high wall around it. This house is built in the Tudor style and its name is Houmfort House.
And Houmfort House was Billy’s house.
Billy lived in Houmfort House with his mum and his granny. Billy’s dad did not live there. Billy’s dad had business elsewhere and only came home every once in a while to hand out presents and tell Billy tales of the places he’d seen. Billy and his dad were not ‘close’. But then Billy wasn’t really ‘close’ to anyone.
Billy was different.
And ‘different’ is hard to be close to.
Billy’s mum was not different. Billy’s mum was the same. Very much the same. The same as she had always been, as long as Billy had known her. Billy liked her that way, although sometimes he felt that he could do with a change.
Like today, for instance.
Today being Tuesday.
Billy always took Tuesday’s breakfast on the veranda at the back of the house. Whatever the weather, or the time of year. It was a tradition in the Barnes household. A tradition, or an old charm bracelet or something.
Billy feasted this particular Tuesday morning upon roll-mop herrings and bitter-sweet tea. His mum had her usual, which was the usual, same as ever.
Billy always kept very still while he ate. Only his jaw moved, slowly and rhythmically. Twenty-three times a minute. Billy’s mum, on the other hand, was a flamboyant eater, given to sweeping gestures and guttural utterances. Belching and flatulence. Food-flinging and the banging down of cutlery. They complemented one another, as is right between a mother and her son.
‘It says here,’ said Billy’s mum, reading aloud from the Daily Sketch, ‘that he engaged in certain practices which gave him the kind of moustache you can only get off with turps.’
Billy swallowed a well-masticated segment of herring and turned his eyes in the direction of his mother. She was a fine woman. A fine
big woman. Generously formed. Of ample proportions. Why, a starving man could feast upon such a woman for a good two months. Assuming that he had a large enough freezer to keep the bits fresh in.
‘Ah no,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘I must have misread it. The ventriloquist’s name was Turps. The dummy didn’t have a moustache.’
Billy moved his head ever so slightly, just enough to take the drinking straw between his lips. He sipped up bitter-sweet tea, but he didn’t swallow.
‘That’s Africa for you,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘The white man’s grave and the black man’s dingle-dongler. Which reminds me, have you fed your granny today, Billy?’
Billy nodded with his eyes. Of course he had fed his granny. He always fed his granny. It was his job to feed his granny. And he enjoyed it very much. After all, he loved his granny.
Billy kept his granny in a suitcase.
It was a large suitcase and it had holes bored in the lid, so it wasn’t cruel, or anything. And it saved space. Billy’s granny used to take up quite a lot of space. Her bed was the biggest in the house and the most comfortable. Billy now shared this bed with his mum.
Granny lived under the bed. In the suitcase.
Billy took Granny out at weekends and gave her a wash and a change of clothes. Not every boy was as good to his granny as Billy was.
But then not every boy had a granny quite like Billy’s.
In her youth she had danced the candle mambo with Fred Astaire, trodden the boards with Sarah Bernhardt, glittered at society functions, and cast her exaggerated shadow in fashionable places.
But now she was old and weak and withered. Bereft of speech and movement and much gone with the moth. Deaf and blind and dotty and gnawed away by rats.
But Billy still found time for her. Although he wasn’t ‘close’.
‘Apparently,’ said Billy’s mum, tapping at her tabloid, ‘the Welsh have no concept of Velcro. I went to North Wales once with your father. He was very tall in those days and the Welsh are very short. Midgets, most of them, positively dwarf-like. They were quite in awe of your father. The Mayor of Harlech presented him with a pair of braces that glowed in the dark. Something to do with the mines, I believe.’
Billy swallowed his bitter-sweet tea, his Adam’s apple rising to the occasion.
‘You’d like Wales, Billy,’ said his mum. ‘Plenty of room to move furniture around and no Velcro getting under your feet.’
Billy smiled with his eyes.
The front door bell rang in the hall.
‘That will be the postman,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘He’s always doing that.’ She poured herself a noisy cup of coffee, sloshed in the milk and stirred vigorously. Slap, slap, slap went her big fat feet upon the tiled veranda floor. But she didn’t get up. She leaned back in her chair and farted loudly.
The door bell rang again, and then again, and then no more. At length the postman made his entrance through the garden door.
‘I’ve a package here for a Mr William Barnes,’ said the postman. ‘And it has to be signed for.’
Billy eyed his mum. The big woman shifted uneasily in her wicker chair. She never took kindly to tradespeople as a rule, especially, as now, when she was naked. But she always had time for a postman, or a porter, as long as their fingernails were clean.
Billy’s mum spread her Daily Sketch modestly across her knees and beckoned to the bearer of the Queen’s mail.
The bearer of the Queen’s mail seemed strangely reticent. ‘It’s for your son,’ he said. ‘He has to sign for it.’
Billy turned his head by twenty-three degrees and spoke his first words of the day. ‘From whom?’ he asked.
The postman examined the parcel. ‘From Necrosoft Industries,’ he said. ‘Of Brentford, Middlesex’
Billy nodded thoughtfully and then sprang to his feet. He vaulted over the veranda rail, performed a handspring and a cartwheel and came to rest before the postman.
‘Pen,’ said Billy, extending a hand.
The postman handed Billy the parcel, fumbled with his clipboard and pen. ‘Your mother shouldn’t be allowed,’ he whispered.
Billy signed upon the dotted line and returned both pen and clipboard to the postman. ‘F*ck off,’ he told him. And the postman took his leave.
Billy returned to his chair on the veranda and sat down upon it. Birdies gossiped on the garden walls, bumblies toiled amongst the roses, and the sun beamed down its blessings over all.
Upstairs in the suitcase underneath the bed, Billy’s granny sucked upon her sunken gums and dreamed of Fred Astaire.
‘Have you thought any more about getting a job?’ asked Billy’s mum, over lunch, which was taken, as of Tuesday, in the greenhouse.
Billy sucked soup through a straw. He had not thought any more about getting a job.
‘You’re so very qualified, dear,’ said his mum, herself now prettified in a floral frock. ‘You have all your school certificates and your university degree and here you are at the age of twenty-three, a virtual recluse. You never go out anywhere and you never have any lady friends round to call. You were always such a popular boy at school. You used to fit in so nicely. Could you not find a job you could fit nicely into?’
Billy raised an eyebrow. The subject of ‘a job’ always came up on a Tuesday. Which was why Billy always felt that he could do with a change of mum on a Tuesday.
‘Well, dear?’ asked Billy’s mum.
‘No,’ said Billy. ‘I have important matters that must be dealt with.’
‘More of this “business elsewhere”?’
‘Just so.’
‘But if you have “business elsewhere”, how come you’re never elsewhere getting on with it?’
Billy tapped at his right temple with a skinny digit. ‘Elsewhere can be closer than you think,’ he said.
Over tea, which being Tuesday they took in the cupboard underneath the stairs, Billy’s mum asked, ‘What was that package that arrived for you this morning?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Billy. ‘I haven’t opened it yet.’
Billy and his mum never dined together on Tuesday evenings. Billy’s mum always put on her best tweed suit and went out somewhere. Billy wasn’t altogether certain where this somewhere was. But he suspected that it was the same somewhere that Andy the landlord of the Jolly Gardeners always went to.
Although he had no idea as to where this somewhere was, either.
But as Billy didn’t care, it didn’t matter.
Billy now sat all alone at the kitchen table and opened up his package. The brown paper fell away to reveal a bright plastic something of no obvious purpose and some sheets of printed paper.
Billy put the bright plastic something carefully aside and read from the top sheet of paper.
Surfing the web?
Anyone can do that! Why not
Try something really radical?
Access the dearly departed by body-boarding the
Necronet.
Never has it been more
Easy. All you have to do is
Enter the Soul
Database, by taking a left-hand turn off the information
Superhighway and
You’re there. In the Land
Of the Virtual Dead.
U know it makes sense.
Billy laid this sheet of paper aside and read from the next one.
Dear Mr Barnes.
We at NECROSOFT would like to make you an offer you will not wish to refuse. NECROSOFT is a rapidly expanding organization on the cutting edge of computer technology. Our goals are high, but our aim is true.
It is the intention of NECROSOFT to bring about a new world order. Not in the political sense, but by creating a situation where the individual can live in peace and harmony and happiness.
Our intention is to totally eradicate death within the next five years.
An impossible dream?
Not a bit of it.
Through the use of our advanced neural-network scanners we are now able to
download the memory and personality of an individual into the NECRONET.
The NECRONET is a virtual world, computer-simulated, fully accessible and of boundless dimension. Nothing short of a heaven on earth, in fact. Those downloaded into it will become immortal, capable of being accessed by their children, grandchildren and so on endlessly.
An opportunity of a lifetime?
No, the opportunity of many lifetimes yet to come.
And all this could be yours.
For a small fee.
Billy screwed the paper into a ball and flung it onto the floor. One sheet remained and he idly perused it.
EARN BIG ££££
read this one:
Do you have an elderly or infirm person living with you? One whom you dearly love, and whose needs you minister to daily? How about sending them on the journey of a lifetime? With all expenses paid and a big cash bonus for you? Like the sound of it? Phone this number for further details:
Billy sat awhile and stared into space. His fingers found themselves toying around with the bright plastic something. It was warm to the touch and it gave at the edges. There was something pleasurable about it. Billy bounced the something gently on the table. He had been expecting this. This or something like it. A package in the post, an offer on the phone. The chance of a lifetime in one form or another. But he hadn’t been expecting it today.
Which made it perfect, really.
Billy had taken no employment, although much had been offered him. He had waited patiently for The Opportunity to present itself. He had followed Hugo Rune’s Law, that the greatest opportunity must present itself in the least most obvious way. And the least most obvious way of finding employment was to stay at home and avoid looking for it.
Billy smiled. There would be a job for him at Necrosoft. And a big cash bonus when he handed Granny over. Billy was perfectly capable of reading between the lines. Necrosoft were obviously looking for some old and infirm types, that no-one cared much about, to experiment with in order to perfect their neural-network scanning techniques. It was the way he would have gone about things if he’d been running the show.
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (Completely Barking Mad Trilogy Book 2) Page 7