The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (Completely Barking Mad Trilogy Book 2)
Page 9
‘I’m speechless,’ I said.
‘No kidding?’
‘I am speechless. I’m lost for words. Struck dumb, choked for utterance. Made mute. Put to silence. Robbed of all—’
‘The secret, chief,’ said Barry, ‘is in knowing when to stop.’
‘You’re right, Barry. But we’ve done it. Pulled off the big one. Solved the case. Got things sorted.’
‘That we have, chief.’
‘Swept aside all obstacles. Stemmed the current. Weathered the storm. Come home safe to port—’
‘Hand over the handbag, shirthead!’
I turned in some confusion. And it occurred to me that “shirt” really didn’t work too well as a substitute for “sh*t”.
Danny stood in the doorway to the dingy hall. He had a pistol in his hand.
‘Danny,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise. I thought we’d said our fond farewells in the alley.’
‘Just slide the bag along the bar counter. Slowly now, don’t make any sudden moves.’
‘Why are you doing this, Danny?’ I did as I was bid.
‘Because I know the truth, and I know what must be done with the handbag.’ Danny reached out his hand.
‘Don’t touch it, kid!’
I glanced around. Fangio had pulled his Colt Peacemaker out from beneath the bar. He was pointing it at Danny.
‘Put down the pistol, kid,’ said Fangio, and Danny put down the pistol.
‘Nice one, Fange,’ I said.
‘But not nice enough!’
I glanced around once more. The dame was back on her feet. She was holding a Derringer and pointing it at Fangio. ‘Drop the gun,’ she said. ‘The handbag comes with me.’
Fangio laid his gun upon the counter.
‘Nice one, dame,’ I said. ‘No, hang about. The handbag comes with me? That can’t be right.’
‘Only I know the real truth,’ said the dame.
‘I’d have said that I knew the real truth,’ said Fange. ‘But you didn’t give me a chance.’
‘Only I know the real truth,’ said someone else. Which gave me the opportunity to have another good glance around.
A man stood in the main doorway. He was a well-dressed man, nice tie, polished shoes. But there was something odd about his head. It was tiny. About the size of an orange.
‘Drop the Derringer,’ he told the dame. And the dame dropped the Derringer.
‘Drop your gun!’ said Danny, who had snatched his up again.
‘Drop yours!’ said Fange, who had done likewise.
‘And yours!’ said the dame, who had done likewise, likewise.
And I stood right there in the middle. It was the now legendary Mexican stand-off. Fangio pointed his gun at Danny. Danny pointed his gun at Orange head. Orange head pointed his gun at the dame. And the dame pointed her gun at Fangio.
And as no-one was pointing anything at me, I picked up the handbag and like Elvis, left the building.
Mills on Wheels
Mr Mills of twenty-three
Said, ‘Look at this and envy me.’
He’d kitted himself out with trolley wheels.
I said, ‘Yes, well, very nice.’
I’d seen that trick done once or twice
But cared not for it either time, preferring house-trained seals.
House trained,
House trained,
Rat and mouse trained,
In and out,
And roundabout trained.
Mr Mills of twenty-three
Was given out the OBE,
For services to pe-des-tri-an-ism as a whole,
I said, ‘Yes, well very nice.’
I’d seen that trick done once or twice
But cared not for it either time, preferring the house-trained vole.
House trained,
House trained,
Rat and mouse trained,
Up the spout,
And all about trained.
Mr Mills of twenty-three
Became a big celebrity,
And opened up the Summer fête for three years in a row.
I said, ‘Yes, well, very nice.’
I’d seen that trick done once or twice
But cared not for it either time, preferring Jean Cocteau.
But then I went to art school, so what else would you expect?
8
Be Splendid.
STEAMPUNK MAXIM
Billy took two suitcases to the station. One contained his clothes. The other, his granny. It was now Wednesday morning, and as on Wednesday mornings Billy’s mother always took breakfast in a high tree at the end of the garden, Billy had taken the opportunity to slip away through the front door.
The telephone conversation of the previous evening had not been to Billy’s liking. The man at Necrosoft was vague and evasive. He did not answer Billy’s questions to Billy’s satisfaction. He offered Billy fifty quid for his granny, ‘and no more questions asked’ and then put down the phone when Billy asked more questions. Billy called back, but there’d been no reply.
So Billy set out for Brentford.
He would take the offices of Necrosoft by storm.
But it would be a gentle storm. More of a light shower, really. A bit of a breeze that would waft Billy gently into employment. Once the management of Necrosoft met Billy they would be instantly impressed by his eminent suitability. Billy would be just the chap they needed. He would fit in perfectly. After all, he looked like all the rest.
Only he knew he was different.
And how very different he was.
Billy caught the London mail train at Bramfield Halt. He did not have the exact address of Necrosoft. The package had said only Brentford, Middlesex, and the unhelpful chap Billy had spoken to on the phone refused to give out the address. But this presented no problem for Billy.
Once Billy had found himself an empty carriage, he placed the suitcase containing his granny on the luggage rack and opened the other on his knees. From this he took out a brightly coloured parcel. It was addressed simply to NECROSOFT INDUSTRIES. BRENTFORD. MIDDLESEX. Billy closed his suitcase and placed this on the other luggage rack. Then he slipped along the train to the guard’s van and when the guard was distracted he slipped the parcel into the mail sack marked Brentford.
And then Billy went off to the buffet car and had a cup of tea.
Now, for most travellers, entering Brentford for the first time is an unforgettable experience. The sky seems bluer here, the grass more green, the trees more tall, the river much more rivery. And see, the mellow London brick, the grey slate roofs, the terracotta chimneys. And view the women, fair of face, the happy children singing hymns, the tradesmen plying their trades. And smell the honeysuckle and the dog rose and the sweet wild—
Billy checked his suitcases into the left-luggage office, then stood upon a corner of the street smoking a cigarette and gently squeezing the bright plastic something he’d received in the post.
Presently a van came to pick up the mail sacks. Billy followed it the two streets to the sorting office. Outside he smoked two more cigarettes and gave the something further squeezings. And then he followed the postman who came out pushing a bicycle.
On the front of the bicycle was a rack and in the rack were several drab brown paper parcels and one that was brightly coloured.
Billy kept his eyes on this.
The postman set off upon his round. He was a very small postman. Positively dwarf-like. Billy wondered whether, perhaps, he was Welsh.
The small postman went about his business in a quite unhurried fashion. He dillied and dallied and dawdled. He looked into shop windows and picked flowers in the park. He did take a short cut across the allotments, but only so he could steal some sprouts from one of the plots. It was nearly three in the afternoon before he parked his bicycle next to a boarded-up shop front and took Billy’s parcel from its rack.
Billy hastened forward. He squeezed himself between the postman and the shop door.
The small postman looked up at him. ‘There’s three bob to pay,’ he said.
‘There isn’t,’ said Billy, who knew he had put on sufficient stamps.
‘And how would you know?’
Billy smiled. How would he indeed? ‘Three bob, you say?’ And he fished out the coinage and gave it to the postman.
‘Have a nice day,’ said the postman, passing him the parcel.
Billy watched the postman as he dilly-dallied and dawdled away. And then he took stock of the shop front. This was not what he had expected. He had expected some big corporation building, all mirror glass and Bauhaus furniture. Why would Necrosoft Industries – ‘The cutting edge of computer technology’ – be holed up in a dump like this?
Billy pushed upon the door, which opened groaning on its hinges. He stuck in his head and sniffed. The air smelt stale. He stepped into the shop. It had evidently once been a draper’s. Most of the old fixtures and fittings remained, hung with cobwebs and downy with dust. Wan light fell through the unwashed windows, illuminating here, a tailor’s dummy standing like an impaled torso, and there, some mouldy balls of wool that looked like shrunken heads. These were not sights to inspire confidence in Billy.
The lad glanced down at the floor. There were the signs of many footprints, leading from the shop door to—
Where?
To a stairway at the rear.
Billy crossed the shop floor and felt his way up the unlit stairs. At the top a door, and Billy pushed it open.
‘Come in,’ said a voice. ‘You’re late.’
Billy found himself in a dull little room. Lit by a single dangling bulb and containing nothing but a table and two chairs. Behind the table on one of the chairs sat a young man. He was pale and hollow-eyed, stubble-chinned and shabby. ‘Sit down,’ he said. And Billy sat.
‘Right then,’ said the young man. ‘I was just going to ask how you did it, but I see your parcel. Very enterprising.’
‘Thank you,’ said Billy.
‘And polite with it,’ said the young man.
‘I do my best to please.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’
‘Is this the office of Necrosoft?’ Billy asked.
The young man nodded, spilling specks of dandruff ‘You were expecting something far more flashy, I’ll bet.’
‘You can’t always tell a book by its cover,’ said Billy with care.
‘You can if it’s written by Johnny Quinn,’ said the young man. ‘So, let’s have a look at you. Stand up.’
And Billy stood up.
‘Sit down.’
And Billy sat down again.
‘Stand up.’
And Billy stood up once more.
‘And stay.’
And Billy stayed.
‘It’s impressive, isn’t it?’ said the young man.
‘What is?’
‘The way you do exactly what you’re told.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. And I’ll prove it. Whip your willy out.’
‘What?’ said Billy.
‘Your willy. Whip it out. Let me have a look at it.’ Billy slowly unzipped his trousers and exposed himself to the young man.
‘Mine’s bigger than that,’ said the young man. ‘Now tuck it away and sit down.’
Billy did so in considerable confusion.
‘Wondering how it’s done? Why you did what I told you?’
Billy nodded.
‘Get out your little plastic something.’ Billy took it from his pocket.
‘Put it on the table.’
Billy tried to, but he couldn’t.
‘Don’t want to part with it, eh? They never do.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you don’t. But I’ll explain: the plastic something is impregnated with a special chemical. It’s addictive and it makes you subservient.’
‘There’s no such chemical,’ said Billy.
‘Oh yes there is. It comes from the Amazon. Johnny Quinn discovered it.’
‘And who’s this Johnny Quinn?’
‘You’ve never heard of him?’
‘Never.’
‘That’s because you’re different, you see. You’re like me, I’m different too. In a few years from now things are going to be very different from the way they are today. And that’s when folk like us will really come into our own. We’re the vanguard of the new movement, we are.’
‘Are we now?’
‘Yes we are. The world’s full of greedy rats who’ll happily sell their old grannies. But we’re not looking for them, well, we are of course, but not quite yet. For now we’re looking for the different greedy rats. The special ones. The ones special enough to use their initiative and find their way here.’
‘It didn’t take that much initiative,’ said Billy. ‘It was pretty straightforward.’
‘Don’t be modest.’
‘Okay,’ said Billy. ‘I won’t.’
‘That’s right, you won’t. Not if I say you won’t. In fact you’ll do whatever I say. Whatever I say. I can make you do anything I want, just by asking. So you’d better be polite to me, if you know what’s good for you.’
Billy nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Do you have one of these little plastic impregnated somethings yourself?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Please show it to me.’
The young man took his from his pocket and held it tightly. ‘I won’t give it to you,’ he said. ‘So don’t waste your time asking.’
‘Oh, I had no intention of doing that. But surely your one is bigger than mine.’
‘Like my willy,’ said the young man.
‘Indeed,’ said Billy. ‘But I bet mine weighs more.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said the young man.
‘I’ll bet it does. Here.’ He extended his hand. ‘Take it and feel the two together. Tell me I’m not wrong.’
‘Okey doke.’ The young man reached across the table and took the bright plastic something from Billy’s outstretched hand. Billy felt a sense of terrible loss as it left his possession. As if the most precious item he had ever owned was being torn from his grasp. He bit at his lip and gripped the edge of the table. Sweat broke out on his brow and his breath came in strangled gasps.
‘Here take it back,’ said the young man. ‘It’s exactly the same as mine really.’
‘No,’ said Billy, through gritted teeth. ‘You keep it.’
‘Oh, thanks very much.’ The young man grinned hugely and tucked Billy’s treasure into his trouser pocket.
Billy took several very deep breaths and then he too grinned hugely. ‘Now,’ he said slowly, ‘show me your willy!’
The police fished the young man’s body from the canal a week later. The coroner’s report stated that he had been the victim of a violent sexual assault. But this was not the cause of his death. Death was due to asphyxiation, a small bright plastic something being lodged in his windpipe.
Vanguard of the New Movement
Behind his polished cedar desk,
Surrounded by his phones,
Sits Blazer Dyke (the yachting type),
The Vanguard of the clones.
The archetype,
The number one,
The vanguard of the clones.
Crossing over busy streets,
Where noisy traffic drones,
Walks Blazer Dyke (without a bike),
The vanguard of the clones.
The autocrat,
The ectomorph,
The Vanguard of the clones.
He strides across the cobbled yard,
Where pawn shops offer loans,
That Blazer Dyke (whom I dislike),
The vanguard of the clones.
The cannibal,
The parasite,
The Vanguard of the clones.
He passes through the wicket gate,
&n
bsp; To churchyards full of bones,
That Blazer Dyke (on a midnight hike),
The vanguard of the clones.
The necrophile,
The narcissist,
The coprophage,
The sybarite,
The telepath,
The Anti-Christ,
The Vanguard of the clones.
9
Life is a Joke
J. PENNY II
(Scrawled upon his school blackboard in 1977 shortly before he took his own life, aged seventeen.)
‘I’m impressed,’ said Blazer Dyke. ‘In fact I’m very impressed.’ He sat at his cedar desk in an airy office with an open window that overlooked the churchyard of St Joan’s Church in Brentford.
‘Remarkable,’ he continued. ‘You would definitely appear to have the right stuff, as they say.’
The object of this praise sat on the other side of the cedar desk. The object’s name was Billy Barnes.
‘My actions were calculated to impress,’ said the object. ‘The young man answered all my questions about your organization before he met his tragic end. “Necrosoft writes its own rule book on matters of morality,” was a phrase he used.’
‘And one I’m particularly proud of,’ said Blazer Dyke. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘Absolutely not. And I’ll keep my rubber gloves on if you don’t mind.’
‘Priceless. You’ll go far in this organization.’
‘I intend to,’ said Billy.
Blazer Dyke leaned back in his chair and gazed at the young man before him. It was remarkable just how unremarkable he was. How perfectly average he was. How absolutely ordinary. But right. He was right. He looked right just sitting there, as if that was where he should be sitting. He fitted.
Blazer Dyke rose from his chair. ‘Indulge me,’ he said. ‘Sit here for a moment.’
Billy got up, went around the desk and sat down in Blazer’s chair. Blazer looked him up and down and gently shook his head. ‘Quite remarkable. You look as if you belong there. Quite remarkable indeed.’
Billy smiled. ‘I’m so glad you approve,’ said he.