The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (16 page)

What a
very loud woman,’ said Inspector Kirby, pushing his plate aside. ‘A voodoo
handbag, eh?’ His gaze wandered over to the cabinet on the mantelpiece. ‘How
very fascinating.’

He sat
awhile and pondered. Great shouts came from the hall. Mrs Barnes was in heated
discussion on the telephone, but with whom it wasn’t clear.

‘I
might just have a little peep,’ said the Inspector, quietly to himself. ‘It
couldn’t do any harm, just a little peep.’ He rose from the ottoman and glanced
towards the hall door. More shouting. Inspector Kirby crept over to the
mantelpiece.

Beside
the cabinet lay a key. It was a brass key with a skull on it. A luggage label
was attached to this key.

Inspector
Kirby picked up the key and examined the label.

DO NOT
USE THIS KEY TO UNLOCK RELIQUARY, he read. AWAKEN NOT THE ANGRY DEAD. Inspector
Kirby whistled, then cocked an anxious ear. Further shouting came from the
hall. Inspector Kirby dithered, but not a ditherer by persuasion he then thrust
the key into the reliquary’s key hole and turned it sharply to the left.

A click
and the door swung ajar.

Inspector
Kirby dithered anew. This was not a good idea. ‘Why was he doing it? He was a
policeman, he couldn’t just go opening up people’s private cabinets. Well, of
course, actually, he could. That was one of the benefits of being a policeman,
being able to pry into people’s private belongings. But what about all that
stuff about dying if you touched the handbag? Superstition surely? Voodoo wasn’t
real. It was the power of suggestion. Like an Aborigine pointing the bone at
you. You didn’t die if you didn’t believe. Awaken not the angry dead, indeed!

A quick
peep, then lock the cabinet up again. ‘What harm could that possibly do?

Inspector
Kirby swung open the door.

And
then took a swift step backwards.

Something
moved. Inside the cabinet. Something white. It had jerked as he opened the
door, and now it was moving. Squirming.

Inspector
Kirby gaped at it, fascinated.

It
was
a handbag. ‘White, plaster cast or carved. But it
was
moving. There
were skulls on it, many skulls. A large one in the middle, clearly human, but
other smaller ones around and about that were anything but. And these were …
moving. They clicked their tiny jaw bones as if taking in the air. Yawning,
breathing, and now snapping angrily.

Inspector
Kirby didn’t like the look of them one little bit. He stepped smartly forward
to slam the door shut.

But as
he did so he slipped upon the fireside rug and fell towards the grate. In a
desperate attempt to save himself he snatched at the mantelpiece.

But
missed.

And his
right hand plunged into the cabinet.

Inspector Kirby awoke with
a start to find Billy’s mum smiling down at him.

‘Don’t
try to move,’ she said. ‘You had a bit of an accident, but you’re all right
now.’

Inspector
Kirby did try to move, but he couldn’t.

‘You
lost a couple of fingers,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘I’ve bandaged up the rest, so
they should be OK for now.’

Inspector
Kirby tried to speak. But he couldn’t do that either.

‘I’ve
taped your jaw up,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘Don’t want you making any noise now, do
we?’

Inspector
Kirby strained and struggled but to no avail. Billy’s mum stroked his forehead.
‘Now don’t go getting yourself all upset. I did warn you not to touch the
handbag, didn’t I? But you did touch it, so you only have yourself to blame.
You see the handbag has to be fed every week and it was Billy’s job to feed
it. And Billy always fed it with bits of Granny. But Billy’s taken Granny with
him and the handbag’s been getting really hungry. It needs fresh meat, you
see. Fresh human meat.’

Inspector
Kirby’s eyes were starting from their sockets.

‘It’s
lucky you happened by, really,’ continued Billy’s mum. ‘And most fortuitous
that the telephone rang. It was one of your superiors asking after you. I told
them that you’d just left and I’d seen you getting into an old VW Camper van.
So I don’t think they’ll come bothering us again.’

Inspector
Kirby shook and shivered.

Billy’s
mum covered him up with an old dog blanket. ‘I’ve put you inside this
portmanteau,’ she said, ‘because Billy took Granny’s suitcase, but you probably
would have found it a bit cramped in there. There’s air holes in the lid, so it’s
not cruel or anything. And I’ve taken the liberty of injecting you with a
special drug from the Amazon. It slows down the metabolism so you’ll only need
feeding about once a week. So I can do that when I come for another finger. So
that’s perfect, isn’t it?’

And so
saying Mrs Barnes closed the lid of the portmanteau, locked it and pushed it
under her bed.

And
then she went down for her supper.

Lunchtime with the Piper

The piper with the auld grey beard

Who spoke as soon as he appeared,

Both soon wore out his welcome and the new seat of
his kilt.

The Campbells (whom the others hate)

Thought out their schemes, both small and great,

And made a living diving for the silver-coloured
silt.

The piper got off in a huff

He said, ‘They think I’m Peter Brough,’
[1]

Who speaks without a tremble or a flicker of his
lips.

But I am more like Elvis P,

Whose Rock ‘n’ Roll is ecstasy,

And who could pull more crumpet with a flicker of his
hips.

The piper spoke of ages past,

And men who sailed before the mast,

And when the 6.5 Special ran on time,

And of Don Lang and Hayley Bill

Who gave his boyhood days a thrill,

When men drank ale as men should do, not alcoholic
lime.

The Campbells listened to his tale,

And watched the piper turning pale,

And some wept in their sporrans (though I saw a
couple smirk),

And when the talk had turned to frogs,

And sassy knacks and English dogs,

The piper said, Well stuff all that, I must be back
at work.’

11

Accept
anything. Then explain it your way.

CHARLES
FORT

I walked into the Jolly
Gardeners just as the piper was walking out. Which suited me fine, as I could
never stand the bloke. Not that I have anything against the Scots you
understand, after all I’m one myself, a direct descendant of William Wallace.
But that piper really got up my nose. And anyway, I had some pretty heavy-duty
thinking that needed to be done and where better to do it than here?

I was
anonymous here. The folk in this sleepy rural hamlet knew nothing of my Lazlo
Woodbine persona or my world-saving escapades. Here they knew me as Mr Rupert
Tractor, a route planner for the local foxhunt.

Now, as
it was a Friday lunchtime, the last person I expected to see serving behind the
bar was the lead singer of the now legendary 1960s garage-psyche band The 13th
Floor Elevators. So I was doubly surprised to see instead that it was Paul.

‘Paul,’
I said. ‘I thought you were dead.’

Paul
looked up slowly from his crossword. ‘If I can come up with a snappy rejoinder
to that, I’ll let you know,’ said he.

‘But
you were reading the book. The Johnny Quinn book.’

‘Johnny
who?’
asked Paul.

‘Don’t
give me that. Johnny Quinn.
Snuff Fiction
you had a copy.’

‘Oh,
Johnny Quinn. Funny you should mention him. After you left that Tuesday
evening, I got to thinking about Johnny Quinn, and the more I thought about
him, the less I seemed to remember.’

‘Don’t
try that on me,’ I told him. ‘You had the book, I saw it with my own two eyes.’

What,
this
book?’ Paul pulled the book from beneath the counter. White card cover.
Publisher’s proof copy. He handed it to me and I examined it.

The
Sniff Function
by Jimmy Quonn.

‘Easy
mistake,’ said Paul. ‘It had me going for a while.’

‘Huh!’
I said.

‘Pint
of the usual, was it?’

‘Whatever
the usual might happen to be, yes.’

‘I’ll
see if I can find a suitable glass.’

I stood
and waited patiently, and at length my patience was rewarded and Paul pulled me
a pint of something or other.

‘Thanks,’
I said, paying for and bearing it away. I plonked myself down in my favourite
corner and muttered under my breath.

‘Easy
mistake, my arse,’ I muttered.

‘Not
too sold on that explanation, then, chief?’

‘It’s
all a bloody conspiracy.’

‘Ain’t
that the truth. So tell me, chief, now that you have the voodoo handbag, what
are you going to do with it? Give it back to Mrs Barnes?’

‘Are
you kidding, Barry? That woman is a stone bonker. Think of that poor Inspector
Kirby boxed up under the bed.’

‘Yeah, I’ve
been wondering about that for the last ten years, chief. How come when she
whispered to you in your shed about what she’d done to the Inspector, and you
threw up everywhere and everything. How come you didn’t just go to the police
and tell them?’

“What?
Breach of confidentiality of a client? I have my standards to maintain. I’m a
professional, Barry.’

‘You
certainly are, chief. So what
are
you going to do with the handbag?’

‘I am
going to use it to destroy Billy Barnes and close down the Necronet.’

‘You do
have a real downer on Mr Barnes, don’t you, chief?’

‘A
real
downer?
I spent ten years trapped in the Necronet because of that maniac.
And another three months in the loony bin.’

‘You
can’t actually prove it was his fault, chief.’

‘He’s to
blame, Barry. Billy Barnes is a serial killer and if he’s not stopped he’ll
bring the world as we know it to an end.’

‘Billy
Barnes
is
the World Leader, chief.’

‘Oh
yeah? And how did he get to be the World Leader?’

‘Hard
work? Dedication? Natural aptitude?’

‘Bullshit!’

‘No
doubt there was a certain amount of bullshit involved, but isn’t there always?’

‘I hate
him and I will destroy him!’

‘Not so
loud, chief, folk are beginning to stare.’

‘He’s a
murdering bastard,’ I whispered. ‘And he’ll kill us all.’

‘You’re
not perhaps, just a tad jealous, by any chance?’

‘Jealous?!’

‘Well,
the two of you did go to school together, and he has done rather better for
himself than you, hasn’t he?’

‘Better
than me? What do you mean?’

‘Well,
he is the World Leader, chief. And you—’

‘And me
what?’

‘Well,
chief, there are some who might suggest that you are nothing more than a
paranoid schizophrenic with a multiple personality disorder and a persecution
complex.’

‘Outrageous!
And who might suggest such a thing?’

‘Well,
there was the doctor at the mental institution you’ve just escaped from.’

‘Oh,
him.’

‘Him,
chief.’

‘And
what about you, Barry? Do you think I’m mad?’

‘Me,
chief? Absolutely not. But then, what would I know? I’m only a voice in your
head.’

‘Quite
so. And anyway, I can prove I’m not mad. I’ve got the voodoo handbag.’

‘And
this would be the handbag that eats people, would it?’

‘It
certainly would.’ I pulled the voodoo handbag from the poacher’s pocket of my
trench coat and placed it on the table. ‘There you go,’ I said. ‘Disprove
that.’

‘Would
that I could, chief. Although—’

‘Although
what?’

‘Well,
it doesn’t look all that hungry right now, does it? I mean, it’s not exactly
gnashing, or anything.’

I gave
the handbag a bit of close scrutiny. And I had to confess that it didn’t look
all that menacing. It just looked like a rather badly cast old plaster handbag.
‘Perhaps it’s already been fed today,’ I said. ‘Or it’s sleeping.’

‘Sleeping,
chief. That would probably be it. Let sleeping bags lie, eh?’