The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (2 page)

Well,
how could I? You can’t find something if it doesn’t exist, can you?’

‘So the
voodoo handbag doesn’t exist?’

‘The
case of the voodoo handbag disproved Rune’s Law of Obviosity. I discovered that
something
could
be somewhere other than where it is.’

‘So the
voodoo handbag
does
exist?’

‘That’s
a matter of definition. How
can
a thing exist if it isn’t where it is?
Surely a thing has to be where it is in order to qualify for existence?’

‘So the
voodoo handbag
doesn’t
exist.’

Well,
if it doesn’t exist, why come bothering me about it?’

The
doctor made that coughing sound again. ‘Is there, or is there not, a voodoo
handbag?’ he asked.

‘That’s
what I’d like to know. Because if there
isn’t,
then I’ve been looking in
all the wrong places. But if there
is,
then I’ve been looking in all the
right places, but I can’t find it. Frankly, I’m getting a little confused.’

‘You
searched for it on the
Internet,
didn’t you? Why did you do that?’

‘Because
you can never find anything you actually want on the Internet. So that was the
least obvious place to look, which made it the most obvious place for it to be.’

‘But
you didn’t find it there.’

‘No, I
found something that I wasn’t looking for. Obviously.’

‘Obviously.
So what did you find?’

‘You
know what I found, or what I believe I found. And I’m not talking about the
other handbag. I’m talking about the other
thing.
The
big
thing.
The thing that’s got me banged up in here. The thing that no-one believes me
about. That makes people think I’m mad — makes
you
think I’m mad.’

‘I don’t
think you’re mad.’

‘Then
let me out of this straitjacket.’

‘All in
good time. Just tell me calmly and in your own way exactly what it is you
believe you found.’

‘OK.
Calmly and in my own way. You know what virtual reality is, don’t you?’

‘Of
course. It’s holographic imagery, generated by computers and accessed by
portable headsets and handsets. A synthetic reality modelled by mathematics,
creating a hypothetical world commonly referred to as cyberspace.’

‘Very
precise. But incorrect. There is nothing hypothetical about it. It’s a real
place, and I’ve been there.’

Again
that coughing sound. ‘A real place, and you’ve been there?’

‘For
ten long years I was trapped there and it’s not an unpopulated region. You see,
we didn’t invent cyberspace, we only gained access to it. It was there already.
It’s the same place we visit in our dreams, or when we do hallucinogenic drugs,
or have a mystical experience. It’s not a physical place, but it’s real. It’s
the
weird space,
the
mundus magicus.
But a company called
Necrosoft is messing with it. They’re inflicting stuff on it. Messing with its
natural laws. Same old game, mankind buggering up the eco-system.’

‘And
you worry about this?’

We’d
all better worry about it. And we’d better do something about it, before it’s
too late. Before
they
do something about us.’

Who are
they?’

‘They,
them. The folk who live on the other side of the mirror. I told you, it’s not
an unpopulated region. They don’t like what we’re doing, and if we don’t stop
it they’ll stop us.’

‘And
they told you this, did they? They chose you to pass on this message to
mankind?’

What?’

‘Or
perhaps it was Barry, your Holy Guardian Sprout, perhaps he told you all about
it.’

‘What?’

‘Calmly
now. Tell me about these folk The ones on the other side of the mirror. Who are
they?’

‘They’re
us. Or they’re a reflection of us, or we’re a reflection of them. Or a bit of
both. But what does it matter, you don’t believe a word I’m saying. And the
only way I’m ever going to get out of here is if I stop believing it too.’

‘And do
you think you can stop believing it?’

‘Sure.
I’ve stopped. Look at me. I’ve stopped and I’m all better now, so can I go
home, please?’

‘Early
days yet,’ said the doctor.

‘Early
days? I’ve been here for months.’

‘These
things take time.’

‘But we’re
running out of time. If I can’t sort things out, then—’

‘Then
what?’

‘Then…
er… nothing. I just have some things to sort out at home. Plants to water,
aunties to visit. Normal sane things.’

‘I don’t
think you’re being one hundred per cent truthful with me, are you?’

‘Look,
can’t we be reasonable about this? Say I did believe everything I’ve just told
you, which I don’t, of course. But say I did. Where’s the harm in it? The world
is full of harmless loons with wacky ideas. You don’t bang them all up in
mental institutions, the streets would be empty if you did that.’

‘You do
have a point.’ The doctor gave his chin a bit of a stroke. ‘Eccentricity is not
in itself a criminal offence.’

‘Of
course it isn’t. So, what do you say?’ Well…’

‘I’m
harmless, aren’t I?’

Well…’

‘So I
hear voices in my head. So did Joan of Arc.’

‘Well…’

‘And I’m
a technophobe, I’ve got a thing about computers. So what?’

Well…’

‘And I
suffer from delusions that only I can save the world. That’s no big deal, is
it?’

Well…’

‘And I
stir up a bit of insurrection, talk about blowing up a few computer companies.
And assassinating Billy Barnes, the World Leader. History would thank me for
it anyway.’

‘Er,
you didn’t say “Well …”, that time.’

‘Nurse,’
said the doctor, pushing a little button on his desk. ‘Nurse.’

‘Hang
about, I was only joking about the insurrection and the blowing up and
assassinating. You didn’t think I really meant it, did you?’

‘Nurse.’

‘Look,
we’ve been getting along so well. Let’s not spoil it by calling the nurse. Let’s
talk about something else. Who’s your favourite Spice Girl? I like the vicious-looking
one with the big tits, I bet she really—’

‘Nurse!’

The
doctor’s door swung open, and a large male nurse loomed in the doorway.

‘Ah,
Cecil,’ said the doctor. Would you please escort Mr Woodbine back to his room?’

‘With
pleasure, sir.’

‘No,’ I
said, struggling to rise. ‘I don’t want to go back to my room. I have to get
out of here. I really do. Everything depends upon it.’

Would
you care for me to administer Mr Woodbine’s medication, sir?’

The
doctor nodded. ‘Use the big syringe,’ he said. ‘No, no, not the big syringe.’ I
fought to free myself. But I was onto a loser. Male nurse Cecil caught me
firmly by the scruff of the straitjacket. ‘Shall I use the
very
big
syringe?’ he asked.

‘The
great big one,’ said the doctor. With the extra long needle.’

‘No,
let me go. You’re making a terrible mistake. You have to let me go, I’m the
only one who knows the truth.’ As with the farmer in the poem, I began to foam
somewhat about the jaw regions. I kicked out at Nurse Cecil, but I only had my
hospital slippers on and he had his big shin guards. And his big boots. He
stamped on my foot and he smiled as he did it.

‘Ouch!’
I screamed. ‘Set me free, you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m not mad. I’m
not. I’m not!’

‘Come
along now, Mr Woodbine,’ said Cecil. ‘There’s a good gentleman.’

‘It’s a
conspiracy. You’re all in it together. You’re all in the pay of Billy Barnes.’

‘Come
along now, please.’

I was
hauled, still kicking and screaming, out of the doctor’s office and along the
corridor. Fellow loons, who had the run of the place, turned their faces away
as I passed them by, and whistled nonchalantly.

‘You’re
all in it!’ I screamed. ‘All of you! The lot of you!’

‘Quietly
now, please, Mr Woodbine. Don’t go upsetting the other patients.’

‘You’ll
get yours, you bastard.’

Back in the privacy of my
room, I got mine.

Nurse
Cecil performed certain unspeakable acts upon my helpless person, gave me a
sound kicking, and then employed the great big syringe with the extra long
needle.

‘Good
night, sweet prince,’ he said, as he closed the padded door upon me.

I lay
strapped to my bunk, effing and blinding and hurting and bleeding and waiting
for the medication to kick in and plunge me once more into oblivion.

But
just before it did, I heard a little voice calling me. Calling me from inside
my head. It was the voice of Barry, my Holy Guardian Sprout. Offering me solace
and comfort.

‘That
might have gone a little better, chief,’ it said.

Adding
later, ‘You twat!’

Tall Tales

and

Jumping Beans

‘Drat,’ said the old enamel vicar,

Kept for purposes of pleasure,

Kept in the tiny sainted box,

Handed down through generations,

Spoken of by rising nations,

Blessed at festive celebrations,

And I use for my socks.

Twang, went the Mexican jumping bean,

Brought home from my travels,

Carried over distant seas,

Made venerable by Rose’s mother,

Saying, not like any other,

Teaching, thou shalt love each other,

Which seems OK to me.

‘Bye,’ went Doc, as he boarded the plane,

Bound for the Amazon Basin,

Bound for the pygmies and tsetse fly,

Off in search of the Holy Grail,

Lost in the belly of Jonah’s whale,

Personally, I think he’ll fail,

But some say I’m a cynic.

2

The
theory of Space and Time is a

cultural
artefact made possible by

the
invention of graph paper.

JACQUES
VALLEE

In the year 2002 my Uncle
Brian brought down the British book publishing industry. He had nothing
personal against it; he had no axe to grind, no cross to bear, no chicken to
stuff. But he did have an awful lot of right-handed rubber gloves.

You
see, my Uncle Brian had bought a consignment of rubber gloves for thirty-five
quid from a bloke in a pub. Thirty-five thousand pairs. It seemed like the deal
of a lifetime. One thousand pairs for a pound; you just couldn’t fail to make
money on a deal like that. But what my uncle didn’t discover until some time
later was that he had been done. He had seventy thousand rubber gloves all
right, but that was the trouble, they were
all right.
All right-handers.

And the
method he chose to sell on these seemingly useless articles at a handsome
profit brought down the British book publishing industry.

Of
course you will find no record of this on any database, and you can scan the
pages of the
History of the 20th Century
on your home terminal until
your eyes grow dim; Uncle Brian has no mention there. In fact the only place
where you can learn of my Uncle Brian’s part in changing the course of history
is right here and right now.

And as
all
books will be destroyed in the great Health Purge of 2001 you must read
here while you are able.

Uncle
Brian was a tall-story-teller (I speak of him in the past tense as he is now
long dead, cruelly cut down in his prime in a mysterious incident involving a
grassy knoll and a high-powered rifle). I come from a long and distinguished
line of tall-storytellers, and I would like to make it very clear from the
outset that tall-story-telling is in no way to be confused with lying.

Lying
is a wicked, shameless, ignominious thing. indulged in by crude evil folk, to
the detriment of others and to the benefit of themselves. Tall-storytelling
is, on the other hand, a noble art, performed by selfless individuals, designed
to enrich our cultural heritage and add a little colour to an otherwise
lacklustre world.

So
there.

My
father was a tall-story-teller, as my earliest memory of him set down now
before you will confirm.