The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (4 page)

My
Uncle Brian enjoyed the work. Playing God and tampering with the laws of nature
had always appealed to him. But he became unemployed in 1997 with the change of
government, and this in turn led him to lose the thirty-five quid which in its
turn came to bring down the British book publishing industry.

Allow
me to explain.

What
happened was this. The new Labour government was very keen to save money.
Having the nation’s interests ever at heart they decided to cut back on
government spending, and one way they found of achieving this was by amalgamating
certain top secret departments and restructuring them so that they would run at
a profit. Lumping them all together, as it were, sharing jobs. Fox farming,
which was
Very
Top Secret, got amalgamated with UFO back-engineering,
which was
Above
Top Secret. UFO back-engineering is when a government
acquires a grounded flying saucer and then takes it apart in order to see what
makes it run. This has not as yet been successfully achieved, which explains
why we do not at present swish around in flying saucers and commute between the
planets. But we’re trying.

So UFO
back-engineering got amalgamated with fox farm genetic engineering, and a chap
called Hartly was put in charge with the remit to make the enterprise run at a
profit.

Hartly
was a bright young spark and almost immediately he saw a financial
opportunity. Fox pelts. As townies were now convinced of the good of foxhunting
and the evil of foxes, surely they would be prepared to purchase fox fur coats
just like the good old days? Hartly set about the genetic engineering of the
angora fox. It was a brilliant idea, but where he slipped up was in using
genetic material taken from a UFO.

As all
those who have access to Above Top Secret information will know, UFOs are
mostly organic. Which explains why they don’t show up on radar. The UFO genetic
material used for the creation of the angora fox did not result in the creation
of the angora fox. It resulted in the creation of the
stealth fox.

Now,
whereas the Stealth Bomber does not show up on radar, the stealth fox didn’t
show up anywhere. It could blend in with its surroundings to a degree that made
it virtually invisible. It was there all right, if you took the trouble to look
hard enough for it (after all
everything has to be somewhere and nothing can
ever be anywhere other than where it is),
but escaping notice was what the
stealth fox did best.

That
and escaping from secret government research establishments. Naturally.

Using
the cunning for which it is famed, this new order of fox sought out its old
adversary — the foxhound. It began to blend in with the packs, and in fact so
convincingly did it do this that the pack took it for one of its own. In no
time the stealth fox was cross-breeding with the foxhounds, producing a stealth
fox/dog hybrid indistinguishable from the ordinary foxhound. Within a couple of
years many packs of foxhounds consisted of nothing but stealth fox/dog hybrids.

This
cross-breeding produced a larger, more powerful strain of stealth fox, roughly
the size of a Great Dane (or small horse). The next step was inevitable.

The
large stealth fox/dog hybrids began to blend in with the horses in the hunt,
and soon the first stealth fox/dog/horse hybrid appeared.

Now the
next step up the evolutionary ladder taken by the stealth fox may well be considered
by those of a prudish disposition to be too distasteful to chronicle. But in
the noble quest for truth, it must be told.

Those
of you who have ever viewed the now legendary porno vid
Down on the Farm
will
recall the episode of the lusty stable lass and the frisky stallion.

Enough
said.

The
stealth fox/dog/horse/human hybrid was born.

And it was one of these
very stealth fox/dog/horse/ human hybrids who, several years later in the guise
of a bloke in a bar, did my uncle out of thirty-five quid, which in turn led my
uncle to bring down the British book publishing industry.

And how this came about,
and what it all has to do with a voodoo handbag, a Holy Guardian Sprout and a
threat to mankind from the denizens of cyberspace, will soon become blindingly
obvious.

Although not, perhaps, in
the
most
obvious way.

The Laird of Dunoon

The Laird of Dunoon

Leans back in his chair,

Trousers rolled up to the knee.

Easing his braces

With courteous graces

He sips at his Newcastle B.

The Laird of Dunoon

In the newspaper bonnet

Smiles as he looks out to sea.

Taking a drag

From a finely rolled fag,

He sips at his Newcastle B.

The Laird of Dunoon

In the Fair Isle pullover

Whistles ‘The Rose of Tralee’.

He swivels his hips

As he purses his lips,

And sips at his Newcastle B.

The Laird of Dunoon

Glances down at his Rolex

And sees that it’s time for his tea.

He slips on his socks,

Puts his specs in a box

And finishes his Newcastle B.

Ah, if only all of life could be as this.

But regretfully, it cannot!

3

Smart from books ain’t so smart.

CAROL
BAKER

The ambition of every
tall-story-teller is to create an urban myth. One of those ‘it happened to a
friend of a friend of mine’ stories that enters the collective consciousness
and takes on a life of its own.

You hear
them all the time: at work, in the pub, at a party. Told to you by folk who’ll
swear they’re true. And the thing about a really good one is it can make you
feel that even if it isn’t true somehow it ought to be.

For
instance, does anyone remember Johnny Quinn? Yes, no, maybe. Well, about a year
ago I was in the Jolly Gardeners drinking Death by Cider and chatting with my
good friend Sean O’Reilly. William Burroughs had just died and Sean was saying
that Old Bill had been one of his favourites. I said that he had been one of my
favourites too, and although I never really understood what he was on about
most of the time, it didn’t seem to matter, because I just loved the
way
he
was on about it.

And
then Sean asked me whether I’d ever read anything by Johnny Quinn, who had
apparently been a mate of Burroughs and was somewhat easier to understand. I
said I was sure that I had, but I couldn’t remember what. And then I said, yes
I could, and wasn’t it Johnny Quinn who wrote
The Million Dollar Dream?
And
Sean said he thought it was, and also
Sailing to Babylon,
and something
about tears.

‘Tomorrow’s
Tears,’
I said. ‘I’ve got that book somewhere.’ And
we talked a bit about what we could remember of Johnny Quinn, which didn’t seem
to be much, and his books, which seemed to be even less. And at the end of the
evening Sean said that he’d really like to read
Tomorrow’s Tears
again
and I said, ‘Let’s go back to my place and I’ll see if I can find it.’

And we
did. But I couldn’t.

We
searched through all my paperbacks, but
Tomorrow’s Tears
was nowhere to
be found. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I’m going into Brighton tomorrow, I’ll see if
I can pick up a copy at Waterstone’s.’ Sean said to get whatever Johnny Quinn
books they had in stock and he’d pay me for them next time he saw me. And we
both got quite excited about the prospect of reading some Johnny Quinn again.

Which
turned out to be a pity, really.

The
chap at Waterstone’s was very helpful. I asked him if he had any Johnny Quinn
books in stock and he said the name rang a bell and he’d have a look. He had a
look and said that no, sadly, they didn’t. So I asked him if I could order some
and he said he didn’t see any reason why not and cranked up his computer. But
he couldn’t find a mention of Johnny Quinn. ‘Are you sure it’s
Johnny
Quinn?’
he asked. And I said I was sure that it was, and he said he felt sure that it
was too. But we couldn’t find him although there were several books with
similar sounding titles to the ones I was looking for.

‘They
must all be out of print,’ said the very helpful chap. ‘Perhaps you should try
the library.’

The
lady at the library was also very helpful and she employed
her
computer.
But she couldn’t find any Johnny Quinn books either. ‘That’s odd,’ she said, ‘because
I’m sure I remember reading one of his books when I was at school.’ But she
couldn’t find him and eventually she got tired of looking and suggested I try
one of the specialist bookshops in the area.

So I
did. In fact I went to each and every one of them. The chaps who ran these
shops were also very helpful and although they all felt certain they could
remember old Johnny and had enjoyed reading his books, none of them had a
single one in stock.

I must
confess that by mid afternoon I was beginning to feel a little stressed.

At the
very last shop I visited, the proprietor, a very helpful chap, grew quite
lyrical over the recollection of Mr Quinn. He’d once had a girlfriend, he
said, who had named her cat Toothbrush, after a character in one of his novels.

Toothbrush?
I didn’t remember any character called Toothbrush!

‘Are
you still in touch with this old girlfriend?’ I asked.

‘No,’
said the proprietor with a sigh. ‘She died.’ And his face became sad, and he
said he was going to close up early and he hustled me out of his shop. And I
too became sad and went home.

But by
now the search for a Johnny Quinn novel was becoming something of a crusade. I
was determined that I would lay my hands upon one, come what may. By fair
means or foul.

I
decided to try the fair means first.

So that
evening I went through my personal telephone book and called everyone that was
listed in it. I called all my friends, and old friends too, some of whom I hadn’t
spoken to for years. And I called business acquaintances and even the doctor
and the dentist, as I had their numbers. Some of them felt sure that they had
read Johnny Quinn, and I waited anxiously while they looked through their
bookshelves before returning to the phone with the reply I was coming to dread.

Gilly,
an old friend from college days, rather put the wind up me when I spoke to her.
She said that she’d had a Johnny Quinn book but she’d lent it to a friend and
never got it back. Apparently this friend had lent Gilly’s book to another
friend and never got it back from her.

A
friend-of-a-friend that would be then, wouldn’t it!

By
midnight I had run up a very large phone bill and worn out my friendship with
quite a few people, but I was absolutely no nearer to finding what was now
acquiring the status of a literary Holy Grail.

I went
off to bed in a very bad mood!

But I
was up bright and early the next morning.

Because
I’d had an idea.

I’d
remembered that there are companies in London that specialize in finding books
for collectors. That’s what they do. You pay them’ a finder’s fee and they seek
out the book. Mind you, I’d heard that this can take years, but I felt it was
certainly worth a try.

Directory
Enquiries put me on to the most famous one. I’m not allowed to mention their
name here, but you’ve probably heard of them, they do posh auctions, too.

The
chap I spoke to first was very helpful, and very posh. Was it Jonathan Quinn?’
he asked. ‘The contemporary of Beau Brummel and the Prince Regent?’

‘No,’ I
said. ‘Just plain Johnny, mucker of Billy Burroughs back in the Swinging
Sixties.’

‘Ah,’
said the chap, ‘then you will need to speak to our Mr Hiemes, who specializes
in books from the 1960s. He’s our resident expert on the period.’

‘Splendid,’
I said.

He put
me through to their Mr Hiemes and I told their Mr Hiemes that I was looking for
any
book by Johnny Quinn.

‘Johnny
who?’
asked their Mr Hiemes.

‘Quinn,’
I said, ‘surely you’ve heard of him?’

Their
Mr Hiemes said no, he hadn’t.

I said to
their Mr Hiemes that I’d been told he was the resident expert on the period.

‘I am,’
said their Mr Hiemes, ‘and I’ve never heard of Johnny Quinn.’

‘You
have to be joking!’