The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (6 page)

‘I don’t
understand what you mean.’

‘You
know what a snuff movie is?’

‘Of
course. Although it seems to be an urban myth. Nobody you meet has ever seen
one themselves, but they’ve all got a friend whose friend has seen one.’

‘Well,
this is the real thing. If you read this book, you die.’

What,
someone comes round and kills you?’

‘The
book kills you.’

‘How
can a book kill you? I’ve read a few that have put me to sleep. But how can a
book kill you?’

‘The
pages are impregnated with poison. It comes off on your fingers while you’re
reading the book. Enters your bloodstream and kills you.’

‘I don’t
believe it. There’s no such poison.’

‘There
is. It comes from the Amazon.’

Who
told you that?’

‘A
friend.’

‘And
who told your friend? A friend?’

‘Look,
it’s true. There have already been deaths. Book reviewers, people like that.
The books have all been pulped now, so it’s OK. But the whole thing is a
nightmare.’

‘I’ve
never read anything about this in the papers.’

‘And
you won’t. It’s all being hushed up. Can you imagine the implications of a
thing like this? If people thought that books could kill them—?’

But I
was way ahead of him there. A thing like that could bring down the whole
British book publishing industry.

And I
could imagine quite clearly how it might start.

Rumours
on the conspiracy pages of the Internet. A big publisher was pulping books
under mysterious circumstances. A mention of the word
virus.
Which is
always a great word to start a panic with. And then the tall stories told in
the pub. A friend of a friend’s mum had been found dead in her armchair with a
paperback book clutched in her hands. Another friend of a friend’s dad had gone
likewise, but he had been reading the
Sunday Sport.
And blokes in
radiation suits had bagged up his body and torched his house.

It was
the eco-warriors, some said, out to save the rain forests. Or that Japanese
bunch who had put the chemical warfare bombs in the Tokyo Underground. Or it
was the Discordians, or the Church of Euthanasia, or J. Bob Dodds. Or it was
the evil French or the New Age Travellers.

And the
rumours would spread and the panic would grow and newspapers would deny it.
Then one newspaper would come out in a cling film wrapper, demanding that
government health warnings be put on rival newspapers. And people would freak
out and say that it wasn’t safe to read any book or newspaper unless you were
wearing rubber gloves. And there would be a lunatic rush to buy up rubber
gloves, at any price.

I left
Waterstone’s that day with my head spinning. The implications were indeed
terrible, and it was a very good thing that all the Johnny Quinn books had been
pulped and the matter could be laid to rest. The chap at Waterstone’s made me
take a solemn vow that I would never reveal a word of anything he’d told me.

‘Trust
me,’ I told him. ‘I won’t mention it to another living soul.’

And I
have of course remained true to my promise.

Well,
apart from mentioning it to my Uncle Brian.

Just in
passing.

The Spurs of the Cockerel

Boy racers pass in large numbers

Waking priests from their reverent slumbers,

Vanish in clouds of blue gasoline

Leaving dark marks where their tyres have been.

Engines that move by the power of ten horses

Occupants altered in shape by G-forces.

Boy racers pass in their white GTs,

With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.

Climbers on peaks in the Andes

Dream of the life of the dandies,

Slim cigarettes held in holders of jade

Drag boys who stroll on the glass esplanade,

Cool Coca-Cola in blue-tinted glasses,

Silver decanters and late dinner passes.

Climbers on peaks sit and wonder,

With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.

Crass Latin waiters hold trays up

In clubs where the night person stays up,

News-reading ladies in glittery togs,

Paid baby-sitters look after their dogs,

Cherries that toast in a sea-fire of brandy,

Debutantes sipping their apricot shandy.

Crass Latin waiters swear under their breath,

With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.

Brown paper clerics read masses

To herds of the best-tailored Fascists,

Fast people’s custom-made Rolles and Mercs,

White hands that ill disguise tailor-made smirks.

Silk-lined cravats and velvet pray-dos,

Never a glimpse of the old tennis shoes.

Brown paper clerics are playing it safe,

With the spurs of the cockerel above them.

Not that I’m bitter.

4

Times don’t last, tough people do

MACHO
MAN RANDY SAVAGE

‘Cock-a-doodle-do, chief.
Up and at it.’

I
opened up my eyelids and almost managed to focus on the ceiling. Almost.

‘Come
on, chief, it’s a glorious day. What shall we do first, breakfast at Tiffany’s,
or hit the big surf on Bondi?’

‘Get
out of my head, you little shit.’

‘Come
on now, chief, that’s no way to speak to your Holy Guardian.’

‘Demonic
tormentor, more like.’ I re-opened my eyelids the merest crack and squinted
bitterly at the ceiling. It was the same ceiling, the same
padded
ceiling,
that I’d been waking up to for almost three months now.

‘I have
to get out of here,’ I told Barry. ‘I have to. I do.’

‘I
know, chief. I’m on your side, after all. But if you want to get out of here
you’re gonna have to sharpen up your interview technique.’

‘Yeah,
right. But what can I do? If I lie, he says I’m “in denial”, and if I tell the
truth, he thinks I’m a stone bonker.’

‘Difficult
times for you, chief.’

‘Thanks
for your warm support.’

‘That’s
what I’m here for.’

‘Huh!’
I flexed my aching limbs as best I could in the straitjacket. I sorely needed
the toilet. ‘Couldn’t you put a word in for me with the doctor’s Holy Guardian?’
I asked Barry.

‘Vic
the Spud? Wish I could, chief, but it’s against the rules. Have you thought any
more about my suggestion as to how we might get you out of here?’

‘Now
which particular suggestion would that be? The
slimming-right-down-until-I-can-squeeze-through-the-bars suggestion? The
digging-my-way-out-with-a-hypodermic-needle suggestion? The gluing-pillow-feathers-together-to-build-a-pair-of-wings
suggestion? The—’

‘I was
thinking more of my
persuading-someone-in-authority-from-the-outside-world-to-sign-your-release-form
suggestion, actually, chief.’

‘Ah,
this would be the suggestion-you’ve-never-suggested-before suggestion.’

‘I’ve
suggested it loads of times, chief. It’s just that you never listen.’

‘I hang
on your every God-given word, Barry. Should I fax the Pope, do you think? Do
you have his private number?’

‘I was
thinking more of your Uncle Brian, chief. He’s something secret in the
government, isn’t he?’

‘He was
going to be my second choice, naturally.’

‘Naturally,
chief. So when it’s your turn to use the telephone in the recreation room
again, perhaps you might give him a bell, rather than Sexy Sandra’s Spanking
Hot Line.’

The
door of my padded cell swung open and male nurse Cecil loomed largely.

‘Good
morning, dreamboat,’ he said. ‘And who are we today?’

‘Shouldn’t
it be
how
are we?’

‘No,
who.
Are we Carlos the Chaos Cockroach, or Lazlo Woodbine the Private Eye, or
Barking Barry the Talking Sprout, or—’

‘Just
plain old Mr Rankin today,’ I said. ‘And I’d like to use the toilet, have my
breakfast and then make a telephone call, if that’s all right with you.’

‘A bit
early in the day for Sexy Sandra, isn’t it?’

‘It’s
never too early for— What? You bastard! You listen in on my phone calls!’

‘Hospital
policy. You’d be surprised how many patients try to persuade someone in
authority from the outside world to come in and sign their release forms.’

‘Better
pass on breakfast if you’re gonna squeeze through those bars then, chief.’

Male
nurse Cecil released me from the straitjacket and marched me off up the
hospital corridor. I had a poo, which I rather enjoyed, and a cold hose down in
the showers, which I didn’t. And then I was allowed to dry and dress myself
before being marched off to breakfast.

I took
a regulation steel tray and queued for my tucker.

What do
you want?’ asked the big fat ugly-looking son-of-a-bitch behind the counter,
when my turn came at last.

‘Lightly
poached quail’s eggs, olive bread with honey topping. Kedgeree and black
coffee. I’ll try the Colombian roast today, if I may.’

The big
fat ugly one ladled a helping of cold porridge onto a chipped enamel plate and
thrust it in my direction. ‘Twat,’ he said. I fished a spoon from the counter
bucket and took my breakfast to a vacant table.

As I
sat, manfully munching, it occurred to me that there had never ever been a
Golden Age of Loonies.

Every
other walk of life had enjoyed its golden age. Racketeers spoke of the
Twenties, big band leaders the Thirties, fighter pilots the Forties, Rock ‘n’
Rollers the Fifties, hippies the Sixties, someone-or-others the Seventies and
yuppies the Eighties. But there had never been a good time to be a banged-up
basket case. From manacles and cold water baths to electric shock treatment and
experimental surgery, the going had always been grim, grim, grim.

‘Anyone
sitting here?’ An inmate indicated the vacant chair next to me. In the outside
world such a question would be easy to answer. But not here.

‘You
tell me,’ I said.

‘No, it’s
vacant.’

‘Splendid.’

The
inmate sat himself down. He was your standard issue inmate. Young, thin,
pinched-faced, glassy-eyed, greasy-haired, pimply, bad-breathed, evil-smelling—
‘Hey, let up,’ said the inmate. ‘I’ve got’ a lovely smile.’ He showed me his
lovely smile.

Black-toothed,
yellow-tongued— ‘Give it a rest.’

‘Sorry,’
I said. ‘I was only thinking out loud.’

‘You
want to watch that, they’ll put you in the nut house.’

‘Ha ha ha,’
I said, as I hadn’t lost my sense of humour.

‘I’m
glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said the inmate, tucking into his
porridge. ‘I’m Dan,
by
the way.’

‘Pleased
to meet you, Dan.’

‘No, it’s
Dan-by-the-way,’ said Dan by the way. ‘I’m only Dan to my friends.’

‘And do
you have many of those?’

‘Well,
none, actually.’

‘Then
don’t let me spoil a perfect record.’

‘Oh,
what the heck, you can call me Dan, if you like.’

‘Cheers,
Dan.’

‘No, I
said Dan-if-you-like. Are you taking the piss, or what?’

‘I’m
just trying to eat my breakfast.’

‘Yeah,
well, let’s have no trouble then.’

‘Fine.’
I picked what appeared to be a toenail from my teeth and cast it aside.

What
are you in for?’ asked Dan.

‘Multiple
murder, cannibalism and necrophilia,’ I said, as this often proved an efficient
method of subtly discouraging further conversation. ‘Do you have a problem with
that?’

‘Absolutely
not.’ Dan tucked further into his porridge. ‘That’s what I’m in here for.’

‘Let’s
eat up and piss off, shall we, chief?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Absolutely,’
said Dan.

A little later Dan said, ‘Actually
I’m not in for multiple murder. Well, I am, a bit. But it’s not the real reason
I’m in here. I’m in here because I know things
they
don’t want the
outside world to know.’