The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (Completely Barking Mad Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Rankin

  I went in, hung up my hat and cloak and placed my silver-topped cane upon the counter. ‘A pint of Death by Cider, please, Paul,’ I said.

  Paul hastened without haste to oblige me.

  ‘What are you reading?’ I asked, spying the open book on the counter.

  ‘Book,’ said Paul, viewing the rows of identical pint glasses upon the shelf and waiting for one to take his fancy.

  ‘Does it have a title?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Paul, still waiting.

  ‘Might I ask what it is?’

  ‘You might.’

  I turned the book towards me and closed it. It was a publisher’s proof copy. It had a white card cover. The title of the book was Snuff Fiction, the author was Johnny Quinn.

  ‘B*gger me,’ I said.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Paul.

  ‘But it’s a Johnny Quinn novel. You’ve got a Johnny Quinn novel.’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ said Paul.

  ‘Yes you have, I’m holding it in my hands.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Paul. ‘It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend. A friend of a friend, actually.’

  ‘But you’ve got it. It exists. Johnny Quinn exists.’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Paul, who had finally found a glass he liked the look of.

  ‘He bl**dy does,’ I said. ‘This book proves it.’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Paul, slowly filling the glass from the wrong pump. ‘Because he’s dead. Committed suicide.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘Poor old Johnny. He really did exist and now he’s topped himself. He probably got fed up with people not believing in him.’

  ‘What?’ asked Paul, presenting me with my pint.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Paul.

  I held the book very tightly. ‘I want to buy this book,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you ten quid for it.’

  ‘It’s not mine. I can’t sell it.’

  ‘Twenty quid, then, and that’s my final offer.’

  ‘It will be out in the shops next week for a fiver.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re republishing all his stuff. The Million Dollar Dream, Sailing to Babylon. There’s been a big revival since he croaked. And Snuff Fiction is the last one he wrote before he blew his brains out. It’s never been published before. It’ll probably go straight into the bestseller list. You’ll be able to buy it at a discount.’

  ‘I don’t get this,’ I said. ‘When I asked at the bookshops a while back, they couldn’t trace any of his books.’

  ‘That’s because they were all private editions, printed in the States. His books were never published in this country. People used to say they’d read him in order to seem hip and well informed.’

  ‘Hm!’ I said, giving my chin a scratch.

  ‘But that’s what you blokes from the Sixties were all about, wasn’t it?’ said Paul. ‘Always saying you’d done the Hippy Trail and been to Woodstock and watched the Stones in the Park and gone to college with Freddie Mercury and taken every drug there was to take and all the rest of it. A bunch of bull-shirters, the lot of you. Did you ever read any Johnny Quinn novels, then?’

  ‘Not me,’ I said, and paid for whatever it was I’d just bought, and sat down in a corner and drank it.

  And what Paul said made a lot of sense, really. I’d obviously heard of Johnny Quinn, but I’d never actually read him. But I must have told people that I’d read him in order to seem hip and well informed. And as the years had gone by, I’d come to believe that I’d really read him. That had to be it. And it was probably it with all the other people who’d told me they’d read Johnny Quinn. They were all just a bunch of Sixties bull-shirters, like me. A lot of tall-story-tellers.

  Tall-story-tellers!

  That made me think. That made me think about my dad. I swallowed hard upon my ale. What if my dad hadn’t considered himself a tall-story-teller at all? What if he’d actually believed all those tales he’d told to the vicar? Thought he’d really done all those things? It was all too much to think about. I finished up whatever it was I was drinking and went home.

  I went back to the Jolly Gardeners the following Tuesday evening. I wanted Paul to lend me that copy of Snuff Fiction. All right, it would be out in the shops the next day. But I wanted his copy. Because I wanted to be able to say to people, ‘Snuff Fiction? Oh yes, I read that before it came out.’

  But Paul wasn’t there.

  Andy was behind the pump.

  Where’s Paul?’ I asked Andy.

  ‘Not turned in,’ Andy said. ‘I’ve telephoned, but there’s no answer. I can’t think what’s happened. This isn’t like Paul at all.’

  ‘Damn!’ I said. ‘Do you have Paul’s address?’

  ‘No,’ said Andy. ‘Do you?’

  Wednesday morning found me back at Waterstone’s, and there behind the counter was the chap I’d spoken to before.

  ‘Remember me?’ I asked him.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Come on now, you do, you know.’

  ‘I don’t, you know.’

  ‘Well, never mind. I’ve come to buy a book.’

  He looked at me. Questioningly.

  ‘It’s a Johnny Quinn book,’ I said. ‘The new Johnny Quinn book. And it comes out today. Although I don’t see it anywhere on your shelves.’

  ‘That’s because there’s no such book,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes there is. I’ve seen a copy. It’s called Snuff Fi—’

  But I didn’t get the second word out, because he lunged at me and clamped his hand across my face. And then he shinned over the counter, forced my arm up my back and sort of frog-marched me away to the store room.

  ‘What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?’ I shouted, once I’d got myself free.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said, in a menacing tone. ‘Who sent you, anyway?’

  ‘Nobody sent me. What are you talking about?’

  ‘How do you know about that book?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen a copy.’

  ‘Nonsense. You wouldn’t be here if you had.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just go away,’ he told me. ‘Forget all about it.’

  ‘I certainly won’t. I’m not leaving here without a copy of Snuff Fic—’, and his hand was all over my face again.

  ‘Stop doing that,’ I said, once I had prised it free.

  ‘Stop saying that title, then.’

  ‘What, Snuff Fic— Get your hands off me!’

  ‘Then don’t say the title again.’

  ‘Then sell me a copy.’

  ‘I can’t. We don’t have any.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I want a copy and I want it now.’

  ‘You can’t have one.’

  ‘But you do admit there’s such a book.’

  ‘Of course I do. But I’ll only admit it in here. With you. As you’ve actually seen a copy.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ I said, ‘or I will go out into the shop and shout very loudly. I will shout “Give me Snuff Fic—”’

  ‘All right. All right. I’ll tell you. But you have to promise. Promise that you’ll never pass on what I tell you here.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Really truly, cross your heart and hope to die.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘It’s a nightmare,’ he said. ‘It’s Quinn’s revenge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It seems that he was famous in the Sixties but the world forgot about him. His books went out of print and he became more of a myth than a living person. He blamed the publishers and the booksellers and the public. He blamed everyone. He was a paranoid schizophrenic, voices in the head, the whole bit. And he vowed to take his revenge on everyone. So he wrote his final novel, Snuff Fiction.

  ‘And he paid for it to be printed and published himself. Millions and millions of copies, to be distribut
ed to booksellers all over the world. He ran up debts of millions of dollars, then he committed suicide.’

  ‘I’m not getting this,’ I said. ‘So he publishes his own book, runs up millions of dollars of debt and commits suicide. But that’s a big story. That alone should make the book a bestseller.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he planned, yes.’

  ‘So what’s the big deal? Why aren’t you selling the book?’

  ‘Because it’s snuff fiction.’ He whispered the words. ‘It really is snuff fiction.’

  ‘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 okay. 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 Rollses 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 turd.’

  ‘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 blaggard! 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. ‘Prat,’ 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.