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

by Robert Rankin

I relate it here for two reasons. Firstly, because if it hadn’t been for Billy’s disappearance I would never have got involved in the case of the voodoo handbag. And secondly, because I consider there is a strong possibility that the tale is true.

  The tale was told to me by a travelling salesman, but as this in itself may raise doubts regarding its reliability, I have taken the liberty of changing the tale-teller’s trade.

  To that of wandering mendicant.

  The village I live in is called Bramfield. It lies about ten miles north of Brighton, just off the A23, which is the main London to Brighton road. It’s a pretty enough village and the folk who live there are happy, being mostly engaged in occupations connected with foxhunting. They keep themselves to themselves and do not encourage tourists. Small boys pelt visiting cyclists with stones and farmers run off walkers at the point of a gun. Travelling salesmen are often to be seen, however, but rarely a wandering mendicant.

  The one who wandered into the Jolly Gardeners one Wednesday lunchtime was a mendicant in the grand tradition. He was short and shoeless, rough and ragged, wild of eye and long of beard. He walked with the aid of a knobbly staff and he called for a pint of best bitter.

  Andy took one look at the wandering mendicant and ordered him straight out of the bar. I considered this a bit harsh and I said so.

  ‘I consider that a bit harsh,’ I said to Andy.

  ‘Dress code,’ said the landlord. ‘He can’t drink here looking like that.’

  I viewed the mendicant’s apparel. He wore the traditional brown sacking robe, secured at the waist by a length of knotted string. It was a fetid robe, frayed about the hems and gone to ruination at the elbows.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked Andy.

  ‘Tie,’ said the landlord. ‘He isn’t wearing a tie.’

  Now I am renowned as a charitable fellow, in fact the term living saint has more than once been used to describe me. And I took pity upon this thirsty traveller and led him outside to my car, in the hope that I might have something that would serve as a tie. I had a good old rummage in the glove box and under the seats, but all I could come up with was a pair of jump leads in the boot. I knotted these about the mendicant’s neck and we returned to the bar.

  ‘All right now?’ I asked Andy.

  Andy scrutinized the jump leads. ‘All right,’ he said to the mendicant. ‘You can come in, but don’t start anything.’

  Oh how we laughed.

  ‘I’ll have a pint of best bitter, please,’ said the mendicant. ‘Before you turn nasty.’

  ‘Why should I turn nasty?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Because I don’t have any money to pay you with.’

  ‘I’ll pay,’ I said. And I did.

  I sat down in my favourite corner and the mendicant sat down with me. He sipped at his bitter and then he said, ‘You’re a Telstar, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a what?’

  ‘A Telstar. Born under the sign of Telstar. I’m an astrologer. I know these things.’

  ‘But Telstar was a satellite,’ I said, ‘put up in the 1950s.’

  ‘It’s a heavenly body and astrology is all to do with the influence of heavenly bodies.’

  ‘Stars and planets, yes, but not telecommunication satellites.’

  The mendicant drank deeply of his pint. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ he said, wiping froth from his beard. ‘It’s all to do with proximity. Everything in space influences everything else. And we are influenced by everything in space. The stars and galaxies exert influence, but they are thousands of light years away, man-made satellites are a whole lot closer. They exert a far stronger influence.’

  ‘I find that difficult to believe.’

  ‘Well you would, you’re a Telstar. Consider the youth of today. All into name brand sportswear and name brand trainers and burger chain dinners and manufactured pop music. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Search me,’ I said.

  ‘They all have the Sky TV satellite in their birth charts.’

  ‘Stuff me!’

  ‘No thanks. And I’ll tell you something more.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ve finished my pint and I’d care for another.’

  ‘Incredible!’

  I purchased another pint of best bitter for the mendicant and a Death by Cider for myself.

  ‘A strange thing happened to me on my way to this pub,’ said the mendicant. ‘Would you like me to tell you about it?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. How old would you say I am?’

  I viewed his grizzled visage. ‘Sixty maybe, sixty-five.’

  ‘I’m sixty-six’

  ‘Well, you don’t look it.’

  ‘I keep myself fit, that’s why. I walk twenty-five miles a day on average. Have done for the last thirty years. I did the Hippy Trail in the Sixties and went to Woodstock and—’

  ‘Would you mind just telling me about this strange thing that happened to you, because I have to go in a minute. I’ve got an appointment to see the doctor.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I have to get some sleeping pills for my wife.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s woken up again.’

  Oh how we laughed.

  ‘All right,’ said the mendicant. ‘I’ll tell you my tale, but it’s an odd one, and you must make of it what you will.’

  ‘Go ahead then.’

  ‘All right. Now, as I say, I get about a bit. I wander the world, and I sleep rough, the stars above and Mother Earth below and that kind of stuff. Well, the other week I was camped out in the middle of the big roundabout just outside Brighton.’

  ‘The one on the A23?’

  ‘The very same. Hitch-hikers always stand there thumbing lifts to London, you’ve probably seen them.’

  I nodded. I had.

  ‘Well, I’m sitting there and I see this young bloke with his bit of cardboard with London scrawled on it, standing there thumbing, and I see this old yellow and cream VW Camper pull up to give him a lift. And I hear the driver say “London?” and the hitch-hiker say “Yes, please.” And then they go off together.’

  ‘So?’ I said. What’s unusual about that? I’ve seen that happen loads of times.’

  ‘Me too. But not an hour later the van is back. Same van. And it picks up another hitch-hiker. “London?” says the driver. “Yes, please,” says the hitch-hiker and off they go.’

  ‘An hour later?’ I said.

  ‘An hour later. And an hour after that the van is back once more.’

  ‘And picks up another hitch-hiker?’

  ‘Another one. I watched all day. Eight hitch-hikers, he took.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have taken them to London and been back to Brighton in an hour. Perhaps he only took them as far as the motorway.’

  ‘Perhaps. Well, I’m quite comfortable on the roundabout and I think maybe I’ll stick around for another day. And I do, and bright and early the next morning, the old VW Camper is back, and he’s picked up another London-bound hitch-hiker.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s some kind of community bus service or something.’

  ‘Or something! Well, I sit there all day and count another six hitch-hikers going away in the VW and then I have to move off the roundabout because a bloke from the council arrives to cut the grass. I mention to him about the VW, and he says that he’d noticed it picking up hitch-hikers and it had been doing so for the last five years.’

  ‘Definitely some community bus service, or something, then.’

  ‘Or something. Well, you hear strange tales when you’re on the road and you see strange sights and I didn’t quite know what to make of this, but as I was heading in the direction of London myself, I thought I’d get a piece of cardboard, scrawl the city’s name on it, stick out my thumb and see if I could cop a lift from the VW the next time around.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Oh ye
s, I did.’

  ‘And did he take you to London?’

  ‘Oh no, he didn’t.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, I see him coming and I stick out my thumb and hold up my piece of cardboard. He stops and calls, “London?” through the open window. “Yes,” I say. “Hop in,” he says. And off we go. The VW Camper is pretty knackered up inside and the driver doesn’t say much, he’s very gaunt and pale and he doesn’t smell too good. “Can you take me all the way to London?” I ask. “Certainly,” he says. “That’s where I’m going. Go up there every day at this time.” I ask what line of business he’s in and he says “recycling”.

  ‘ “Recycling what?” I ask. “Waste,” he says.

  ‘And we’re about twenty minutes into our journey when he says, “I have to make a slight detour here to drop something off. You don’t mind, do you?” And I say “No, I don’t mind, what do you have to drop off?” And he says “Just a letter.” And I notice, in the back, he has a big carton of sealed envelopes. He takes a turning off the A23 and we go along some country lanes, then he turns up this farm track and we drive into this broken down old farmyard. He pulls up, reaches over his shoulder and takes one of the envelopes. “Do me a favour,” he says. “Take this to the farmhouse. Knock at the door, and if no-one answers, put it inside on the hall table.” I say, “No problem.” I take the envelope and off I go.

  ‘The farmhouse is about thirty yards away, and I glance back over my shoulder a couple of times and notice that the driver is watching me very intently. I knock at the door and I wait. Then I hear this dog barking and look back and see a great big dog snapping at the VW. The driver is momentarily distracted, so I duck down behind some old corrugated iron and wait to see what will happen next. The driver shouts at the dog, and the dog ambles off. The driver looks back in my direction. He can’t see me, smiles, turns the VW around and drives away.’

  ‘This is all very odd,’ I said.

  ‘Very odd,’ said the mendicant. ‘And very suspicious. So I decide to take a look around. No-one has answered my knock at the front door and the place seems deserted so I slip round to the back of the house to see what might be seen. And the first thing I see is the first mountain.’

  ‘The first mountain?’

  ‘About ten feet high. Hundreds of pieces of mouldy cardboard, thousands in fact. The ones at the bottom of the mound look ancient, the ones at the top a lot newer. These have all got something written on them. The same something. A single word. London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘And then I see the second mountain. A mountain of rucksacks and sleeping bags.’

  ‘Good God,’ I said.

  ‘Good God is right. I go back to the front of the house and I’m wondering what to do. I figure I’ll push open the front door a couple of inches and take a careful peep inside. And I’m just doing this when the big dog attacks me. It comes rushing up out of nowhere and it leaps at my throat. I duck out of the way and the dog hits the front door, knocking it wide open. As I roll over I see the dog land in the hall, and as its feet hit the floor the floor tilts like a trap door and there’s this terrible sound of whirling machinery. And I just catch a glimpse of the dog as it vanishes into all these thrashing blades, howling hideously, before the floor swings back up into place, the front door closes and all goes very quiet indeed.’

  ‘Holy shirt!’ I said.

  The mendicant finished his second pint. ‘“Recycling”,’ he said, ‘that’s what the driver called it. “Recycling waste”. I told you I’d heard strange tales and I’d heard this one before. I’d heard tell that there are vans like that all over England. That’s why you see so many of those old VW Campers. They clean up the streets, recycle the dispossessed. It’s all the government’s doing, and the minced-up meat goes to feed animals in secret research establishments.’

  ‘But someone should do something. Where is this farm?’

  ‘Not far from here. But it won’t do you any good. The strange thing that happened to me on the way here was this: I went back there. Back to the farm today. But it wasn’t there. The place had been razed to the ground and concreted over. I figure they had secret security cameras and they saw me escape. So they destroyed the evidence. They’re cunning, you see, cunning as—’

  ‘Foxes,’ I said.

  And that was the mendicant’s story. Well, the travelling salesman’s story. But the mendicant told it better. I can’t say whether it’s really true, of course, and it certainly wouldn’t have been true if it had been told to me by a travelling salesman, because he wouldn’t have been hitch-hiking, would he? But if it is true, then it could have explained what happened to Billy. Although, as I would later learn, what happened to Billy Barnes was something far more sinister.

  The reason Billy’s disappearance led me to become involved in the case of the voodoo handbag was this:

  Billy’s mum was a friend of my mum and so, shortly after Billy went missing, Billy’s mum came round to tea with my mum, and my mum suggested that Billy’s mum should have a word with me.

  I had just opened my first private detective agency, nothing swanky, just a table and chair in the shed, but I was hungry to take on something big. A missing person case was right up my alley, and so when Mrs Barnes came right up my alley and knocked on the shed door, I was more than pleased.

  I ushered her in and sat her down on the half-bag of solid cement that served as ‘client chair’.

  ‘So,’ I said to Mrs Barnes, ‘how might I help you?’

  ‘It’s my Billy,’ said the distraught lady. ‘He’s gone missing.’

  ‘Yes, I read about it in the newspapers. Do you want me to see if I can find him?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Mrs Barnes.

  ‘No thanks?’

  Mrs Barnes shook her hair-net. ‘I’m quite pleased to see the back of him, really. It’s the handbag I want returned.’

  ‘Billy took your handbag?’

  ‘Oh no. Billy vanished a couple of weeks earlier. But it was only a matter of time before the handbag went too.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a voodoo handbag,’ said Mrs Barnes. ‘Belonged to my mum.’

  ‘And what, exactly, is a voodoo handbag?’

  ‘It’s an object of veneration.’

  ‘Like a saint’s relic, or something?’

  ‘Very much like that, yes. In voodoo there is a pantheon of gods. Papa Legba, most benevolent of all, he is the guardian of the gates. Damballo Oueddo, the wisest and most powerful, whose symbol is the serpent. Agoué, god of the sea. Loco, god of the forest, Ogoun Badagris, the dreadful and bloody one, and Maîtresse Ezilée, an incarnation of the Blessed Virgin Mary.’

  ‘And the handbag was hers originally?’

  ‘Maîtresse Ezilée’s, yes. From her bag the good receive favours, the bad something else entirely.’

  ‘And your mum had this very bag?’

  ‘Not the real one, no. A copy, cast in plaster.’

  ‘And is it valuable?’

  ‘Only to those who know how to use it.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. But I didn’t.

  ‘It is a transitus tessera, literally a ticket of passage. He who carries the bag and understands its ways can travel from one place to another.’

  ‘And you’re quite certain Billy didn’t take it when he went off on his travels?’

  ‘Quite certain.’

  ‘What does it look like, this voodoo handbag?’

  ‘About twenty inches high, handbag-shaped, covered in skulls. You’ll know it when you see it.’

  ‘And it’s important that you get it back?’

  ‘More important than anything else in the world. You see, the bag holds power, great power. When I said that you can use it to travel from one place to another, I didn’t mean ordinary places. The bag allows you to travel between the worlds of the living and the dead. To enter the spirit world and return safely.’

 
‘Hm,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t “Hm” me, you little shirt.’

  ‘Did I say Hm? I meant, of course, Yeah, right!’

  ‘The bag has been held in safe keeping by my family for four generations. We are its guardians.’

  ‘But I thought you said it was only a copy.’

  ‘Look, it’s the only copy, all right! Just look upon it as something precious that’s been lost.’

  ‘Stolen, surely?’ I said. ‘I mean you didn’t just mislay this precious object, did you?’

  ‘It’s gone missing, that’s all. A policeman called Inspector Kirby came to see me about Billy’s disappearance, and he got involved with the handbag and then the handbag went missing.’

  ‘The policeman stole it?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. It’s just gone missing, okay?’

  ‘If you say so, but I really don’t understand any of this.’

  Mrs Barnes made little sighing sounds. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you everything. But it’s a tale of terror. Of gruesome deeds and eldritch horror. Once you know the full story you will understand why the handbag must be returned to my family. And you will know things that few living men know and fewer still wish to know.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ I said.

  ‘Then I must whisper.’ And she whispered.

  And I listened.

  And then she whispered some more. And I listened some more.

  And then she did a bit more whispering. And I threw up all over the floor.

  ‘That’s a nasty bit, isn’t it?’ she said. And I agreed that it was.

  And then she whispered a whole lot more. And then she finished.

  ‘And that’s it,’ she said.

  ‘And I’m very glad to hear it,’ I replied.

  And then she made me solemnly swear that I would not mention a word of anything she’d told me to anyone else.

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

  And I have, of course, remained true to my promise.

  Maladroit Mal

  Down the busy shopping street,

  Tripping over two large feet,

  Frightening babies in the pram,

  Sneering at the traffic Jam.