The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

by Robert Rankin

  ‘A very great many,’ said Inspector Kirby.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Barnes. ‘They may not breed. But breeding is for the herd. The homosexual is one apart. He’s different. An individual. The homosexual contributes to the quality of life.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Inspector Kirby. ‘I’d never thought about it like that before.’

  ‘Everything in the gene pool is there for a purpose. And homosexuality is not an evolutionary hiccup or blind alley. It serves its purpose. Through the culture of the arts we are all ennobled. I always cross-dress on Thursdays as a personal tribute to homosexuals for all the joy they have brought to mankind.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Inspector Kirby, clapping his hands. ‘It makes me proud to be gay.’

  ‘Bravo!’ agreed Mrs Barnes. ‘As so you should be. But tell me this.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How come they let an uphill gardener like you into the police force?’

  Inspector Kirby stayed for lunch. As it was a Thursday they took lunch in the trophy room surrounded by the many curious artefacts Mr Barnes had brought back from his world wanderings.

  ‘That’s a whale’s tooth,’ said Mrs Barnes, in answer to the Inspector’s question. ‘My husband pulled it from the jaw of the slain creature while on one of his many whaling voyages.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ the Inspector said.

  They dined upon mince and slices of quince, which they ate with plastic forks, as the runcible spoons were away being cleaned.

  ‘What are the chances of finding my Billy?’ asked his mum, munching loudly and rattling her plate about.

  ‘Very good,’ said the Inspector, examining his uncooked mince. ‘After all, we have yet to establish whether he is actually missing. You say he took a packed suitcase. It is most likely that he has just gone off for a while and will contact you shortly.’

  ‘He’s never gone off before.’

  ‘He’s twenty-three years of age, Mrs Barnes, perhaps he just wanted to get a bit of space. Spread his wings. Expand his horizons.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’s in any danger, then?’

  ‘Let us not be pessimistic without due cause.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mrs Barnes. ‘Then let’s forget all about him. If he turns up dead in a canal or something you can always give me a call, can’t you?’

  ‘Well yes, but I— Listen, do you...I mean, are you all alone here now?’

  ‘My mum lives with me. She’s an invalid, she’s upstairs.’

  Now this was a lie and a deliberate one. Mrs Barnes had no intention of mentioning her mum’s disappearance. Mrs Barnes collected her mum’s pension every week and she needed the money for her Tuesday evening activities.

  ‘I’d like to meet your mother,’ said Inspector Kirby.

  ‘She’s asleep. Perhaps another time.’

  ‘That would be nice. This really is a fascinating room, Mrs Barnes. A regular museum. That carved cabinet on the mantelpiece, where did that come from?’

  ‘Haiti. My grandfather was the governor there at the turn of the century. The cabinet is a reliquary, it holds the family’s most precious possession.’

  ‘Absolutely fascinating. And what is that, exactly?’

  ‘A plaster cast of a voodoo handbag. The handbag of Maîtresse Ezilée, the Haitian incarnation of the Blessed Virgin Mary.’

  ‘Incredible. I did a night school course on the occult a couple of years ago and we studied the voodoo pantheon. Papa Legba, Agoué, Loco and the rest. Isn’t the handbag supposed to possess certain powers? Act as an oracle, or something?’

  ‘They say it speaks, although I’ve never heard it. Billy said it used to speak to him, tell him stories.’

  ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘Tall ones, I think.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said the Inspector. ‘Do you think I might see it?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Mrs Barnes bashed her big fists down upon the table. ‘Far too dangerous. The handbag is a transitus tessera. It can take you from the world of the living to the world of the angry dead.’

  ‘You mean I might die if I saw it?’

  ‘If you were to touch it you would die.’

  ‘I see. Is it then, impregnated with some poison from the Amazon?’

  ‘Possibly. But trust me, if you opened that cabinet and touched the voodoo handbag you’d die.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Inspector Kirby. ‘Absolutely incredible.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mrs Barnes shrugged noisily. ‘But you get used to things, don’t you? And you learn by your mistakes.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The telephone began to ring.

  ‘That might be your Billy,’ said Inspector Kirby.

  ‘No, that’s not his ring.’ Mrs Barnes forked up some quince and gobbled it down.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  ‘It will stop ringing eventually, it always does.’

  ‘It might be for me.’

  ‘Oh, all right!’ Mrs Barnes flung down her fork, rose rowdily and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘What a very loud woman,’ said Inspector Kirby, pushing his plate aside. ‘A voodoo handbag, eh?’ His gaze wandered over to the cabinet on the mantelpiece. ‘How very fascinating.’

  He sat awhile and pondered. Great shouts came from the hall. Mrs Barnes was in heated discussion on the telephone, but with whom it wasn’t clear.

  ‘I might just have a little peep,’ said the Inspector, quietly to himself. ‘It couldn’t do any harm, just a little peep.’ He rose from the ottoman and glanced towards the hall door. More shouting. Inspector Kirby crept over to the mantelpiece.

  Beside the cabinet lay a key. It was a brass key with a skull on it. A luggage label was attached to this key.

  Inspector Kirby picked up the key and examined the label.

  DO NOT USE THIS KEY TO UNLOCK RELIQUARY, he read. AWAKEN NOT THE ANGRY DEAD.

  Inspector Kirby whistled, then cocked an anxious ear. Further shouting came from the hall. Inspector Kirby dithered, but not a ditherer by persuasion he then thrust the key into the reliquary’s key hole and turned it sharply to the left.

  A click and the door swung ajar.

  Inspector Kirby dithered anew. This was not a good idea. Why was he doing it? He was a policeman, he couldn’t just go opening up people’s private cabinets. Well, of course, actually, he could. That was one of the benefits of being a policeman, being able to pry into people’s private belongings. But what about all that stuff about dying if you touched the handbag? Superstition surely? Voodoo wasn’t real. It was the power of suggestion. Like an Aborigine pointing the bone at you. You didn’t die if you didn’t believe. Awaken not the angry dead, indeed!

  A quick peep, then lock the cabinet up again. What harm could that possibly do?

  Inspector Kirby swung open the door.

  And then took a swift step backwards.

  Something moved. Inside the cabinet. Something white. It had jerked as he opened the door, and now it was moving. Squirming.

  Inspector Kirby gaped at it, fascinated.

  It was a handbag. White, plaster-cast or carved. But it was moving. There were skulls on it, many skulls. A large one in the middle, clearly human, but other smaller ones around and about that were anything but. And these were...moving. They clicked their tiny jaw bones as if taking in the air. Yawning, breathing, and now snapping angrily.

  Inspector Kirby didn’t like the look of them one little bit. He stepped smartly forward to slam the door shut.

  But as he did so he slipped upon the fireside rug and fell towards the grate. In a desperate attempt to save himself he snatched at the mantelpiece.

  But missed.

  And his right hand plunged into the cabinet.

  Inspector Kirby awoke with a start to find Billy’s mum smiling down at him.

  ‘Don’t try to move,’ she said. ‘You had a bit of an accident, but you’re all right now.’ />
  Inspector Kirby did try to move, but he couldn’t.

  ‘You lost a couple of fingers,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘I’ve bandaged up the rest, so they should be OK for now.’

  Inspector Kirby tried to speak. But he couldn’t do that either.

  ‘I’ve taped your jaw up,’ said Billy’s mum. ‘Don’t want you making any noise now, do we?’

  Inspector Kirby strained and struggled but to no avail. Billy’s mum stroked his forehead. ‘Now don’t go getting yourself all upset. I did warn you not to touch the handbag, didn’t I? But you did touch it, so you only have yourself to blame. You see the handbag has to be fed every week and it was Billy’s job to feed it. And Billy always fed it with bits of Granny. But Billy’s taken Granny with him and the handbag’s been getting really hungry. It needs fresh meat, you see. Fresh human meat.’

  Inspector Kirby’s eyes were starting from their sockets.

  ‘It’s lucky you happened by, really,’ continued Billy’s mum. ‘And most fortuitous that the telephone rang. It was one of your superiors asking after you. I told them that you’d just left and I’d seen you getting into an old VW Camper van. So I don’t think they’ll come bothering us again.’

  Inspector Kirby shook and shivered.

  Billy’s mum covered him up with an old dog blanket. ‘I’ve put you inside this portmanteau,’ she said, ‘because Billy took Granny’s suitcase, but you probably would have found it a bit cramped in there. There’s air holes in the lid, so it’s not cruel or anything. And I’ve taken the liberty of injecting you with a special drug from the Amazon. It slows down the metabolism so you’ll only need feeding about once a week. So I can do that when I come for another finger. So that’s perfect, isn’t it?’

  And so saying Mrs Barnes closed the lid of the portmanteau, locked it and pushed it under her bed.

  And then she went down for her supper.

  Lunchtime with the Piper

  The piper with the auld grey beard

  Who spoke as soon as he appeared,

  Both soon wore out his welcome and the new seat of his kilt.

  The Campbells (whom the others hate)

  Thought out their schemes, both small and great,

  And made a living diving for the silver-coloured silt.

  The piper got off in a huff

  He said, ‘They think I’m Peter Brough,

  Who speaks without a tremble or a flicker of his lips.

  But I am more like Elvis P,

  Whose Rock ‘n’ Roll is ecstasy,

  And who could pull more crumpet with a flicker of his hips.’

  The piper spoke of ages past,

  And men who sailed before the mast,

  And when the 6.5 Special ran on time,

  And of Don Lang and Hayley Bill

  Who gave his boyhood days a thrill,

  When men drank ale as men should do, not alcoholic lime.

  The Campbells listened to his tale,

  And watched the piper turning pale,

  And some wept in their sporrans (though I saw a couple smirk),

  And when the talk had turned to frogs,

  And sassy knacks and English dogs,

  The piper said, ‘Well stuff all that, I must be back at work.’

  11

  Accept anything. Then explain it your way.

  CHARLES FORT

  I walked into the Jolly Gardeners just as the piper was walking out. Which suited me fine, as I could never stand the bloke. Not that I have anything against the Scots you understand, after all I’m one myself, a direct descendant of William Wallace. But that piper really got up my nose. And anyway, I had some pretty heavy-duty thinking that needed to be done and where better to do it than here?

  I was anonymous here. The folk in this sleepy rural hamlet knew nothing of my Lazlo Woodbine persona or my world-saving escapades. Here they knew me as Mr Rupert Tractor, a route planner for the local foxhunt.

  Now, as it was a Friday lunchtime, the last person I expected to see serving behind the bar was the lead singer of the now legendary 1960s garage-psyche band The 13th Floor Elevators. So I was doubly surprised to see instead that it was Paul.

  ‘Paul,’ I said. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  Paul looked up slowly from his crossword. ‘If I can come up with a snappy rejoinder to that, I’ll let you know,’ said he.

  ‘But you were reading the book. The Johnny Quinn book.’

  ‘Johnny who?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Don’t give me that. Johnny Quinn. Snuff Fiction, you had a copy.’

  ‘Oh, Johnny Quinn. Funny you should mention him. After you left that Tuesday evening, I got to thinking about Johnny Quinn, and the more I thought about him, the less I seemed to remember.’

  ‘Don’t try that on me,’ I told him. ‘You had the book, I saw it with my own two eyes.’

  What, this book?’ Paul pulled the book from beneath the counter. White card cover. Publisher’s proof copy. He handed it to me and I examined it.

  The Sniff Function by Jimmy Quonn.

  ‘Easy mistake,’ said Paul. ‘It had me going for a while.’

  ‘Huh!’ I said.

  ‘Pint of the usual, was it?’

  ‘Whatever the usual might happen to be, yes.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find a suitable glass.’

  I stood and waited patiently, and at length my patience was rewarded and Paul pulled me a pint of something or other.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, paying for and bearing it away. I plonked myself down in my favourite corner and muttered under my breath.

  ‘Easy mistake, my arse,’ I muttered.

  ‘Not too sold on that explanation, then, chief?’

  ‘It’s all a bl**dy conspiracy.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth. So tell me, chief, now that you have the voodoo handbag, what are you going to do with it? Give it back to Mrs Barnes?’

  ‘Are you kidding, Barry? That woman is a stone bonker. Think of that poor Inspector Kirby boxed up under the bed.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that for the last ten years, chief. How come when she whispered to you in your shed about what she’d done to the Inspector, and you threw up everywhere and everything. How come you didn’t just go to the police and tell them?’

  ‘What? Breach the confidentiality of a client? I have my standards to maintain. I’m a professional, Barry.’

  ‘You certainly are, chief. So what are you going to do with the handbag?’

  ‘I am going to use it to destroy Billy Barnes and close down the Necronet.’

  ‘You do have a real downer on Mr Barnes, don’t you, chief?’

  ‘A real downer? I spent ten years trapped in the Necronet because of that maniac. And another three months in the loony bin.’

  ‘You can’t actually prove it was his fault, chief.’

  ‘He’s to blame, Barry. Billy Barnes is a serial killer and if he’s not stopped he’ll bring the world as we know it to an end.’

  ‘Billy Barnes is the World Leader, chief.’

  ‘Oh yeah? And how did he get to be the World Leader?’

  ‘Hard work? Dedication? Natural aptitude?’

  ‘Bullshirt!’ (No, still not working, that one)

  ‘No doubt there was a certain amount of “bullshirt” involved, but isn’t there always?’

  ‘I hate him and I will destroy him!’

  ‘Not so loud, chief, folk are beginning to stare.’

  ‘He’s a murdering bas*ard,’ I whispered. ‘And he’ll kill us all.’

  ‘You’re not perhaps, just a tad jealous, by any chance?’

  ‘Jealous?!’

  ‘Well, the two of you did go to school together, and he has done rather better for himself than you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Better than me? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he is the World Leader, chief. And you—’

  ‘And me what?’

  ‘Well, chief, there are some who might suggest that you are nothing more than a
paranoid schizophrenic with a multiple personality disorder and a persecution complex.’

  ‘Outrageous! And who might suggest such a thing?’

  ‘Well, there was the doctor at the mental institution you’ve just escaped from.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Him, chief.’

  ‘And what about you, Barry? Do you think I’m mad?’

  ‘Me, chief? Absolutely not. But then, what would I know? I’m only a voice in your head.’

  ‘Quite so. And anyway, I can prove I’m not mad. I’ve got the voodoo handbag.’

  ‘And this would be the handbag that eats people, would it?’

  ‘It certainly would.’ I pulled the voodoo handbag from the poacher’s pocket of my trench coat and placed it on the table. ‘There you go,’ I said. ‘Disprove that.’

  ‘Would that I could, chief. Although—’

  ‘Although what?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look all that hungry right now, does it? I mean, it’s not exactly gnashing, or anything.’

  I gave the handbag a bit of close scrutiny. And I had to confess that it didn’t look all that menacing. It just looked like a rather badly-cast old plaster handbag. ‘Perhaps it’s already been fed today,’ I said. ‘Or it’s sleeping.’

  ‘Sleeping, chief. That would probably be it. Let sleeping bags lie, eh?’

  ‘Are you making the mock?’

  ‘Not me, chief.’

  ‘Well, don’t. You know what I went through, Barry. You know I was trapped for ten years inside the Necronet.’

  ‘Now that’s not altogether accurate is it, chief? I mean I wasn’t actually in there with you, was I?’

  ‘No. But I was there, and it was all down to that shirtbag Barnes.’

  ‘So you keep saying, chief. But remember, I only caught up with you again when you were in the mental hospital. I don’t really know exactly what you went through and why you hate Billy Barnes so much.’

  ‘Do I have to go through the entire thing all over again?’

  ‘It might be helpful, chief.’

  ‘All right. So where was I?’

  ‘Well, chief, Billy Barnes had just got himself a job as information gatherer at Necrosoft and his mum had just come around to your shed, told you the horrible tale about Inspector Kirby, and asked you to find the voodoo handbag.’