In comfort.
Arthur Thickett’s book had been written in 1961 when the John Frum cargo cult had a great many followers. The cargo cults began in earnest during the Second World War, which was the first time white men had arrived on the islands in any large numbers. The natives watched the airstrips being built, and the conning towers constructed. They looked on as the white men landed their aircraft, opened up the cargo bays and brought out cargo. Cargo, marvellous things, things that the natives had never seen before. And the natives simply sat down and reasoned it out. And their reasoning was impeccable. Clearly the white men were, if not gods themselves, certainly in cahoots with the gods. And so if they did as the white men had done, they could get some of this God-given cargo for themselves. And so they constructed pretend airstrips and conning towers and dressed themselves in pretend uniforms, and marched about saying things like ‘Roger Wilko’ as they’d heard the white men say.
But the cargo didn’t come.
The white men, seeing what the natives were up to, tried to reason with them. But the natives weren’t listening to the so-called reason. They knew what the white men were up to, and they weren’t going to be tricked out of their share of cargo.
I remember (perfectly) seeing a TV documentary about it in the early Sixties. Armand Denis said to one of the elders of the cult, ‘But you have been waiting nearly twenty-five years, don’t you understand? Your god John Frum is not coming back.’
The old native looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘You’ve been waiting nearly two thousand years for your god to return,’ he said. ‘So what makes you think that mine won’t get here first?’
‘He will,’ I said and I rose from the sand. The book had described John as wearing a white suit and carrying an umbrella. I thought about this. And then, straightening my white lapels and swinging my umbrella, I marched off along the beach towards the village.
Blazer Dyke stared off towards the gasometer. The weather was far from tropical in Brentford and the rain spat curses at his office window. Blazer turned and re-seated himself at his cedar desk, glared across it and said, ‘I’m not impressed.’
‘Excuse me, please,’ said Billy Barnes.
‘I’m not impressed at all. In fact I am furious.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Billy.
‘You have exceeded your authority. You have downloaded subjects into the Necronet without permission.’
‘Only one or two,’ said Billy.
‘Only one or two? You fail to see the gravity of this.’
‘I do,’ said Billy.
‘Subject one, Roger Vulpes.’
‘Con man,’ said Billy. ‘He tried to rip me off.’
‘Your chauffeur’s fiancé.’
‘He might have been.’
‘And you disposed of his body?’
‘Splosh!’ said Billy.
‘And subject two?’
‘He witnessed the disposal of the crypto-encoder. I was being careful.’
‘But not careful enough. And what did you do with his body? Splosh! too?’
‘I have it nice and safe,’ said Billy, ‘in a suitcase under my bed. I have a use for it.’
‘You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?’
‘No,’ said Billy. ‘What have I done?’
‘Possibly jeopardized the success of the entire project.’
‘I don’t see how—’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. Subject two has escaped.’
‘From the Necronet? That’s impossible.’
‘Not from the Necronet. No-one can escape from the Necronet. Once you’re in, you stay in. Unless someone here chooses to upload you back into your body. He has escaped from our jurisdiction. His whereabouts are presently unknown.’
‘Delete his file,’ said Billy. ‘Close him down, pull the plug on him.’
‘Can’t be done if we can’t locate his whereabouts.’
‘Why?’ asked Billy.
‘Because the Necronet is not fully on-line. It is not globally linked. The subjects chosen to be downloaded into it are chosen with great care for the information they can give us.’
‘The grannies aren’t.’
‘The grannies are harmless. They mostly think they’ve died and gone to heaven.’
‘So why isn’t this chap harmless? I went to school with the prat, they don’t come much more harmless.’
Blazer Dyke sighed. ‘We have certain programmes written into the system. Carrot and stick programmes. The subject behaves well, then he enjoys his heaven on earth, his world of fantasy sex and high living. If he behaves badly, then he is sent for rehabilitation in the virtual hospital. It’s automatic, no-one has to press any buttons at this end.’
‘I still don’t see what the problem is.’
‘He escaped. He didn’t take his virtual medication.’
‘Then you should thank me,’ said Billy.
‘Thank you?’
‘For exposing a flaw in the system.’
‘This flaw in the system could cost us everything.’
‘I still don’t see how. You haven’t explained to me how.’
‘Ever heard of the term “computer virus”? This chap is buzzing around in there at the speed of thought. He can be anywhere and everywhere if he puts his mind to it. We could access valuable information and he could supply us with garbage and we wouldn’t know the difference.’
‘You’re over-reacting,’ said Billy. ‘It won’t happen.’
‘Oh, won’t it though?’
‘No, it won’t. If I know anything about him, he’s probably set himself up as a god to some cult on a tropical island.’
‘You really think so, do you?’
‘That’s what I’d do, if I were him.’
‘Absurd,’ said Blazer Dyke.
‘It’s anything but. Your standard adolescent fantasy: white god on a tropical island with dusky maidens pandering to your every need. An obvious choice.’
‘Do you realize what it would take to scan through every possible tropical island? And every date?’
‘Not necessary,’ said Billy.
‘And why not?’
‘Because he will go on doing the most obvious thing. Where was he thinking about when his bad attitude got him automatically zapped straight into the virtual hospital?’
‘A pub,’ said Blazer Dyke. ‘His local, the Jolly Gardeners. The information package to ease him into his new situation was the landlord. It’s all automatic, it works upon the subject’s trust.’
‘Well, there you have it,’ said Billy. ‘And he’ll go back there, you wait and see. By which time you will have tightened up your virtual hospital programme, turning it perhaps into a virtual gas chamber.’
‘And what makes you think he’ll go back to the Jolly Gardeners?’
Billy sighed. ‘Because it’s so obvious. What do all those criminals who escape to foreign parts say? “I really miss being home drinking a good old pint of English beer.” He’ll go back when he gets bored with paradise. Trust me, he will.’
Blazer Dyke nodded slowly. ‘You’re a very clever boy, Billy,’ he said. ‘But don’t be too clever. I shall watch your progress carefully. Do not let me down again.’
Billy smiled. ‘I won’t,’ he said.
I was pretty hot by the time I reached the village, and was just thinking how much I’d enjoy a pint of good old English beer, when I saw something that struck the thought from my mind. In the middle of the village square was a large throne-like chair, constructed from used car parts and bamboo, and sitting on this, surrounded by bowing natives, was a chap in a white suit. He had an umbrella resting upon his lap.
I marched speedily in his direction. ‘Oi!’ I shouted. ‘Oi! You! What do you think you’re up to?’
The figure on the throne made a startled face. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m John Frum, of course.’
‘You certainly aren’t.’
‘I certainly am!’
&nb
sp; ‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘I’m John Frum.’
I glared at him eye to eye. Well, almost eye to eye, he was up a bit from me. ‘You’re certainly not,’ I said. ‘But I know who you are, you’re—’
‘Hold it right there.’ The chap put up his hands and climbed down from his throne. Waving his rising subjects aside he pushed me before him.
‘Stop pushing,’ I said.
‘Just a quiet word or two.’
‘I’m not interested in any quiet words. You’re an impostor.’
‘So are you.’
‘But I got here first.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I know who you are. You’re Arthur Thickett.’
‘Sssh,’ said Arthur Thickett. ‘You’ll spoil everything.’
‘Spoil everything? You’re deceiving these poor natives. It’s outrageous.’
‘It’s perfectly harmless. And how do you know who I am?’
‘I read your book. Your photo’s on the dust jacket.’
‘Well, at least somebody remembers me.’
‘It was a great book. But what are you doing here?’
‘I’d have thought that was patently obvious. But what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your dream.’
‘My dream?’
‘It’s my dream,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m dreaming this and you shouldn’t be here. So swim off, will you?’
‘I certainly will not. But hang about, your dream? Do you mean that you’re not in the Necronet?’
‘What’s a Necronet?’
‘Never mind. But are you actually telling me that you’re dreaming this?’
‘It’s called lucid dreaming. I’m in an altered state.’
‘Go on.’
Arthur sighed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘after the book failed I fell upon hard times. Took to drink, it’s a common enough thing with writers; they might have some talent and they’ve all got big egos, but most of them are weak underneath. They can’t function in the everyday world, they can’t get relationships together. They’re fantasists, they inhabit their own fantasy worlds.’
‘And are you saying that this is one of those?’
‘In a way. It’s lucid dreaming. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Lets me escape from the real world. You take this special drug that comes from the Amazon and you go into an altered state. You can take control of whatever you dream. Being on this island was the happiest time of my life. So I dream that I’m here and I dream that I’m John Frum.’
‘Incredible. So you’re dreaming now? Dreaming this?’
‘Exactly. And that’s why you shouldn’t be here.’
‘But I am here.’
‘Yes, you are. So I’d better have my natives chop off your head.’
‘I wouldn’t try it, if I were you.’
‘Oh no?’
‘Oh no!’ I thought about what it would be like to be fifty feet tall and looking down on Arthur Thickett. And then I thought myself normal again, and helped him onto his feet.
‘You fainted,’ I said.
‘I can’t do that,’ said Arthur.
‘What, faint? You just did.’
‘No, make myself grow like that. What drug are you on?’
‘I’m not on any drug. And I’m sorry I frightened you. But listen. I want you to do something for me. If you do it for me I will get out of your dream and never bother you again. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Arthur. ‘All my natives have run away.’
‘They’ll be back. Now this is what I want you to do. When you wake up I want you to go to the police and tell them...’ And I explained to Arthur about Billy Barnes and the murder I’d witnessed. And about Necrosoft and the Necronet. And when I’d finished, I said to Arthur, ‘So, will you do that for me?’
Arthur took off his Panama hat and scratched his head. ‘I do foresee one or two problems,’ he said.
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I’m dreaming, aren’t I? And if I go to the police and make these accusations, and they ask me for proof, well...’
‘Hm,’ I said. ‘I see what you mean. You could lie of course, you could say that you overheard a bloke in a pub talking about it. And think of this, when Billy Barnes is arrested and brought to justice, you’ll be a hero. You can write a book about it.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Arthur. ‘I do like the sound of that.’
‘And don’t forget, you must tell them all about Necrosoft and the Necronet. They’re going to have to get someone who knows all about computers to release me from here.’
‘Computers,’ said Arthur. ‘It all sounds so terribly futuristic.’
‘Cutting edge of Nineties’ technology.’
‘Did you say Nineties’ technology?’
‘Of course, what did you think?’
‘So you’re saying that this crime was committed in the 1990s.’
‘Of course.’
‘And so you’re from the 1990s?’
‘Arthur,’ I said, ‘what are you trying to say?’
‘Only this,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m not dreaming this in the 1990s. I’m dreaming this in nineteen sixty-five.’
Agamemnon’s Beard
So much for the cat that won’t stand up,
Or the dog that won’t lie down.
Derek dug and dug and dug,
In the backstreets of the town.
He upped the cobbles in his yard,
And sunk some sample bores.
Then channel-grooved towards the north,
Along the lowland shores.
When questioned of his diggings,
He said, though people jeered,
That he was searching ceaselessly
For Agamemnon’s beard.
‘A worthy prize,’ said brother Mike,
He hoping for a share,
‘I’ll lend you my new mountain bike,
With saddle bags to spare.’
So Derek rode to Canterbury,
Parked his bike and spade,
And asked the bishop his advice.
‘I dunno, son,’ he said.
But if you keep searching hard enough for something,
There’s a good chance you’ll eventually find it.
17
Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.
PHYLLIS DILLER
I didn’t get too angry with Arthur Thickett. After all, it really wasn’t his fault that he was in 1965 and I was in 1997. So I didn’t get too angry. Violent, yes. I did get violent.
But he took it like the English gent he was. And after the natives returned and patched up his bruises, he introduced me to them as his brother Derek. We got along very well, Arthur and I. He was an interesting fellow, and I think he quite enjoyed having me for company. I told him all about the Hippy Trail and Woodstock, and he said he’d probably give them a go. And he told me all about the mysterious drug from the Amazon and lucid dreaming.
It did come as quite a revelation to learn that the world of so-called cyberspace, which I now inhabited, was the same world that we visit in our dreams, or when we do hallucinogenic drugs or have a mystical experience. Arthur referred to it as the weird space, the mundus magicus. Not a physical place, but real none the less.
Little did I know that ten years from now I would be shouting these truths at a doctor in the Conspiracy Theorists’ Correctional Facility. And that this doctor would not believe a word.
‘What do you know about voodoo?’ I asked Arthur, as we sat upon a rock diddling our toes in the ocean.
‘I spent three years in Haiti,’ said Mr Thickett, ‘back in the late Forties. I learned what I could, but a white face isn’t welcome at the ceremonies.’
‘What do you know about Maîtresse Ezilée?’
‘Enough to avoid rummaging in her handbag.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, firstly voodoo is not a cult like John Frum. John Frum is based on a misconception. Voodoo is a full-blown religion with a pantheon of gods. Wh
at is fascinating about voodoo is that it did not stem from Africa. It was not imported, it sprang into being in a complete form on Haiti. But each voodoo god echoes a previous god in another religion. Maîtresse Ezilée is a good example. She echoes the Virgin Mary. But the Virgin Mary of course is an echo of previous female divinities.’
‘You think all religions share a common origin?’
‘That’s a popularly held belief, but I don’t subscribe to it. What if Maîtresse Ezilée is the Virgin Mary in her latest incarnation? What if all the voodoo gods were previously other gods known by other names?’
‘What would be the point? Why would gods do that?’
‘Ah,’ said Arthur, ‘the point is this. The voodoo gods are living gods. They’re right here and now on earth. The voodoo priests and priestesses commune with them daily. You don’t do that in other religions. Christians may talk about being “filled with the spirit”, but Jesus doesn’t come into their living rooms for a cup of tea and a chat. Christians know where Jesus is, he’s in heaven.’
‘But not with his mum, if she’s in Haiti.’
‘Perhaps they take it in turns,’ said Arthur. ‘What is also interesting is to trace the roots of each religion. Some, as we all know, are spread on the “conquer and convert” principle. But each religion has an exact point of origin where it sprang into being. You can mark them on a map of the world. And I don’t think there’s anything random about it. It’s as if the gods choose a particular place for a particular reason. But, before you ask, I have no idea what this reason might be.’
‘You’ve clearly given it a lot of thought,’ I said. ‘Tell me some more about Maîtresse Ezilée.’
‘She’s an odd one. On the one hand she’s your standard mother goddess, her followers are her children, she rewards the righteous and punishes the unrighteous. But then you have all this business about her bag.’
‘The voodoo handbag.’
‘She is supposed to carry this bag made from skulls. In the centre of it is a human skull, but all around are other skulls which are not human.’
‘Animal skulls.’
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag Page 16
