Snuff Fiction

22

Now, you know that panicky feeling you get when you’re hosting the biggest celebrity bash of the century and the party’s hardly got started yet and the private detective you’ve hired to track down the killer of your bestest friend gets shot in the throat by a poisoned dart and he just happens to be wearing the skin of the world’s most famous pop star?

You don’t?

Well, no, I suppose it doesn’t happen all that often.

Celebs were already beginning to stare. One of their own was down in a corner and this always draws a good crowd.

‘Ooh-er,’ they went, ‘what’s happened to Michael?’

‘Michael’s fine,’ I told them. ‘Michael’s fine. He’s just had too much brown ale. You know what he’s like.’

I tried to lift Lazlo onto his feet. I don’t know why. To pretend that he hadn’t been shot in the throat by a poisoned dart, I suppose. You don’t always behave altogether rationally under these circumstances.

I succeeded in getting him into a kneeling position. But my attempts at doing much more were being sorely hampered by Bubbles the chimp, who had become amorously involved with my left leg.

‘Get off, you stupid ape,’ I told him, kicking out and struggling. At which point Lazlo’s head sort of toppled forward into my crotch and Michael’s hair got all entangled with my belt buckle.

At which point the staring celebs began to applaud. Drawing an even bigger crowd.

Happily with Norman amongst it.

‘Blimey,’ said Norman. ‘This is one for the album.’

‘Don’t just stand there,’ I shouted. ‘Give me a hand.’

‘No thanks,’ said Norman. ‘It’s not really my thing. And anyway, I’ve just got Camilla warmed up.’

‘Come here, you bloody fool.’

Norman clip-clopped over on his stack-soled shoes.

‘He’s dead,’ I whispered to him.

‘Then there is a God.’ And Norman laughed. ‘What’s really happened?’

‘He’s really dead, look at him. Get off me, Bubbles!’

‘Really dead?’ Norman gaped and gazed. ‘Well, if he’s really dead, then I think what you’re doing to him is in very bad taste. And in front of all these people and everything.’

If I’d had a spare hand, I’d have clouted Norman with it. ‘It isn’t Michael Jackson,’ I whispered, teeth all clenched and left leg kicking. ‘It’s Lazlo Woodbine.’

‘Then he really is a master of disguise.’

‘He’s wearing Michael Jackson’s skin.’

‘Now hang about,’ said Norman. ‘Let’s just get this straight.’

‘I don’t have time for that. For God’s sake, help me shift him out of here.’

‘The things I do for you,’ said Norman. ‘Come on then, let’s lift him up.’

Now, all right. I know it wasn’t Norman’s fault. He was only trying to help. And I’m sure that if I’d been wearing big built-up shoes like his, I’d have found it difficult to keep my balance. And matters weren’t improved any by that damned chimp who was humping away at my leg and the fact that Michael’s hair was still all tangled up in my belt buckle.

Norman sort of tugged at Lazlo’s shoulders. Norman sort of tugged, then sort of toppled. And he elbowed me right in the face and I sort of fell backwards into the crowd, bringing Michael’s head-skin with me and this sort of ended up in my lap like a big hairy sporran. And Lazlo’s body sort of slumped over, with his head all sort of gory and Bubbles sort of freaked out and went sort of berserk.

Sort of.

It was the first major embarrassment of the evening.

And it really took some explaining away, I can tell you.

I let Norman do it.

I dragged the body outside and stood about freezing my million-dollar nuts off Finally Norman joined me. He was in a right old strop.

‘You stupid bastard!’ he shouted.

‘What?’

‘Is there something you’d like to say to me?’

‘Thanks for sorting out the situation?’

‘No. Not that.’ Norman stamped his foot and nearly broke his ankle.

‘If it’s about me leaving the top off your iodine bottle—’

‘No. It’s not about that. I’ve just been on the walkie talkie to the guards at the gate.’

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Yes, ah. You ordered the guards to shoot anyone who tried to climb over the fence. And they’ve just shot Jeffrey Archer.’

‘Then there is a God.’

‘It’s no laughing matter. Have you gone completely mad? You can’t have famous people killed. This isn’t France, you know.’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean, it’s all right with Michael.’

‘It is?’

‘Of course it is. I can rebuild him. He’s mostly made out of Meccano anyway.’

‘Allegedly,’ I said. ‘Allegedly.’

‘I’ve ordered the guards to put away their guns. Before someone who matters gets hurt. So what have you done with the body?’

‘I rolled it under that big black lorry over there.’

‘We’d better have a look at it.’

‘Why?’

‘To search for clues, of course. If Lazlo was shot with a blow-dart, then we’ll have forensic evidence. You have to put the flight of the dart in your mouth when you blow it. So there’ll be traces of saliva and we can get DNA from those.

‘And?’

‘And then all we have to do is get DNA samples from every guest present and we can identify the killer.’

I looked at Norman.

And he looked at me.

‘Right,’ said Norman. ‘OK. Forget that. But let’s have a look at the dart anyway.

‘Here you go then,’ I said. ‘Careful you don’t prick yourself’

‘Oh. You’ve already had a look at it.’

‘Of course I bloody have. And see what’s on the end.’ Norman held up the dart and examined it by the light that fell from one of the great hall windows. ‘Lipstick,’ he said. ‘Pale green lipstick.’

‘Sprout green,’ I said. ‘From the Snuff for Women allotment range. Very expensive.’

‘All right then, time for action.’ Norman flung the dart aside, nearly catching me one in the cobblers. ‘All we have to do is find the woman who’s wearing this lipstick.’

‘That’s all you have to do. I’m not going back in there without at least six bodyguards.’

‘Don’t be such a woosie. If she’d wanted to kill you, she could easily have done it. It was Lazlo she murdered. Did he say anything to you before he died?’

‘Only some old rubbish about the end of civilization as we know it being only a few hours away and the Secret Government of the World taking over the minute all the computers crash.’

‘Of course,’ said Norman. ‘That has to be it. The Doveston was always going on about the secret police being out to get him. It seems he was right. An interview with this woman should prove most instructive.’

‘She might not be too keen to tell us anything.’

‘There are ways,’ said Norman.

‘Oh, right. You mean we should torture it out of her. Good idea.’

‘No! That is not what I mean at all.’

‘What then?’

Norman preened at his lapels. ‘Leave this to the man in the peacock suit,’ said he.

I followed the man in the peacock suit back into the bail.

‘Oh look,’ said Norman, ‘It’s You’ll-lick-a-giant’s-one.’

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I’ll get this. You’ll-lick-a-giant’s-one? Don’t give me any clues. Yes, I’ve got it. You’ll-lick-a-giant’s-one. Ulrika Jonsson.’

‘No,’ said Norman. ‘It’s Kate Moss. I was just thinking out loud that time.’

Norman cranked up the Hartnell Home Happyfier a couple of notches, set his peacock suit on stun and swaggered off into the crowd, going, ‘Whoops,’ and ‘S’cuse me please,’ and ‘Mind your backs,’ and ‘Sorry, did I step on your foot?’

I snorted up a couple of lines from the head of a passing dwarf and determined that I would get right into the party spirit, no matter what. If I wasn’t on the immediate hit list, then at least I could enjoy myself I was the host of this bash after all, so I should be having a bloody good time. Let Norman sort it out.

I would party.

And so, with a hooter full of Charlie and a big fat smile on my face, I squeezed myself into the happy throng.

I grinned at Caprice, leered at a couple of Spice Girls, smiled warmly on Joanna Lumley (you have to remember my age), tipped the wink to Tom and Nicole, roundly iguored Hugh and Liz and stepped over a Blue Peter presenter.

And then I ran into Colin.

‘Having a good time?’ I asked him.

‘Damn right, old son,’ said Colin, slapping me upon the back and loosening several vertebrae. ‘How about you? Enjoying yourself?’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘And I’m determined that nothing will spoil this party for me.

‘Good on you,’ said Colin. ‘The last time I was at a party as good as this was back in ‘sixty-three. Someone blew up the host’s dog with dynamite. Oh how we laughed.’

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I have to mingle.’

‘Be happy,’ said Colin.

Actually I didn’t mingle. I just drifted about, listening in to other people’s conversations.

Have you ever noticed how, when you do that, the snippets of conversation you hear always begin with the words ‘so I said’?

‘... so I said to Val Parnell, “If my name doesn’t go above the jugglers, I will not appear. ‘

‘... so I said, “I don’t like the look of you, young man.” And he said, “Can I smell your armpits?” And I said, “Certainly not!” And he said, “Oh, it must be your feet then.”’

‘... so I said, “I’ll tell you my wife’s favourite sexual position. Next door, that’s what.”’

‘... so I said to the police that actually I didn’t know I’d been raped until the cheque bounced.’

‘... so I said, “I’ll meet you at that new naturist restaurant. You know the one, it’s called Eat Your Food Nude.”’

‘… so I said, there were these two sperms swimming along and one says to the other, “Are we at the fallopian tubes yet?” And the other one says, “No, we’re hardly past the tonsils.”’

‘… so I said, that’s because you don’t understand how the Secret Government of the World functions. Conventional governments think that they’ll be able to control the chaos caused by the Millennium Bug. But what they don’t know is that their own systems have been sabotaged. Agents of the Secret Government have been infiltrating them for years, pretending to solve the problem, whilst actually making it worse.

‘Revolution in any country is only three square meals away and when the infrastructure collapses and food no longer reaches the shop shelves, there will be a world crisis. And that’s when the Secret Government will take over. They’ve been planning it for years, because they know what’s going to happen. And you know what they say: “Tomorrow belongs to those who can see it coming.”’

Now, I paused quite abruptly when I caught this particular snippet. ‘Er, excuse me,’ I said, easing my way into the little knot of chatterers. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

The chap who’d been speaking eyed me suspiciously. Which I thought was a bit of a cheek, considering that it was my party. He was young and pale and drawn and rather spotty. He wore a ragged T-shirt with the words ‘FAST AND BULBOUS’ printed on the front, grubby old trainers and baggy old jeans. I did not recall greeting him at the door.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, in a manner that could only be described as surly.

‘I overheard what you were saying about the Secret Government.’

‘But I’ll bet you don’t believe it.’

‘On the contrary, I do. But what I’d like to know is where you got your information from.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m the host of this party.’

‘Oh shit. Then I suppose you’ll be throwing me out.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because I just sneaked in through a hole in the fence.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind. I just want to know about the Secret Government. Who are you, by the way?’

‘I’m Danbury Collins.’

‘Not the Danbury Collins?’

‘The very same.’

I almost reached out to shake his hand. Almost.

For the benefit of any readers who are not acquainted with the name of Danbury Collins, allow me to explain that he is the famous psychic youth and masturbator, whose exploits, along with those of Sir John Rimmer and Dr Harney, are chronicled in the fantasy novels of P. P. Penrose.

And P. P. Penrose, as you all will know, was the author of the bestselling books of the twentieth century: the Lazlo Woodbine thrillers. Small world!

‘But what are you doing here?’ I asked the psychic youth.

‘I got a tip—off that something big was going to happen.’

‘And who tipped you off?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘Was it Lazlo Woodbine?’

‘I’d rather not say.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But just tell me one thing. Do you think the Secret Government murdered the Doveston?’

‘No I don’t,’ said Danbury.

‘Oh.’

‘Because I don’t believe that the Doveston’s dead.’

‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen the body. He is dead.’ ‘Seeing the body doesn’t mean anything. People saw Elvis’s body, but Elvis isn’t dead.’

‘I think you’ll find that Elvis is dead,’ I said.

‘Oh yeah? So who’s that over there chatting up the singing nun?’ ‘Chatting up who?’

‘Oh no, it’s Giant Haystacks. I think my eyesight’s going.’ I peered in the direction of his pointing. ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Precisely,’ said Danbury. ‘When you’re really really famous, being dead doesn’t have to mean that you actually are dead. Not if you re in cahoots with the Secret Government. They can arrange anything. Elvis entered a parallel universe in order to save mankind from the Antichrist. I thought everybody knew that.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘Then just tell me this. If you’re wrong about the Doveston and he really is dead, who do you think could have murdered him?’

Danbury made a thoughtful face and stuck his hands into his baggy jean pockets. ‘Come over here,’ he said, beckoning me towards an alcove with a nifty elbow—gesture.

I followed him over and to my credit I hardly laughed at all when he smacked his head on an invisible suit of armour.

‘Now listen,’ he whispered. ‘If the Doveston really is dead, it can mean only one thing. That he defied the Secret Government. That they approached him, tried to enlist him, and he refused them.’

‘That sounds plausible. He was very much his own man.’

‘Well, that wouldn’t suit the Secret Government. They’re into total control.’

‘But who are these people who run this Secret Government?’ Danbury shrugged. ‘You perhaps. How would I know?’ ‘You know they exist.’

‘Everyone knows they exist. People just won’t own up to the fact. Look around you, what do you see?’

I looked around. ‘Lots of rich and famous people.’ ‘And how come they got to be rich and famous?’ ‘Because they’re more talented than other people?’ Danbury looked at me.

And I looked back at Danbury.

‘No, OK,’ I said. ‘Forget that.’

‘It’s all a conspiracy,’ said Danbury. ‘Everything’s a conspiracy. The only people who get on in this world are the ones with the right connections. And when original thinkers come along, what happens to them? Either they vanish without trace, or they get sucked into the fame system and end up turning out pap for their masters. They take the money and sell out.’

‘To the Secret Government.’

‘Ultimately. Most of them don’t know that. But actors can only work when they’re offered scripts and rock stars soon find themselves back on the dole if they play up too much.’

‘They all behave badly.’

‘Perk of the job. But the products they turn out are all strictly “safe”. They don’t invite rebellion. They don’t stir up the masses. They maintain the status quo.’

‘I’ve heard all this stuff before,’ I said. ‘Mostly from people who’ve failed to make it big.’

‘I’m not trying to convince you,’ said Danbury. ‘But let me tell you this: the one thing the Secret Government, or any other government, fears more than anything else is information. The free exchange of information. And with the World Wide Web and information technology, ideas can be passed around the world in seconds. And that’s why it’s all going down tonight. When the systems crash because of the Millennium Bug, there will be no more exchanging of information. Unless you own a carrier pigeon, of course.’

‘And you really believe that this is going to happen?’

‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’

‘But if it is true, then we should do something about it.’

‘And what would you suggest?’

‘I don’t know. Tell people. Get it all on the World Wide Web.’

‘It’s on the Web,’ said Danbury. ‘There are thousands of conspiracy pages on the Web. Many put there by the Secret Government to confuse the situation further. There is no way of stopping what’s going to happen. Well, there’s one way, but as that can’t be arranged, there’s really no way.

‘What would the one way be?’

‘Assemble all the members of the Secret Government in one big room and then blow the lot of them to kingdom come.

‘Not very likely.’

‘Although...’

‘Although what?’

‘Well, you’ll laugh when I tell you. But something really obvious has just occurred to me.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, it’s...’ Danbury’s right hand was moving in his trouser pocket.

‘Go on!’

‘It’s ...

Something whistled past my ear and Danbury’s left hand clutched at his throat.

And was that something a poisoned dart?

Well, yes of course it was.

And did Danbury manage to blurt out the really obvious thing that had occurred to him?

Did he bugger!