The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

12

The hat looked good on Billy, and so did the coat.

They suited him and he suited them. The chap at the tailor's remarked upon this and so did his assistant. They helped Billy carry his purchases out to his car. His new car, the one driven by the lady chauffeur.

The lady chauffeur who had, until recently, been an estate agent. They loaded Billy's buys into the boot and waved as the chauffeur drove him away.

'˜He really suits that car,' said the tailor chap, and his assistant agreed.

Billy sat in the back seat, tinkering with the CD player. In his opinion this car suited him very well. It was a definite cut above that belonging to the now defunct young man. It wasn't top of the range, but it was the best his lady chauffeur could afford. The car phone rang and Billy answered it.

'˜Barnes,' he said.

'˜Billy,' said the voice of Mr Dyke. '˜Settling in all right? Got yourself all sorted with a place to stay, I hear.'

'˜I'm fine,' said Billy.

'˜Splendid. Then it's time for you to go to work'

Billy's mother sat a long time in the shed talking to the lad who would be Woodbine. But she communicated no further details regarding the mysterious disappearance of the voodoo handbag. Evidently glad to have got the whispering side of it out of the way, she made a great deal of noise. Rattling flowerpots about and banging the walls of the shed with a shovel.

Eventually several neighbours came to complain, there was some unpleasantness and Billy's mum was forcibly evicted.

The lad who would be Woodbine sat and pondered. He had been offered a weekly retainer - a sum coincidentally equal to that of Granny's old age pension - to locate and return the handbag. And, he concluded, as he would remind his Holy Guardian Sprout some ten years later, the best way to go about this was to kill the two birdies with the single stone and seek out Billy Barnes.

And this he set about doing.

Now it has to be admitted (although not yet by him) that he was not exactly in the Billy Barnes league when it came to the matter of mental agility.

Here was a lad of good intention, hell bent on becoming a famous Private Eye, but not exactly, how shall we put it, gifted. He had read Hugo Rune and his Law of Obviosity, but he had not fully grasped all the principles.

When he left the shed, a month later, somewhat grey and sallow of face due to the restricted diet of uncooked potatoes, he had at least reached the conclusion that although the shed seemed a very likely candidate for the least most obvious of all least most obvious places for Billy Barnes to turn up handbag in hand (and therefore the most obvious place that he would), he obviously wasn't going to yet!

And so, perhaps, rather than risk starvation, it might be as well to begin the search elsewhere.

And as Brentford was as much of an elsewhere as anywhere else, and the lad had an uncle called Brian who lived there, then Brentford seemed as good a place as any to begin.

And so he, which is to say I, arrived upon my Uncle Brian's doorstep with a smiling face and a change of underwear. The year was 1977 and the date was 27 July. It was a Sunday and a sunny one at that.

Uncle Brian opened the door. He was a short man, Uncle Brian, positively dwarf-like. He wasn't Welsh, but then who ever thought that he was?

'˜Who is it?' asked Uncle Brian.

'˜It's me,' I said. .'

'˜Well, you never can be too careful, come in.

And I went in.

I had to squeeze past a lot of cardboard boxes that were blocking up the hall. '˜What do you have in these?' I asked my uncle.

'˜Rubber gloves. Would you care for a cup of something?'

'˜Tea would be nice.'

'˜Yes, wouldn't it?'

Uncle Brian led me into his front room. It had been stripped of all furniture and the floor was covered in cushions. '˜Having a party?' I asked.

'˜Sleeping,' said my uncle. '˜I sleep as much as I can, wherever I can. To sort out all the world's problems.'

'˜Top man,' I said. '˜If the people in power spent more time sleeping and less time trying to sort out all the world's problems, the world's problems would probably sort themselves out.'

'˜Have you been drinking?' my uncle asked.

'˜No,' I said.

'˜Well you should try it. I do, it helps me to sleep.'

'˜I see,' I said. But I didn't.

'˜You don't,' said my uncle. '˜But sit down, I'll explain.'

So I did, and he did.

'˜Dreams,' said my uncle. '˜The power of dreams. '˜Where do you think ideas come from?'

'˜You think them up,' I said.

'˜Yes, but where do they come from?'

'˜You think them up,' I said again.

'˜No, no, no,' said my uncle. '˜They have to come from somewhere. They don't just spontaneously appear in your head.'

'˜I think they sort of do. I think an idea is actually composed of lots of different other ideas that sort of give birth to it.'

'˜Cobblers,' said my uncle. '˜When you ask someone how they came up with a really amazing idea, they'll say 'њit just popped into my head'ќ or 'њit came to me all at once'ќ or 'њI had a dream'ќ or 'њI had a vision'ќ, or something similar.'

'˜So you're saying that ideas come from outside your head.'

'˜No, they come from inside. But from a different world inside, the world of dreams.'

'˜I don't think it's a different world,' I said. '˜I think that when you're asleep, your mind is sort of idling, and dreams are just jumbled-up information.'

Uncle Brian shook his head. '˜It's a different world, we enter it when we are asleep and dreaming. It seems weird to us because we are strangers there, we don't understand the laws that govern it. It's a world of pure idea, you see. Thought only, with no physical substance. Pure idea. Sometimes we bring a little of that back with us into the waking world. And pow, we have a new idea.'

'˜And that's what you're trying for?'

'˜Exactly. A big idea. Hence the dream surfing.'

'˜What is that, exactly?'

When you go to bed at night you set your alarm, '˜you need a digital one, you set it to go off at random times in the night to wake you up. Wake you up while you're dreaming. Break in on your dreams, see? Because normally, in the natural way of things, '˜you only wake up when a dream is over, and so you don't remember any of it. This way you'll hit a few dreams in the night, you wake up with a start and hastily write down whatever you can remember.'

'˜Does it work?' I asked.

My uncle made a grumpy face. It was the kind of grumpy face that people who haven't been sleeping too well often make. '˜Speaking of work,' said my uncle. '˜What have you been doing with yourself?'

'˜I have become a private detective,' I said, preening at the lapels of my trench coat.

'˜I thought you were in show business. Carlos the Chaos Cockroach, wasn't it?'

'˜I don't do that any more.'

'˜But wasn't it something to do with the butterfly of chaos theory? Didn't you claim to be able to cause great events to occur by moving biros about and sticking paperclips on your ear?'

'˜I'm over that now.'

The tablets are helping, are they?'

'˜Tablets always help, that's what tablets are for, isn't it?'

'˜My sleeping tablets definitely help,' my uncle yawned.

'˜Do you want to get your head down for half an hour?' I asked.

'˜No, I'll be fine. But if I doze off in the middle of a conversation, don't take it personally, it's not because you're dull, or anything.'

'˜I understand,' I said.

'˜So tell me about this private detective work of yours. It must be very interesting.'

'˜It is,' I said. '˜This case I'm on now for instance-'

'˜Zzzzzzzzzzz,' went my uncle.

About an hour later an alarm went off and my uncle awoke. He snatched up a notebook and wrote frantically with a biro.

'˜Come up with a good'n?' I asked, when he'd finished.

My uncle examined his writings. '˜Very bloody odd,' he said. '˜But I suppose it must mean something.'

'˜What have you written?'

'˜Well, I had this dream that I was in a fishing port somewhere. There were all those whaling boats, very old-fashioned, and I went into this bar on the quay and got into conversation with this ancient manner.

'˜And he gave you an albatross?'

'˜He gave me a message to give to you.'

'˜What?'

'˜He said you were in a great danger and that you should beware of a Billy Barnes.'

'˜What?'

'˜Billy Barnes. Do you know a Billy Barnes, then?'

'˜I used to go to school with him. It's Billy Barnes I'm searching for.'

'˜Well, perhaps you'd better jack it in.'

'˜Bugger me,' I said.

'˜No thanks,' said my uncle.

'˜But it's quite incredible. You dreaming his name. Did the ancient mariner say anything else?'

Uncle Brian consulted his notes (which rang a future bell somewhere). '˜I have the word CHEESE written down in big letters and underlined.'

'˜So what does that mean? That I should beware of cheese?'

Uncle Brian shook his head. '˜It's probably a symbol. You get lots of symbolism in dreams. Cheese probably doesn't mean cheese, it means something else.'

'˜Like what?'

'˜Well, what do you associate with cheese?'

'˜Mousetraps?' I said.

'˜Mousetraps, good. And where would you find a mousetrap?'

'˜In the larder?'

'˜The larder, right. And a Lada is a kind of car, isn't it?'

'˜Not a very good one, I'd prefer a BMW.'

'˜Then that's probably what it means, you'd better be careful when you drive your BMW.'

'˜I don't own a BMW.'

'˜All right. Let's try another tack. What else do you associate with cheese?'

'˜Onions.'

'˜Why onions?'

'˜Cheese and onion crisps.'

'˜Yeah, that's a good one.'

'˜It is?'

'˜Well, an onion is a vegetable and crisps are made out of vegetables. So where do you get vegetables?'

'˜Out of the larder?'

'˜Hm,' said my uncle. '˜So what does cheese rhyme with?'

'˜Peas?' I said.

'˜Anything else?'

'˜Keys?'

'˜Ah yes,' said my uncle. '˜Keys, you have something there.'

'˜I do?'

'˜The Green Carnation Club,' said my uncle. '˜It must mean that.'

'˜What, you have the keys to the place or something?'

'˜No, it's simple world association. Keys. Keys go in locks. Locks rhymes with box. Cricketers wear protective boxes. Cricketers bowl 'њovers'ќ, over rhymes with Rover, Rover is a dog, dogs chase cats, cats have nine lives and Oscar Wilde lived at nine Chesham Place, London.'

'˜And Oscar Wilde wore a green carnation.'

'˜Exactly. And the Green Carnation Club is in Moby Dick Terrace, just round the corner.'

'˜And Moby Dick was a whale and you dreamed about whaling boats.'

'˜There you go, then,' said my uncle. '˜And I'll bet Billy Barnes drives a BMW.'

I shook my head. '˜Incredible,' I said, and I meant it.

And my uncle smiled. '˜A piece of cake,' he said.

'˜Cheese cake?'

Oh how he laughed.

'˜But I'll tell you one thing,' said my uncle. '˜If you do go to the Green Carnation, watch out for yourself.'

'˜You mean it's a gay bar, I'm not worried about that.'

'˜No, its the bar. The one in all the jokes. You know 'њa man walks into a bar'ќ. Those jokes. The Green Carnation is the bar where all those jokes originate from.'

'˜You're kidding.'

'˜Everything has to come from somewhere,' said. my uncle.

And he was right, of course.

I shouldn't have gone to the Green Carnation that night. I should have gone straight home when I left Uncle Brian's. If I'd gone straight home, then I'd never have got involved in any of the horror. I'd have been safe. And perhaps, years later, I might even have asked Billy Barnes for a job. But then, if I hadn't gone to the Green Carnation, I wouldn't be telling you this story now, or perhaps I would, but you wouldn't be there to read it. Or perhaps you would, but I wouldn't, or I would, or maybe I wouldn't.

I'm not completely certain.

But I did go along to the Green Carnation.

And there was a BMW parked out the front.

It didn't belong to Billy Barnes though, it belonged to Johnny Ringpeace, the nightclub owner. Johnny hailed from the North, where real men hail from. Real men with button-up flies and spittle on their boots. Johnny was well hard. He had a tattooed todger, a guard dog named Ganesha and a boil called Norris on the back of his neck.

As I wandered into the bar Johnny was arguing with a customer.

'˜And I'm telling you!' shouted Johnny. '˜You can't bring that dog in here.'

'˜Oh, come on,' said the customer. '˜Just a swift half and I'll be on my way.'

'˜Not with that dog, you'll have to leave him outside.'

'˜Why?' asked the customer.

'˜Because if my dog sees him, he'll kill him, that's why.'

'˜I'm sure he won't,' said the customer.

'˜He bloody will. He's a Rottweiler, he'll make mincemeat of him.'

'˜Oh, I bet he won't.'

'˜Bet? Bet? You wanna bet, do you?' Johnny dug into the back pocket of his leather trousers. '˜Well, here's a ton, says he will.'

'˜A hundred pounds?' The customer looked a little worried.

'˜Take the bet or piss off.'

'˜OK!' The customer dipped into his pocket and counted one hundred pounds onto the bar. '˜This is ridiculous,' he said.

'˜We'll see about that, Ganesha!'

A very large Rottweiler came bounding around the bar counter. '˜Kill boy!' shouted Johnny. And the Rottweiler moved in for the kill.

It was all over in moments. But terrible moments they were. The howling, the ripping, the blood. Johnny stared over the bar counter. All that remained of Ganesha were a few bits of gory fur and a tail.

'˜Bloody hell,' said Johnny. '˜Bloody hell.'

'˜Sorry,' said the customer, quickly pocketing his winnings.

'˜I don't believe it. I do not believe it.' Johnny had a sweat on now. '˜It ate my bloody dog. It ate him!'

'˜Sorry,' said the customer.

'˜I don't care about sorry. I want one of those dogs like yours. I've gotta have one of those dogs like yours. What's it called?'

'˜Well,' said the customer. '˜I call it a short-eared, long-nosed, bald-haired, bow-legged spaniel. But my wife calls it a crocodile.'

Oh how we laughed.

I ordered a Death by Cider, was called a '˜country twat' and settled for a lager. I took myself over to a darkened corner and sat myself down. Johnny's barmaid got a mop and bucket and cleaned up Ganesha's remains. The bloke with the crocodile drank his half and left the bar.

I gave the place a good looking over. It defied description so I do not attempt to give it any. I sipped at my lager instead.

Presently the bar door swung open, and in walked three young business types. I suppose it should really have been an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman, but it wasn't. It was just three young business types. They were your standard business types. Those horrible dark suits that seem never to have been in fashion. Those portable phones they carry like symbols of power. The pink sweaty faces, the premature balding. You always have the feeling that they probably do really unpleasant things to the women they get into bed. And they do talk so very loudly. And always about their holidays.

'˜Bring me something long and cold with plenty of gin in it,' one said to Johnny. Johnny brought out his wife.

'˜I'm off for three weeks' seal-culling this year,' said one of the business types.

'˜Done that,' said another. '˜I'm off hunting snow leopard. New seat covers for the Porsche.'

'њWhite tiger are better for that,' said the third. '˜Bagged three last year. Two in a game reserve and one in a zoo.'

Bastards! I thought. People with money have all the fun.

'˜I was surfing the net the other day,' said business type one. '˜And I came across this web site called Murder Inc. They advertise the ultimate sporting holiday for the weapons enthusiast. Fly you out to a trouble spot somewhere and let you take pot shots at the natives. You can't bring back trophies, obviously - you won't get them through customs. But they video it all for you, so you can relive the fun.'

'˜I've heard of that,' said business type number two. '˜Apparently they've been in business for more than one hundred years. They claim that all the major assassinations of the twentieth century were actually booked through them.'

'˜What, do you mean JFK, people like that?'

'˜Chap from a gun club in Leeds took him out on a two-week package.'

'˜Do you have their number?' asked business type three, priming up his portable phone.

'˜Not on me, sorry. I have it back at my business, though.'

'˜And where is your business, exactly?'

'˜Elsewhere.'

Elsewhere? I squinted at the business types and then I saw him. It was Billy Barnes. I hadn't recognized him at first. He looked so like the other two. Just like them. But it was definitely him. Well, as definitely as it could be, anyway.

I rose to say hello, and then thought better of it.

My uncle's dream had been pretty specific. Beware of Billy Barnes, and here he was, right here in the Green Carnation.

I would play things safely, listen to his conversation, follow him and see what he was up to.

'˜Of course,' said Billy. '˜The real thing in holidays this year is to take the supreme trip.'

'˜Supreme trip?' said number two.

'˜Virtual tours,' said Billy. '˜Go anywhere, do anything and experience everything, without ever leaving your armchair.'

'˜What, a computer simulation?' asked number three.

Billy nodded. '˜That's what I've heard.'

'˜It's not perfected yet,' said number two.

'˜You know about it, then?' Billy asked.

'˜My company are working on something similar. It's very hush hush, the commercial potential is vast. I'm in crypto-encodement, top secret stuff, I can't talk about it.'

'˜You're full of shit,' said number three.

'˜I'm not,' said number two.

'˜Tell me more,' said Billy.

'˜Can't,' said number two. '˜You might be a spy from Necrosoft for all I know.'

'˜Necrosoft?' said Billy. '˜What's Necrosoft?'

'˜The opposition. They'd give a lot to get their hands on what I know.'

'˜Sell it to them, then.'

Number two laughed. '˜No way. I copyright everything I do. I'll be onto big wonga when it all goes on-line.'

'˜Good luck to you, then,' said Billy. '˜Let me get another round in.'

And I watched him all through the evening. He got plenty more rounds in, but he only drank fruit juice himself. The bar filled up with Englishmen, Irishmen and Scotsmen, Grenadier Guards, blokes with parrots on their shoulders, a man with a twelve-inch pianist and a chap with a head the size of an orange. But I ignored the gags and kept my eye upon Billy. Business type number three staggered off around ten, but Billy kept number two talking and kept on buying him drinks. At closing time Billy offered him a lift home.

I followed them outside. Billy said something about his car being just around the corner, put his arm about the young man's shoulder and led him away.

I followed, stealthily.

They wandered down Moby Dick Terrace, crossed the High Street and then turned into Horseferry Lane.

And I followed with further stealth.

They were almost at the lock gates, where the Grand Union Canal meets the River Thames, when the young man began to express his doubts. I ducked down behind a dustbin and watched. There was something of a struggle, though rather one-sided, and then Billy hit him. The young man went down and I watched from hiding as Billy began to assemble some kind of electronic apparatus from pieces he'd been carrying in various pockets. It looked almost like a 1950s ray gun to me. Billy held the thing to the temple of the young man and squeezed the trigger. The young man twitched horribly and then went limp. Billy dismantled his ray gun and placed the parts back in his pockets. And then he lifted the young man's body, carried it to the river bank and dropped it into the water. And then he turned, grinned and called, '˜Come out, then, I know you're there.'

I was all crouched down behind a dustbin and kept very still.

'˜I know you're there,' said Billy. '˜I know you followed us.'

I rose as silently as I could amongst the shadows and prepared to take my leave at the hurry up. And then something hit me very hard on top of the head.

I turned and staggered and took- in the image of a beautiful woman with haunted eyes, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform. And then I found myself tumbling down once more into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion so beloved of the 1950s American genre Private Eye.

And it didn't half hurt.