The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

16

The followers of the John Frum Cargo Cult sat upon their homemade airstrip and stared into the azure sky.

'˜John Frum, he come,' said one. '˜Bring cargo, all be rich.'

'˜Soon, now,' said another. '˜Real soon, now.'

'˜I've been expecting him for quite some time,' said a native with a hat.

'˜Expecting who?' asked a fourth, a surly fellow with a human finger bone through his nose.

The first three natives looked up at him in awe.

'˜John Frum,' they said. '˜John Frum.'

'˜Oh, him. He'll be along. Just you wait.'

And so they waited.

And the next day they waited again.

As they did for the next two days.

And the next.

One native said, '˜It won't be long now. '˜Another said, '˜I shouldn't think so.'

Another one said, '˜Where's the bloke with the hat gone?'

About a week later one of them said, '˜I wouldn't be surprised if John Frum came at any time now.'

'˜Nor would I,' said another. '˜Has anyone seen the bloke with the bone lately?'

About three weeks after that, on a fine sunny morning, John Frum did come back. But, disappointed that there was no-one around to welcome him, he went away again, leaving a note which said that he would definitely return at a later date.

'˜There,' said a native. '˜I told you he'd come back.'

'˜And he could come back again at any time now,' said another.

A native with a bald head pointed to the sky. '˜Isn't that him?' he said.

But it wasn't.

And so they decided to wait.

I came ashore on the east side of the island. The sea was as warm and blue as I had imagined it to be.

I remembered, as a child, having read Arthur Thickett's book on the Melanesian cargo cults John Frum He Come: An Anthropological Study of Cargo Culture, and enjoying it very much. In fact I could now recall every single word of that book, as I could with all the others I had read in my life. Over fifteen thousand books. Fifteen thousand four hundred and thirty-seven, to be precise. And not a Johnny Quinn among them.

I wasn't angry any more, but I was determined. Determined to escape from the Necronet and bring Billy Barnes to justice.

'˜Anger is one of the sinews of the soul,' wrote Thomas Fuller in his book The Holy State and the Profane State. On page fifty-three actually, which was the last page I got up to, before getting bored and turning instead to The Beano. But I'm sure he was right, it was one of them. My father once said, '˜If you're not angry, you're not alive,' and I can remember exactly when he said it. So I was a little bit angry, but not so much as to let it cloud my judgement.

True, I was still trapped in the Necronet, but here I was not quite the twat I had been outside in the real world. Here I could recall the consequences of every action I had ever taken. So, surely, here I could never make the same mistake twice.

I sloshed up the beach, took off my shirt and spread it on the sand to dry. And then I took off the rest of my clothes and sat naked, soaking up the sun.

It was pretty blissful.

But was it safe?

I had taken considerable care with my choice of destination before I thought my way out of the hospital. I wanted somewhere really obscure, the least most obvious of all the least most obvious, least most obvious places they'd expect me to choose. Somewhere they couldn't track me to. I decided upon this island because although I'd read the book about it and taken in all the detail and description of the place, I didn't actually know exactly where it was. I couldn't have found it on a map, because I'd never seen it on a map. I had to be' safe here. For a while at least. And from here I could plot my escape.

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 having any. 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 fiancГ©.'

'˜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 twat, 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 'њcomputer virus'ќ? 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? 'њI really miss being home drinking a good old pint of English beer.'ќ 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!'

'˜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 bloody 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 piss 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.'