The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (18 page)

‘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 “overs”, 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 “a man walks into a bar”.
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.’

“White
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.