Snuff Fiction (22 page)

And if I just say the word jumpers’ to you, you’ll know the one I mean.

The great hall was filling up nicely now and everyone was rabbiting away. The catering staff were taking care of business: offering around bowls of snuff, trays of those canapé things that I’ll never understand, drinks and more drinks and more drinks.

It occurred to me that no-one so far had thought to bring a bottle.

‘I’ve brought a bottle,’ said someone.

I glanced up to meet the golden smile of Professor Merlin.

‘Professor,’ I said. ‘You look wonderful.’

And he
did
look wonderful. He hadn’t aged by a day.

He cut a most fantastic figure. Powdered face and purple periwig; diamond ear-studs in his lobes and pearls upon the tips of his waxed moustachios. A velvet frock-coat in a whiter shade of pale. Silken trews and buckled shoes. His slender fingers weighed heavily with wonderful rings and his turquoise eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Hello, young Edwin,’ he said.

I wrung his hand between my own. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ I said. ‘I knew you were on the guest list, but I had no idea whether you were even still—’

‘Alive?’

‘Well...’

‘I am, as you can see, alive as ever I was. And sprightly with it too.’ He handed me a bottle wrapped in brown paper. ‘Something rather special in there for you,’ he said with a wink. ‘Martian sherry. Picked it up upon my travels between the planets. I’ll tell you all about them later, if you want. But for now I suppose I should get down to the job in hand.’

‘The drinking?’ I asked.

‘The MCing, dear boy. The sadly departed Doveston had engaged me as Master of Ceremonies. Did you not know?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid that the big portfolio had a lot of very small print. I must have missed some of it.’

‘Then as to the matter of my fee?’

‘Charge whatever you like, I’m easy. Oh and, Professor, I have something of yours downstairs. A certain box, bound in human skin. I’m sure you’d like it back.’

‘Like it back?’ Professor Merlin laughed. ‘The box was never mine in the first place. I think the Doveston bought it at a jumble sale. He asked me to weave a story around it to wind up young Norman. For reasons of his own, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That certainly makes sense.’

‘And isn’t that the self-same Norman there in the trilby hat? Excuse me while I go and say hello.’

And with that he was gone into the crowd, leaving me to shake new hands and offer new hellos.

Now, one of the other problems with holding a big celebrity bash is the gatecrashers. There will always be certain other celebrities whom you haven’t invited who feel it is their divine right to be there. And even with all the security I had, I felt sure that there’d be one or two of the buggers doing their best to sneak in. I’d ordered the guards to fire upon anyone they caught trying to scale the perimeter fence and already they’d managed to gun down David Bowie and Patsy Kensit. I had every confidence that by the end of the evening the world would be free of Michael Jackson too.

‘Hi,’ said a squeaky voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought Bubbles too.’

I grinned through gritted teeth. ‘No problem at all, Michael,’ I said. ‘The chef will look after Bubbles.’

‘He always has his own place at the table.’

‘Michael,’ I said. ‘Bubbles will have his own place
in
the table.’

Norman came tottering over.

‘Oooooh, hello,’ said Michael. ‘You look nice.’

Norman cleared his throat. ‘Here,’ he whispered to me. ‘Did you see that? Did you see how I got on with Sigoumey? I’m taking her out for lunch tomorrow.’

‘I’m very impressed,’ I said.

‘That’s nothing. Hey, look over there. It’s Come-here-and-poke-my—bowels.’

‘Who?’

‘Camilla Parker-Bowles.’

‘Norman,’ I said. ‘Although I find this a good deal more amusing than Brentford rhyming slang, my bet is that you won’t be able to keep it up for very long.’

‘I will you know. I’m on Viagra.’ Oh how we laughed.

Norman tottered off once more and then a voice said, ‘Psst.’

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘No. Psst. Come over here.’

I turned to see Michael standing in an alcove and beckoning to me with his foolish glove.

Hello, I said to myself What’s this?

‘Come over here and hurry.’

I sauntered over. ‘What is it you want?’ I asked.

‘It’s me,’ said Michael.

‘I know it’s you,’ I said.

‘No. It’s
me.
Lazlo.’ And Lazlo lifted up a corner of his face. ‘Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.’

‘By God,’ I said. ‘You certainly had me fooled. You really are a master of disguise.’

Michael’s face smiled crookedly. ‘It’s a bit of a cheat, really,’ said Lazlo. ‘The guards shot the real Michael trying to shin over the fence.

‘Then there is a God,’ I said.

‘The guards dumped his body in the woods. I couldn’t resist the opportunity, so I sort of—’

‘You sort of what?’

‘Sort of flayed his body and put on his skin.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ I said. ‘I thought you were going to say something really disgusting.’

‘How dare you! But listen, we must talk. I know who the murderer is. But I also know a lot more than that. It’s a global conspiracy. The end of civilization as we know it is only a few hours away. The Secret Government of the World is going to take over, the minute all the computers crash. They’ve been planning it for years. We have to stop them.’

‘Now hold on,’ I said. ‘Let’s just flip back a bit here. Who is the murderer?’

‘It doesn’t matter about that.’

‘It does. It really does.’

‘It does
not.
What matters is that we warn everyone.

‘No no,’ I said. ‘What matters most is that you tell me who the murderer is.’

‘That’s not important, we— ‘It bloody
is
important. I’m paying your wages, you bastard. Tell

me who the murderer is and tell me now.

‘Oh all right,’ said Lazlo. ‘The murderer is...’ And then he paused.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘The murderer is.

‘The murderer is...‘ And Lazlo clutched at his throat. ‘Oh shit,’ he said.

‘O’Shit? Is that an Irish name?’

‘Urgh,’ gasped Lazlo. ‘I’ve been shot in the throat with a poisoned dart.’

‘Well, don’t worry about that now. Just tell me the name of the murderer.’

But did he tell me?

Did he bugger.

He just dropped down dead on the floor.

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.