The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag (13 page)

Billy took two suitcases to
the station. One contained his clothes. The other, his granny. It was now
Wednesday morning, and as on Wednesday mornings Billy’s mother always took
breakfast in a high tree at the end of the garden, Billy had taken the
opportunity to slip away through the front door.

The
telephone conversation of the previous evening had not been to Billy’s liking. The
man at Necrosoft was vague and evasive. He did not answer Billy’s questions to
Billy’s satisfaction. He offered Billy fifty quid for his granny, ‘and no more
questions asked’ and then put down the phone when Billy asked more questions.
Billy called back, but there’d been no reply.

So
Billy set out for Brentford.

He
would take the offices of Necrosoft by storm.

But it
would be a gentle storm. More of a light shower, really. A bit of a breeze that
would waft Billy gently into employment. Once the management of Necrosoft met
Billy they would be instantly impressed by his eminent suitability. Billy would
be just the chap they needed. He would fit in perfectly. After all, he looked
like all the rest.

Only he
knew he was
different.

And how
very
different he was.

Billy caught the London
mail train at Bramfield Halt. He did not have the exact address of Necrosoft.
The package had said only Brentford, Middlesex, and the unhelpful chap Billy
had spoken to on the phone refused to give out the address. But this presented
no problem for Billy.

Once
Billy had found himself an empty carriage, he placed the suitcase containing
his granny on the luggage rack and opened the other on his knees. From this he
took out a brightly coloured parcel. It was addressed simply to NECROSOFT
INDUSTRIES. BRENTFORD. MIDDLESEX. Billy closed his suitcase and placed this on
the other luggage rack. Then he slipped along the train to the guard’s van and
when the guard was distracted he slipped the parcel into the mail sack marked
Brentford.

And
then Billy went off to the buffet car and had a cup of tea.

Now,
for most travellers, entering Brentford for the first time is an unforgettable
experience. The sky seems bluer here, the grass more green, the trees more
tall, the river much more rivery. And see, the mellow London brick, the grey
slate roofs, the terracotta chimneys. And view the women, fair of face, the
happy children singing hymns, the tradesmen plying their trades. And smell the
honeysuckle and the dog rose and the sweet wild—

Billy
checked his suitcases into the left-luggage office, then stood upon a corner of
the street smoking a cigarette and gently squeezing the bright plastic something
he’d received in the post.

Presently
a van came to pick up the mail sacks. Billy followed it the two streets to the
sorting office. Outside he smoked two more cigarettes and gave the something
further squeezings. And then he followed the postman who came out pushing a
bicycle.

On the
front of the bicycle was a rack and in the rack were several drab brown paper
parcels and one that was brightly coloured.

Billy
kept his eyes on this.

The
postman set off upon his round. He was a very small postman. Positively
dwarf-like. Billy wondered whether, perhaps, he was Welsh.

The
small postman went about his business in a ,quite unhurried fashion. He dillied
and dallied and dawdled. He looked into shop windows and picked flowers in the
park. He did take a short cut across the allotments, but only so he could steal
some sprouts from one of the plots. It was nearly three in the afternoon before
he parked his bicycle next to a boarded-up shop front and took Billy’s parcel
from its rack.

Billy
hastened forward. He squeezed himself between the postman and the shop door.

‘Something
for Necrosoft?’ he said. ‘I’ll take it, I’m just going in.’

The
small postman looked up at him. ‘There’s three bob to pay,’ he said.

‘There
bloody isn’t,’ said Billy, who knew he had put on sufficient stamps.

‘And
how would you know?’

Billy
smiled. How would he indeed? ‘Three bob, you say?’ And he fished out the
coinage and gave it to the postman.

‘Have a
nice day,’ said the postman, passing him the parcel.

Billy
watched the postman as he dilly-dallied and dawdled away. And then he took
stock of the shop front. This was
not
what he had expected. He had
expected some big corporation building, all mirror glass and Bauhaus furniture.
Why would Necrosoft Industries, ‘The cutting edge of computer technology’, be
holed up in a dump like this?

Billy
pushed upon the door, which opened groaning on its hinges. He stuck in his head
and sniffed. The air smelt stale. He stepped into the shop. It had evidently
once been a draper’s. Most of the old fixtures and fittings remained, hung with
cobwebs and downy with dust. Wan light fell through the unwashed windows,
illuminating here, a tailor’s dummy standing like an impaled torso, and there,
some mouldy balls of wool that looked like shrunken heads. These were not
sights to inspire confidence in Billy.

The lad
glanced down at the floor. There were the signs of many footprints, leading
from the shop door to— Where?

To a
stairway at the rear.

Billy
crossed the shop floor and felt his way up the unlit stairs. At the top a door,
and Billy pushed it open.

‘Come
in,’ said a voice. ‘You’re late.’

Billy
found himself in a dull little room. Lit by a single dangling bulb and
containing nothing but a table and two chairs. Behind the table on one of the
chairs sat a young man. He was pale and hollow-eyed, stubble-chinned and
shabby. ‘Sit down,’ he said. And Billy sat.

‘Right
then,’ said the young man. ‘I was just going to ask how you did it, but I see
your parcel. Very enterprising.’

‘Thank
you,’ said Billy.

‘And
polite with it,’ said the young man.

‘I do
my best to please.’

‘I’ll
bet you do.’

‘Is
this the office of Necrosoft?’ Billy asked.

The
young man nodded, spilling specks of dandruff ‘You were expecting something
far more flashy, I’ll bet.’

‘You
can’t always tell a book by its cover,’ said Billy with care.

‘You
can if it’s written by Johnny Quinn,’ said the young man. ‘So, let’s have a
look at you. Stand up.’

And
Billy stood up.

‘Sit
down.’

And
Billy sat down again.

‘Stand
up.”

And
Billy stood up once more.

‘And
stay.’

And
Billy stayed.

‘It’s
impressive, isn’t it?’ said the young man.

‘What
is?’

‘The
way you do exactly what you’re told.’

‘If you
say so.’

‘I do.
And I’ll prove it. Whip your willy out.’

‘What?’
said Billy.

‘Your
willy. Whip it out. Let me have a look at it.’ Billy slowly unzipped his
trousers and exposed himself to the young man.

‘Mine’s
bigger than that,’ said the young man. ‘Now tuck it away and sit down.’

Billy
did so in considerable confusion.

‘Wondering
how it’s done? Why you did what I told you?’

Billy nodded.

‘Get
out your little plastic something.’ Billy took it from his pocket.

‘Put it
on the table.’

Billy
tried to, but he couldn’t.

‘Don’t
want to part with it, eh? They never do.’

‘I don’t
understand.’

‘Of
course you don’t. But I’ll explain: the plastic something is impregnated with a
special chemical. It’s addictive and it makes you subservient.’

‘There’s
no such chemical,’ said Billy.

‘Oh yes
there is. It comes from the Amazon. Johnny Quinn discovered it.’

‘And
who’s this Johnny Quinn?’

‘You’ve
never heard of him?’

‘Never.’

‘That’s
because you’re different, you see. You’re like me, I’m different too. In a few
years from now things are going to be very different from the way they are
today. And that’s when folk like us will really come into our own. We’re the
vanguard of the new movement, we are.’

‘Are we
now?’

‘Yes we
are. The world’s full of greedy bastards who’ll happily sell their old
grannies. But we’re not looking for them, well, we are of course, but not quite
yet. For now we’re looking for the
different
greedy bastards. The
special ones. The ones special enough to use their initiative and find their
way here.’

‘It
didn’t take that much initiative,’ said Billy. ‘It was pretty straightforward.’

‘Don’t
be modest.’

‘OK,’
said Billy. ‘I won’t.’

‘That’s
right, you won’t. Not if I say you won’t. In fact you’ll do whatever I say.
Whatever
I say. I can make you do anything I want, just by asking. So you’d better
be polite to me, if you know what’s good for you.’

Billy
nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Do you have one of these little plastic impregnated
somethings yourself?’ he asked.

‘Of
course I do.’

‘Please
show it to me.’

The
young man took his from his pocket and held it tightly. ‘I won’t give it to
you,’ he said. ‘So don’t waste your time asking.’

‘Oh, I
had no intention of doing that. But surely your one is bigger than mine.

‘Like
my willy,’ said the young man.

‘Indeed,’
said Billy. ‘But I bet mine weighs more.’

‘Don’t
be absurd,’ said the young man.

‘I’ll
bet it does. Here.’ He extended his hand. ‘Take it and feel the two together.
Tell me I’m not wrong.’

‘Okey doke.’
The young man reached across the table and took the bright plastic something
from Billy’s outstretched hand. Billy felt a sense of terrible loss as it left
his possession. As if the most precious item he had ever owned was being torn
from his grasp. He bit at his lip and gripped the edge of the table. Sweat
broke out on his brow and his breath came in strangled gasps.

‘Here
take it back,’ said the young man. ‘It’s exactly the same as mine really.’

‘No,’
said Billy, through gritted teeth. ‘You keep it.’

‘Oh,
thanks very much.’ The young man grinned hugely and tucked Billy’s treasure
into his trouser pocket.

Billy
took several very deep breaths and then he too grinned hugely. ‘Now,’ he said
slowly, ‘show me your willy.’

The police fished the
young man’s body from the canal a week later. The coroner’s report stated that
he had been the victim of a violent sexual assault. But this was not the cause
of his death. Death was due to asphyxiation, a small bright plastic something
being lodged in his windpipe.

Vanguard of the New Movement

Behind his polished cedar desk,

Surrounded by his phones,

Sits Blazer Dyke (the yachting type),

The Vanguard of the clones.

The archetype,

The number one,

The vanguard of the clones.

Crossing over busy streets,

Where noisy traffic drones,

Walks Blazer Dyke (without a bike),

The vanguard of the clones.

The autocrat,

The ectomorph,

The Vanguard of the clones.

He strides across the cobbled yard,

Where pawn shops offer loans,

That Blazer Dyke (whom I dislike),

The vanguard of the clones.

The cannibal,

The parasite,

The Vanguard of the clones.

He passes through the wicket gate,

To churchyards full of bones,

That Blazer Dyke (on a midnight hike),

The vanguard of the clones.

The necrophile,

The narcissist,

The coprophage,

The sybarite,

The telepath,

The Anti-Christ,

The Vanguard of the clones.

9

Life is
a Joke

J.
PENNY II

(Scrawled
upon his school blackboard in 1977 shortly

before
he took his own life, aged seventeen.)

‘I’m impressed,’ said
Blazer Dyke. ‘In fact I’m very impressed.’ He sat at his cedar desk in an airy
office with an open window that overlooked the churchyard of St Joan’s Church
in Brentford.