The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

But nobody knew for sure, and the mystery of Billy's disappearance has never been satisfactorily laid to rest. Years later, when I was living near Brighton, I met a bloke in a bar who told me a tale that might well have explained what happened to Billy.

I relate it here for two reasons. Firstly, because if it hadn't been for Billy's disappearance I would never have got involved in the case of the voodoo handbag. And secondly, because I consider there is a strong possibility that the tale is true.

The tale was told to me by a travelling salesman, but as this in itself may raise doubts regarding its reliability, I have taken the liberty of changing the tale-teller's trade.

To that of wandering mendicant.

The village I live in is called Bramfield. It lies about ten miles north of Brighton, just off the A23, which is the main London to Brighton road. It's a pretty enough village and the folk who live there are happy, being mostly engaged in occupations connected with foxhunting. They keep themselves to themselves and do not encourage tourists. Small boys pelt visiting cyclists with stones and farmers run off walkers at the point of a gun. Travelling salesmen are often to be seen, however, but rarely a wandering mendicant.

The one who wandered into the Jolly Gardeners one Wednesday lunchtime was a mendicant in the grand tradition. He was short and shoeless, rough and ragged, wild of eye and long of beard. He walked with the aid of a knobbly staff and he called for a pint of best bitter.

Andy took one look at the wandering mendicant and ordered him straight out of the bar. I considered this a bit harsh and I said so.

'˜I consider that a bit harsh,' I said to Andy.

'˜Dress code,' said the landlord. '˜He can't drink here looking like that.'

I viewed the mendicant's apparel. He wore the traditional brown sacking robe, secured at the waist by a length of knotted string. It was a fetid robe, frayed about the hems and gone to buggeration at the elbows.

'˜So what's the problem?' I asked Andy.

'˜Tie,' said the landlord. '˜He isn't wearing a tie.'

Now I am renowned as a charitable fellow, in fact the term living saint has more than once been used to describe me. And I took pity upon this thirsty traveller and led him outside to my car, in the hope that I might have something that would serve as a tie. I had a good old rummage in the glove box and under the seats, but all I could come up with was a pair of jump leads in the boot. I knotted these about the mendicant's neck and we returned to the bar.

'˜All right now?' I asked Andy.

Andy scrutinized the jump leads. '˜All right,' he said to the mendicant. '˜You can come in, but don't start anything.'

Oh how we laughed.

'˜I'll have a pint of best bitter, please,' said the mendicant. '˜Before you turn nasty.'

Why should I turn nasty?' Andy asked.

'˜Because I don't have any money to pay you with.'

'˜I'll pay,' I said. And I did.

I sat down in my favourite corner and the mendicant sat down with me. He sipped at his bitter and then he said, '˜You're a Telstar, aren't you?'

'˜I'm a what?'

'˜A Telstar. Born under the sign of Telstar. I'm an astrologer. I know these things.'

'˜But Telstar was a satellite,' I said, '˜put up in the 1950s.'

'˜It's a heavenly body and astrology is all to do with the influence of heavenly bodies.'

'˜Stars and planets, yes, but not telecommunication satellites.'

The mendicant drank deeply of his pint. '˜Well, that's where you're wrong,' he said, wiping froth from his beard. '˜It's all to do with proximity. Everything in space influences everything else. And we are influenced by everything in space. The stars and galaxies exert influence, but they are thousands of light years away, man-made satellites are a whole lot closer. They exert a far stronger influence.'

'˜I find that difficult to believe.'

'˜Well you would, you're a Telstar. Consider the youth of today. All into name brand sportswear and name brand trainers and burger chain dinners and manufactured pop music. Why do you think that is?'

'˜Search me,' I said.

'˜They all have the Sky TV satellite in their birth charts.'

'˜Bugger me.'

'˜No thanks. And I'll tell you something more. '˜What's that?'

'˜I've finished my pint and I'd care for another.'

'˜Incredible!'

I purchased another pint of best bitter for the mendicant and a Death by Cider for myself.

'˜A strange thing happened to me on my way to this pub,' said the mendicant. '˜Would you like me to tell you about it?'

'˜That would be nice.'

'˜No it wouldn't, but I'll tell you anyway. How old would you say I am?'

I viewed his grizzled visage. '˜Sixty maybe, sixty-five.'

'˜I'm sixty-six'

'˜Well, you don't look it.'

'˜I keep myself fit, that's why. I walk twenty-five miles a day on average. Have done for the last thirty years. I did the Hippy Trail in the Sixties and went to Woodstock and-'

Would you mind just telling me about this strange thing that happened to you, because I have to go in a minute. I've got an appointment to see the doctor.'

'˜Are you ill?'

'˜No, I have to get some sleeping pills for my wife.'

Why?'

'˜Because she's woken up again.'

Oh how we laughed.

'˜All right,' said the mendicant. '˜I'll tell you my tale, but it's an odd one, and you must make of it what you will.'

'˜Go ahead then.'

'˜All right. Now, as I say, I get about a bit. I wander the world, and I sleep rough, the stars above and Mother Earth below and that kind of stuff. Well, the other week I was camped out in the middle of the big roundabout just outside Brighton.'

'˜The one on the A23?'

'˜The very same. Hitch-hikers always stand there thumbing lifts to London, you've probably seen them.'

I nodded. I had.

Well, I'm sitting there and I see this young bloke with his bit of cardboard with London scrawled on it, standing there thumbing, and I see this old yellow and cream VW Camper pull up to give him a lift. And I hear the driver say 'њLondon?'ќ and the hitch-hiker say 'њYes, please.'ќ And then they go off together.'

'˜So?' I said. What's unusual about that? I've seen that happen loads of times.'

'˜Me too. But not an hour later the van is back. Same van. And it picks up another hitch-hiker. 'њLondon?'ќ says the driver. 'њYes, please,'ќ says the hitch-hiker and off they go.'

'˜An hour later?' I said.

'˜An hour later. And an hour after that the van is back once more.'

'˜And picks up another hitch-hiker?'

'˜Another one. I watched all day. Eight hitchhikers, he took.'

'˜But he couldn't have taken them to London and been back to Brighton in an hour. Perhaps he only took them as far as the motorway.'

'˜Perhaps. Well, I'm quite comfortable on the roundabout and I think maybe I'll stick around for another day. And I do, and bright and early the next morning, the old VW Camper is back, and he's picked up another London-bound hitchhiker.'

'˜Perhaps it's some kind of community bus service or something.'

'˜Or something! Well, I sit there all day and count another six hitch-hikers going away in the VW and then I have to move off the roundabout because a bloke from the council arrives to cut the grass. I mention to him about the VW, and he says that he'd noticed it picking up hitch-hikers and it had been doing so for the last five years.'

'˜Definitely some community bus service, or something, then.'

'˜Or something. Well, you hear strange tales when you're on the road and you see strange sights and I didn't quite know what to make of this, but as I was heading in the direction of London myself, I thought I'd get a piece of cardboard, scrawl the city's name on it, stick out my thumb and see if I could cop a lift from the VW the next time around.'