The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

'˜Does it work?' I asked.

My uncle made a grumpy face. It was the kind of grumpy face that people who haven't been sleeping too well often make. '˜Speaking of work,' said my uncle. '˜What have you been doing with yourself?'

'˜I have become a private detective,' I said, preening at the lapels of my trench coat.

'˜I thought you were in show business. Carlos the Chaos Cockroach, wasn't it?'

'˜I don't do that any more.'

'˜But wasn't it something to do with the butterfly of chaos theory? Didn't you claim to be able to cause great events to occur by moving biros about and sticking paperclips on your ear?'

'˜I'm over that now.'

The tablets are helping, are they?'

'˜Tablets always help, that's what tablets are for, isn't it?'

'˜My sleeping tablets definitely help,' my uncle yawned.

'˜Do you want to get your head down for half an hour?' I asked.

'˜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 'њovers'ќ, 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 'њa man walks into a bar'ќ. 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!'