Snuff Fiction

  ‘. . . 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 okay,’ 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 best-selling 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.

  ‘Now listen,’ he whispered. ‘If the Doveston really is dead, it can mean only one thing. That he defied the Secret Government. That they approached him, tried to enlist him, and he refused them.’

  ‘That sounds plausible. He was very much his own man.’

  ‘Well, that wouldn’t suit the Secret Government. They’re into total control.’

  ‘But who are these people who run this Secret Government?’

  Danbury shrugged. ‘You perhaps. How would I know?’

  ‘You know they exist.’

  ‘Everyone knows they exist. People just won’t own up to the fact. Look around you, what do you see?’

  I looked around. ‘Lots of rich and famous people.’

  ‘And how come they got to be rich and famous?’

  ‘Because they’re more talented than other people?’

  Danbury looked at me.

  And I looked back at Danbury.

  ‘No, OK,’ I said. ‘Forget that.’

  ‘It’s all a conspiracy,’ said Danbury. ‘Everything’s a conspiracy. The only people who get on in this world are the ones with the right connections. And when original thinkers come along, what happens to them? Either they vanish without trace, or they get sucked into the fame system and end up turning out pap for their masters. They take the money and sell out.’

  ‘To the Secret Government.’

  ‘Ultimately. Most of them don’t know that. But actors can only work when they’re offered scripts and rock stars soon find themselves back on the dole if they play up too much.’

  ‘They all behave badly.’

  ‘Perk of the job. But the products they turn out are all strictly “safe”. They don’t invite rebellion. They don’t stir up the masses. They maintain the status quo.’

  ‘I’ve heard all this stuff before,’ I said. ‘Mostly from people who’ve failed to make it big.’

  ‘I’m not trying to convince you,’ said Danbury. ‘But let me tell you this: the one thing the Secret Government, or any other government, fears more than anything else is information. The free exchange of information. And with the World Wide Web and information technology, ideas can be passed around the world in seconds. And that’s why it’s all going down tonight. When the systems crash because of the Millennium Bug, there will be no more exchanging of information. Unless you own a carrier pigeon, of course.’

  ‘And you really believe that this is going to happen?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’

  ‘But if it is true, then we should do something about it.’

  ‘And what would you suggest?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell people. Get it all on the World Wide Web.’

  ‘It’s on the Web,’ said Danbury. ‘There are thousands of conspiracy pages on the Web. Many put there by the Secret Government to confuse th
e situation further. There is no way of stopping what’s going to happen. Well, there’s one way, but as that can’t be arranged, there’s really no way.

  ‘What would the one way be?’

  ‘Assemble all the members of the Secret Government in one big room and then blow the lot of them to kingdom come.

  ‘Not very likely.’

  ‘Although . . .’

  ‘Although what?’

  ‘Well, you’ll laugh when I tell you. But something really obvious has just occurred to me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it’s . . .’ Danbury’s right hand was moving in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘It’s . . .

  Something whistled past my ear and Danbury’s left hand clutched at his throat.

  And was that something a poisoned dart?

  Well, yes of course it was.

  And did Danbury manage to blurt out the really obvious thing that had occurred to him? Did he Hell!

  23

  ‘Tis pretty for an afternoon box, I grant you. But one would never take it out to dine.

  Beau Brummell (1778—1840), on his snuffbox collection

  I didn’t panic.

  I could have, but I didn’t.

  I was far too angry this time. I’d had sufficient. I mean to say, one cold-blooded murder at your party is bad enough. But two! That’s really taking the piss.

  I glanced about in search of the assassin. But none was to be found standing conveniently by holding a blow-pipe in one hand whilst waving to me with the other.

  Folk were gaily dancing now to the music of the mariachi band upon the minstrels’ gallery. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time.

  Everyone but me.

  But I didn’t panic. No. I was angry, but I was cool. I was so cool. Do you know what I did? Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I dragged Danbury to his feet. Danced him over to the invisible suit of armour. And then rammed his body into the back of it. Pretty damn cool, eh?

  And if you’ve ever tried to ram a corpse into the back of an invisible suit of armour, you’ll know that it can be pretty tricky.

  Especially if the corpse is sporting an erection.

  Then I went searching for Norman.

  I was angry with Norman.

  The shopkeeper wasn’t hard to find. He was doing the Twist. All on his own. But being cheered on by a circle of adoring females. I thrust my way through this circle, much to their annoyance.

  ‘Norman! You twat!’ I shouted at him.

  Norman flapped his fingers at me. ‘Go away,’ he shouted back. I’ve got these women eating out of my hand. Look at Tear-apart-my-two-limbs-son’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tara Palmer Tomkinson’

  It wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t in the mood. ‘Norman!’ I shouted. ‘It’s happened again!’

  ‘Then put some more iodine on it.’

  I made fists at Norman. Much to the horror of the womenfolk ‘Stop dancing,’ I shouted. ‘There’s been another murder.’

  ‘Oh,’ and Norman stopped dancing.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaw,’ went the womenfolk. ‘Dance some more for us, Norman.’

  Switch your bloody suit off,’ I told him.

  Norman did so, grudgingly.

  The womenfolk lost interest in Norman. They sort of coughed politely and drifted away and I stopped hating Norman quite so much.

  ‘Another murder, you say?’ he said.

  ‘Danbury Collins.’

  ‘Danbury Collins?’

  ‘Danbury Collins.’

  Norman lifted his trilby and scratched at his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t get that one. Do you want to give me a clue?’

  I shook Norman by his smart lapels. ‘It’s not one of your stupid name-pun things. It’s the victim’s real name. Danbury Collins.’

  ‘Not the Danbury Collins?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Not the one who’s always . . .’ Norman mimed the appropriate wrist actions.

  ‘He was doing it when he died.’

  ‘It’s how he would have wanted to go.’

  I couldn’t disagree with that.

  ‘But dip my dick in Duckham’s,’ said Norman. ‘Lazlo Woodbine and Danbury Collins on the same night. If P. P. Penrose were alive today, he’d be turning in his grave.’

  ‘Listen,’ I yelled at Norman, ‘we can’t waste any more time. We have to find this murdering son of a . . ’

  And the music of the mariachis ended.

  ‘. . . bitch!’

  It was quite amazing, the way my voice carried right around the momentarily silent hall.

  And as for the way that all heads turned in my direction.

  That was quite amazing too.

  It was the second major embarrassment of the evening. And it was early yet.

  ‘Nice one,’ whispered Norman. ‘Very l990s. Very PC.’

  And then clash went some cymbals, sparing Norman a walloping.

  ‘Boom shanka,’ came a voice from on high, the voice of Professor Merlin. Heads turned and tilted. The ancient showman stood upon the balcony rail of the minstrels’ gallery, arms flung wide and long fingers wiggling.

  ‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ cried the oldster. ‘I am Professor Merlin and I welcome you to the Great Millennial Ball.’

  The crowd, well-fuelled on drink and drugs and all loved-up by the Hartnell Home Happyfier, roared approval and clap-clap-clapped.

  ‘I hate that old sod,’ said Norman.

  I displayed my fist. ‘As soon as he’s finished, we search for the murdering you-know-what’

  ‘Dearly beloved,’ said Professor Merlin, folding his hands as in prayer. ‘We are gathered here tonight in the presence of this recherché décor . . .’ He gestured towards Lawrence’s dangling dog-dragon thing and the crowd guffawed aplenty. ‘We are here’, the professor continued, ‘to celebrate the birth of a new millennium. But also to celebrate the life of a most remarkable man. You knew him as the King of the Corona. The Grandee of the golden leaf. The Caesar of the ciggie. The Rajah of the roll-up. He was the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha of the small cigar. He was the Sheik of snout. I speak to you, of course, of Mr Doveston.’

  Clap, clap and whistle went the crowd. And cheer, also.

  ‘You —‘Professor Merlin raised a forefinger and swung it about to encompass all ‘—you folk are the great folk. The rulers and makers of men. The lords of high office. The grand muck-a-mucks. The captains of industry. The fair maidens of fashion.’ Professor Merlin bowed gallantly. ‘You are the stars of the silvery screen. You are the thespians. You are the musicians. You, my dear friends, are the business.’

  More cheering and clapping and whistling too.

  ‘And so you are deserving of an entertainment.’ Professor Merlin snapped his fingers and a glittering yo-yo appeared in his hand.

  ‘OOOooooooooooooh,’ went the crowd, most impressed.

  ‘Easy trick,’ muttered Norman. ‘I could do that.

  Professor Merlin twinkle-eyed the mosaic of faces beneath him and then sent the yo-yo skimming above. It sparkled like a gemstone as he whisked it in mighty arcs out to the left and the right.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ muttered Norman.

  ‘On this night of nights,’ called the professor, ‘on this final moment of our age, I shall present a special entertainment. An amusement. A frippery. A bit of fol de rol—

  ‘To bewitch and bewilder,

  beguile and bemuse.

  To instruct and construct

  and perhaps to bemuse.

  Will you see what you’re seeing?

  Or hear what you hear?

  Will you say to yourself

  This is all rather queer?

  Does it mean what it says?

  Does it say what it means?

  Is he bashing the bishop

  Or straining the greens?’

  And he danced his yo-yo through a dazzling series of tricks which naturally included the ever-popular ‘stuff
ing the stoat’. As well as ‘porking the penguin’, ‘furtling the flounder’ and ‘giving the gibbon a gobble’.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ I said to Norman.

  ‘I’m not altogether sure I’d want to.’

  ‘Now be mindful, my friends,’ said Professor Merlin, ‘because the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye.’ And he flung his yo-yo once more over the crowd. And lo and behold, it just wasn’t there. ‘The more you see,’ the old man said, ‘the more you think you know.’

  And then he clapped his hands. ‘Come, carpets, cushions and kilims,’ he called. ‘Come cosset and comfy our cool congregation.’

  From all sides of the great hall came serving folk, members of the catering staff, baldy-headed lady dwarves and those littlest-said-about-them-the-better human ashtrays. They carried carpets and cushions and kilims and they walked about amongst the guests, setting these down on the flagstoned floor.

  ‘Please be seated,’ called the showman. ‘Sit ye down, oh yes indeedy do.’

  With general hilarity all round, and with much trouser-knee-adjustment from the men and tight-skirt-bottom-wriggling from the women, the party guests set to settling down on the out-spread rugs and comfy cushions.

  ‘I think I’ll just nip off to the bog now,’ said Norman.

  ‘No you bloody won’t. Just sit down here until he’s finished.’

  Norman sat.

  And I sat.

  Sit sit sit.

  ‘Now,’ cried Professor Merlin. ‘As you watch and marvel at our show, why not tuck a little tucker into your laughing gear? Dine upon delicacies, Nirvana to the nasal parts and positively paradisical to the palate. Vivacious viandes. Magical morsels. Tantalizing titbits. Knock-out nosebag. Johnny B. Goode, by golly.’ And once more he clapped his hands.

  There came a fanfare from the mariachi men and beneath the minstrels’ gallery, to the rear of the invisible pillars, the door that led to the kitchens opened and out strode the famous chef.

  He clapped together hands of his own,

  And swung on a polished heel.

  And he called to his waiting waiters,

  To bring on the marvellous meal.

  ‘Get a move on, you dickheads,’ he called.

  And out from the kitchen marched the waiters, looking every bit the way that waiters should. They had crisp white shirts and smart dickie-bows and sleek tail-coats and slicked-back hair with killer sideburns. And they were all gym-trained and Club-Med-tanned and they all had those ‘rose-for-the-lovely-lady?’ eyes.