The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

14

I was dead.

And I was angry.

Angry at being dead. Furious at being dead and angry with the living. I remember as a child having chickenpox. And that made me angry. Not angry about the pain or the discomfort, but angry with everybody else. The well people, the people who didn't have chicken-pox. I would sit at my bedroom window and glare down at them as they walked along the street. How dare they be well when I was ill. It wasn't fair and it made me angry.

As you get older you get used to life not being fair. You take for granted that life isn't fair, and so you just do your best and try to get whatever you can out of it. But you're still angry, deep down inside, even if you can't admit it to yourself. You're still angry.

Or at least I was, anyway.

But now I was dead I was really angry.

This wasn't just a view from a bedroom window, this was an overview of every living person in the world. No matter how rich or how wretched. I was jealous and angry with every single one of them. Because they were still living and I was not.

But none more so than Billy Barnes.

He was responsible for my death. And he was the one who would pay.

'˜I'll find him!' I shouted. '˜And I'll haunt him. I'll haunt him until he dies, and then I'll meet with him face to face and kick his head in.'

The thought of eternal revenge cheered me slightly, but then another thought entered my head. If I was dead, then where was I? I wasn't in hell, but this sure as hell wasn't heaven.

The third and most obvious option had to be limbo. And if I was in limbo then it meant that God hadn't yet made up his mind about which way to send me. And if that was the case, then it might be a. wise move to dispel all thoughts of anger and revenge and concentrate more upon peace and tranquillity and things of that nature.

Then I could get up amongst the choirs celestial with the all but certain knowledge that Billy Barnes would be getting his comeuppance in the furnaces below.

And that thought cheered me up no end at all.

But I hastily struck it from my mind. That was gloating over another's impending misfortune wasn't it? And that was sinful, surely? God wouldn't go for that kind of thing. God only went for purity of thought.

'˜Shit!' I said. '˜That's a tricky one. How can you have purity of thought, when you know deep down inside that having purity of thought is something that will get you into heaven? That makes purity of thought a motive in itself rather than purity of thought for its own sake. And therefore it's not purity of thought. It's impurity of thought.'

'˜That's your basic human dilemma when it comes to matters spiritual,' said the wandering mendicant.

I looked across at him and nodded.

'˜I'll have another pint of best bitter, if you please,' he said and I got up to get in the round.

And then I looked all around myself. And then I sat back down. '˜I'm in the Jolly Gardeners,' I said. '˜What the f-'

'˜It's a cushion,' said the mendicant. '˜You need someone you can trust.'

'˜I what?'

'˜You trust Andy, don't you? Ask him.'

'˜I do trust Andy. How did you know that?'

'˜I don't. I only know what you know. Ask Andy. Ask Andy what's going on.'

'˜I will.' I stumbled over to the bar. 'њWhat the fuck's going on?' I asked Andy. '˜What the fuck am I doing here? I'm dead.'

'˜You're not dead,' said the barman, shaking his head. '˜Dismiss such thoughts from your mind.'

'˜How can I do that? What's going on?'

'˜You've been downloaded,' said Andy. '˜Into the Necronet.'

'˜The Necronet? What's that?'

'˜It's a virtual world. A computer simulation.'

'˜You mean I'm inside a computer game?'

'˜It's not a game,' said Andy. '˜But that's what you're in. You're experiencing a holographic representation of reality. The reality is your reality, created from your memories and experiences. You're thinking this.'

'˜You mean I'm dreaming it? I'm asleep and dreaming?'

'˜It's not a dream. You won't wake up.'

'˜I don't understand any of this.'

'˜Have a drink,' said Andy. '˜You'll feel better once you've, had a drink.'

'˜Yes,' I said. '˜Yes. All right. Give me a pint of Death by Cider. No! Strike that. Give me one of those Long Life beers.'

'˜Coming right up.' Andy pulled me a pint and passed it across. '˜Taste it,' he said. '˜Tell me if it isn't the best lager you've ever tasted in your life.'

I raised the glass to my lips. '˜It won't be,' I told him. '˜The best lager I ever had in my life was in India when I was doing the Hippy Trail back in the Sixties. I remember it as if it was only yesterday. Well, today actually.' I took a sip. '˜And this is just what it tasted like,' I said very slowly.

'˜Digital memory,' said Andy. '˜Think about it for a moment. You have total recall, don't you? Of everything you've ever done or seen. You remembered being in the Egyptian gallery and so you relived it exactly as it happened. Just think for a moment, try it.'

I thought for a moment. And I tried to imagine being able to recall everything I'd ever seen and everything I'd ever done all at once. And it hit me like a tidal wave.

I staggered back from the bar.

'˜Systems overload,' said Andy. '˜Reboot and start again.'

I shook my head. I stamped at the floor. '˜This floor is real,' I told Andy. '˜This is no computer simulation.'

'˜Then it's not being dead either, is it?'

'˜No,' I said. '˜I suppose not.'

'˜So can you get a grip of that? You're not dead. Keep telling yourself you're not dead.'

'˜I'm not dead,' I said. And I liked the sound of it. '˜I'm not dead. I'm not dead. Hey, everybody! I'm not dead!'

'˜What's all this?' asked Sean O'Reilly, breezing in. '˜Did you say you weren't dead?'

'˜I'm not dead, Sean,' I said. '˜I thought I was, but I'm not. Isn't that brilliant?'

'˜Brilliant,' said Sean. '˜Have you read any good books lately? I've just read this one by Johnny Qu-'

'˜Hang about,' I said, turning back to Andy. '˜I still don't get any of this. This is real, this place. I can feel it, smell it. It's solid.'

'˜That's how you remember it,' said Andy.

'˜You mean it's built from my memories?'

'˜Thought has substance here.'

'˜I don't understand. But, wait, no, hang about. If I'm inside a computer simulation, how do I turn it off? How do I get out again? Have I got some kind of virtual reality headset on or something? '˜Where are the controls?'

'˜I'm not programmed to provide that information.

'˜Programmed? '˜Who programmed you?'

'˜I am a product of Necrosoft Industries. I am here to provide you with all the information you require to make your stay here a pleasant one.'

'˜I don't want to stay here,' I said. '˜I want to get out. Tell me how to get out.'

'˜I am not programmed to provide that information.'

'˜Then tell me who is.'

'˜Access denied,' said Andy.

'˜Oh yeah?'

'˜Oh yeah,' said Andy. '˜But listen, just think about it. '˜Why would you want to get out? Here you have total recall. A digital memory. You can call to mind anything wonderful that's ever happened to you and relive it, whenever you choose, again and again, as often as you want. You can explore this world, travel to any part of it. It's not just composed of your memories, there are thousands of others, a worldwide database. Limitless scope for experience and development. For ever and ever.'

'˜Bollocks,' I said. '˜Outside in the real world, I'm going to have to go to the toilet sooner or later. I'll have to take the headset off.'

'˜Don't think about that,' said Andy. '˜Think only of the possibilities. No harm can come to you here. There's no sickness, no death, only the exchange of experience and information. So much to see, so much to learn. So much to enjoy.'

'˜You sound like a bloody travel commercial.'

'˜How dare you,' said Andy. '˜I'm an information package.'

'˜You can stuff your information. I want out.'

'˜You can't get out,' said Andy. '˜Put such thoughts from your mind, or-'

'˜Or what?'

'˜Or it may be necessary to initiate a programme of corrective therapy.'

'˜And what is that supposed to mean?'

'˜I am not programmed to provide that information.'

'˜I'll just bet you're not.' I took my perfect pint and returned to my favourite corner. I was angry. Not quite so angry as I had been. But still pretty angry.

But then was it real anger?

After all, I was sitting in a virtual pub, drinking virtual beer, so perhaps it was only virtual anger.

'˜No,' I said to myself. '˜It's real anger all right. And I'll get out of here somehow. I'm not spending the rest of my life inside a computer simulation, no matter how good the beer tastes. I can't be bought off with a digital memory and a limitless scope for experience. So what if I can live out again the most wonderful moments of my life in perfect detail?'

So what- And I sat there and looked at her across the table.

In that restaurant in Lewes, on that Saturday in March. She with her passionate amber eyes and fascinating mouth. And we were so in love then we could hardly eat. And I could smell her hair and touch her and- '˜No!' I shouted, and I jumped from my chair in the Jolly Gardeners. '˜I loved her and lost her, and it isn't pleasure to relive the happiest moments of your life. It's torment. Utter torment.'

'˜Easy there,' said Andy. '˜You'll get the hang of it. Selective thinking is your man. Take it a little at a time. And calmly.'

'˜No!' I cried. '˜I bloody won't. I want out of this. The real world may suck, but this sucks worse. To remember everything in perfect detail. Every mistake you've ever made. Every bit of pain you've caused to others. I am in hell. Let me out of here. Help me! Help me!'

And then somebody hit me. Or blanked me out or something. And everything diminished to a tiny dot upon a screen, then vanished. Into black.

And then returned in dazzling white.

And I was sitting in the doctor's office, staring at the ceiling.

The doctor said I was a paranoid schizophrenic. Well, he didn't actually say it, but- '˜Tell me about the Necronet,' the doctor said. '˜The Necronet?' I shook my head.

'˜The place where you say you were trapped. This virtual world inside a computer somewhere.'

'˜I don't understand.' I shook my head again.

The doctor consulted his notes. '˜You said that it was impossible to tell it from the real world, but you knew that it was simulation composed from your memories and experiences.'

'˜Andy told me.'

'˜Andy.' The doctor leafed through further notes. '˜The landlord of the Jolly Gardeners.'

'˜Yes, that's him.'

'˜You were drinking at the time?'

'˜I had one drink.'

'˜Just the one.'

'˜Only one drink, yes.'

'˜Virtual beer, you say?'

'˜Yes, it wasn't real. None of it was real.'

'˜But it felt real. It was solid. But you knew it wasn't real.' The doctor adjusted his monocle. I'd once had a monocle like that. Although mine had plain glass. An image thing, I don't want to dwell on it.

'˜Do you still believe yourself to be in a virtual world?' the doctor asked.

'˜I don't know, I-'

'˜You don't know.'

'˜I mean, I-'

'˜This world was, you say, composed of your memories. Do you ever remember seeing me be-fore? Have you ever been in this room before?'

'˜I can't remember.' I jerked my head from side to side. '˜Why am I all trussed up like this?- Take off this straitjacket.'

'˜All in good time.' The doctor rooted about amongst his notes. '˜Digital memory,' he said.

'˜Yes?' 1 said.

'˜Total recall. You were downloaded into this Necronet and you had total recall. You could relive any memory. Access any previous thought.'

'˜That's right.'

'˜And can you do that now?'

I thought about this. '˜No,' I said. '˜I can't.'

'˜And so what do you conclude from this?'

'˜That I'm no longer in the Necronet?'

'˜Very good. Very good. We're making progress. Now what do you remember? About the night of July the twenty-seventh, for instance?'

'˜I was in Brentford.'

'˜Good.'

'˜I followed Billy Barnes.'

'˜Yes,' the doctor paused. '˜Billy Barnes. This name crops up again and again in your notes. '˜Why were you following him?'

'˜I was searching for the voodoo handbag.'

'˜Ah yes. We have a great many notes about that. Let's just stick with Billy Barnes for a moment. You followed him down Horseferry Lane.'

'˜And he murdered a young businessman. I saw him do it.'

'˜This man?' The doctor displayed a post-mortem photo. The same young man, pale and bloated on a slab.

'˜Yes,' I said, as I turned away my face.

'˜And you didn't know this man. You'd never seen him before.'

'˜Only in that pub with Billy Barnes.'

'˜So you had no motive. This was an act of random violence.'

'˜What?'

'˜You approached this man. Argued with him. Struck him down and threw him into the Thames.'

'˜I did no such thing. '˜What are you saying?'

'˜Look at this.' The doctor drew my attention to a small TV set on his desk. He slotted in a video, thumbed a remote control and turned the screen in my direction.

An image flickered. A night view, looking down' on Horseferry Lane, obviously from some security camera. Two men appeared, walking together, laughing and joking. Billy Barnes and the young business type. They seemed the very best of friends. And then from the shadows a third man appeared. Lurching drunkenly, a length of timber in his hand.

I blinked at the screen; this third man was me.

I watched as I swung the length of timber. Knocking Billy Barnes aside, then striking the young man again and again. Then dragging his body to the riverside and heaving it in. And then there was a further struggle with Billy, now risen. A struggle I lost as he laid me out with a perfect right to the chin.

The screen blanked and the doctor tut-tut-tutted. '˜And there it is,' he said. '˜And all in full colour. There is talk of Mr Barnes being awarded a commendation for good citizenship.'

'˜No!' I shouted. '˜No. No. No. . That's a fake. That's been doctored. It isn't real.'

'˜A computer simulation, perhaps?'

'˜Yes, that's it. Billy Barnes must have done it to implicate me.'

'˜It does far more than implicate you,' said the doctor. '˜It tries and convicts you also.'

'˜But it's a fake. Barnes must have done it. '˜While I was in the Necronet. He set me up. I was there and I saw him. Some woman hit me. His accomplice. I'm innocent. I didn't do this. You have to believe me.'

'˜I think that's enough for now,' said the doctor. '˜I think we'll have you returned to your room.'

'˜You're in this!' I shouted. '˜It's a conspiracy. You're in the pay of that murdering bastard Barnes.'

The doctor pressed a little button on his desk and the door swung open to reveal a very large male nurse.

'˜Nurse Cecil,' said the doctor. '˜Please take the gentleman back to his room.'

'˜No!' I cried, struggling to no avail. '˜There's something going on here. Something big.'

'˜Shall I administer the gentleman's medication?' asked male nurse Cecil.

'˜Yes,' said the doctor. '˜And use the big syringe.'

'˜The really big one with the extra-long needle?'

'˜I think that will do the trick,' said the doctor.

'˜No!' I shouted. '˜No! No! No!'

But it was yes. And I was hauled away kicking and screaming, effing and blinding, to pain and further oblivion.

I stood in line for breakfast clutching my regulation steel tray. I was in pretty poor shape both mentally and physically. All that stuff about a drowning man clutching at straws is as true as it gets. But I didn't even seem to have straws to clutch at.

The big ugly son-of-a-bitch dolloped porridge onto a chipped enamel plate and poked it in my direction. I plucked a spoon from the bucket, took up my tucker and sought out an empty table.

'˜Barry,' I kept whispering. '˜Barry, where are you? Barry?'

But Barry wasn't there. I was all alone, fearing for my sanity, without even a voice in my head for comfort.

'˜Anybody sitting here?'

I looked up to find a young man looking down at me. He had a narrow face, a pointy nose and a gingery moustache. He looked pretty normal but that was no guarantee here.

'˜You tell me,' I said.

He raised a quizzical ginger eyebrow. '˜The chair's empty,' he said.

'˜Then if it's empty for you it's empty for me.'

The young man sat down and placed his tray upon the table. I stared at his plate. Mushrooms, sausage, fried egg, toast. The young man caught my stare. '˜I can't be having with porridge,' he said. '˜Sits in my guts like a stone gnome in a tart's window box. Can't be having with it.'

'˜Nor me, but how-'

'˜Management services,' he said, flashing a badge on his lapel.

'˜You're not an inmate, then?'

The young man put a long thin finger to his lips. '˜I am. Look again.'

I squinted at the badge. It was a bottle top secured by Sellotape. '˜But how?' I asked.

The young man winked. '˜They think they're smart, but they're not. They're thicker than a donkey's dick. I come and go as I please. That porridge looks really crap, would you like my sausage?'

'˜Yes please.'

The young man forked his sausage onto my plate.

'˜Thanks very much,' I said.

'˜The name's Roger,' said the young man.

'˜Rob,' I said.

'˜Please to meet you, Rob. Still angry?'

'˜Damn right!'

'˜Great stuff.' Roger tucked into his tucker. '˜I've been watching you,' he said as he tucked. '˜Muttering away. Observing you for weeks, I have. You're not like the rest, you've still got it.'

'˜Got what?'

'˜A sense of self, you still know who you are. '˜'˜Not for much longer I reckon. '˜'˜Then we'll have to get you out of here quick, won't we?'

'˜What?'

'˜Are you in the computer industry, Rob?'

I shook my head. '˜Absolutely not.'

'˜Thought not. But the rest of them. Everyone here. They're all something in the computer industry. Research scientists, systems analysts, programme writers. All of them.'

'˜All of them?'

'˜Makes you think, doesn't it?'

I glanced around at the other inmates. They sat, staring dumbly ahead of them, slowly munching porridge.

'˜Zombies,' said Roger. '˜Automatons. Utterly conditioned. Blank as Frank and banjo-brained.'

'˜I have to get out of here,' I said.

'˜I know you do and I'll help. Have they been giving you these?'

He opened his hand to reveal several capsules on his palm.

'˜Tablets,' I said. '˜Same as the ones I'm taking. I used to be under the impression that tablets always helped. I'm not so certain now.'

'˜But have you been taking them?'

'˜Of course. Just because I've lost faith in them doesn't mean they're not helping.'

'˜Look.' Roger plucked one of the capsules from his palm and carefully pulled it apart. '˜What do you make of that?'

I examined the contents. '˜It's a micro-circuit. A silicone chip, or something.'

'˜Not what you'd expect to find in a tablet, eh?'

'˜Absolutely not. Listen, what's going on here? Do you know?'

'˜I've got a pretty good idea. It's something really big and it all has to do with a company called Necrosoft.'

'˜Billy bloody Barnes,' I whispered.

'˜Yeah, that bastard,' said Roger.

'˜You know him?'

'˜It was him who got me banged up in here. Simple misunderstanding. I met him in a pub, tried to put a bit of business his way. He thought I'd ripped him off and bosh, I'm nicked.'

'˜And did you rip him off?'

'˜Only a bit.'

'˜How much of a bit?'

'˜By about seventy thousand.'

'˜Quid?'

'˜No,' said Roger. '˜Right-handed rubber gloves.'