Dance of the Voodoo Handbag, The by Rankin Robert

Author:Rankin, Robert [Rankin, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Contemporary, Computer Software Industry
ISBN: 9780552145800
Publisher: Transworld Publishers
Published: 1998-12-14T15:00:00+00:00

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!’

‘Sorry,’ said the customer.

‘I don’t care about sorry. I want one of those dogs like yours. I’ve gotta have one of those dogs like yours. What’s it called?’

‘Well,’ said the customer. ‘I call it a short-eared, long-nosed, bald-haired, bow-legged spaniel. But my wife calls it a crocodile.’

Oh how we laughed.

I ordered a Death by Cider, was called a ‘country twat’ and settled for a lager. I took myself over to a darkened corner and sat myself down. Johnny’s barmaid got a mop and bucket and cleaned up Ganesha’s remains. The bloke with the crocodile drank his half and left the bar.

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