Роберт Рэнкин - The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

The ambition of every tall-story-teller is to create an urban myth. One of those '˜it happened to a friend of a friend of mine' stories that enters the collective consciousness and takes on a life of its own.

You hear them all the time: at work, in the pub, at a party. Told to you by folk who'll swear they're true. And the thing about a really good one is it can make you feel that even if it isn't true somehow it ought to be.

For instance, does anyone remember Johnny Quinn? Yes, no, maybe. Well, about a year ago I was in the Jolly Gardeners drinking Death by Cider and chatting with my good friend Sean O'Reilly. William Burroughs had just died and Sean was saying that Old Bill had been one of his favourites. I said that he had been one of my favourites too, and although I never really understood what he was on about most of the time, it didn't seem to matter, because I just loved the way he was on about it.

And then Sean asked me whether I'd ever read anything by Johnny Quinn, who had apparently been a mate of Burroughs and was somewhat easier to understand. I said I was sure that I had, but I couldn't remember what. And then I said, yes I could, and wasn't it Johnny Quinn who wrote The Million Dollar Dream? And Sean said he thought it was, and also Sailing to Babylon, and something about tears.

'˜Tomorrow's Tears,' I said. '˜I've got that book somewhere.' And we talked a bit about what we could remember of Johnny Quinn, which didn't seem to be much, and his books, which seemed to be even less. And at the end of the evening Sean said that he'd really like to read Tomorrow's Tears again and I said, '˜Let's go back to my place and I'll see if I can find it.'

And we did. But I couldn't.

We searched through all my paperbacks, but Tomorrow's Tears was nowhere to be found. '˜Never mind,' I said. '˜I'm going into Brighton tomorrow, I'll see if I can pick up a copy at Waterstone's.' Sean said to get whatever Johnny Quinn books they had in stock and he'd pay me for them next time he saw me. And we both got quite excited about the prospect of reading some Johnny Quinn again.

Which turned out to be a pity, really.

The chap at Waterstone's was very helpful. I asked him if he had any Johnny Quinn books in stock and he said the name rang a bell and he'd have a look. He had a look and said that no, sadly, they didn't. So I asked him if I could order some and he said he didn't see any reason why not and cranked up his computer. But he couldn't find a mention of Johnny Quinn. '˜Are you sure it's Johnny Quinn?' he asked. And I said I was sure that it was, and he said he felt sure that it was too. But we couldn't find him although there were several books with similar sounding titles to the ones I was looking for.

'˜They must all be out of print,' said the very helpful chap. '˜Perhaps you should try the library.'

The lady at the library was also very helpful and she employed her computer. But she couldn't find any Johnny Quinn books either. '˜That's odd,' she said, '˜because I'm sure I remember reading one of his books when I was at school.' But she couldn't find him and eventually she got tired of looking and suggested I try one of the specialist bookshops in the area.

So I did. In fact I went to each and every one of them. The chaps who ran these shops were also very helpful and although they all felt certain they could remember old Johnny and had enjoyed reading his books, none of them had a single one in stock.

I must confess that by mid afternoon I was beginning to feel a little stressed.

At the very last shop I visited, the proprietor, a very helpful chap, grew quite lyrical over the recollection of Mr Quinn. He'd once had a girlfriend, he said, who had named her cat Toothbrush, after a character in one of his novels.

Toothbrush? I didn't remember any character called Toothbrush!

'˜Are you still in touch with this old girlfriend?' I asked.

'˜No,' said the proprietor with a sigh. '˜She died.' And his face became sad, and he said he was going to close up early and he hustled me out of his shop. And I too became sad and went home.

But by now the search for a Johnny Quinn novel was becoming something of a crusade. I was determined that I would lay my hands upon one, come what may. By fair means or foul.

I decided to try the fair means first.

So that evening I went through my personal telephone book and called everyone that was listed in it. I called all my friends, and old friends too, some of whom I hadn't spoken to for years. And I called business acquaintances and even the doctor and the dentist, as I had their numbers. Some of them felt sure that they had read Johnny Quinn, and I waited anxiously while they looked through their bookshelves before returning to the phone with the reply I was coming to dread.

Gilly, an old friend from college days, rather put the wind up me when I spoke to her. She said that she'd had a Johnny Quinn book but she'd lent it to a friend and never got it back. Apparently this friend had lent Gilly's book to another friend and never got it back from her.

A friend-of-a-friend that would be then, wouldn't it!

By midnight I had run up a very large phone bill and worn out my friendship with quite a few people, but I was absolutely no nearer to finding what was now acquiring the status of a literary Holy Grail.

I went off to bed in a very bad mood!

But I was up bright and early the next morning.

Because I'd had an idea.

I'd remembered that there are companies in London that specialize in finding books for collectors. That's what they do. You pay them' a finder's fee and they seek out the book. Mind you, I'd heard that this can take years, but I felt it was certainly worth a try.

Directory Enquiries put me on to the most famous one. I'm not allowed to mention their name here, but you've probably heard of them, they do posh auctions, too.

The chap I spoke to first was very helpful, and very posh. Was it Jonathan Quinn?' he asked. '˜The contemporary of Beau Brummel and the Prince Regent?'

'˜No,' I said. '˜Just plain Johnny, mucker of Billy Burroughs back in the Swinging Sixties.'

'˜Ah,' said the chap, '˜then you will need to speak to our Mr Hiemes, who specializes in books from the 1960s. He's our resident expert on the period.'

'˜Splendid,' I said.

He put me through to their Mr Hiemes and I told their Mr Hiemes that I was looking for any book by Johnny Quinn.

'˜Johnny who?' asked their Mr Hiemes.

'˜Quinn,' I said, '˜surely you've heard of him?'

Their Mr Hiemes said no, he hadn't.

I said to their Mr Hiemes that I'd been told he was the resident expert on the period.

'˜I am,' said their Mr Hiemes, '˜and I've never heard of Johnny Quinn.'

'˜You have to be joking!'

But he wasn't.

And nor were any of the other experts I spoke to that morning. None of them had ever heard of Johnny Quinn. None of them.

'˜But that's absurd,' I told the last in a dismal line. '˜I spent yesterday afternoon going around Brighton and just about everyone I spoke to remembered Johnny Quinn. And you blokes are supposed to be experts on the literature of the Sixties, and none of you have ever heard of him. You're all a bunch of tosspots.'

And the chap put the phone down on me.

Absurd!

But then it got beyond absurd.

I went through the Yellow Pages and started phoning bookshops. Any bookshop. All bookshops. High street chains, collector's bookshops, independents, weirdos, every kind of bookshop. And though I spoke to some very helpful people, not a single one of them had ever heard of Johnny Quinn.