Роберт Рэнкин - The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

'˜Remember me?' I asked him.

'˜No,' he said.

'˜Come on now, you do, you know.'

'˜I don't, you know.'

'˜Well, never mind. I've come to buy a book.'

He looked at me. Questioningly.

'˜It's a Johnny Quinn book,' I said. '˜The new Johnny Quinn book. And it comes out today. Although I don't see it anywhere on your shelves.'

'˜That's because there's no such book,' he said. '˜Oh yes there is. I've seen a copy. It's called Snuff Fi-'

But I didn't get the second word out, because he lunged at me and clamped his hand across my face. And then he shinned over the counter, forced my arm up my back and sort of frog-marched me away to the store room.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?' I shouted, once I'd got myself free.

'˜Keep your voice down,' he said, in a menacing tone. '˜Who sent you, anyway?'

'˜Nobody sent me. What are you talking about?'

'˜How do you know about that book?'

'˜Because I've seen a copy.

'˜Nonsense. You wouldn't be here if you had.'

What?'

'˜Just go away,' he told me. '˜Forget all about it.'

'˜I certainly won't. I'm not leaving here without a copy of Snuff Fic-', and his hand was all over my face again.

'˜Stop doing that,' I said, once I had prised it free.

'˜Stop saying that title, then.'

What, Snuff Fic- Get your hands off me!'

'˜Then don't say the title again.'

'˜Then sell me a copy.'

'˜I can't. We don't have any.'

'˜I don't believe you. I want a copy and I want it now.'

'˜You can't have one.'

'˜But you do admit there's such a book.'

'˜Of course I do. But I'll only admit it in here. With you. As you've actually seen a copy.'

'˜Tell me what's going on,' I said, '˜or I will go out into the shop and shout very loudly. I will shout 'њGive me Snuff Fic-'ќ'˜

'˜All right. All right. I'll tell you. But you have to promise. Promise that you'll never pass on what I tell you here.'

'˜All right,' I said. '˜I promise.'

'˜Really truly, cross your heart and hope to die.'

'˜Cross my heart and hope to die.'

'˜It's a nightmare,' he said. '˜It's Quinn's revenge. '˜What?'

'˜It seems that he was famous in the Sixties but the world forgot about him. His books went out of print and he became more of a myth than a living person. He blamed the publishers and the booksellers and the public. He blamed everyone. He was a paranoid schizophrenic, voices in the head, the whole bit. And he vowed to take his revenge on everyone. So he wrote his final novel, Snuff Fiction.

And he paid for it to be printed and published himself. Millions and millions of copies, to be distributed to booksellers all over the world. He ran up debts of millions of dollars, then he committed suicide.'

'˜I'm not getting this,' I said. '˜So he publishes his own book, runs up millions of dollars of debt and commits suicide. But that's a big story. That alone should make the book a bestseller.'

'˜That's exactly what he planned, yes.'

'˜So what's the big deal? Why aren't you selling the book?'

'˜Because it's snuff fiction.' He whispered the words. '˜It really is snuff fiction.'

'˜I don't understand what you mean.'

'˜You know what a snuff movie is?'

'˜Of course. Although it seems to be an urban myth. Nobody you meet has ever seen one themselves, but they've all got a friend whose friend has seen one.'

'˜Well, this is the real thing. If you read this book, you die.'

What, someone comes round and kills you?'

'˜The book kills you.'

'˜How can a book kill you? I've read a few that have put me to sleep. But how can a book kill you?'

'˜The pages are impregnated with poison. It comes off on your fingers while you're reading the book. Enters your bloodstream and kills you.'

'˜I don't believe it. There's no such poison.'

'˜There is. It comes from the Amazon.'

Who told you that?'

'˜A friend.'

'˜And who told your friend? A friend?'

'˜Look, it's true. There have already been deaths. Book reviewers, people like that. The books have all been pulped now, so it's OK. But the whole thing is a nightmare.'

'˜I've never read anything about this in the papers.'

'˜And you won't. It's all being hushed up. Can you imagine the implications of a thing like this? If people thought that books could kill them-?'

But I was way ahead of him there. A thing like that could bring down the whole British book publishing industry.

And I could imagine quite clearly how it might start.

Rumours on the conspiracy pages of the Internet. A big publisher was pulping books under mysterious circumstances. A mention of the word virus. Which is always a great word to start a panic with. And then the tall stories told in the pub. A friend of a friend's mum had been found dead in her armchair with a paperback book clutched in her hands. Another friend of a friend's dad had gone likewise, but he had been reading the Sunday Sport. And blokes in radiation suits had bagged up his body and torched his house.

It was the eco-warriors, some said, out to save the rain forests. Or that Japanese bunch who had put the chemical warfare bombs in the Tokyo Underground. Or it was the Discordians, or the Church of Euthanasia, or J. Bob Dodds. Or it was the evil French or the New Age Travellers.

And the rumours would spread and the panic would grow and newspapers would deny it. Then one newspaper would come out in a cling film wrapper, demanding that government health warnings be put on rival newspapers. And people would freak out and say that it wasn't safe to read any book or newspaper unless you were wearing rubber gloves. And there would be a lunatic rush to buy up rubber gloves, at any price.

I left Waterstone's that day with my head spinning. The implications were indeed terrible, and it was a very good thing that all the Johnny Quinn books had been pulped and the matter could be laid to rest. The chap at Waterstone's made me take a solemn vow that I would never reveal a word of anything he'd told me.

'˜Trust me,' I told him. '˜I won't mention it to another living soul.'

And I have of course remained true to my promise.

Well, apart from mentioning it to my Uncle Brian.

Just in passing.