Snuff Fiction by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

‘Piss off.’
    ‘Please yourself,’ said the Doveston, ‘but we’re going. I just thought you might like to see the dog-faced boy. They say that he bites the heads off live chickens.’
    ‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Norman. ‘We’ll come inside and wait for you.’ ‘No you bloody won’t.’
     
    Norman fetched his brown shopcoat, the new one he’d been given for his ninth birthday. He closed the shop door and, under the disguised scrutiny of the Doveston, locked it with his own set of keys. And then the three of us shuffled off towards the Common.
    I did have my doubts about this. We all stayed well clear of the fair until it officially opened. The gypsies there had very large dogs and no love for casual callers.
    ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ I asked the Doveston as we approached the circle of caravans.
    The Doveston sshed me to silence. He had been explaining to Norman about another uncle he had who was a lama in Tibet. This particular uncle was skilled in the art of levitation, an art that could prove useful in all manner of activities. The vaulting of gymnasium horses, for example. The Doveston felt certain that his lamaic uncle might be persuaded to pass on the secrets of this invaluable art to Norman, in exchange for nothing more than a carton of Strontium Nineties.
    ‘Piss off,’ said Norman.
    Some very large dogs were beginning to bark and between the high-sided caravans we could make out the figures of Romany types. Big-boned burly bods were these, with walrus moustaches and rings through their ears. Tattooed and terrible, hairy and horrid.
    The menfolk looked no better.
    ‘Just wait here while I have a word,’ said the Doveston, hurrying off.
    We scuffed our shoes about on the grass and waited. Norman fished a jujube from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. I hoped he’d offer me one, but he didn’t.
    ‘Gypsies eat their young, you know,’ said he.
    ‘They never do.’
    ‘They do.’ Norman nodded. ‘My dad told me. There’s only ever nine hundred and ninety-nine gypsies ever alive at one time. It’s because they have magical powers, like being able to tell the future and knowing where to find hidden gold. The magic is only strong enough to go round between the nine hundred and ninety-nine of them. One more and they’d lose it. So a new gypsy isn’t allowed to be born before an old one dies. If one is, they kill it and eat it.’
    ‘How horrible,’ I said.
    ‘That’s nothing compared to other things they get up to. My dad’s told me all about them.’
    ‘Your dad certainly knows a lot about gypsies.’
    ‘He should,’ said Norman. ‘My mum ran off with one.
    The Doveston returned and said, ‘Come on, it’s safe, you can follow me.’
    We shuffled after him in between the high caravans and into the great circle where the attractions and rides were being assembled. The tattooed moustachioed women toiled away, singing songs in their native Esperanto as they hoisted the sections of the Pelt the Puppy stalls and Sniff the Cheese stands into place.
    The menfolk lazed on their portable verandas. Dollied up in floral frocks and sling-back shoes, they sipped their Martinis and arranged cut flowers into pleasing compositions.
    ‘That’s the life for me,’ said Norman.
    And who could argue with that?

5
    They do not just eat their own young. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they grind up all the small bones and produce a kind of snuff, which they snort up their noses through bigger bones all hollowed out. The skull-caps of the murdered infants are fashioned into ashtrays that they hawk on their stalls to good Christian folk like us.
    Gyppo bastards!
    Norman’s dad
    I have never, before nor since, seen a man quite like Professor Merlin. He wore a purple periwig upon a head so slim it made you shiver. His nose was the beak of a fabulous bird and his eyes were turquoise studs. Above a smiling mouth, which glittered with a treasury of golden teeth, sprang slender waxed moustachios.