The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online

rules. Have you thought any
more about my suggestion as to how we might get you out of here?’
    ‘Now
which particular suggestion would that be? The
slimming-right-down-until-I-can-squeeze-through-the-bars suggestion? The
digging-my-way-out-with-a-hypodermic-needle suggestion? The gluing-pillow-feathers-together-to-build-a-pair-of-wings
suggestion? The—’
    ‘I was
thinking more of my
persuading-someone-in-authority-from-the-outside-world-to-sign-your-release-form
suggestion, actually, chief.’
    ‘Ah,
this would be the suggestion-you’ve-never-suggested-before suggestion.’
    ‘I’ve
suggested it loads of times, chief. It’s just that you never listen.’
    ‘I hang
on your every God-given word, Barry. Should I fax the Pope, do you think? Do
you have his private number?’
    ‘I was
thinking more of your Uncle Brian, chief. He’s something secret in the
government, isn’t he?’
    ‘He was
going to be my second choice, naturally.’
    ‘Naturally,
chief. So when it’s your turn to use the telephone in the recreation room
again, perhaps you might give him a bell, rather than Sexy Sandra’s Spanking
Hot Line.’
    The
door of my padded cell swung open and male nurse Cecil loomed largely.
    ‘Good
morning, dreamboat,’ he said. ‘And who are we today?’
    ‘Shouldn’t
it be how are we?’
    ‘No, who. Are we Carlos the Chaos Cockroach, or Lazlo Woodbine the Private Eye, or
Barking Barry the Talking Sprout, or—’
    ‘Just
plain old Mr Rankin today,’ I said. ‘And I’d like to use the toilet, have my
breakfast and then make a telephone call, if that’s all right with you.’
    ‘A bit
early in the day for Sexy Sandra, isn’t it?’
    ‘It’s
never too early for— What? You bastard! You listen in on my phone calls!’
    ‘Hospital
policy. You’d be surprised how many patients try to persuade someone in
authority from the outside world to come in and sign their release forms.’
    ‘Better
pass on breakfast if you’re gonna squeeze through those bars then, chief.’
    Male
nurse Cecil released me from the straitjacket and marched me off up the
hospital corridor. I had a poo, which I rather enjoyed, and a cold hose down in
the showers, which I didn’t. And then I was allowed to dry and dress myself
before being marched off to breakfast.
    I took
a regulation steel tray and queued for my tucker.
    What do
you want?’ asked the big fat ugly-looking son-of-a-bitch behind the counter,
when my turn came at last.
    ‘Lightly
poached quail’s eggs, olive bread with honey topping. Kedgeree and black
coffee. I’ll try the Colombian roast today, if I may.’
    The big
fat ugly one ladled a helping of cold porridge onto a chipped enamel plate and
thrust it in my direction. ‘Twat,’ he said. I fished a spoon from the counter
bucket and took my breakfast to a vacant table.
    As I
sat, manfully munching, it occurred to me that there had never ever been a
Golden Age of Loonies.
    Every
other walk of life had enjoyed its golden age. Racketeers spoke of the
Twenties, big band leaders the Thirties, fighter pilots the Forties, Rock ‘n’
Rollers the Fifties, hippies the Sixties, someone-or-others the Seventies and
yuppies the Eighties. But there had never been a good time to be a banged-up
basket case. From manacles and cold water baths to electric shock treatment and
experimental surgery, the going had always been grim, grim, grim.
    ‘Anyone
sitting here?’ An inmate indicated the vacant chair next to me. In the outside
world such a question would be easy to answer. But not here.
    ‘You
tell me,’ I said.
    ‘No, it’s
vacant.’
    ‘Splendid.’
    The
inmate sat himself down. He was your standard issue inmate. Young, thin,
pinched-faced, glassy-eyed, greasy-haired, pimply, bad-breathed, evil-smelling—
‘Hey, let up,’ said the inmate. ‘I’ve got’ a lovely smile.’ He showed me his
lovely smile.
    Black-toothed,
yellow-tongued— ‘Give it a rest.’
    ‘Sorry,’
I said. ‘I was only thinking out