A Handicap of the Devil?

by Allen Lyne

  At least the rain had eased off and was only falling lightly. He trudged on, shoulders bowed and head down, trying to keep the rain out of his face and off his glasses. It was no use; his glasses gradually became so bespattered that he could no longer see through them. Jonathan had cleaned them at least a dozen times before the sodden state of his handkerchief meant that he could wipe the moisture from them no more. What a quandary. He couldn't see through them with that much water on them, and yet to take them off was equally impossible. He was so short sighted he could see nothing at all without the glasses.

  He paused under a lamppost as the steady stream of traffic passed him. What to do? Call a taxi? But how? There was no phone box in sight. Even if he did find one, the chances of it being vandalised were around ninety-eight to one. Jonathan hunched his shoulders, drove his hands deeper into his pockets and walked on.

  A house loomed large on the left. Jonathan plucked up his courage and went up the driveway. He found a verandah and pulled his shirttail out from his pants to wipe his glasses clean.

  He rang the bell.

  Chapter 2

  The Golfing Dwarf

  The door opened a crack and Jonathan was aware of being observed from within by one unblinking eye, which peered out at him from about the level of his hips. He heard scuttling footsteps within and a door slammed.

  "Yo?” The voice seemed to belong to the eye, because it came from approximately the same level.

  "Excuse me, could I possibly...?"

  "We don't got any, man, so blow."

  "Blow?"

  "Scoot, vamoose, get lost, vanish.... Like, go away!"

  "I'm sorry. All I want to do is use your phone."

  "Use the phone?"

  "Thank you, yes, to call a taxi. You see I got off at the wrong station and...."

  A chain rattled and the door swung open to reveal a one-eyed dwarf.

  "Come in, man.” The good eye swept over Jonathan. “We thought you was busting us. You don't look like a cop."

  "Thank you very much.” Jonathon stepped inside. “No, I just want to use the phone, if that's alright, thank you."

  Jonathan followed the limping, one-eyed dwarf down the hallway toward the living room. “You're limping."

  "It's my wooden leg."

  "You've got a wooden leg as well as one eye, and you're...?"

  "A dwarf.... Yeah."

  * * * *

  The dwarf did not have a name as other people have names. His mother was a drug-affected, wandering vagrant. Shortly after his birth, she wrapped him in an old towel and dropped him in a dumpster—expecting him to be compacted by the next rubbish truck that came along—and dumped on the city tip. The dwarf's mother had not even known he was a dwarf. She simply didn't think a baby would fit in any way into her lifestyle, so she did what she thought was best for her. She was off her face on a cocktail of illegal and legal substances at the time, and afterwards, she could never remember what she had done with the fruit of her loins.

  The dwarf was saved because of an alert woman. She was riding her pushbike to market—a bag slung over her shoulder to carry the apples and onions she needed. As she passed the dumpster, she heard what she thought was a baby's cry. This was in an alleyway behind the building where the dwarf's mother had given birth on the parquetry floor of the seventh floor toilet. The seventh floor of the building was unoccupied, which meant that nobody used those particular lavatories.... Except the dwarf's mother, of course, who used those loos for reasons other than what they had been designed for.

  The woman who needed apples and onions found herself carrying a much more precious bundle in her shopping bag. She put the shopping bag, now containing the dwarf in his bloodied towel, onto the handlebars of her bike and, making soothing noises as she went, rode the half a block to the police station.

  It proved impossible to find the dwarf's mother, and he was placed in an orphanage. The staff named him Earnest Jamieson. This was a name he angrily rejected when he was old enough to realise the staff had conferred it upon him. The dwarf insisted on being called just that—the dwarf. Later in life, when he had to sign papers or fill in forms, he found that most people—and all courts—only accepted names bestowed by others. He was forced to resort to the proper name, Earnest Jamieson, and not the sobriquet he had given himself.

  The dwarf grew to adulthood with a fairly large chip on his shoulder and a feeling that he wanted to get back at the world. The orphanage was next to a golf course, and the dwarf, along with several other boys, found ways to get over the wall and onto the course. They started a lucrative business selling lost golf balls they ‘found’ in the rough. Some were more ‘lost’ than others.

  In all weather, the boys would take off their shoes and socks and wade into the creek, which meandered around the course, feeling for golf balls with their feet in the ooze and slime on the creek bed. The leeches that gathered on their legs as far up as their thighs were burned off with contraband cigarettes. They bought them with money they earned from their trade ... or traded directly with golfers—cigarettes for balls.

  The dwarf's love affair with golf came about completely by accident. There was a great deal of banter between the orphan boys and the golfers. Most of it was good-natured, but occasionally there was an edge from some of the nastier members of the golfing fraternity. Much of the nastiness concerned the size and lack of development of the dwarf. Since he already had a set against the world because of the circumstances he found himself in, he tended to bite back.

  One fine summer's afternoon, there was a bit of by-play on the second green, a par four with a slight dogleg to the left. The four golfers concerned had played their first shots conservatively and were all placed fairly well where the course diverged to the left. The boys came up from the creek with balls for sale and the banter began.

  "Look at the size of this little runt.” The portly, red-faced man sniggered. “Reckon he'd make a decent golf tee."

  The dwarf had heard that one so many times he couldn't count them. “Yeah, and you make a pretty good dipstick."

  "Sharp little bugger, eh?"

  "Sharper than you, dipstick."

  "Pity you'll never amount to anything much ... because of your size."

  "I can do anything I put my mind to."

  "Yeah, right. Bet you're a champion golfer, too?"

  "I can play golf."

  The other boys looked sharply at the dwarf. They knew this was a lie.

  "Yeah, well I bet you couldn't hit a ball onto the green from here, could you?"

  "I could so."

  "Wanna bet?"

  The dwarf, who was the treasurer, counted up the day's takings. “Seven dollars fifty says I can."

  "A whole seven fifty? Whooeeee, the stakes are high. Let's see you put your great talent where your mouth is, runt."

  The other golfers tried to dissuade their golf partner from taking advantage of the dwarf in this way.

  The dwarf's friends also tried to dissuade him. After all, it was their money too. The dwarf promised to reimburse the other boys if he lost. He took the club offered by his antagonist.

  The red-faced man dropped a ball onto the fairway. “There you go.” He had a nasty grin. “Do your worst."

  The club was far too big. The dwarf took some time to get the feel of it and find where he could grip it to get a decent swing at the ball. He heard the golfer and his friends begin to chuckle as they watched his efforts. Finally, the dwarf was satisfied that he had done as much as he could to master a decent grip. He addressed the ball and adjusted his stance the way he had seen golfers do a million times. Then he hit a beautiful, soaring shot that lobbed on the green and rolled and rolled and rolled—into the hole.

  "Aw, no!” The golfer shook his head. “No, that was a fluke."

  "No fluke, mister. Pay up."

  "You could never do that again in a million years."

  "I could get on the green from here every time."

  "Bullshit.” The golfe
r was really annoyed now, and his face was getting redder.

  "I could."

  "Prove it."

  "Double or nothing?"

  "You're on."

  The dwarf took another ball, adjusted his grip and stance once more and hit a second shot exactly the same as the first. The only difference was that the ball rebounded from the staff of the marker in the hole and finished up less than a foot from it. “Blast. They usually go in from here."

  The man's face was by now scarlet. He looked likely to explode, and the dwarf—sensing great violence in the red-faced man—dropped the club and stepped back away from him.

  "Fifteen bucks, mate.” The dwarf's voice betrayed no nervousness.

  One of the red-faced man's golfing partners smirked at him. “You lost fair and square, pay up.” His other partners were also grinning. Golf is a competitive game.

  "Oh, I'll pay alright. Never welched on a bet in my life.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and dropped it at the dwarf's feet. “Keep the change, Shorty. Anyone who plays those sorts of shots under pressure deserves a reward."

  Jones P. senior and his three golfing partners played on, although Jones P. was rattled and played poorly for the rest of the round. He never forgot his encounter with the dwarf, for Jones P. senior was not a man who liked to be bested.

  After their return over the wall into the orphanage, the boys counted and divided their spoils. Summer was always their busiest time, for in this season the course was always heavily booked. On that particular day, they made a record haul because the dwarf included his winnings in the take, even though the other boys had risked nothing.

  That was the start of the dwarf's love affair with the great and ancient game of golf. He saved his money and convinced a member of the orphanage staff to buy him a second-hand driver, a putter, a five iron and a wedge. He practiced constantly on the course when he thought nobody was looking. He got caught and warned off several times, but the staff at the golf club was intrigued with this little chap who played with such determination—and who played so well.

  Later, in adulthood, the dwarf was to become a member of another golf club where he won the club championship several times. He had to play with specially made cut-down clubs. The dwarf did extraordinarily well at golf and at a number of other things—until the drugs finally got hold of him. As he became more and more under the influence of the green weed, his game suffered ... until he finally gave it up altogether. Like many other things in his weed-induced torpor, it was all too much trouble.

  He drifted in and out of jobs for a while and then onto the dole permanently as he became so hooked on marijuana he became unemployable. It was a pity. Despite the handicap of his size—and the fact that he lost an eye and a leg in an accident involving an exploding illegal whisky still before he left the orphanage—he had shown tremendous potential in many things.

  Perhaps he had been doomed from the very start. When the baby dwarf was rescued by the good onion and apple-needing Samaritan, the children's hospital whence he was immediately transferred became aware of something more serious than his stature. The baby was addicted to heroin. Nurses everywhere who come into contact with drug-addicted babies will tell you that there is nothing more pathetic in this world. They weaned the dwarf off his addiction to heroin, but who can say whether this earliest of experiences was responsible for his own later craving for marijuana, or whether it was not?

  Whatever the cause, eventually the dwarf was rolling his first joint before breakfast—if he had any food for breakfast—and that is never good news for anyone long or short.

  * * * *

  Jonathan and the dwarf reached the living room door and paused while the dwarf negotiated with the people inside. They had barricaded themselves in by placing items of furniture against the door. After much shuffling, pushing and grunting, the door swung open to reveal three people. The dwarf introduced them. “This is Cowley.” He indicated a young woman with no ears and a hump on her back. “And this is Sampson."

  A huge, muscular, black youth with his nose missing—and a misshapen hole where the mouth should have been—waved a hand at Jonathan.

  "I'm old Crone, old Crone.” The speaker, an older woman, stood off to the side. She had two wooden legs, and supported herself on crutches.

  "Hello.” Jonathan was abashed. Never before in his sheltered life had he encountered people with handicaps of any kind. He had always lived in a cloistered, comfortable world where everyone had legs and ears and noses and mouths ... and where no one only came up to your waist. “Do you mind terribly if I use your phone?"

  "Haven't got one. Haven't got one.” Old Crone stumped over on her crutches and tried to push him back into the hallway. “Haven't got one. Haven't got one.” She bullied Jonathan against the wall. The ringing of the telephone stopped her. Cowley went over to a desk against the wall, opened a drawer and answered it.

  "That's what you get for telling lies,” snapped the dwarf.

  "Lies, pies. We don't want him in here. He's a cop, he's a cop."

  "I'm not a cop. I fell asleep on the train and had to walk home. It's raining, and I want a taxi."

  "He's a cop or a private D, and he's here either to do a bust or evict us, evict us."

  "He just wants the phone, Crone. Get off his back."

  "Back, Shmack. He smells of cop, smells of cop."

  "Someone's been reading you detective stories again, haven't they?"

  "Shut up, Shorty. What would you know, you know?"

  "Don't call me Shorty, Stumpy."

  "Hey, ease off ... both of you.” Sampson manoeuvred between the increasingly agitated dwarf and Old Crone.

  While Crone was distracted, Jonathon slid away and escaped the crutches pinning him against the wall. “I'll just go at this stage.” The rain seemed preferable to remaining in this lunatic asylum.

  "No, don't go.” Jonathan looked over to the desk where Cowley had finished her phone call. She held a large handgun. Cowley's finger curled around the trigger and aimed the gun at Jonathan's stomach. “That was another call for a drug deal, and we need to know if it's just coincidence he turns up at the same time. Move away from the others into the centre of the room. Hands up and stand with your legs wide apart.... Frisk him Sampson."

  "Aw, come off it.” Sampson blushed.

  "Just do it."

  "You reckon I've been reading detective stories, stories,” muttered Old Crone.

  Sampson ran his hands quickly over Jonathan's body. “Nothing."

  Cowley relaxed slightly. “Okay ... name, address and occupation?"

  "Jonathan Goodfellow, 16 Schmidt Street, Blofield West. I'm an accountant."

  "Empty out your pockets."

  Jonathan took out his keys, handkerchief and wallet.

  "Is that all?"

  He nodded as the dwarf examined the contents of the wallet.

  "What's in the briefcase?"

  "Nothing.” Jonathan opened his briefcase

  Sampson extracted the paper bag that lay inside. He opened it. “A sandwich?"

  "Cheese and pickle actually. Mrs. O'Reilly insists on making me two for lunch, and I only ever eat one."

  "Do you mind...?” Jonathan shrugged. Sampson and the dwarf each began to eat half of the sandwich.

  "I still say he's a cop, cop."

  "His driver's licence says he's who he says he is.” The dwarf's words were muffled by a mouthful of cheese and pickle.

  "Could be his cover.” Cowley sounded less certain.

  "What if it is? What are you planning to do? Shoot him and bury him in the yard?” Sampson looked in the briefcase again, hoping for more food.

  The gun in Cowley's hand still pointed at Jonathan. For one of the few times in his life, he began to get angry. “Look, I don't know what any of this is about. I'm just an ordinary man on my way home from work. I fell asleep on the train and went past my station. I started to walk home in the rain and decided to catch a cab. I came in here hoping to borrow a tele
phone, and I get mixed up in I don't know what. I know nothing about the police, detectives, drugs ... or any of the rest of it. So if you don't mind, I'll pocket my possessions, pick up my brief case and make myself scarce. If you want to shoot me on the way out, go ahead.” He turned to Sampson. “And I trust you enjoyed my sandwich, thank you.” Jonathan snapped his briefcase closed. He snatched his wallet, handkerchief and keys from the dwarf. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He stormed from the room.

  He re-entered the room at approximately sixty miles an hour—head first and horizontal—as a large explosion blew in the door of the house. Jonathan picked himself up and looked around in a daze. The telephone was ringing. Everyone was in a state of shock. He heard footsteps running down the hallway towards the sitting room. Jonathan shook his head to clear the ringing from his ears, as Sampson slammed the door shut and—with the dwarf's help—piled furniture against it.

  The phone rang on.

  A sledgehammer slammed against the door, and there was a curse from outside. A voice called urgently. “Open the door, you turds, or I'll smash it down.” Several heavy blows rained on the door. The five people in the sitting room cowered against the walls and watched as the wooden door began to splinter and give way.

  Cowley was angry. “Piss off, or I'll shoot you."

  "You ain't got no gun, lady."

  "I'm no lady.” Cowley fired through the door, and the gun leapt from her hand.

  Jonathan deftly caught it and fired two more shots through the door before he even thought about what he was doing. Jonathan had never handled a gun before—let alone fired one.

  There were more curses from outside the door before a fusillade of return fire smashed through it, narrowly missing Jonathan and Cowley. They both dived to the floor. The sound of sirens began in the distance, and the people in the hallway beat a hasty retreat. There was sudden silence inside the house.

  As they listened, the sirens outside became progressively louder. They heard a high-powered car start and roar away.

  Jonathan stood up. “What was that all about?"

  The dwarf leapt up behind him and delivered a knockout blow with a shortened number five iron, exploding Jonathan's world into a billion bright stars.