by Allen Lyne
"You sure you feel okay.” Jonathan could have sworn there was concern in Eastman's voice.
"Fine, I'm really fine."
Later that morning Jonathan took a phone call. It was a female reporter from the Daily Bugle.
"Make it quick.” Miss Bloomingdale handed him the phone, farted loudly and went back to reading her diet newsletter.
"Was that an explosion I heard?” There was surprise in the reporter's voice.
"Not exactly."
"Is anyone in any danger?"
"Yes and no.” Jonathan waved his hand around to clear the air near his face. Bloomingdale devoured half a cantaloupe and let rip once more. “It sort of depends on your perspective, but no, not really."
The reporter introduced herself as Marcie Mablegrove from the Daily Bugle. She asked him to meet her for lunch, and cut off his questions promising to explain all when they met.
* * * *
The Bucket of Blood Hotel was full of diners catching a quick lunch before heading back to work. It was a gloomy little pub, favoured by journalists and by junior public servants from the nearby government offices as a place for a good, cheap counter lunch. The make-your-own-sandwich counter was crowded with people buttering bread and rolls and slapping on fillings. Flies buzzed around the food, and the people and the air seemed as though they had not been changed for a century or so. The lights were deliberately kept low to prevent people from noticing the rundown and dirty state of the hotel. The Bucket of Blood was owned by a mean and greedy owner intent on squeezing the last drop of profit from the place. He watered down the beer and the spirits. So far he had got away with his shady and underhand practices.
Jonathan stood uncertainly in the doorway peering into the gloomy and crowded room. Nearly all of the people were in groups of two or more, and through the open door of the gaming lounge he could see scores of pensioners sitting staring at the pretty flashing lights of poker machines. The strange electronic pinging and short, quasi-musical phrases were audible above the noise of the lunchtime crowd in the bistro.
Jonathan excused himself as he moved awkwardly through the tables and chairs toward the young woman sitting alone at a table at the end of the room. Several people had to move their chairs in to let Jonathan pass, and one fat man had to stand and move aside so he could squeeze past. Jonathan was overly profuse in his apologies each time. After considerable effort and embarrassment, he at last reached Marcie Mablegrove.
She sat watching him through her startlingly green eyes as he apologetically threaded his way to her table. As he drew nearer, he recognised the black horn-rimmed glasses and pony tail of the woman who had taken a pamphlet and watched from the opposite side of the street early that morning. She put the remains of her half-eaten salad sandwich—wholemeal bread, hold the cheese, salt, pepper and mayo—on the plate before her and half rose as they shook hands.
"Marcie Mablegrove from the Bugle, and you're John Goodfellow, right?"
"Jonathan, thank you."
"Sorry, Jonathon Goodfellow."
"Jonathan with two a's. My father got it wrong on the birth certificate."
They sat and she looked at him with curiosity. He was tall and thin, pale and balding slightly in the front. His eyes were blue and intense looking. Much seemed to bubble below the surface of this man, and he was attractive in the strange way older men sometimes become attractive. The lines on the face bespoke personality, and yet, in contradiction to this impression, he seemed diffident and awkward as he took his seat opposite her.
Jonathan had the slight panic attack he always underwent when confronted by a member of the opposite sex. Even so little as sitting next to an attractive woman on the train made him feel anxious and ill at ease. He had never been at ease with women and did not understand them. What man does? But Jonathan's understanding and ability to cope with members of the opposite sex were far less than that of the average male. He had lived an asexual life because of his diffidence towards women.
He felt stirrings within as he looked at this attractive, dark haired, green-eyed young woman siting opposite him, but the feelings were quickly suppressed as his usual panic took over. The panic had eased and subsided a bit as the years passed, but those feelings were still with him.
"I took the liberty of buying you a beer.” She indicated the glass in front of him. “Are you going to eat?"
"Thank you, no. I ate my sandwich on the way here. Why did you ask me to meet you? I'm not really a newsworthy sort of person."
"Oh yes you are.” Marcie threw The Bugle across the table towards him. HE ROSE FROM THE DEAD, stared back in large black headlines. “You're the bloke who bumped into me coming out of the house. I'll lay odds of a thousand to one you're the ghost who walks."
Jonathan stared into his unwanted beer saying nothing.
"I checked with the taxi companies and found a job registered on that night. A cabbie picked up someone around the corner from the house at about the correct time and took him to 15 Schmidt Street, Blofield West. It wasn't difficult to find out who you are.” Marcie gulped down her beer. She indicated his beer and he shook his head. She took a swig of that as well.
Jonathan tried a casual laugh. It came out a bit like a nervous horse whinny. “You've got it wrong. I fell asleep on the train and missed my stop and started to walk home. A cab came past and I hailed it and it took me home. That's all there is to it. I'm not your man.” He trailed off unconvincingly under Marcie's unswerving green-eyed gaze.
"Yeah, right, it's all coincidence. And you just happen to have a lump on your head exactly as described by the two cops who gave you mouth to mouth and external heart, huh?” Marcie flipped the paper open to page three and pointed to the picture that had replaced the tits and bums for that edition. “You just happen to be a perfect likeness of the bloke the cops saw at the house?"
Again Jonathan did not respond. His mind worked overtime concocting and rejecting alibis.
"I've been a journalist for fourteen years and I can smell it if someone's lying. You're lying. Why?"
Jonathan licked his lips, started to say something, thought better of it and lapsed once again into silence.
"What's the score? You're not Mister Big or even Mister Little material in the drug trade. I've checked on you. Employed for forty-three years as an accountant with the same firm. No past police record. You are Mister Cleanskin. There's not even a record of a driving or parking ticket."
"I've never owned a car. I take taxis to and from destinations when I need to travel anywhere."
"You even speak well. Most of the druggies I deal with can't string more than a couple of words together. Half of them couldn't spell their own name. What's going on? What were you doing at that house? Who hit you?"
"It wasn't me...."
"Bullshit. I got a clear look at your face as you came out of that door. It was you alright. Level with me. What are you afraid of? Is someone out to get you? What?"
"No, nothing like that. I was.... I was there by accident."
"Accident? And what about the pamphlets you were handing out this morning? The Messiah sent by God to tell the world to lighten up?"
"The bit about falling asleep and going past my station is true.... “Jonathan trailed off again.
"Go on."
"It all seems like a dream. It sounds crazy. I'll tell you the story, but just listen and say nothing until I finish. I need to talk to somebody.... “Jonathan told the story from start to end, from going up to the house to the conversation with Bugs and Thumper. He omitted nothing. He finished and looked across the table at Marcie.
Marcie stood up. “Yeah well thanks. Your next visitor will be a cop come to take you down to the station for a little chat."
"Oh, please, wait a minute—"
"You expect me to believe this crap about a dwarf, someone without ears, someone else on crutches and a big black guy with no nose or mouth? You expect me to believe you went to heaven and God told you to be the second coming? That your ra
bbits talk to you? You are either completely crazy or you think I'm an idiot."
"Keep your voice down. People are looking."
Marcie sat down again and controlled herself with an effort. “I've uncovered the mystery man everyone's talking about. I've got the scoop. I can announce your name, address and occupation in the paper tomorrow morning. I've beaten the cops and every other crime journalist in this city to finding out who you are. Why am I sitting here talking to a man who's either loopy or takes me for a fool?"
"You came to me. You asked me to tell you the story and I did. I have told you honestly what happened to me. I know it sounds crazy but it happened. I've got to prove it to you. You must be my first disciple."
"Hey, whoa, wait a minute...."
"Give me a chance to prove what I'm saying is true."
Marcie stared at him with her big, green, unwavering eyes.
"You think you've got a scoop now? How much bigger will it be if I'm telling the truth? The second coming? Think of the headline ... the ... what do you call it, by-line? The greatest scoop in world history, and it could be yours."
Still Marcie hesitated, torn between getting up and walking away from what was obviously an insane situation and the compelling look in the eyes of Jonathan Goodfellow.
"Let me prove to you that what I am saying is true."
"You really believe this, don't you?"
"I can prove it to you."
"How do you plan to do that? Get your rabbits to talk to me?"
"That's one idea. God and Saint Peter both said they would help me. Maybe I can call on them to give you a sign."
"You need help. You know that?"
"Please, don't call the police."
"I should call the funny farm."
"Give me twenty-four hours to prove what I'm saying is true or else break the story."
Marcie considered for a moment. “Okay, but a deal's a deal. No talking to any other reporters and an exclusive interview recorded with me after the twenty-four hours expires. This is a great story if nothing else."
"Thank you very much. Where do you live?"
Chapter 11
Marcie Meets The Rabbits
At twenty-eight minutes past seven that evening Jonathan pulled up outside Marcie's house. It was a large house built in the 1920s close to the sea. Jonathan could see the waves pounding the shore as the taxi drove down the road towards the house. There was salt spray in the crisp, cold air, and the few low trees were bending and whipping in the icy blast of the wind. He noticed a number of rapidly rusting cars parked by the side of the road.
With an enormous effort of will he had kept himself awake on the train going home because he didn't want to be late for this appointment. He took a cardboard box from the taxi, and thanked the driver several times as he paid him. Jonathan yawned as he walked up the driveway toward the front door. It was very dark and only one light shone from the house. He stumbled over the small step leading to the porch and had to feel around with his free hand before finding the bell.
"We don't like going out.” Bugs’ voice was muffled from inside the box, which had air holes poked in it.
"Just be quiet. It's all going to be alright.” He pressed the bell a second time.
"We don't like this. You stink,” said Thumper in her especially petulant voice. Even before God gave Thumper the power of speech it was obvious that she considered that humans stank. Bugs agreed.
"We'll be through this before you know it, and I'll give you some black sunflower seeds.” The rabbits were silent, which either meant they had accepted the bribe or that they were maintaining their dignity. The porch light came on a few seconds before Marcie opened the door and showed them in. Jonathan put the box down and released the rabbits onto the lounge room floor. It was littered with clothes and books. Both rabbits sniffed the air suspiciously as they noted the strange smells of someone else's house. They had never been in another house before, and their highly developed olfactory organs worked overtime as they tested every smell in the room for a hint of danger. There seemed to be none, but they were both very alert and on guard.
"At least you could have brought some pellets,” said Bugs.
"Yes.” Thumper eyeballed Jonathan. “There's nothing to eat here unless we start on the carpet."
"Don't you dare."
"I beg your pardon?” Marcie looked at him as if he were mad.
"Well you heard what they said?"
"Um no. Get them to say something else."
"Tell her how you bring messages from God to me."
"Why should we?” replied Thumper still in her particularly petulant rabbit tone.
"Just keep talking."
"What should we talk about?” Bugs was perplexed.
"Oh I don't know, anything. That should convince you anyway. They speak perfectly well."
"Are you trying to tell me that these two rabbits are talking?"
"You can hear them can't you?"
"No, I can't and this is a heap of crap. You've brought over two rabbits and they are beautiful little white bunnies, but really, are you trying to tell me they are actually talking to you?"
"Yes."
"Well they sure as hell aren't talking to me."
"Oooooh, say something."
"What do you want us to say?” said Bugs.
"She hasn't got any endive.” Thumper's nose was down, sniffing the carpet.
"Don't poo on my carpet.” Marcie clapped her hands and the rabbits ran under a chair in fright.
"At least I didn't wee.” Thumper had a naughty look in her eye.
Jonathan gently pulled the two dwarf rabbits out from under the chair and put them back in their box. ‘"I'm sorry. They usually only poo when they eat. They're very well behaved at home.” He scraped up the dry rabbit droppings in his hand and looked for somewhere to put them. “You really can't hear them talking?"
"No."
"Oh, crikey, I suppose God has ordained that only I should hear them. God, if you're there, please let Miss Mablegrove hear the rabbits speaking.” There was silence. “Well, say something rabbits."
"We haven't really got a lot to talk about when we're out,” said Thumper.
Marcie visibly paled. “What did you say?"
"I said we haven't got a lot to talk about when we're out.” We've only been out twice before and that was to the vet. We don't like the vet."
Marcie looked into the box seeking some electronic explanation of what she was hearing. She found nothing but the rabbits.
"You're a ventriloquist, aren't you?"
"Oh ye of little faith. What will it take to convince you?"
"Go outside while I talk to the rabbits."
"Don't go for long.” Bugs looked out from the box. “We want to go home. We're hungry."
"I'll get you both a carrot. My God, I'm talking to a rabbit!” Marcie headed for the kitchen, as Jonathan stepped outside the back door throwing the rabbit droppings into the garden as he went.
"Don't peel them, just wash them.” He heard Bugs’ instruction as he closed the door.
Jonathan walked down a brick path and stood leaning on the back fence. It had rained earlier in the evening, but the black cloud mass had moved away towards the east. The wind was very chilly, and he could taste the salt spray in the air and hear the waves on the nearby beach. He turned up the collar of his jacket and thrust his hands into his pockets. Jonathan wondered what the rabbits would find to talk about with the journalist.
He could dimly make out the shape of some large bins. He moved to them and peered at them in the dim moonlight trying to work out what they were. Cautiously he unlatched the lid of one bin and took a sniff. Compost! Two compost bins and a large worm farm, exactly the same as he had in the back yard of the boarding house. He reattached the lid and dusted his hands lightly on his handkerchief.
Could Miss Mablegrove be the composter? Or does someone else live here? He had seen no evidence of another person sharing the house but that meant littl
e. There might be one or several more people sharing the place. It was a big house for one person.
Ten minutes later Marcie called softly for him to come back in. She still looked white with the shock of what she had been hearing. “Okay. I'm convinced."
"We told her God tells us what to say to you.” Bugs’ voice was muffled through a mouthful of carrot.
"Her carrots are nicer than the one's we get.” Thumper was munching too.
"I'll find out where she shops. What do we do now?"
"It needs a bit of careful thought. I can't just announce the arrival of God's messenger on Earth in tomorrow's Bugle."
"Why not?"
"Use your brains. I'd never get it past the editor. No, we've got to handle this very carefully. We need to call a meeting."
"And who do we invite to the meeting?"
"Everyone. We make it an open meeting, and we get the rabbits to talk at it."
"You want Bugs and Thumper to talk at a meeting?"
"If they can convince me, they can convince anyone. We'll make it a fortnight hence at the Blofield West Town Hall."
They sat quietly drinking the green tea that Marcie had made. She was still shocked by the revelation that the rabbits could talk, and by what they had said to her about Jonathan and his message from God. Jonathan had not been alone with a woman—apart from Mrs. O'Reilly—for so many years that he had no idea what to say to Marcie. Finally he plucked up his courage.
"Do you live here by yourself?"
She looked at him with a slight frown as if trying to gauge why he had asked the question. “Yes, by myself."
There was a slight embarrassed pause, and then Marcie spoke again. “How about you? Do you live alone?"
"Oh, no, I live in a boarding house. There's a garden out the back, and I look after it."
There was another pause and then Jonathan blurted out:
"I compost."
"Do you really.” Marcie was a little bemused by this statement from left field. It had nothing to do with why Jonathan was there.