by Allen Lyne
"Have a heart, lady. It's as cold as charity."
"Strip down or don't come."
"Alright, alright.” The two thugs stripped to their jocks and came aboard.
They came up the rotting gangplank. Two heavy-set, hairy men, both in need of a shave. A scar disfigured the face of one of the hoods. It ran from under the hairline on his forehead and curved down the right side of his face to finish at the chin. The other thug limped slightly. They were shivering in the early morning river chill. Jonathan, Marcie and the dwarf came out to parley with them. Marcie carried two blankets with her, and the thugs wrapped themselves in these without a word of thanks. They all sat on the deck, and the gangsters tried to stare them out. Jonathan had learned much about staring from Bugs and Thumper. Eventually the two drug dealers dropped their eyes, and the man with the scars began.
"You got our stash. We want it back, or we'll have to take it."
"Youse give it back and we go out of your lives real quiet. Youse can even keep a bag of marijuana. Deal?” The man with the limp shifted uncomfortably on the wooden deck of the houseboat.
Marcie was about to agree to the terms, but the dwarf cut her off. “Sixty percent to us. We give you forty."
"It was our stuff, you little scumbag.” Scarface was angry.
"Don't call people names,” said Marcie.
The thug with the scars controlled himself with an effort. “What are you two doing with these handicapped slime balls anyway?"
"He's on a mission from God,” said Marcie.
"On a what?” The other thug looked from Jonathan to Marcie.
Jonathan gave a quick explanation of why he was there. It was greeted with derision.
"God, shmod, give us the drugs or we kill you all.” The scarred man reached over and picked the dwarf up by the neck using one hand. He did not bother to rise from where he was sitting.
"Give us the stuff or you're dead, Shorty."
"Youse is dead meat.” The second thug grabbed Jonathan by the throat and began to throttle him. Jonathan had his hands on the other man's wrists but couldn't break his grip. He felt the world begin to spin and his head felt like it would explode. Bright coloured stars whirled about him. Marcie tackled the hoodlum who held the dwarf. Jonathan was heaved to the side of the houseboat and pitched over the side.
Cowley, Sampson and Old Crone were at the porthole and the door, guns aimed at the heavies.
"Put them down and piss off,” hissed Cowley.
"Off, off,” repeated Old Crone, firing a shot over their heads.
"Get off this boat, NOW or you're dead,” roared Sampson
The heavies stopped what they were doing. The dwarf and Marcie moved back and away from them.
"Now both of you move slowly to the gangplank and get off this boat. Move.” Cowley fired another shot over their heads and the two crims moved as directed.
"And leave those blankets,” instructed Marcie.
Scarface and his colleague did as directed and started slowly down the gangplank.
The chill of the river revived Jonathan from his torpor as he cleaved into it. He came up and spat slightly salty river as he trod water. As he dog paddled back towards the shore, he bumped into something solid.
Lying almost next to the houseboat were the underwater remains of a jetty. This had been submerged when the river level was permanently altered by the introduction of locks and weirs to deepen it as a way of preventing the devastating floods that took place every few years. Devastating to humans, that is. For deepening the river and preventing the floods resulted in the deaths of many species that depended on these floods for their survival. The river had become murky and had nil visibility. It was a degraded waterway overused for irrigation and other commercial purposes. This had led to its near death.
Jonathan—unseen by the people on the boat—pulled himself onto this underwater structure and stood with his feet barely covered by the water. To all intents and purposes he appeared to be walking on the water.
As the criminals descended the gangplank, Marcie and the dwarf raced to the side of the boat to see if Jonathan was okay. They were met by a vision of him apparently standing in the river, the slow stream bubbling around his feet.
The dwarf fell to his knees and raised his hands in an attitude of prayer. “Oh, God, forgive me, I didn't believe."
On the riverbank, the two awestruck crims who had just descended the gangway did the same. “He said he was on a mission from God and we didn't believe him,” bawled Scarface. Both of the thugs were down on their knees as were the others on the houseboat.
Marcie called out, “That's it, Jonathan, prove it to them. Do miracles and we'll convince the world.” Thank you God, for changing your mind.
Jonathan began slowly to walk back towards the shore. He had to walk slowly to avoid slipping on the slimy, rotting timbers of the underwater structure. Bits were missing here and there, and he had to feel for these with his feet.
Jonathan waded for the last couple of metres to the shore. He climbed the bank to find the heavies prostrate before him. Marcie and the handicapped people were on their knees on the houseboat.
"Arise, my sons and daughters.” Jonathan raised his arms, palms upwards. “Arise all of ye and attend upon me."
The thugs stood, and the people began to file off the houseboat.
Jonathan watched them as they came toward him. I could get used to being a Messiah. All this power.
Everyone gathered around him, and Jonathan gave a short sermon on his objectives. He deputised them all as his disciples and made each person individually repent of his or her sins. He offered them forgiveness and absolution provided they trod the paths of righteousness from then on and worked to further the cause of peace, love and understanding among all people on the planet.
The man with the scar began to blubber. “Hallelujah,” he cried as tears ran down his face.
"Hallelujah,” echoed the other thug.
Scarface picked Old Crone up in his arms and began to dance a weird jerky, frantic dance, circling around Jonathan and the others and crying, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, brothers and sisters.” His parents had belonged to the Salvation Army.
"Hallelujah, hallelujah,” piped Old Crone as they whirled about together.
"Tolerance of others that's what we are on about. Tolerance of other people's values and beliefs. No discrimination about colour, race, creed or religion. Respect for the beliefs of others. It matters not whether you're an Arab or a Jew. A Serb or Croat. Anglo or Hispanic. Crippled, scarred, gay, or an unbeliever. Whatever you are, you are made in the image of God, and everyone on the planet deserves respect."
"And so do the rabbits,” cried Bugs from within her cardboard box onboard the houseboat.
"Hallelujah,” cried everyone at once as they joined the two thugs and Old Crone in a crazy dance around Jonathan.
Jonathan smiled beatifically. I'm on my way.
Bugs and Thumper had a snack and then fell asleep as the religious revival continued onshore.
* * * *
The two gangsters sat uncomfortably on bean bag chairs at one side of the dining room table, which had been set back in its rightful place in the centre of the room. The four handicapped people sat at the other side. Marcie stood in the doorway, and Jonathan paced around the room. The gangsters were so big that their fat sides overflowed the beanbag chairs, which meant that they were really sitting on the floorboards. Earlier questioning had garnered the names of the two thugs, Scarface Cecil and Big Bottom Bertie.
The dwarf had laughed himself silly. “Cecil and Bertie?"
"We learned to fight real good while we was at school.” Bertie rose from his beanbag. “You wanta make anything out of it?"
Scarface Cecil wrapped his huge arms around Bigbottom as he headed for the dwarf. “Cool it. We follow the boss. There's gotta be peace, no violence. Turn the other cheek, remember?"
Bertie stopped struggling and glared at the dwarf. “I like an eye for an
eye better."
"That's the Old Testament.” Cowley was the only one there with any knowledge of theology.
"What's the difference?” Bigbottom had asked.
Now, Jonathan eyed his disciples. He knew that if he was to succeed as a Messiah he had to motivate his troops. This was no easy task for a man who had historically had the lowest self-esteem of anyone on the planet and who had made a fetish of his insignificance. “If we are to do this thing together, we all have to change. If you are to come on this crusade with me, then we have to be pure and good. We need to set an example that others might follow."
"How we gonna do that, Boss?” asked Scarface Cecil, as the others began to all talk at once.
Jonathan cut off the conversation. “We have to change, and we have to do things peacefully."
"I don't know.” Cowley interjected. “Jesus smote the money lenders and chucked them bodily out of the temple. I reckon he thought the application of a bit of violence was okay in a good cause."
"We know where Ben Harwood the money launderer hangs out. We could go and fix him up if it helps,” Scarface Cecil offered as Bigbottom Bertie cracked his knuckles.
"Rather we should convert him to our way of thinking,” said Jonathan. “No violence, and the first thing we do is get rid of the drugs."
Scarface and Bigbottom paled.
"Hang on.” The dwarf was unhappy. “Couldn't we sell them and use the money for our campaign?"
"They harm people. They have to go."
"They belong to Mr. Big,” said Scarface Cecil. “We have to pay for them after we sell them."
"Mr. Big gets agitated when he gets ripped off.” Bigbottom Bertie's lower lip trembled. “People tend to die."
"Get killed,” corrected Scarface Cecil.
"The drugs go, no arguments."
"Okay, you're the boss, boss.” Cecil gave in, but he and Bertie were worried men. They had heard what Mr. Big's associates were capable of doing with a pair of bolt cutters.
Jonathan and his disciples dragged sacks of drugs out onto the deck of the houseboat. Sampson and the dwarf quickly hid several bags of marijuana in the beanbag chairs and in the dwarf's copious pockets.
Marcie cut each sack open with a knife, and the others tipped the contents over the side. Then they watched as the heroin powder, cocaine, amphetamine pills, ecstasy and marijuana either sank or floated off on the waters of the slowest major river system in the world.
A large number of wise-looking pelicans watched with interest but did not interfere.
Chapter 18
Busking with the Premier
There was feverish activity centred around the houseboat over the next two weeks, as Jonathan and his disciples organised their campaign. Pamphlets were printed, banners were made, newspapers, radio and television stations were contacted.
Jonathan gave his instructions. “We need to contact the people who count. The prime minister and other government leaders. The premier, business and church leaders. We need to convince these people that this crusade is on the up and up. Secondly we need to work at convincing the people in the street. Your ordinary man or woman."
"How we gonna do all that, boss?” asked Bertie.
Jonathan outlined tasks for each of them. Marcie was deputised to make contact with people in high places and to circulate press releases working from her desk at the Daily Bugle. As the only one with any P.R. skills, she took on most of the publicity work. The others worked in various ways. Cecil and Bertie solicited ‘donations’ from their friends and acquaintances. The rest of them made the banners and prepared for the evangelistic work they were about to undertake.
Marcie found many obstacles in her way. Her phone calls to people in high places were not returned except for the one to the premier's office, which returned a fax so insulting that Marcie threw it immediately into the rubbish bin. Press releases did not make their way into the various media. An application for a licence to hand out pamphlets in the mall was rejected. They held council.
"It's almost as if there's some orchestrated campaign to oppose what we're trying to do,” Marcie reported. “People I've known for years hang up in my ear as soon as I broach the subject. I've been warned not to push our cause during working hours anymore. The photocopier has been put out of bounds, and my mobile phone account is being checked. The worst thing about it is that I feel like I've achieved nothing."
"I don't know quite what we can do,” said Jonathan. “We have to get our message to people somehow."
"Let's just go and do it.” The dwarf was militant.
"Yeah,” said Bertie. “We can't let these punks tell us what to do. We got a message, we go and give people the message."
Cowley stood up. “We want to talk to people and hand out pamphlets in the mall, we go and do it. It's a public place. How can anyone tell us we can't use it?"
The others agreed. Jonathan held up his hand to stop the noise. “If we do that it means breaking the law and possibly getting into trouble."
"Do you think God would worry about getting into trouble?” Cowley scoffed.
"If the law is unjust we must break it,” Marcie looked down at the deck as if seeking inspiration. “That was Martin Luther King I think, and he was right."
"Alright then,” returned Jonathan. “If we are going to break the law to get our message across then let it be done in a spectacular manner."
Marcie looked up. “The premier is addressing a meeting of pensioners in Rundle Mall at midday tomorrow. We could get a fair bit of mileage from an appearance. All the media will be there and we could get our banners in front of the cameras and maybe crack it for an interview."
The next morning was cold and a light drizzle fell constantly. They piled their banners and pamphlets into the powder blue second-hand pie van that Jonathan had bought to replace the stolen van. Sampson had returned the black van to its owners by parking it in the driveway it was stolen from.
The idea was to arrive in the mall with minimum fuss behind the premier. That way their banners would catch the television cameras, which would all be pointed in the right direction. Marcie planned it like a military operation. Every last detail was accounted for and she planned for them to arrive after the premier had begun talking. This would negate any possibility of the police moving them on or arresting them before they had a chance to maximise their publicity.
The dwarf went on ahead as their scout and rang Marcie on her mobile phone. “This is alpha one to base.” The dwarf was a devotee of spy novels. “Alpha one to base, do you read me, over? Come in, Marcie, over."
"Just tell us what's going on.” Marcie held the phone away from her ear so the others could hear.
"Hey, okay, keep your hair on. The premier just started talking and there's a huge crowd here. Park in the side street as agreed and move in. I'll meet you there. Out."
He hung up and Sampson tooled the van into the side street and parked as close to the mall as possible. They could see the dwarf at the end of the street waiting for them as they climbed from the van.
The rain had stopped, although the grey and leaden sky was threatening to break open again at any moment. They unfurled their banners as they hit the street corner and moved as quickly as possible to a position directly behind the premier.
The leader of the state stood on a portable stage where the old fountain used to stand. He was directing his speech to two-and-a-half thousand pensioners who had come to hear the launching of the governing party's social welfare policy for the coming election. The premier reached a crescendo as he blasted the opposition party's lack of any policy in this area, when Jonathan and his disciples appeared behind him with their banners. These read:
PREPARE FOR THE 2ND COMING
and:
BEHOLD, THE WORD OF GOD At first there was a titter, which became a muted laugh, which became an outbreak of loud laughter as people tied in the premier with the banners. The premier faltered in mid speech and finally stopped as he realised that nobody coul
d hear him, even though he was miked. His minders turned around and saw the banners and gestured to the premier who also turned and saw what was going on.
"Get rid of them,” the premier hissed to his nearest minder. This man, a florid, angry-looking individual, gestured for Jonathan's group to clear the area. They did not move. The T.V. cameras focused on the banners as the premier fought to reassert himself. The laughter peaked and began to fall.
"It seems as though I've got some support from the God squad. Never mind, let them stay there, I need all the help I can get.” The premier swung back into his speech with renewed gusto. He had just reached the part about how much his party would do for pensioners once re-elected, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had done nothing whatever in the previous term, when all hell broke loose.
From out of a side street further up the mall and behind the listening crowd came a huge mob of slightly grubby lawyers. They carried banners reading:
LAWYERS FOR CHRIST
and:
BEWARE FALSE PROPHETS
The lawyers began a chant of, False ... False ... False ... False, as they advanced down the mall and began to cleave through the ranks of pensioners. Wheelchairs were shoved aside. Old men and ladies had their crutches kicked out from under them. People were in danger of being trampled. Some of the pensioners fought back and soon fists and feet were flying. One prominent Q.C. was struck down with a terrific blow from a crutch. Another was hit in the groin by the armrest of a wheelchair.
A ruddy-faced bruiser of a pensioner, who liked an occasional knuckle, tackled I. Faarkham. The two of them wrestled, gouged and bit one another as fights raged over the top of their writhing bodies.
The premier's minders formed a ring around him and hustled him back to the waiting limousine that had ferried him the four hundred and twenty metres from parliament house. “You bastards will pay for this,” spat an outraged minder as he went past Jonathan and company.
The situation was rapidly degenerating as the lawyers forced their way through the pensioners in a determined effort to get at Jonathan's party. By now the police had become involved, and the four police horses and dozen policemen and women were trying to restore order.