A Handicap of the Devil?

by Allen Lyne

  Jonathan's party leapt into the van, and Sampson gunned the motor and began to pull away, as the dwarf hurled the empty extinguisher at the foam-covered lawyers. He was pulled into the van as Sampson roared away from the kerb.

  "You're a hero.” Jones P. junior clapped the dwarf on the back.

  "Hey, man, you're not too bad yourself."

  "We're just lucky you chose the path of truth and light and rejected the forces of darkness, even though they were personified by your father,” Marcie piously opined.

  "It wasn't so much that.” Jones P. junior shuddered. “I just couldn't stand the thought of becoming a lawyer."

  Chapter 20

  The Council Of War

  Jonathan sat on the deck of the houseboat and surveyed his disciples who were unloading boxes of pamphlets and bringing them onboard. They were a very unusual lot. Two heavy ex-gangsters, the four motley handicapped people, one female journalist and Jonathan's former superior in the accounts department.

  Old Crone and the two gangsters had rejoined them after they were charged at the police watch house. They were bailed to appear in the magistrate's court on a number of charges relating to the disturbance in the mall.

  Jonathan lay back on the deck and stared up at the unyielding cobalt blue sky. Not a speck of cloud anywhere and the winter sun high overhead. A gentle breeze came from the south and kept the temperature down, but it was still pleasant here on the deck of the houseboat. Not much to start a revolution with. But we will grow in numbers and in strength as more people come to see the truth and the light. Thank you God for setting us on the path, and thank you for choosing me as your messenger.

  The others had finished putting the cartons onboard and came to where Jonathan was laying.

  "What's next, Boss?” Scarface Cecil was perspiring slightly.

  "We need a council of war. Come, sit and we'll talk about what we do next."

  The others found room to sit on the houseboat deck. There was barely enough room, but they managed it with the dwarf and Scarface standing down the back.

  Jonathan addressed his motley band of disciples, “We must consider how we are going to take our message to the world. How do we move from here, with a few disciples, to take the entire world by storm?"

  "Maybe we could tell everybody that they either do it our way or we send some of the boys around with baseball bats to operate on their knees."

  "Something a bit more subtle, thank you, Cecil."

  "Television,” said Cowley. Everyone turned to her. “Television. Everybody watches television. We need to get the big networks, C.N.N. and whoever."

  "Right on.” The dwarf was excited. “Let's do it. Worldwide coverage."

  Marcie seized on the idea, “What we need to do is to show the T.V. people another miracle. How about the loaves and fishes?"

  "I don't know if I can do that one."

  "Walking on water is better anyway,” said Cowley.

  "Yeah,” agreed Sampson. “More spectacular."

  "Umm ... yeah."

  "What's up, boss? You don't sound convinced,” said Scarface.

  A chorus of voices assured Jonathan that they all knew he could do it and that they had every confidence in him. Suggestions poured from the group.

  "Let's do it on the Port River."

  "No, no, Glenelg."

  "West Beach off the Boat Harbour."

  Everyone had a suggestion about where the deed should take place. Jonathan held up his hands to stop the chorus of voices. “We shall do it right here. Look, the grassy slope up there will hold thousands of people. The camera crews can set up in any number of places to film me. This is the perfect spot."

  "All we got to do is convince the T.V. stations,” said Cowley.

  "Leave that to me.” Marcie was already making notes in her notebook of people she had to call.

  Chapter 21

  The Premier's First Meeting

  The meeting room in the State Administration Building was being prepared. Staff bustled around putting the whiteboard in place and placing jugs of water, pens, pads, mints, and place names on the long table. A sign on the wall urged people to turn off mobile phones and pagers. A staff member drew heavy, burgundy-coloured drapes across the windows, cutting out the glorious twenty third-floor view of the slightly smoggy city.

  The guests began to arrive. First in was the Catholic archbishop closely followed by his Anglican counterpart. The two men nodded to one another and sat at the places designated for them. These were as far apart as possible.

  Shortly after the prelates were seated, a number of people arrived together. They included Big Jim Pearce from the Bugle and Joanne Knight from the Daily Courier, Big Jim's rival. These two were friends and sat close together. Jim and Joanne went way back and had served their apprenticeships together at the Courier. Also present were a gaggle of leading businessmen, the Lord Mayor, the Leader of the Opposition, the Director of Tourism and a number of church leaders from other Christian denominations. In all cases the seating arrangements had been carefully worked out to take account of historical and current animosities. There were quite a few in the room.

  As the senior staff member involved in the set-up observed, “If you were running the United Nations, you wouldn't put the Croats and the Serbs next to each other, now would you?"

  "Or the delegates from Palestine and Israel,” opined a junior staff member. She was immediately frozen by a hard look from her superior. Such observations were the province of senior staff only.

  When all of the invited guests had waited the obligatory ten minutes past the advertised starting time, the premier and his entourage swept in.

  The premier began without preamble, “I've called you all here because we need to put our heads together in a non-partisan way to rid ourselves of this Goodfellow and his nonsense.” He looked sternly at the leader of the opposition as he said the words non partisan.

  The premier hoped the leader of the opposition understood the term ‘non partisan'. He was little more than a country oaf who had ascended to the leadership of his party because there were so many divisions in its ranks, and there had to be a compromise. The premier and his party encouraged this situation. They did this by a sustained campaign of false information fed to various media outlets attacking one or the other factions. These attacks were made in such a way that they seemed to emanate from within the opposition party itself.

  The two leaders of the major religious denominations attempted to stare one another down, something they constantly did in meetings when any kind of division or split was mentioned. Both gave up and dropped their eyes simultaneously when it became obvious that the other would not crack.

  The premier moved right along, “This Marcie Mablegrove woman is sending out press releases again. I imagine you have all had communication from her of one kind or another?"

  There was a general shuffling, grunting and nodding of heads in agreement.

  "We need to find some way to debunk this fellow and his disciples before they cause any more disruption and annoyance. The scene in the mall the other day was disgraceful."

  The premier and his spin-doctors would never forgive the people who destroyed the launch of the party's social welfare policy for the election. Instead of the media leading with

  PREMIER PROMISES PENSIONER BENEFITS:

  they got:

  RIOT IN MALL

  Apart from stealing the thunder of his election announcement, a disturbance on the streets was a smack in the eye for a government that had run on:

  TOUGHER STAND ON LAW AND ORDER

  in its last three campaigns.

  This was a fact the opposition leader and his party had been quick to exploit. “After nine years of the present government, what have we got? Riots in the streets. Pensioners punched up and trampled in the mall. Religious fanatics running riot.” The opposition leader had waxed as eloquent as he was able in interview after interview, and so had every member of his party. The premier felt vulnerable.
The premier felt as though the winds of change were a-blowin’ and the backbench loomed large.

  The premier shuffled the notes in front of him and found difficulty finding what he wanted. He decided to speak extempore—or to wing it, as he himself described it. His eyes assumed the slightly glazed look they took on whenever he had to speak from the heart or mind without notes or an auto cue to guide him. At times like these, people felt as though he was not in the same room as they were, and his media coaches had advised him against the practice. There was no choice, as the notes he needed seemed to be missing.

  "Well ... err ... what are we going to do about it, that's what I'd like to know. We can't have these people going around performing mayhem.” The premier paused, as that last bit didn't sound quite right. His press secretary saved the day by shuffling the notes on the desk and finding the right place. He continued in more confident vein.

  "It has to be nipped in the bud. It must be stopped right now, and the reason I've called you all together this afternoon is to have a brainstorm with you. I'm sure that with the best brains in the state, we can formulate a strategy.” He deliberately looked away from the opposition leader as he said the words best brains in the state.

  This was not lost on the opposition leader, who seized the opportunity afforded by a slight pause in the premier's delivery, to clear his throat, rise to his feet, and bellow, “Hear hear, we've gotta stop this rot.” He then sat down just as quickly as he had stood and squinted, as if off-into-a-hot-sun-out-there-on-the-vast-limitless-plain. This was a look that had won him many votes in the bush.

  The premier was so startled by this unexpected outburst and show of support that he was put completely off his stride. “Err ... yes ... quite ... what's next?” He shuffled the papers once again.

  The press secretary saved once more. “What the premier wants to do now is to have a general discussion about the issue and see if we can't come to some agreed course of action. A course of action that will bring credit on us all and not frighten the populace or give anyone the idea that we are...” he giggled slightly, “...in any way curtailing anyone's right to free speech. This chap is capable of causing much dislocation and distress if people start believing his claptrap."

  "Hear hear, right on.” The opposition leader clapped, and the premier and his press secretary withered him with a look.

  Everyone began speaking at the same time, and the press secretary raised his hands to call a halt. The hubbub subsided. “I'll chair the meeting, and it will help if you address your questions and comments through me. That way everyone will get a go and we'll have some order.” The press secretary was standing in a safe seat at the forthcoming election, and reckoned he was a fair chance for a cabinet post. He also saw himself as a future leader of the party and state premier. Right now he saw a raised hand down the table and indicated the man had the floor. It was the Catholic Archbishop.

  "I think it's up to the premier to bring in legislation outlawing false doctrine. There ought to be a law against heresy.” He glared at the Anglican bishop as he banged his fist on the table, causing water jugs, glasses, pens and bowls of mints to jump which emphasised his point.

  "Hear hear,” cried the opposition leader, thumping on the table in sympathy.

  The Anglican eminence got the nod from the chair. “Yes, a law against heresy.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “Are we not forgetting a little matter of the separation of church and state?"

  It was a point the premier hadn't considered, and he was about to draw the opposition leader's fire by agreeing with the prospect. He quickly changed tack. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, can we keep these internecine disputes for other forums?” The premier was seeking to wrest control of the meeting back from his press secretary whose political ambitions the premier well understood. “Let's consider a concrete course of action. Who's next?"

  The press secretary wasn't having any. “Yes, next please. Raise your hands. The Police Commissioner."

  The commissioner was a portly grey man. Grey-faced, grey-haired and with greyness about the way he spoke and thought. He seemed to carry a pall of greyness about him wherever he went. He stood, stoop shouldered and favouring his left leg—the legacy of a bullet wound to his right when he was a young Detective Constable. He glared at the assemblage from under his Police Commissioner's hat, which he habitually wore whether indoors or out during every on-duty moment.

  "There are two outstanding warrants for this bloke,” he said greyly. “One for handing out pamphlets in the mall without a permit and another for causing a disturbance of the peace at the pensioner's rally. I could send a car to pick him up when he tries his walking on water lark."

  "Good idea,” smirked the opposition leader. “Toss him in gaol and throw away the key. That'll teach the bugger."

  A leading businessman, whose interests extended clandestinely into prostitution, drug smuggling and gun running to warring Pacific nations, took the floor, “That's not the way. We risk turning him into a martyr if we do that. Imagine the civil liberties idiots having a field day—'I disagree with what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it'—and all that nonsense."

  Jones P. senior was a worried man. So far he had said nothing, but he had been worried since he received Marcie's phone call inviting him to the banks of the Murray to see Jonathan perform his miracle. What if he really could do it? What if Jonathan proved that he was a messenger from God? What if a great religious revival sprang from this one act by one man? Where then his dreams of power—of total power over all of his fellow beings in the world? Where then The Legal Rulers Society? Now he rose to his feet without bothering to seek leave from the chair. “I say he must be stopped and hang the do-gooders. We can't have people blaspheming all over the place.” He looked for and received support from the religious leaders. “We can't have these people running loose, creating mayhem, causing affray and disorder in the streets. Surely our Police Commissioner here can think of other more serious charges that might arise from the incident in the mall? How about sedition for a start?"

  The Police Commissioner shook his grey head and greyly stood, “No, we'd never make sedition stick and as for any other charges I might formulate ... well.... “He paused and thought greyly before continuing. “It's not so much the problem of finding new or more serious charges; it's the magistrates and judges we have in this town. I can put him in the dock, but those bastards are just as likely to slap him on the wrist, tickle him on the bum and put him straight back on the street again.” He glared at the premier. “It would be a different story if the judiciary got some clear and stern direction from the government in the form of legislation directing them to bring down tough sentences, but that doesn't happen.” The Police Commissioner was two months from his pension and for the first time in his career could really say what he thought.

  "Now wait a minute...” glared the premier, but he was cut off in mid-sentence.

  "Let him hang himself.” Joanne Knight from the Courier was a powerful speaker. “Let him hang himself, I say. Here's this man claims to have risen from the dead after having a tête-à-tête with God, and also claims he has walked on water and can do it again on demand. Well I say let him try. Give this idiot the rope to hang himself with, and let's all be there when he fails. That way the premier can address any misguided idiots who go there to watch and can debunk the whole thing. Give him his head and he'll lose it."

  There was a general hubbub of agreement and disagreement in the room. Joanne's voice rose above it, “I don't have all day to sit around planning how to stop some idiot causing problems. If you take this course of action, then you scotch him for good."

  The head of state tourism was on his feet immediately. “I disagree. If we give him his head then what happens? Lots of people will be there to see how he goes. It will be a media circus, and our state can do without the negative publicity we will get from having loonies on the loose. It will harm our image."

  "Yes, it will,” Jones P. seni
or agreed. “Besides, if this Goodfellow fellow has broken any law, large or small, then he must be brought to justice. What about his followers? They caused the riot in the mall. Run them all in. This Mablegrove woman must be brought to heel. She's on your staff. Can't you talk to her?"

  Big Jim nodded. “She's a top journalist, and she's always been steady up to now. I can't work out why she's taking on this bloke's cause. He must be very persuasive. I'll talk to her again and try to sort her out."

  "I think it's too late for that.” The premier tapped his teeth with his pen. “This thing is getting out of hand. Whatever the outcome, let's get the police to bring them in and bring them to book a couple of days before Goodfellow is due to walk on water. That will disrupt proceedings and keep the T.V. and radio people from committing any crews to the show."

  "While we have them in cells, I can get some of our more persuasive staff members to have a little word in their ears about stopping what they're up to.” The Police Commissioner smiled greyly. “This Mablegrove woman seems to be doing the lion's share of the organisation. Someone should explain the career problems for journalists who lose credibility."

  Big Jim made a mental note to tell Marcie to disappear for a while if the meeting decided to arrest them. He thought her foolish for the course she had taken but didn't want her in gaol over it. Besides, having her as an insider with Goodfellow and company gave her the edge on everyone else. Whatever else this second coming campaign was, it was certainly newsworthy. Everyone was talking about it, and it was on the front pages and was the lead item for a lot of T.V. and radio news broadcasts.

  "Right.” The premier used his most decisive voice. “It's time we moved to a vote on this. We all know the problem, and it seems we have to move one of two ways. Option one is arrest and incarceration and attempt to disrupt their media campaign over this walking-on-water stunt. That way we limit damage to our reputation, nationally and internationally. Option two, we let them go ahead, and I make a speech after they fail pointing out how ludicrous the whole event has been. Perhaps I might take a gentle shot at the media for reporting it in such detail?” He winked at Big Jim and Joanne to soften the blow. He couldn't afford to have the media offside during an election campaign. Neither of them winked back.