A Handicap of the Devil?

by Allen Lyne

  "Just move back and there won't be no trouble,” said Scarface in a flat voice. Big Bottom cracked his knuckles, and Sampson flexed his muscles. The dwarf, who felt safe in this company, adopted a boxing pose and danced about on his toes. The beefy man who liked an occasional knuckle dropped back behind three of the women in the pensioners’ party, as they all faded back toward poker machine utopia. One of their number was explaining to anyone who would listen that she thought the tall man had a dog.

  "I might get the licensing people to take a look at this pub of yours.” The commissioner eyeballed the manager as Jonathan and his party moved toward their van.

  "Oh yeah and who might you be?"

  "The Commissioner of Police."

  "Yeah and I'm Moses and there's the bulrushes I was found in over there.” He indicated the bank of the river and turned his back on the commissioner to continue his favourite hobby of watching a bunch of pensioner fools continue to make him rich.

  Chapter 27

  The Convention Centre Mk 2

  The underground convention centre was so full that there was standing room only down the back. Lawyers from around the country had jetted in the moment they received Jones P. senior's e-mail warning them of the impending crisis.

  Several wounded lawyers, participants in the abortive houseboat raid, sat in the front rows wearing bandages on heads and limbs. Jones P. senior was at the podium and in full voice as he described the present situation and the perils that they faced.

  "These brave young men.” He indicated the wounded lawyers down the front. “These brave young men,” he repeated almost overcome by emotion, “have risked everything. They have risked being barred from silk. Have risked being thrown in gaol. They fought honourably against the forces of law and order. Three of their number are still in gaol on firearms charges. They cannot be asked to do more.” He looked down upon the wounded lawyers and thought that they were in no condition to do more anyway. There were lawyers with bandaged heads and limbs, lawyers with no teeth, lawyers with plaster on their broken noses. The front row was mostly made up of damaged lawyers. Two in wheelchairs to the side of the audience looked back at him.

  "Now, others must seize the baton. Others must rise to the same heights of dedication and zeal displayed by these noble warriors. Tomorrow Goodfellow will attempt to walk on water. We have no way of knowing if God has ordained that he should succeed or not. I know I don't need to spell it out to you what will happen if he does succeed. It will lead to a worldwide resurgence of religion. Good will triumph. God will return to the Earth, and we will be defeated. Does any one of us want to risk that?"

  A deafening cry of ‘NO’ thundered back at him.

  "Does anyone here want to risk The Legal Rulers Society not coming to power?"

  A much louder chorus of ‘NO’ thundered back, making the walls of the cavernous underground centre ring. The candles and wall torches dipped and waved with the wind of it.

  And then it happened. The temperature in the cavern dropped to the point where the cheap cask wine in the paper cups froze almost solid. An eerie howling wind blew through the convention centre snuffing out most of the flame from candles and torches. Howling sounds of demented dogs filled the air. A light so bright that it hurt the eyes lit up the room. This scattered light gradually refined itself down to a pinpoint next to Jones P. senior at the podium. The wind decreased, and the howl was suddenly cut off. Satan appeared beside Jones P. senior and roughly shouldered him away.

  "Now look here,” roared Satan, as lawyers cowered in their seats. It was the first time anyone present except Jones P. senior had ever been in the presence of Old Nick, and it wasn't a pretty sight or experience. “Do you think I've got time for this sort of crap? My spies have told me what's going on, you pack of incompetent, blundering fools. All you had to do was find this arsehole Goodfellow and his mob, and you could have wiped them out in one go. But what do you do? Draw attention to yourselves in the worst possible way with the cops and get him an amnesty to walk on water. You idiots.” He pointed his finger and zapped all of the wounded lawyers, except I. Faarkham, who was outside on sentry duty and who was spared for another day, instantly vaporising them.

  "See you in hell, suckers, and we'll see if any of you bastards dare break a hundred and twenty.” This last reference was lost on all but Jones P. senior. He was the only one present who knew of Satan's golfing fetish.

  "Now this is what you gotta do. Listen up good ‘cause I'll say this one time only. You go to the riverbank where this walk is taking place, and you break up the meeting and knock Goodfellow and his cronies off. You got that?” There was a stunned silence.

  "I said have you got that,” roared the Devil, repeating himself although he had said he wouldn't.

  "Yes,” piped Jones P. senior weakly. “But wouldn't it be better to..."

  "...Don't you argue with me, you fat idiot.” Saliva splattered all over Jones P. senior from the enraged Devil. “You can't even keep your own son under control let alone control this mob of dills.” His hand swept around taking in the entire meeting.

  Jones P. senior wiped off the foul smelling spittle. “I'm sorry. I really have been trying."

  "Well you haven't tried hard enough. It is time for the decisive battle between good and evil. It will take place on this riverbank, and you will win. I will be watching and if Goodfellow achieves his ambition and does walk on water, I will zap every last one of you and drag you down to hell a little prematurely. Do I make myself clear?"

  There was general agreement in the room that he had made himself very clear indeed.

  "Get on out there tomorrow and stop Goodfellow from walking. That's an order and no correspondence will be entered into."

  The chill in the room increased and the wind and the howl from the hounds of hell rose once more. The light increased a million fold in intensity before it blacked out completely, and the Devil was gone. And along with him went the wind and the sounds of the hounds.

  There was silence in the room as the temperature gradually rose to the level it had been at before the Devil's arrival. Law students began to shakily light candles and torches. The scene gradually came back to normal.

  Well, almost normal, because nothing and no one would ever truly be the same again. Those present had been touched with pitch. They didn't need the rank smell of brimstone and burnt pork in their nostrils to know it. For some of them it had all been a sort of elaborate game they had only half believed in. Most of these people renounced their memberships of The Legal Rulers Society immediately. It hardened the resolve of others and confirmed them in their course of action. This last applied to Jones P. senior who, although shaken by the violence of the Devil's appearance and actions, still believed that when the time came and victory was his, Satan would honour his promise to install him as de facto ruler of the world.

  Poor, misguided, naive Jones P. senior. One should never expect the conditions of a compact with the master of evil to be kept.

  The lawyers present were so shaken that for the first time in history, wine was left in paper cups as they departed, and some of the casks were only half empty.

  Several pensioner/cleaners, who worked cash in hand so as not to lose their pensions, remedied that matter soon after the meeting broke up.

  Chapter28

  Marcie is Interviewed

  The big day had arrived. Thousands of people, varying from the ultra-religious to people who came to mock, crowded onto the hillside. It was a pleasantly warm day, and the brilliant Australian cobalt blue sky was peppered with little puffs of white cloud. There was a moist and Earthy smell in the air that was the prelude to the onset of spring. A flock of multi-coloured parrots flew overhead cawing loudly as they flew, as if in opposition to these people taking over a landscape that was usually exclusively their own. They flew off in search of fruit as the television crews set up their cameras and paraphernalia. Three outdoor broadcast vans were in evidence. Harried looking producers, presenters and go
fers hurried between the vans and the crews.

  A local T.V. station was interviewing Marcie. She had a schedule of interviews lined up for both before and after the event on a number of the local and international channels.

  The presenter was a beaming middle-aged woman. She beamed at the camera and went into her beaming intro, “Thanks Gavin. Well here we are on the banks of the Murray River, and a more picturesque spot for the performance of Jonathan Goodfellow's miracle you couldn't ask for..."

  The producer called a halt. “Take it down a bit. There's no need to shout. We can hear you fine with your lapel mike. Remember, we said we'd try for that lower register. Much easier to listen to.” He sipped instant coffee from a paper mug as the presenter went back and repeated her introduction. She was a tad lower this time but still high enough to make the producer wince.

  "...in just a few moments we will see if Jonathan Goodfellow is a fraud or not as he attempts to prove that he can walk on water. With me now I have Marcie Mablegrove, a reporter from the Daily Bugle, who is now Jonathan's close friend and media adviser. In fact, Marcie describes herself as one of Jonathan's disciples. Good afternoon, Marcie."

  "Good afternoon and thanks for the interview."

  "You have been with Jonathan Goodfellow since the start of his quest to prove to people that he has a message from God. Is that right?"

  "Absolutely. I have seen this man perform the miracle of walking on water as have a number of people."

  "Yes.... How did you become involved with Jonathan Goodfellow?"

  "I was at the house the night that he rose from the dead. Jonathan bumped into me on his way out of the house. It was dark and raining, and I was the only one who saw him leave."

  "I see. What happened after that?"

  "I contacted him thinking it would be a great story to do. You might recall the headline He Rose From The Dead? And remember, it was two police officers who said he was dead and came back to life again."

  "Yes, but this is hardly the first documented case of a supposedly dead person coming back to life. It happens all the time."

  "I agree absolutely. But don't you find any significance in the fact that Jonathan just happens to have returned from the dead, claims to have seen God and to have a message for humanity from him, and then goes on to perform another miracle?"

  "Another miracle?"

  "He rose from the dead and then walked on water."

  "So you say. I guess the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and I'm sure everyone out there is waiting with baited breath for Jonathan to perform this wondrous feat.” Her wink at the camera was not lost on Marcie, who bridled.

  "You will see. You will all see at one o'clock today."

  The presenter paused for a second and the producer waved her on. He needed a bit more for the introduction to the walk. “You also claim that Jonathan's rabbits are the conduit from God to him. Why rabbits exactly?"

  "Because they are meek, mild and inoffensive little creatures who harm nothing."

  "Perhaps you should talk to a few Australian farmers."

  "The point is that God chose them for that function. I know you don't believe now, but wait and see what happens."

  "Marcie Mablegrove thanks for talking with us.” The presenter responded to her producer's wrap hand signal. “That was Marcie Mablegrove, one of Jonathan Goodfellow's disciples. We'll take a break now and we'll be back to see if Jonathan Goodfellow is a saint or a sham. Can he really walk on water or will the entire project sink beneath the waters of the Murray River? I'm Denise Huxley, and this is the Rigy Dij Australia program.... How was that?"

  "Just brilliant, sweetie. More coffee,” the producer barked at the gofer. “Want one?"

  The presenter shook her head as she watched Marcie Mablegrove walk away. How do people get taken in by this kind of thing? Goodfellow is obviously a fraud, but where's the sting? What will he gain? Who does he plan to take down and for how much? She remained standing in the same position, ready to call Jonathan's failure at walking on the water.

  Chapter 29

  God has Messagebank

  Four hundred hand-picked lawyers were hidden in the bushland not far from the houseboat. They were waiting for a mobile phone call from I. Faarkham who was their plant in the crowd by the riverside. Once that call was received, they would swing into action. The police presence numbered no more than fifty, and Jones P. senior reasoned that four hundred lawyers could easily overcome that puny force.

  This was it, the final reckoning. After all of these centuries the final moment was at hand, and evil would triumph over the goody two shoes in the world. Once lawyers all over the world saw Jonathan's demise at the hands of lawyers in Australia, they were primed to rise up and seize power in their respective countries. Jones P. senior would be elevated to El Supremo of the world. He had some great ideas of the things that would take place once he ruled in the name of evil. The decadence of the latter Roman Empire, the concentration camps of Nazi Germany, the despotic violence of totalitarian regimes had seen nothing like the orgy of blood, lust and violence that would succeed the elevation of Jones P. Look out the enemies of evil. Your hour is at hand at last.

  Lawyers sat in tents playing snap or computer games on hand-held computers. Others were gathered around casks of wine fortifying themselves with Dutch courage. Still other groups sat and lazily planned what they would do when they became some of the chosen ones after Jones P.'s assumption of power. All of them had one ear out for the ring of Jones P.'s mobile phone. They all hoped that their trusted sentry, I. Faarkham, had not forgotten the number.

  They needn't have worried. I. Faarkham himself was sitting amongst a group of pensioners on a fallen log on the hillside. He was staring up river waiting for the first sign of the boat that would carry Jonathan down to his appointment with destiny. His turban hid the injuries he had sustained. I. Faarkham's finger twitched where it was poised over the instant call button on his phone.

  He watched as free buses organised by hotels in the area disgorged more and more pensioners for an afternoon's entertainment. The hoteliers reasoned that if they gave the pensioners a free day out, and the buses dropped them back outside the hotels, they could bleed any money the pensioners still had out of them before closing time. Most of the pensioners carried small picnic baskets containing their lunch and a thermos of tea or coffee.

  Dotted around the riverbank were the corporate hospitality tents. White-jacketed waiters served chilled champagne and canapés to corporate clients and the rich and famous who had been tempted out for what promised to be a funny afternoon. The premier and his entourage occupied one tent, while the leader of the opposition and members of his parliamentary party and hangers on occupied another. Both political leaders were itching to make the very earnest speeches that had been drafted and polished by their very cynical speechwriters. The boss-cockies of the media scrum also had their corporate tent. Big Jim took another slug of his Glenfiddick and blessed his expense account.

  I. Faarkham rubbed his head under his turban. His skull was still sore from the battering he had taken at the hands of a detective on the houseboat. He looked across at the houseboat and wondered if the blood that had been spilled in the cabin and on the deck had been cleaned up.

  There was a festive mood in the air, and buskers and clowns worked the crowd. A street theatre group from one of the churches was performing a semi religious piece before an enthusiastic circle of pensioners. They outnumbered non-pensioners in the crowd by about three to one. The sausage sizzles and ice cream vendors were doing good business, as was a colourful pie cart. The pie cart was located under the spreading branches of a giant river gum that dated back at least two hundred and fifty years.

  I. Faarkham was irritated. He had no time for these festivities or for any occupation he thought of as trivial. Like a lot of lawyers, he was a practical man and couldn't see the point to any undertaking that didn't lead to the making of money or to sexual gratification. He sat back on his log an
d willed Jonathan to hurry up.

  * * * *

  Back in the cabin, Jonathan was having a crisis of confidence.

  "Whaddaya worried about, man.” The dwarf rolled another joint. “It'll be cool. You've done it before, so stay loose."

  He finished rolling the joint, lit it and offered it to Jonathan. “Have a few tokes before you go, man. It will help you relax into it."

  "You know I don't use that stuff and neither should you. Especially today with all these people around and the police all over the place."

  "Hey, chill out. Take a walk up through that crowd on the hill if you want proof that we aren't the only ones smoking. That sweet smell in the air will be everywhere."

  Sampson took the joint. “Besides, it's a great way to see God."

  "You see God when you smoke?"

  "Sure. Everyone who smokes heavy enough sees God."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Umm ... hard to say. Hard to remember, man.... Sort of ... a bright light is all I can recall after a trip. But it's God alright."

  "So I don't have to walk on water or anything else? We just distribute lots of grass to everyone, and everyone will be all peaceful and nice to one another and believe in miracles?"

  "Maybe not.” The dwarf took the joint in turn. “Nothing's ever that simple."

  They retreated into their pleasant haze, as Marcie arrived back in the van from her latest interview. “Right,” she called cheerfully as she entered the cabin. “Let's get this together. It's half past twelve. Sampson, Scarface and the dwarf into the boat. Jonathan you sit in the bow of the boat so everyone can see you coming. The rest of us, pile in the van and we'll be there to meet the boat when it arrives."

  "Marcie, I don't think I can do this."

  "Not do it? Hey, what about the media? The T.V. crews? The crowd up there on the hill...."

  "I'm sorry, it's just not going to work."