A Handicap of the Devil? (20 page)

Men never know what women are thinking, and women rarely know what men are thinking, more's the pity. If both sexes could somehow define what the other was thinking and what the other was feeling, then there would be a lot more romance and a lot less strife in the world.

Jonathan awoke on his beanbag and stared into the blackness inside the cabin. He could hear the soft, gentle sound of the river as it gurgled past the houseboat. One of the people asleep within snored softly, and someone else muttered in their sleep. He lay there with his over-active mind once again in turmoil. His earlier thoughts returned and began to run through his mind in sequence. A strange sound began to penetrate his consciousness. At first he thought it was imagination, but gradually the sound of a powerful car engine became louder. He got up stiffly and moved to the only porthole overlooking the shore. Bugs and Thumper were both standing bolt upright on their hind legs in their position of alarm with noses twitching as they sniffed for danger.

The clouds had cleared away and the stars were dim in the early dawn. There was no moon, and he strained to see what was going on. Dimly he made out the shape of a car moving down the track toward the houseboat. Jonathan kicked the nearest person who happened to be the dwarf.

"Wake up, everyone, please. We've got visitors."

The others struggled awake. There was a lot of cursing and grunting. Sampson grabbed a rifle, a shotgun and two handguns from an overhead locker. Cowley pulled ammunition out of a drawer.

"Crikey, you lot are ready for a siege.” Jonathan was amazed by the display of arms.

"We figured they'd be after us, but how did they find us so quickly?” Cowley loaded bullets into a revolver.

"Never mind how they come to be here. Get ready to start shooting.” Sampson cocked the rifle and opened the door a crack so he could fire through it.

"Give them the drugs and they'll go away,” said Marcie.

"Bullshit.” The dwarf put the shotgun to his shoulder and fired out of the porthole. He was blown across the cabin by the recoil. The two gangsters were caught in the act of getting out of the car. They dived behind it and opened fire. The dwarf picked himself up and handed the shotgun to Sampson. They heard the sounds of whispered conversation outside. A moment later a voice called out.

"Give us the drugs you turds and we'll leave you alone."

Cowley responded. “Pig's arse.” She fired two shots at the car using her handgun. One bullet ricocheted off the car. The other went right through the body. Bullets smashed through the wooden sides of the houseboat as the thugs returned fire. Everyone in the cabin ducked and made themselves as small as they could. The firing stopped after a few moments.

"Come out with your hands up. All we want is the drugs.” Two more shots smashed through the walls of the boat. Another whistled through the porthole, almost parting Old Crone's hair. She slumped to the floor with a yelp, as the other three handicapped people returned fire.

"Cease fire.” It was the authoritative voice of Marcie. “Push this heavy table against the wall and get behind it. Keep away from the porthole unless you lift your gun up and fire. Don't put your head into view."

"What you talking about, lady?” asked Sampson.

"Don't you ‘lady’ me. I've been under fire before. Now shut up and do as I say."

They all helped to heave the heavy table side-on against the wall nearest the shore. Bullets smashed into it but did not penetrate the heavy wood. The firing stopped again.

"We can keep this up for as long as it takes,” came the voice from the shore. “You ready to give up yet?"

"We don't need to give up. You can't hurt us,” roared the dwarf.

There was silence for a few minutes and then the same voice was heard again. “How about a truce? We want to talk about this."

"They want to talk. No way.” Sampson lifted the shotgun and would have fired out of the porthole again.

Marcie grabbed his arm. “Maybe we should talk to them."

"These guys want to kill us and you want to talk it over?"

"This isn't getting anyone anywhere. They keep shooting. We keep shooting. Sooner or later we run out of bullets."

"Or they run out of bullets."

"They can get more. We can't. Let's talk. Maybe we can compromise."

Sampson relaxed his grip on the shotgun and stepped back from the porthole.

Marcie opened the door of the houseboat a crack and waved her handkerchief. “Don't shoot anymore. We'll parley with you."

"Okay, come ashore and we'll talk."

"No, you come on board and we'll talk on the deck of the boat.” Marcie knew she had to maintain the initiative.

"How do we know they ain't got weapons on them?” asked the dwarf.

Marcie thought quickly and shouted to the approaching gunmen. “Strip down to your underwear and you can come aboard."

"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.