A Handicap of the Devil? (29 page)

The Police Commissioner assured Marcie that if Jonathan succeeded in his quest to walk on top of the water, the commissioner himself would return to the church he had all but abandoned thirty years before.

"You're the bloke from the mall, ain't ya.” A group of pensioners had managed to break away from the hypnotic machines that were assuring a poverty-stricken old age for them all. They now peered closely at Jonathan.

"And she's that newspaper sheila that's helping him.” The second man was more excited than the first.

"You're Jesus Christ come back to Earth again, ain't ya,” continued the first man. “Hey, I'm feeling a bit peckish. How's about doing the loaves and fishes? We could do with a feed."

The pensioners roared with laughter.

"No, you've got it wrong. I'm not Jesus and I can't do miracles."

"You're going to walk on water ain't ya. That's a miracle ain't it? Why can't you do the loaves and fishes?"

"God has allowed me to walk on water for the specific reason of curing sceptics like you. He hasn't given me the power to do the loaves and fishes yet."

"Why don't you ask him then?"

"No, his rabbits talk to God, not him."

The pensioners all roared with laughter again.

Marcie was furious. “If you want proof, then all come to the river bank near the old house boat between Murray Bridge and Mannum at one o'clock on the 31st of August, and you'll soon see what's true and what's not."

"Oh yeah? You're going to walk on water too, eh?"

The mood of the pensioners was turning ugly and more had drifted over from their machines. Any excitement was welcome in their lives, although it had to be good to get them away from the flashing lights, beeping noises, soothing music and the exciting rattle of coins in the coin trays.

"I'll ask you all to back off and leave them alone.” The commissioner stood and moved between the pensioners and Jonathan and Marcie.

"Why, who are you? God?” chuckled another pensioner, causing them all to break into laughter yet again.

The manager approached. He had been observing them for some time and realised from newspaper photographs who Jonathan and Marcie were. He wanted nothing to get in the way of his profits from the poker machines. “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, unless you plan to buy a drink instead of drinking my free coffee. This isn't a public meeting place."

"This is the mug what got us punched up in the mall,” said the beefy man with the ruddy countenance who liked an occasional knuckle. “We ought to do him over for that."

Jonathan paled as the beefy man glared at him.

"There will be no rough stuff in my hotel or I'll bar the lot of you.” The manager was now shoulder to shoulder with the commissioner.

The beefy man who liked a punch up occasionally glared at him, “He's a nutter. He deserves to be punched out."

"Yes,” agreed a little old lady. “He got all those nice lawyers in trouble in the mall and again at that houseboat."

"The lawyers were the problem, not us,” Marcie snapped back.

"If you hadn't been there, neither would they,” reasoned the old lady.

"Oh, and I suppose they had to follow us to the houseboat armed to the teeth just because we were there, did they?” Marcie was reaching boiling point.

"They're good Christian boys and girls, and they deserve a medal for trying to stop you,” said a middle aged woman who went to church often on Sundays.

"Please, please.” Jonathan held up his hands. “Just give me a chance to prove that what I say is true."

The mood was becoming ugly and the barman and the woman who gave the change for the machines joined them. But the manager knew he was outgunned if all of these pensioners started a riot over these crazies in the pub. He cursed the fact that he had no security staff in place this time in the morning. Bouncers were expensive. It was bad enough having fights and violence in the hotel to be dealt with most nights without it spilling over into mornings as well. He tried a different tack. “Let's all calm down a bit here. I'll move these nutters on, and you lot go back to your machines and enjoy yourselves. You don't want to spoil your day just because some religious nuts come into the pub. Go on, all of you. Next drink's on me for the entire busloads. Off you go."

The pensioners stampeded for the bar, and the barman and the woman who gave change went back to their rightful places.

The manager paled as he realised his mistake. “Beer, house wine and softies only,” he shouted, but his voice was lost in the babble of pensioners ordering scotch and brandy.
That'll cost me,
he thought. Aloud he once again asked the three of them to move on.

"Oh, we're going alright.” Marcie stood and they all moved toward the door. “Stick your lousy pub where it belongs."

"Charming."

Several of the pensioners, clutching free drinks, joined them and escorted them to the door yelling insults at them. Three very large men, one medium-sized man and one very small one, who had been alerted to the trouble by observing what was happening through the window, met them at the door.

Scarface, Big Bottom, Sampson, Jones P. junior and the dwarf wedged themselves between the pensioners and their friends.

"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.

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.

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 gofers 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.