A Handicap of the Devil? (12 page)

Jonathan stood on the pavement outside the railway station whistling tunelessly as he went about his task. He had run the pamphlets off on the office photocopier the previous afternoon before leaving work. An attractive woman with a ponytail wearing rather severe black business attire took a pamphlet. She put on a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, read the pamphlet, and then watched him for some time from the other side of the street. She looked vaguely familiar, but Jonathan couldn't place where he had seen her before. After a few minutes she went away.

A scruffily dressed pot-bellied man of Middle Eastern appearance took a pamphlet and handed Jonathan a card at the same time. He spoke impeccable upper-class English. “I say, if you're handing these out without a permit, you'll get locked up don'tchaknow? Let me know if I can be of service, old boy.” He walked quickly away throwing the pamphlet into the bin as he went.

Jonathan looked at the card. The legend on it read:
I. Faarkham, solicitor
. Jonathon put the card in his pocket. “
Ambulance chaser
."

A woman took a pamphlet and threw it into the same bin as she walked away. Several people refused to take them and others manoeuvred as far away from him as possible as they passed.

Oh well, nothing good ever comes easily.

The arrivals had slowed to a trickle and Jonathan looked nervously at his watch. It was 8.40, and he realised that he would have to quit in a few more minutes and then run to be on time at work.

Just a few more minutes.
A man and a woman walked past and ignored the offered pamphlets.

And then it happened. He suddenly found himself surrounded by a group of people who pushed and pulled him as they shouted insults. Where they came from he didn't know, as he had been unaware of their approach. There were both men and women, and the men were dressed for the most part in suits that did not quite fit properly. The women were power dressed, and one of them lost a shoulder pad in the fray. They were chanting ‘fake, fake, fake, fake', and Jonathan was sprayed with evil smelling spittle from their unclean mouths as the shouting increased in volume. Someone wrenched the pamphlets from his grasp and flung them onto the footpath, to be whipped this way and that by the chill winter's wind.

"Here, that'll be enough of that.” Salvation in the form of two police constables was at hand. They literally threw bodies off Jonathan until finally they stood, truncheons drawn, in the centre of the circle of angry faces. They kept Jonathan between them as they faced in either direction and threatened the crowd with their truncheons.

"Back off, back off,” they both shouted. The mob, not wanting to tangle with the law and more particularly with their truncheons, gave ground, until there was a reasonable distance between them and the police. The chanting subsided and all was suddenly quiet. Most of the people involved in the fracas moved quickly away, but the braver among them stayed. The policemen relaxed a little as they realised that they had controlled the situation and quickly. This would look good on their reports—quelling a mini-riot outside the North Terrace Railway Station in no time flat. They knew that the police security cameras were recording all.

"What's going on here? What's this all about?"

"This joker here is a fraud,” piped up a scruffily dressed lawyer with a three-day growth of beard and greasy collar length hair. For indeed that is who had attacked Jonathan, a mob of lawyers put up to it by Jones P. senior and alerted by I. Faarkham. They had descended on the station to attack him the moment they heard he was handing out pamphlets. They were one of a number of flying squads from lawyer's offices around the city organised to move at a moment's notice to subvert any moves that Jonathan made.

"A fraud, eh?” The first policeman gave Jonathan a hard look. “And how's that, sir? Has he taken you and the rest of these people here down for money then?"

"Has he, now?” The other policeman growled, looking at Jonathan and tapping his baton on his palm.

"I have done no such thing. I was simply handing out pamphlets when this bunch of louts and ruffians set upon me."

"Louts and ruffians?” The shorter of the two policemen looked the mob over. “I recognise several lawyers amongst this group of people. Upstanding citizens all. Let's hear it from you lot, then. What's a bunch of lawyers doing attacking a pamphlet person on North Terrace, eh?"

"Have a look at the pamphlets he's handing out and you'll know the reason why."

"Yeah, he's telling everyone he's on a mission from God."

"We're all good Christians here, constable. He's a blasphemer."

The taller of the two policemen, the one with the hairy mole on his chin, who was himself devout, agreed. “Second coming now is it? Won't do. Won't do. In my view blasphemy of that sort ought to be against the law."

The crowd noisily concurred.

The non-devout constable without the hairy mole interrupted, “However, it is against the law for people to go round punching other people up because they believe different things. So I'll be asking you all to be on your way, or else I'll be forced to take you to the lockup and charge you with affray and creating a mischief in a public place. Wouldn't look too good on the old resume, and what would the boss say, eh? Now piss off, the lot of you, and don't let's see this sort of thing in the streets again."

All except three of the mob took the moleless constable's admonition seriously and left. The man with the three-day growth said, “Ask the bugger if he's got a permit to be handing out pamphlets. Go on, ask him."

Police mole turned to Jonathan once more, “It is a city ordinance that people handing things out or busking in the city have to apply for a permit. Costs forty dollars if I remember correctly. You do have a permit then, I suppose, don't you now?"

"No, I don't."

"Well then, sir, I'm afraid you happen to be in breach of the law, and I shall have to ask you for your name and address."

"Just tell him to piss off and not come back,” said moleless. “Think of the paper work."

"I'm afraid that won't do. There's been a serious infraction of good order here this morning, and it's all caused by a person handing out offensive pamphlets illegally here on North Terrace. This calls for a report and a summons to follow for an appearance in the Magistrates’ Court. You know how hot the council is on people doing things without permits."

"What about people who attack other people for whatever reason? They just go scot-free I suppose?” Jonathan was angry. He'd been poked in the eye and kicked in the leg, his jacket was torn and his tie had been pulled so tight it had almost strangled him. There was dirt on his trousers.

"Just keep your lip buttoned if you know what's good for you. Name and address?"

"How can I tell you if my lip is buttoned?"

"One more bit of cheek from you and I'll run you in straight away. I can think of three or four charges I could lay that would put you in the cells until your court hearing tomorrow morning. Got it?"

Jonathan meekly gave his name and address, as the three remaining lawyers left the scene.

He arrived at the office a few minutes before starting time to find Eastman reading the paper. Eastman glanced at him quickly and then looked away. Jonathan could see on the front page of the paper that the exploits in the house where he had temporarily died were still making news. The police suspected a major drug ring had operated from the house, and the reporters had got hold of the story of the corpse who walks. Indeed this theme was the leading item in news of all media for the past two days.

The policeman and woman swore that the body under the blanket had been lifeless when they ceased trying to resuscitate it, and then somehow it got up and walked out.

HE ROSE FROM THE DEAD,
screamed the headline in the Daily Bugle. Jonathan wondered what God made of the headline, if he read the papers.

Eastman looked across at him and pointed to the headline, “This sort of sounds like what you were telling me about yesterday. You got hit on the head, didn't you?"

"Yes I did."

"What were you of all people doing in a druggies’ house?"

"Who said I was at that place?"

"Don't treat me like a fool, Goodfellow. It all ties in. And look at the computer generated identity photo on page three.” He turned to the page. Jonathan moved to Eastman's desk and found an almost perfect likeness of himself staring back at him from the page. It was the page usually reserved in the Bugle for almost naked young ladies with large protuberances. There were many disappointed Bugle reading men that morning.

"Alright, it was me. Everything I told you yesterday happened. I did go to heaven and was sent back on a mission from God to save the world."

"You got hit on the head and had a funny dream while you were unconscious more like it. You ought to have a check up. You've probably got concussion or something worse."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"We'll leave that one aside. At least go to the cops and clear yourself."

"I'd rather not involve the police at this juncture."

"At what juncture then?"

"Not at all.” Jonathan appealed to Eastman, a man he had worked with for over twenty years, although the two of them knew almost as little about one another as they had on day one of their acquaintance. “Please don't tell the police or anyone else. I have to do what I have to do, and they would only complicate things."

"You sure you feel okay.” Jonathan could have sworn there was concern in Eastman's voice.

"Fine, I'm really fine."

Later that morning Jonathan took a phone call. It was a female reporter from the Daily Bugle.

"Make it quick.” Miss Bloomingdale handed him the phone, farted loudly and went back to reading her diet newsletter.

"Was that an explosion I heard?” There was surprise in the reporter's voice.

"Not exactly."

"Is anyone in any danger?"

"Yes and no.” Jonathan waved his hand around to clear the air near his face. Bloomingdale devoured half a cantaloupe and let rip once more. “It sort of depends on your perspective, but no, not really."

The reporter introduced herself as Marcie Mablegrove from the Daily Bugle. She asked him to meet her for lunch, and cut off his questions promising to explain all when they met.

The Bucket of Blood Hotel
was full of diners catching a quick lunch before heading back to work. It was a gloomy little pub, favoured by journalists and by junior public servants from the nearby government offices as a place for a good, cheap counter lunch. The make-your-own-sandwich counter was crowded with people buttering bread and rolls and slapping on fillings. Flies buzzed around the food, and the people and the air seemed as though they had not been changed for a century or so. The lights were deliberately kept low to prevent people from noticing the rundown and dirty state of the hotel.
The Bucket of Blood
was owned by a mean and greedy owner intent on squeezing the last drop of profit from the place. He watered down the beer and the spirits. So far he had got away with his shady and underhand practices.

Jonathan stood uncertainly in the doorway peering into the gloomy and crowded room. Nearly all of the people were in groups of two or more, and through the open door of the gaming lounge he could see scores of pensioners sitting staring at the pretty flashing lights of poker machines. The strange electronic pinging and short, quasi-musical phrases were audible above the noise of the lunchtime crowd in the bistro.

Jonathan excused himself as he moved awkwardly through the tables and chairs toward the young woman sitting alone at a table at the end of the room. Several people had to move their chairs in to let Jonathan pass, and one fat man had to stand and move aside so he could squeeze past. Jonathan was overly profuse in his apologies each time. After considerable effort and embarrassment, he at last reached Marcie Mablegrove.

She sat watching him through her startlingly green eyes as he apologetically threaded his way to her table. As he drew nearer, he recognised the black horn-rimmed glasses and pony tail of the woman who had taken a pamphlet and watched from the opposite side of the street early that morning. She put the remains of her half-eaten salad sandwich—wholemeal bread, hold the cheese, salt, pepper and mayo—on the plate before her and half rose as they shook hands.

"Marcie Mablegrove from the Bugle, and you're John Goodfellow, right?"

"Jonathan, thank you."

"Sorry, Jonathon Goodfellow."

"Jonathan with two a's. My father got it wrong on the birth certificate."

They sat and she looked at him with curiosity. He was tall and thin, pale and balding slightly in the front. His eyes were blue and intense looking. Much seemed to bubble below the surface of this man, and he was attractive in the strange way older men sometimes become attractive. The lines on the face bespoke personality, and yet, in contradiction to this impression, he seemed diffident and awkward as he took his seat opposite her.

Jonathan had the slight panic attack he always underwent when confronted by a member of the opposite sex. Even so little as sitting next to an attractive woman on the train made him feel anxious and ill at ease. He had never been at ease with women and did not understand them. What man does? But Jonathan's understanding and ability to cope with members of the opposite sex were far less than that of the average male. He had lived an asexual life because of his diffidence towards women.

He felt stirrings within as he looked at this attractive, dark haired, green-eyed young woman siting opposite him, but the feelings were quickly suppressed as his usual panic took over. The panic had eased and subsided a bit as the years passed, but those feelings were still with him.

"I took the liberty of buying you a beer.” She indicated the glass in front of him. “Are you going to eat?"

"Thank you, no. I ate my sandwich on the way here. Why did you ask me to meet you? I'm not really a newsworthy sort of person."

"Oh yes you are.” Marcie threw The Bugle across the table towards him.
HE ROSE FROM THE DEAD,
stared back in large black headlines. “You're the bloke who bumped into me coming out of the house. I'll lay odds of a thousand to one you're the ghost who walks."