A Handicap of the Devil? (21 page)

"Rather we should convert him to our way of thinking,” said Jonathan. “No violence, and the first thing we do is get rid of the drugs."

Scarface and Bigbottom paled.

"Hang on.” The dwarf was unhappy. “Couldn't we sell them and use the money for our campaign?"

"They harm people. They have to go."

"They belong to Mr. Big,” said Scarface Cecil. “We have to pay for them after we sell them."

"Mr. Big gets agitated when he gets ripped off.” Bigbottom Bertie's lower lip trembled. “People tend to die."

"Get killed,” corrected Scarface Cecil.

"The drugs go, no arguments."

"Okay, you're the boss, boss.” Cecil gave in, but he and Bertie were worried men. They had heard what Mr. Big's associates were capable of doing with a pair of bolt cutters.

Jonathan and his disciples dragged sacks of drugs out onto the deck of the houseboat. Sampson and the dwarf quickly hid several bags of marijuana in the beanbag chairs and in the dwarf's copious pockets.

Marcie cut each sack open with a knife, and the others tipped the contents over the side. Then they watched as the heroin powder, cocaine, amphetamine pills, ecstasy and marijuana either sank or floated off on the waters of the slowest major river system in the world.

A large number of wise-looking pelicans watched with interest but did not interfere.

There was feverish activity centred around the houseboat over the next two weeks, as Jonathan and his disciples organised their campaign. Pamphlets were printed, banners were made, newspapers, radio and television stations were contacted.

Jonathan gave his instructions. “We need to contact the people who count. The prime minister and other government leaders. The premier, business and church leaders. We need to convince these people that this crusade is on the up and up. Secondly we need to work at convincing the people in the street. Your ordinary man or woman."

"How we gonna do all that, boss?” asked Bertie.

Jonathan outlined tasks for each of them. Marcie was deputised to make contact with people in high places and to circulate press releases working from her desk at the Daily Bugle. As the only one with any P.R. skills, she took on most of the publicity work. The others worked in various ways. Cecil and Bertie solicited ‘donations’ from their friends and acquaintances. The rest of them made the banners and prepared for the evangelistic work they were about to undertake.

Marcie found many obstacles in her way. Her phone calls to people in high places were not returned except for the one to the premier's office, which returned a fax so insulting that Marcie threw it immediately into the rubbish bin. Press releases did not make their way into the various media. An application for a licence to hand out pamphlets in the mall was rejected. They held council.

"It's almost as if there's some orchestrated campaign to oppose what we're trying to do,” Marcie reported. “People I've known for years hang up in my ear as soon as I broach the subject. I've been warned not to push our cause during working hours anymore. The photocopier has been put out of bounds, and my mobile phone account is being checked. The worst thing about it is that I feel like I've achieved nothing."

"I don't know quite what we can do,” said Jonathan. “We have to get our message to people somehow."

"Let's just go and do it.” The dwarf was militant.

"Yeah,” said Bertie. “We can't let these punks tell us what to do. We got a message, we go and give people the message."

Cowley stood up. “We want to talk to people and hand out pamphlets in the mall, we go and do it. It's a public place. How can anyone tell us we can't use it?"

The others agreed. Jonathan held up his hand to stop the noise. “If we do that it means breaking the law and possibly getting into trouble."

"Do you think God would worry about getting into trouble?” Cowley scoffed.

"If the law is unjust we must break it,” Marcie looked down at the deck as if seeking inspiration. “That was Martin Luther King I think, and he was right."

"Alright then,” returned Jonathan. “If we are going to break the law to get our message across then let it be done in a spectacular manner."

Marcie looked up. “The premier is addressing a meeting of pensioners in Rundle Mall at midday tomorrow. We could get a fair bit of mileage from an appearance. All the media will be there and we could get our banners in front of the cameras and maybe crack it for an interview."

The next morning was cold and a light drizzle fell constantly. They piled their banners and pamphlets into the powder blue second-hand pie van that Jonathan had bought to replace the stolen van. Sampson had returned the black van to its owners by parking it in the driveway it was stolen from.

The idea was to arrive in the mall with minimum fuss behind the premier. That way their banners would catch the television cameras, which would all be pointed in the right direction. Marcie planned it like a military operation. Every last detail was accounted for and she planned for them to arrive after the premier had begun talking. This would negate any possibility of the police moving them on or arresting them before they had a chance to maximise their publicity.

The dwarf went on ahead as their scout and rang Marcie on her mobile phone. “This is alpha one to base.” The dwarf was a devotee of spy novels. “Alpha one to base, do you read me, over? Come in, Marcie, over."

"Just tell us what's going on.” Marcie held the phone away from her ear so the others could hear.

"Hey, okay, keep your hair on. The premier just started talking and there's a huge crowd here. Park in the side street as agreed and move in. I'll meet you there. Out."

He hung up and Sampson tooled the van into the side street and parked as close to the mall as possible. They could see the dwarf at the end of the street waiting for them as they climbed from the van.

The rain had stopped, although the grey and leaden sky was threatening to break open again at any moment. They unfurled their banners as they hit the street corner and moved as quickly as possible to a position directly behind the premier.

The leader of the state stood on a portable stage where the old fountain used to stand. He was directing his speech to two-and-a-half thousand pensioners who had come to hear the launching of the governing party's social welfare policy for the coming election. The premier reached a crescendo as he blasted the opposition party's lack of any policy in this area, when Jonathan and his disciples appeared behind him with their banners. These read:

PREPARE FOR THE 2ND COMING

At first there was a titter, which became a muted laugh, which became an outbreak of loud laughter as people tied in the premier with the banners. The premier faltered in mid speech and finally stopped as he realised that nobody could hear him, even though he was miked. His minders turned around and saw the banners and gestured to the premier who also turned and saw what was going on.

"Get rid of them,” the premier hissed to his nearest minder. This man, a florid, angry-looking individual, gestured for Jonathan's group to clear the area. They did not move. The T.V. cameras focused on the banners as the premier fought to reassert himself. The laughter peaked and began to fall.

"It seems as though I've got some support from the God squad. Never mind, let them stay there, I need all the help I can get.” The premier swung back into his speech with renewed gusto. He had just reached the part about how much his party would do for pensioners once re-elected, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had done nothing whatever in the previous term, when all hell broke loose.

From out of a side street further up the mall and behind the listening crowd came a huge mob of slightly grubby lawyers. They carried banners reading:

LAWYERS FOR CHRIST

and:

BEWARE FALSE PROPHETS

The lawyers began a chant of,
False ... False ... False ... False,
as they advanced down the mall and began to cleave through the ranks of pensioners. Wheelchairs were shoved aside. Old men and ladies had their crutches kicked out from under them. People were in danger of being trampled. Some of the pensioners fought back and soon fists and feet were flying. One prominent Q.C. was struck down with a terrific blow from a crutch. Another was hit in the groin by the armrest of a wheelchair.

A ruddy-faced bruiser of a pensioner, who liked an occasional knuckle, tackled I. Faarkham. The two of them wrestled, gouged and bit one another as fights raged over the top of their writhing bodies.

The premier's minders formed a ring around him and hustled him back to the waiting limousine that had ferried him the four hundred and twenty metres from parliament house. “You bastards will pay for this,” spat an outraged minder as he went past Jonathan and company.

The situation was rapidly degenerating as the lawyers forced their way through the pensioners in a determined effort to get at Jonathan's party. By now the police had become involved, and the four police horses and dozen policemen and women were trying to restore order.

Adelaide is a sleepy little place where not much happens. The greatest level of political violence in the past thirty years had involved then Prime Minister Billy McMahon being hit by a pie after an election speech at Adelaide Town Hall. Reinforcements were sent for and were on the way as the lawyers came to grips with Jonathan and his crew. The police and pensioners were heavily involved.

Bertie and Cecil went for it. This was the sort of stuff they understood. Lawyers were flung from the fray as the two gangsters got stuck in. Sampson was also using his bulk to advantage. He had just knuckled his third Q.C., when a cosh-wielding junior law clerk felled him from behind. The only other of the Jonathan push who seemed to relish the engagement was Old Crone, who was doing considerable damage with one of her crutches.

The noise was indescribable as people shrieked and yelled. The air was thick with obscenities, grunts and gasps. Sampson got back to his feet in time to block a kick aimed at the dwarf's head. He grabbed the offending lawyer and used him as a battering ram to clear a path to lead his team to safety.

Police reinforcements arrived at this juncture, and the noise and violence increased. Bertie, Cecil and Old Crone were still behind them in the crowd, fighting hard. The last sight Sampson had was of Cecil karate chopping Detective Sergeant James as Old Crone thumped Detective Constable Honey with her crutch. Despite the noise Sampson could hear her whoop of delight.

Sampson, Jonathan and his remaining disciples managed to get to the side street where their van was parked. They tore themselves free from the melee, dropped their banners and ran for the van—hotly pursued by a gaggle of police and of lawyers screaming for their blood.

Sampson reversed at breakneck speed out of the side street, scattering motorists and pedestrians as he went. He rammed the gear stick into second before the backward motion ceased, and burnt rubber as he flattened the accelerator and sped off along North Terrace. Several police motorcyclists and police cars were right behind them. And right behind the police were a number of lawyers on bicycles and motor scooters.

"How we gonna lose this lot, man?” Sampson shouted to Jonathan over the roar of the motor. “They've got too much speed for us."

"Turn right at Hutt Street and right again at Pirie. I have an idea. It's a long shot, but it has to work."

Sampson ran several red lights and caused major chaos as he left the pursuers in his wake. The chaos at the traffic lights bought them precious moments, and they were well in front as they skidded to a halt in front of the blue door of Jones P. & Son, Lawyers.

Jones P. junior was late for an important meeting. He had his hand on the door about to open it, when he was lifted off his feet and carried backwards across the lobby by the inrush of bodies.

"Oof ... what are you ... Goodfellow ... wait till my father.... “the flow of verbiage was checked by Sampson's large right fist which hit him right on the point of the jaw knocking him unconscious.

Jonathan rammed home the deadlock, and they ran for the elevator as the sirens outside screamed to full pitch before coming to a stop. The police bikes and cars skidded to a halt. Fists were pounding on the door as the elevator doors closed behind them.

It was dark and cold in the lightless elevator. Sampson shone his pen torch around looking for the panel Jonathan had spoken about. The others felt around the walls for the keyhole.

"Hurry up, hurry up. They'll be in here in a minute.” Cowley was beside herself.

"It's under the real control panel.” Jonathan gave Sampson the key.

"Bingo,” said the dwarf. “Here it be."

Sampson flashed the torch onto the spot indicated by the dwarf and found the keyhole located just under the lift controls. The key slid in smoothly, and he opened the panel to reveal the two buttons.

"Up or down?” Cowley was looking over Sampson's shoulder.

"God said to only push the up button,” said Jonathan.

Sampson pressed the up button and Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass came through the speakers at them. The elevator leapt upwards at incredible speed.

The police smashed a window, and one of their more lithe and agile members climbed in and opened the deadlock to let the others in. Police people and lawyers swarmed into the building and began a frenzied hunt for Jonathan and his disciples. They found Jones P. junior in a crumpled heap on the floor of the lobby, but after being revived he was unable to inform them of which direction the fugitives had taken. He had been knocked completely unconscious by Sampson and knew nothing at all.

The police discounted the elevator after Jones P. senior told them that it hadn't worked for years and was impossible to enter. He himself had his suspicions, which a quick recce of the elevator shaft confirmed for him.

The evil-smelling Detective Sergeant James—sporting a bloodstained bandage on his head from his fisticuffs in the Mall—arrived to take charge of the investigation. He frightened the life out of Miss Bloomingdale by suddenly lurching through the door and bellowing at her, Eastman and the other office staff: