A Handicap of the Devil? (30 page)

"...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.

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 and 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."

"Don't be scared. You've done it before. We'll all be there for you."

"You don't understand.... Could you others please leave us for a moment?"

Jonathan was silent as the others trooped from the room, then he turned back to Marcie, “I can't do it, I'm a fraud."

"Fraud?"

"Up to a point. I did see God. Everything up to my walking on the river is true, but that bit isn't."

"I saw you with my own eyes."

"There are the remains of an old jetty just under the water. I climbed on it while everyone else was looking elsewhere and walked along it. Marcie, I can't walk on water."

Marcie thought for a moment. “You fooled me. You have to fool them."

"Easier said than done. I don't want to go through with it. I'll be found out."

"What do we tell the media and all those people out there? You have a headache? You don't feel like walking on water today? What do you suggest?"

"I don't know."

"Jonathan, I've put my life on the line for you here. My credibility, not just as a journo, but as a person, is on display. You can't let me down now. More than that, if you pull this off we start the international ball rolling. It won't just be the small number of people who believe in you now. It could change the course of world history. There's bit at stake here."

"I know, I know. Ah, God, why did I do it in the first place? Why did I lie about it?"

"Well you did and now you've got to have a go. You've got to pull this off.” Marcie gripped both of his hands and stared intensely into his eyes. “Jonathan, whatever the truth or otherwise of the walking on water thing, I believe in you."

"I wish I'd just stayed dead. Purgatory, or wherever God was going to send me, can't be this bad."

"Call on God."

"It's no use. He won't talk to me until the whole thing is finished."

"Get Bugs and Thumper to contact him."

"They're at home being looked after by Mrs. O'Reilly."

Marcie punched Jonathan's number into her cell phone. “Mrs. O'Reilly? It's Marcie Mablegrove ringing for Jonathan. Can you please put the phone next to Jonathan's rabbits?"

Jonathan heard an amazed squawk from the phone.

Marcie continued, “Please don't ask questions, Mrs. O'Reilly. This is really important to Jonathan.... I know you think he's a blasphemer, and I know you don't believe he can.... Yes, Mrs. O'Reilly, I'm sure you do and so does your local priest, and I imagine the Pope does too. All I can say is watch your television in the next little while, because they are bringing Jonathan's walk on water live into your living room in a few minutes.... You think God will be angry if you have anything to do with it? How angry will he be if it happens to be true and you get in the way of it succeeding?"

There was a silence on the phone for a few minutes and then Thumper's sleepy voice came on the line. “What's the matter? We haven't had our eight hours yet.” Rabbits need at least eight hours sleep in the daytime, and Bugs and Thumper were always testy if woken during their sleep time.

Marcie passed the phone to Jonathan. “It's Thumper and she's complaining about sleep deprivation."

"Thumper, it's Jonathan. I wouldn't wake you up if it weren't very important. I have something special to ask, and if you do it, I promise you and Bugs will get a whole fresh box of black sunflower seeds."

Both Bugs and Thumper were immediately attentive.

"It is very important that you contact God for me right now, please, and tell him that I have to have the power to walk on water immediately."

"What do you want us to do?” Thumper's voice still had a tired quaver.

"Listen very carefully Thumper, you too Bugs. You have to contact God and tell him to give me the power to walk on water right now. If he can do that, we'll save the world."

"We can't remember all that. How about we contact him and put him on the phone?"

"Okay, but be really quick."

There was a pause and then Bug's sleepy voice came on the line. “There's a message. You better hear it."

God's voice came on line. “Hi, this is God here. Don't go away because your message is really important to us. St. Peter and I are off on holiday, but do leave a message and we'll get back to you in an aeon or two. Have a nice century and don't speak until after the tone."

"You wouldn't believe it. God has message bank.” Jonathan waited for the tone. “God, this is Jonathan. If you don't get back to me in the next few minutes, all might be lost. I urgently need the power to walk upon water to convince people down here that I'm for real. God, if you can hear me, pick up the phone. Please, please, pick up that phone. The survival of the human race depends on it."

There was silence on the line and then Thumper's little voice came on. “Can we go back to sleep now? We're really tired."

"Yes, go back to sleep,” said Jonathan.