A Handicap of the Devil? (14 page)

Marcie looked at him with an appraising look. “You keep beautiful, gentle little rabbits and you compost and raise worms. You wouldn't happen to be a vegetarian as well I don't suppose?"

"Vegetarian? No."

"Pity."

"Well, I mean, I've never really given the matter any thought. Most vegetarians of my experience have been pale and wan individuals seemingly without much energy."

"Do I look pale and wan or as if I lack energy?” There was fire in her eyes.

"Well, no. No you don't."

"The listless, pale mob are usually only vegos for the short term and you know why?” Jonathan shook his head. “It's because they don't know how to be healthy vegetarians. You've got to work at it. Eat the right things. Lots of soy products and make sure you get the right trace elements so you get the building blocks for protein. Supplements when you need them. It's a bit of a science really."

"I suppose so."

"You've never considered it?"

"It's never crossed my mind."

"Let me ask you a question. Do you love animals?"

"Yes."

"I see,” said Marcie dryly. “You love them so much you eat them every day."

"I.... Well, it's.... I don't think.... “Jonathan trailed off awkwardly.

Marcie softened and saved the situation. “Sorry, sorry, I'm not really an evangelist for the vegetarian cause. I get bewildered by people like you who do good things in the world like looking after soil and little furry animals, yet can't make what seems to me to be a very small leap in logic."

The rabbits were quiet in their box as the cab took them back to the boarding house. Jonathan let the rabbits out on the lawn. They hopped over to the compost heap and began eating some fresh weeds off the top of it.

"I'll get you some more dinner if you want it."

"This is fine,” said Thumper.

"We're happy with this and lots of grass.” Bugs was munching noisily.

"We had a nice carrot each already,” said Thumper.

"You come inside if you see a cat."

"Or down our burrow,” said Bugs.

"Do you really eat ... animals?” asked Thumper. The pink eyes of the rabbits glowed as they stared at Jonathan.

"Yes, but not rabbits."

Jonathan went inside and to bed feeling guilty. He dreamed of Marcie up to her neck in worms and with compost and small white rabbits all around her.

Marcie arrived early for work at the Daily Bugle next morning. She was still stunned by what she had learned the day before. With the zeal of the newly converted, she set about her task in earnest. Her first move was to book the Blofield West Town Hall for the meeting on Saturday week. Her next move was to go to her editor, Big Jim Pierce and explain at some length the story as she understood it.

Big Jim listened patiently until she was finished. He was a busy man, and his piles and peptic ulcer were both giving him hell. However, unlike many newspaper editors, Big Jim had a policy of really listening to his reporters and considering what they had to say. Besides, Marcie was his favourite at The Bugle, and he had high hopes for her career. Big Jim considered himself something of a father figure to Marcie. Marcie considered Big Jim a pompous fool.

He was silent for a moment reflecting on what he had just heard. “You've been working hard lately, Marcie. I think you should take some time off."

"Boss, this is on the level, ridgey dij, fair dinkum..."

...Big Jim held up his hand and she trailed off. “That's enough. You've done a great job finding out the name of this bloke. You can run with it to the extent of printing the story and naming him. You can even put the fact that he is holding a meeting in the Blofield West Town Hall in the article. But the thing you must not do is to directly associate yourself with this ... this.... “Big Jim fought for the words. After a lifetime as a wordsmith it was rare for him to falter in his flow of conversation. Marcie was important to him and to the Daily Bugle. He cast about for a means to communicate to her that he didn't want her involved in something that could only lead to tears.

"You can't become personally involved in something that is obviously some sort of scam. And you must not bring The Bugle into disrepute by any suggestion that we are supporting this nutter's campaign. Is that clear?"

Marcie tried the direct wide-eyed-eyelash-fluttering-straight-to-the-boss-routine that had served her well in the past. “Jim, I know what I saw."

"You know what you think you saw. Talking rabbits! Now get out of here and do some real work, and let me get on with the things I have to do to run this newspaper."

Marcie knew better than to argue once the fluttering eyelashes routine had failed with Big Jim. She left the room and prepared her story on the name of
The Man Who Rose From The Dead
for the next morning's paper. It would be posted in advance on the Bugle's web site as breaking news.

She then went on to construct a feature article for the Saturday paper on Jonathan and his claims to be the Messiah. She based the article on an interview with Jonathan that she invented for the purpose. Marcie was not the first journalist in the world to work this way. She finished both the story for tomorrow's paper, and the feature, with the news that Jonathan would hold a meeting at Blofield West Town Hall. Then she settled down in her chair with a cup of coffee and began to call prominent people to enlist their support.

The first person she spoke to was Jones P. Senior in his role as president of the Lawyers’ Society. Jones P. senior told her that he would be at the meeting if at all possible. She did not mention Jonathan's name, realising that Jonathan himself was probably at work at Jones P.'s office right then.

The second call she made was to the State Premier's office. The premier was unavailable Saturday week, and under no circumstances would he attend such a meeting if he were available. The leader of the opposition was likewise unhappy at attending so controversial an event even though it was in his electorate. No other politician or leading businessman or woman was game enough to support Jonathan's campaign, nor would they appear at the meeting. Church leaders were equally unwilling to become involved, although two made open offers to meet Marcie and Jonathan if they cared to attend such a meeting. From the tone of voice used, Marcie realised that their objective was to counsel both her and Jonathan to reconsider what they were doing.

It's hard to interest anyone.
Marcie stared into her empty coffee cup.
Still, it's not surprising. If anyone had dropped this on me a few days ago, I'd have suggested seeing a doctor and soon.

In another part of town, someone was indeed interested. Jones P. senior stared at his computer monitor for some moments after he finished reading Marcie's article on the breaking news page of the Bugle's web site. He leaned back in his chair and smoked one of his cheap, thin cigars, thinking deeply about what the article contained and about his telephone conversation with Marcie.

Through the interior window of his office he could see Goodfellow sitting at his desk staring at his computer terminal with a strange set expression on his face. Jonathan had his dark glasses on, and Jones P. senior reasoned that his conjunctivitis must have been playing up again. He came to a decision, brought up the e-mail address list marked ‘lawyers’ once again and began tapping out a message.

The next morning people all over the state read Marcie's amazing news item in the Bugle. The dwarf, Cowley, Sampson and Old Crone read it. Sampson had gone into town to pick up some supplies to take back to the abandoned houseboat where they were squatting. Cowley read it aloud and all were amazed.

After she finished reading the article, Cowley looked up from the paper. “The cops will be calling him in for a little chat. He can give them descriptions of us and that ain't good. We need to lie low."

In the darkest corner of the city two heavy set men—one with a monstrous scar on his face and the other who limped—read the story.

The man with the limp screwed the paper up into a ball and hurled it at the wall. “Blofield West Town Hall Saturday week. Put it in the diary."

"We ain't got no diary."

"Well, make a note of it."

"I can't write."

"Just remember it, you dickhead."

"Who you calling a dickhead?"

The two heavy set men began to wrestle, knocking furniture over as they did, until finally the Scarfaced man sat astride of his cohort.

"Give in?” He sneered as he throttled the man under him.

"Never,” gurgled the other man, trying desperately to break the iron grip on his neck. Scarface applied more pressure.

"Okay, okay,” The man with the limp was allowed to rise.

Scarface went to the fridge, opened it, and threw one of the two cans of beer he extracted from it across to where the man with the limp stood gently massaging his throat.

"Saturday week.” Muttered Scarface. “We'll learn him."

The other man grunted in agreement and reflected ruefully that this was the fourth time in a row that Scarface had defeated him in their friendly wrestling bouts.

The police picked Jonathan up that evening as he left work. Detective Sergeant James and Detective Constable Honey interviewed him in one of the tiny and intimidating little interview rooms at police headquarters. Jonathan told them everything that had happened to him from the time he left work on the day in question, until he miraculously returned from the dead.

The sergeant scratched his five o'clock shadow and farted foully as Jonathan finished his story. The hamburger, chips and coke he had ingested for lunch had disagreed mightily with his digestive system. If he had bothered to have a health check-up, he would have found that cirrhosis of the liver was moderately advanced. It was the cause of the terrible indigestion he suffered more and more often as time went by.

He moved to the window and opened it in deference to the female detective constable. He rather fancied Detective Constable Honey and realised that farting was not a good way to attract members of the female sex. That could wait until after you knew them somewhat more intimately.

At least my farts are silent and they don't stink
, he thought, not realising that the other things a health check-up would have revealed were his extensive hearing loss and loss of sense of smell.

Sergeant James did not believe Jonathan's story. At least he didn't believe the bit about going to heaven. He thought that Jonathan had either hallucinated after a blow to the head or that Jonathan was a nutter and the blow had just brought things to a head, so to speak. Either way, Detective Sergeant James felt that it was highly unlikely that Jonathan was mixed up in anything remotely shady. He just wasn't the type. He took detailed descriptions of the four handicapped people and told Jonathan that he was free to go for the present time. He further told Jonathan to keep his nose clean because the police would be watching him, and to avoid going into the houses of strangers in future, no matter how much he needed a cab.

Jonathan meekly agreed with the sergeant as he usually meekly agreed with everything people told him to do. He did hand both the sergeant and the female constable a pamphlet each as he thanked them and left.

The sergeant blew his nose on his pamphlet before chucking it into the rubbish bin as a way of impressing Detective Constable Honey.

It didn't.

Now Marcie had an interest in the underdog. She understood Jonathan, and she could see the man underneath the self-effacing facade. She thought she could see the man he might have become if he hadn't been conditioned from early childhood to consider himself a worthless wimp whose opinions didn't rate.

Jonathan was meek, as she herself had once been meek. He was one of those people that have been put upon by life, circumstances and by bullies. The bullies who seem to exist in this world for no other reason than to bully, send up and make fun of the meek people who also live in the world.

Marcie knew what it was to be made fun of. She was now in her early thirties and was a reasonably good-looking woman. However, in the conventional and existing idea of physical beauty, she wasn't as thin as her peers and the bullies supposed she should be. What many people, and the bullies especially, fail to understand, is that beauty is not only in the eye of the beholder. It is also very much within every living person. What is the point to looking like Elle McPherson or Jennifer Lopez if you are a nine-carat bitch? Not that Elle or Jennifer are of necessity nine-carat bitches. Or for that matter, what is the point to perceived physical beauty if you don't develop skills and personality to complement it? What will you do for friends when that beauty begins to fade, as it inevitably will?

And what is feminine beauty anyway? The Romans would have laughed to scorn most of the twiggy little things conventionally considered beautiful in our day. They preferred their women with a bit of weight to them. A bit of flesh you could get your hands on and your teeth into.

When Marcie had been a teenager, she suffered much agony about her imagined lack of beauty. So many young people like her were labouring under the massive burden of media, which liked to point up the truly conventionally beautiful people. This forced ordinary looking mortals into paroxysms of guilt about how they looked. There was also much bullying from boys and girls towards any girl who was not twiggy, tanned, usually blonde and who did not wear the right clothes and makeup. You had to like the right music and rock stars. You could not be so uncool as to not smoke cigarettes, have sex, drink booze or do drugs. If you were not cool then you were out.

In any case, whether you were fleshy and a little obese—and therefore considered beautiful in Roman times—or are non-fleshy and thin in the modern world, the important thing is the nature and the personality. What man wants to live with a skinny bitch for fifty or sixty years when he could live a much happier life married to someone less conventionally beautiful? Someone an ancient Roman might have killed for—a woman who had a sparkling personality and a giving and happy nature? If Miss Bloomingdale had possessed a wonderful, fun loving persona and a giving nature, a Roman gladiator or two might have been happy to die for her. Farts or no farts.