A Handicap of the Devil? (3 page)

Jones P. senior and his three golfing partners played on, although Jones P. was rattled and played poorly for the rest of the round. He never forgot his encounter with the dwarf, for Jones P. senior was not a man who liked to be bested.

After their return over the wall into the orphanage, the boys counted and divided their spoils. Summer was always their busiest time, for in this season the course was always heavily booked. On that particular day, they made a record haul because the dwarf included his winnings in the take, even though the other boys had risked nothing.

That was the start of the dwarf's love affair with the great and ancient game of golf. He saved his money and convinced a member of the orphanage staff to buy him a second-hand driver, a putter, a five iron and a wedge. He practiced constantly on the course when he thought nobody was looking. He got caught and warned off several times, but the staff at the golf club was intrigued with this little chap who played with such determination—and who played so well.

Later, in adulthood, the dwarf was to become a member of another golf club where he won the club championship several times. He had to play with specially made cut-down clubs. The dwarf did extraordinarily well at golf and at a number of other things—until the drugs finally got hold of him. As he became more and more under the influence of the green weed, his game suffered ... until he finally gave it up altogether. Like many other things in his weed-induced torpor, it was all too much trouble.

He drifted in and out of jobs for a while and then onto the dole permanently as he became so hooked on marijuana he became unemployable. It was a pity. Despite the handicap of his size—and the fact that he lost an eye and a leg in an accident involving an exploding illegal whisky still before he left the orphanage—he had shown tremendous potential in many things.

Perhaps he had been doomed from the very start. When the baby dwarf was rescued by the good onion and apple-needing Samaritan, the children's hospital whence he was immediately transferred became aware of something more serious than his stature. The baby was addicted to heroin. Nurses everywhere who come into contact with drug-addicted babies will tell you that there is nothing more pathetic in this world. They weaned the dwarf off his addiction to heroin, but who can say whether this earliest of experiences was responsible for his own later craving for marijuana, or whether it was not?

Whatever the cause, eventually the dwarf was rolling his first joint before breakfast—if he had any food for breakfast—and that is never good news for anyone long or short.

Jonathan and the dwarf reached the living room door and paused while the dwarf negotiated with the people inside. They had barricaded themselves in by placing items of furniture against the door. After much shuffling, pushing and grunting, the door swung open to reveal three people. The dwarf introduced them. “This is Cowley.” He indicated a young woman with no ears and a hump on her back. “And this is Sampson."

A huge, muscular, black youth with his nose missing—and a misshapen hole where the mouth should have been—waved a hand at Jonathan.

"I'm old Crone, old Crone.” The speaker, an older woman, stood off to the side. She had two wooden legs, and supported herself on crutches.

"Hello.” Jonathan was abashed. Never before in his sheltered life had he encountered people with handicaps of any kind. He had always lived in a cloistered, comfortable world where everyone had legs and ears and noses and mouths ... and where no one only came up to your waist. “Do you mind terribly if I use your phone?"

"Haven't got one. Haven't got one.” Old Crone stumped over on her crutches and tried to push him back into the hallway. “Haven't got one. Haven't got one.” She bullied Jonathan against the wall. The ringing of the telephone stopped her. Cowley went over to a desk against the wall, opened a drawer and answered it.

"That's what you get for telling lies,” snapped the dwarf.

"Lies, pies. We don't want him in here. He's a cop, he's a cop."

"I'm not a cop. I fell asleep on the train and had to walk home. It's raining, and I want a taxi."

"He's a cop or a private D, and he's here either to do a bust or evict us, evict us."

"He just wants the phone, Crone. Get off his back."

"Back, Shmack. He smells of cop, smells of cop."

"Someone's been reading you detective stories again, haven't they?"

"Shut up, Shorty. What would you know, you know?"

"Don't call me Shorty, Stumpy."

"Hey, ease off ... both of you.” Sampson manoeuvred between the increasingly agitated dwarf and Old Crone.

While Crone was distracted, Jonathon slid away and escaped the crutches pinning him against the wall. “I'll just go at this stage.” The rain seemed preferable to remaining in this lunatic asylum.

"No, don't go.” Jonathan looked over to the desk where Cowley had finished her phone call. She held a large handgun. Cowley's finger curled around the trigger and aimed the gun at Jonathan's stomach. “That was another call for a drug deal, and we need to know if it's just coincidence he turns up at the same time. Move away from the others into the centre of the room. Hands up and stand with your legs wide apart.... Frisk him Sampson."

"Aw, come off it.” Sampson blushed.

"Just do it."

"You reckon I've been reading detective stories, stories,” muttered Old Crone.

Sampson ran his hands quickly over Jonathan's body. “Nothing."

Cowley relaxed slightly. “Okay ... name, address and occupation?"

"Jonathan Goodfellow, 16 Schmidt Street, Blofield West. I'm an accountant."

"Empty out your pockets."

Jonathan took out his keys, handkerchief and wallet.

"Is that all?"

He nodded as the dwarf examined the contents of the wallet.

"What's in the briefcase?"

"Nothing.” Jonathan opened his briefcase

Sampson extracted the paper bag that lay inside. He opened it. “A sandwich?"

"Cheese and pickle actually. Mrs. O'Reilly insists on making me two for lunch, and I only ever eat one."

"Do you mind...?” Jonathan shrugged. Sampson and the dwarf each began to eat half of the sandwich.

"I still say he's a cop, cop."

"His driver's licence says he's who he says he is.” The dwarf's words were muffled by a mouthful of cheese and pickle.

"Could be his cover.” Cowley sounded less certain.

"What if it is? What are you planning to do? Shoot him and bury him in the yard?” Sampson looked in the briefcase again, hoping for more food.

The gun in Cowley's hand still pointed at Jonathan. For one of the few times in his life, he began to get angry. “Look, I don't know what any of this is about. I'm just an ordinary man on my way home from work. I fell asleep on the train and went past my station. I started to walk home in the rain and decided to catch a cab. I came in here hoping to borrow a telephone, and I get mixed up in I don't know what. I know nothing about the police, detectives, drugs ... or any of the rest of it. So if you don't mind, I'll pocket my possessions, pick up my brief case and make myself scarce. If you want to shoot me on the way out, go ahead.” He turned to Sampson. “And I trust you enjoyed my sandwich, thank you.” Jonathan snapped his briefcase closed. He snatched his wallet, handkerchief and keys from the dwarf. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He stormed from the room.

He re-entered the room at approximately sixty miles an hour—head first and horizontal—as a large explosion blew in the door of the house. Jonathan picked himself up and looked around in a daze. The telephone was ringing. Everyone was in a state of shock. He heard footsteps running down the hallway towards the sitting room. Jonathan shook his head to clear the ringing from his ears, as Sampson slammed the door shut and—with the dwarf's help—piled furniture against it.

The phone rang on.

A sledgehammer slammed against the door, and there was a curse from outside. A voice called urgently. “Open the door, you turds, or I'll smash it down.” Several heavy blows rained on the door. The five people in the sitting room cowered against the walls and watched as the wooden door began to splinter and give way.

Cowley was angry. “Piss off, or I'll shoot you."

"You ain't got no gun, lady."

"I'm no lady.” Cowley fired through the door, and the gun leapt from her hand.

Jonathan deftly caught it and fired two more shots through the door before he even thought about what he was doing. Jonathan had never handled a gun before—let alone fired one.

There were more curses from outside the door before a fusillade of return fire smashed through it, narrowly missing Jonathan and Cowley. They both dived to the floor. The sound of sirens began in the distance, and the people in the hallway beat a hasty retreat. There was sudden silence inside the house.

As they listened, the sirens outside became progressively louder. They heard a high-powered car start and roar away.

Jonathan stood up. “What was that all about?"

The dwarf leapt up behind him and delivered a knockout blow with a shortened number five iron, exploding Jonathan's world into a billion bright stars.

They spun around, then faded into a void as Jonathan was embraced by darkness.

Jonathan awoke in heaven. Or at least he assumed it was heaven. A bearded gentleman in psychedelic, multi-coloured, long flowing robes—wearing cool-looking curved shades and several rows of beads—sat looking at him. Another man with short hair, wearing a smart grey suit with an old-school striped tie, was also staring with fixed intent at his person.

They were in a strange gazebo-like structure with a pointed, thatched roof. There were walls with a door, but the windows—which took up roughly half of the surface area of the walls—were without glass. It was odd, because the gazebo was fully furnished and had a carpeted floor.

I guess they don't get much rain here.

Jonathan looked through one of the glass-less windows. Woolly white clouds drifted past. Jonathan saw people and animals on the clouds, singly and in groups. Some were playing harps, and others were singing hymns. A few were chanting and intoning. A bevy of brothers and nuns drifted past and called out ‘hallelujah’ when they saw the old man in the psychedelic robes. While they were distracted, they almost collided with some Buddhist monks—who laughed as they pushed the Catholic cloud away.

The man in the suit looked away from Jonathan and waved to them as they passed.

The other man continued to stare at him with fixed concentration.

It was pleasantly warm, and Jonathan could hear the gentle drone of bees over the other sounds. A fluffy cloud with several rabbits and a pair of kangaroos floated past quite close to the gazebo. They were not playing harps. A lion and a sheep floated by, licking one another. Jonathan was aware of a feeling of wellbeing, of peace and harmony.

The man in the caftan and beads coughed in that special way people cough when they want your attention. “Well, hey now, here you be."

"Uh, yes, thank you. I guess you must be God, and I must be dead."

"Sort of.” God sounded testy. “Like, you ain't necessarily dead, man. It could be just another trip ... you dig?"

"No. Not really.” Jonathan had no idea what this strange hippie character was talking about.

"Whether you be dead or not depends on the result of this interview."

"You mean I might get to go back?"

God made a sign and a large screen in the corner lit up.

Jonathan could see himself on the screen. He was lying on a battered, old couch in the room he had just left. A burly policewoman was performing external heart massage while a policeman gave him mouth to mouth.

"See what those cats down there are doing? It's a happening thang, man. I got the option of letting them succeed or not succeed—depending upon what you decide. You're the man. You dig?"

"Decide about what?” Jonathan looked around him. The room was tidy and had the look of a third-rate hotel about it.

The impeccably dressed man in the suit spoke. “We were going to clean up, but we weren't exactly sure when you were coming.” He began to dust.

Jonathan was confused. The room looked perfectly tidy to him.

"Peter, be cool, man. Let it all hang out. I mean, what is buggin’ ya.” God looked even more annoyed.

"Well, it's not nice. I didn't vacuum or anything."

God was becoming more irritated by the moment. He turned back to Jonathan. “Pay no attention to him. That's one heavy dude. He's always fussing around."

Peter became petulant. “Well, how would you feel if you were just dead and arrived to find a mess like this?” He was using a cleaning cloth on a table.

"Mellow out. This Goodfellow cat did not come here to check on the state of your housekeeping.” He turned and stared intently at Jonathan. “Did you?"

"Well, no, but I know what he means. I always feel terrible when people turn up unannounced and my room is a mess."

"You need to chill out too, man. Otherwise, I'm not sure I'll have ya here if you do decide to stay dead. Hey, it's bad enough living with one neurotic compulsive housekeeper without allowing another one in. Have you any idea what it's like to spend eternity with a nitpicker who has to vacuum the carpets three times a day? ... And who whips the saucer out from under your cup to wash it—while you are still having a cup of tea?"

Jonathan thought of his occasionally untidy room. “I'm sure I'm not that bad...."

"Bad? Who said it's bad,” snapped Peter, as he ran a carpet sweeper over the floor. “Just because he doesn't care if the place looks like hell.... If it weren't for me, nothing would ever get cleaned up around here.
His Majesty
is always so busy—off onto deep philosophical trains of thought—that he hasn't got time to do the dishes, vacuum, make the beds or anything else. Everyone up here is so lazy—floating around on clouds all day, playing those damned harps—they just leave it all to me."

God snorted. “Man, I could have chosen the bagpipes."