The Gospel According to Luke (16 page)

Luke read on. In two weeks, the baby would be able to turn its head, curl its toes and open and close its mouth. A week after that, it would start to grow hair, and around the same time, a doctor would be able to tell her if she was having a son or a daughter.

‘A son or a daughter,' Honey echoed, flicking through the remaining pages with increasing panic. She checked the cover. It said
Your Baby – A week by week guide by Dr. J. Mitchell.
‘This book is real? I mean, it's like a proper medical book?'

Luke nodded.

She turned back to the start of the book and went over the stages from conception to today. A new panic engulfed her. ‘Luke, I haven't been taking care of it. I've been smoking and drinking. Shit, I smoked a heap of pot last week and I haven't been eating hardly at all. What if I hurt it?'

‘Oh, Honey.' Luke put his arm around her. He smelt like fried eggs and coffee. ‘It'll be fine, I promise. I've known women who have had terrible car crashes, heroin addictions, been thrown down staircases, all kinds of stuff, and their babies have been fine. Yours will be too, I know it.'

‘Steve will kill me when I tell him, and Muzza will kick –'

‘Honey, calm down.' He kissed the top of her head. ‘I promise you that everything will be okay.'

‘I'm so scared.'

He held her tight. ‘You're not alone, Honey. I'm with you in this, all the way. I'll stand by you both.'

On the walk home, Honey pulled down three posters from telegraph poles and six from bus shelters. She wasn't so angry with the people who'd made them
anymore; she just didn't want false information spread around. She was too late though. Her mother and Muzza were waiting for her in her bedroom, a poster spread out on her bed.

‘You wanna explain this?' Her mother was still in her work uniform – a tight white T-shirt with
Nifty Nails
emblazoned in pink across the bust, and tight black pants. In one scarlet-taloned hand she held a can of diet Pepsi; in the other was a cigarette which dropped ash onto the bedspread as she gestured at the poster. Muzza was in his uniform too: footy shorts and a singlet. He didn't bother to speak, didn't bother to hide his delight. He lay back against Honey's pillows, smoking and fondling her mother's thigh.

‘It's a mistake.' Honey went to her wardrobe and pulled down her sports bag from the top shelf. ‘Now get out of my room.'

‘This what that cash was for?'

The smell of chlorine assaulted her as she opened the bag. She hadn't used the bag since the day three months ago when she'd won the 1500m at the district swimming carnival. She was supposed to go on to the regionals, but Steve said that all the girls at regional were ugly dykes, so she'd pretended to be sick when the day came. Honey had seen the picture of the winner in the local paper; she had shoulders like a wrestler and short spiky hair. Honey was jealous and had vowed to never listen to Steve again.

She began to pull her clothes off hangers and stuff them into the bag, every muscle tensed and ready for the blows that would surely come. She could hear her mother slurping her Pepsi, and both of them sucking back on their cigarettes.

‘You goin' somewhere?' her mother said.

She had never felt so happy to have such a limited wardrobe. Clothes packed, she threw in her shoes: black heels, white sandals, sneakers. She carried the bag to her dresser.

‘I'm getting sick of this, Honey. You come and go at all hours of the day and night. You hide money from us, get yourself knocked up, your ugly mug is stuck up all over the streets. You better tell me what the fuck is going on, and you better tell me fast.'

Into the bag went bras and undies, three lipsticks, deodorant stick, blush, foundation, powder, hair clips, scrunchies, tweezers, cleanser, moisturiser, nail polish, razor, pimple gel, sunscreen.

Honey was on her knees, zipping the sports bag, when the first blow struck the back of her head. It wasn't hard enough to knock her over. She picked up the bag, stood and faced him. He was smiling. She looked past him and addressed her mother. ‘I'm moving out.'

Her mother laughed. ‘Oh, yeah? You gonna go live in that fucking caravan with Steve and his old man, eh? That'll be nice. You gonna bring your little sprog up in a caravan park, Honey? Good luck to ya.'

Honey took a step to the side. Muzza stepped across with her. She met his eyes. ‘I don't wanna be here, and you don't want me here. So get out of my way.'

‘Leonie?' he said, without moving.

‘Let her go, Muz. She'll come back when she remembers that Steve is a bigger cunt than you.'

Muzza smiled and stepped to the side, waving her past. As she stepped through the doorway, he slapped her hard across the back of the head.

‘Leave her, Muzza,' her mother said.

‘Fuck you,' he said.

Honey did what she always did: closed her eyes, pressed her lips together and prayed he'd get bored before he did too much damage. But she had an extra thought this time:
Please don't let him hurt the baby.

Muzza pushed her out into the front hallway. ‘Rack off then, you dumb slut.' Honey stared at him for a few seconds. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Fuck off!' Honey turned and fled, feeling blissfully light despite the bag containing her entire life thumping against her side as she ran.

Just as Luke was certain his sin was too enormous to allow him to continue as a minister of God, Honey and her baby appeared. He'd had to forget his personal torment and become once more Jesus' hands and voice on earth. The baby's life was safe, and although the girl had hard times ahead of her, she had been spared the eternal torment which is the fate of unrepentant murderers. Luke's calling had not been revoked; God worked through him, still.

This was not to say he had been let off the hook. Although his mind was eased in regard to knowing God's will for his future in the ministry, the enormity of what he had done – of what it meant! – had him in
anguish. The truth, which could not be hidden from God, was that last night, in the midst of his shame, he had felt bliss. His despair at the thought of never again experiencing such ecstasy manifested itself as a gnawing pain in his stomach and a tightness in his chest. He asked himself what it meant to deny a drive that was more intense than hunger, more insistent than thirst, stronger even than his calling. What did it mean to deprive himself of an experience that made him feel more connected to God's creation than any other?

There was a knock on his door and Belinda entered. He was about to ask her why she bothered knocking when she never waited for a reply, when he noticed that Honey was standing behind her.

Luke pressed his hands together. ‘It's nice to see you back so soon, Honey.'

‘You'll be sick of the sight of me,' she said, stepping into the room, a bulging bag over her shoulder. ‘What's this, three times in two days?'

My God, You are indeed great! Three times, You have put Honey before me, just as Your angel appeared before Balaam three times and caused his donkey to change direction. As You saved Balaam from stubbornly taking the wrong path, so too have You saved me.

‘I was hoping,' Honey said, ‘that you might help me find a place to stay? Somewhere safe for me and the baby?'

Luke almost wept. ‘You'll stay here.'

‘Oh, no, I couldn't. I just thought you might know of, like, a shelter or something, for until I can get a job?'

‘
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.
'

‘Huh?'

‘Let me take care of you, Honey. Let us all take care of you, in His name.'

‘In His name,' Belinda echoed.

‘You're serious?'

Luke nodded, taking her bags.

‘I don't know why you're being so nice to me, but thank you.' Honey's voice broke a little at the end.

‘Thank
you
, Honey,' Luke said. ‘And thank our saviour Jesus Christ.'

‘Amen,' said Belinda.

Honey shrugged and smiled. ‘Amen.'

Mal was waiting in his office, pacing in front of the freshly replaced and scrubbed window; his eyes and nose were red. He didn't answer Aggie's enquiry about what had happened, just thrust a sheet of paper into her hand. There was a photo of Malcolm with the text,
Do you know this man? Maybe you've passed him in the hallway or on the street. But did you know he makes his living slaughtering babies and peddling pornography at the Sexual Health Advisory Service on Koloona Street? Help us obtain JUSTICE FOR THE UNBORN. Do not let Malcolm Addison of 7/19 Roe Place live in peace while thousands of babies are destroyed at his hands.

‘Every telegraph pole in the street, every wall and
door of my building. We stopped answering the phone at about seven this morning. The police want the answering-machine tapes, because of the death threats. We had an escort out of the building.'

Aggie stared at the terrible photo of Malcolm, taken yesterday during the stoush outside. His face was screwed up, except for his mouth which was open in rage.

‘How's Will?'

Malcolm shrugged and looked over Aggie's head. ‘He was pretty freaked out. It's not his choice, you know, to be part of . . . not everyone wants to be a martyr. He's going to stay with friends for awhile. He, uh, he needs some space from all this.'

‘And you?'

He shrugged again, looking lost and lonely and afraid.

‘Mal,' Aggie said, taking his hand and squeezing it, ‘we can't let these people get the better of us. We'll step up security, maybe get a guard to stand outside looking scary, but apart from that, business as usual, right?'

Malcolm sighed. ‘I knew you'd say that.'

‘You don't agree?'

‘Sure, just . . . it would be a lot easier to shut up shop, go back to helping druggies or the homeless.'

‘It would be easier. That's why there aren't many of us left doing this. Everyone's doing the easy thing. But this is worth doing, Mal. Look at that young girl yesterday, Honey. She was so lost and confused. Where would she go if not here? Who would help her?'

Malcolm smiled. ‘You're channelling your mother now, Ag. But I get it, you're right, we'll fight on. How'd it go with that poor kid, anyway?'

‘I got her home safely. She's coming in this arvo to sort things out.'

‘I was afraid we'd never see her again after handing her to the fundies. I thought they might have stashed her away in some brainwashing chamber and refused to release her until her soul was saved.'

‘Ah, well, they tried to, but I fought dirty and won her back.' Aggie felt the heat spreading through her chest, up her throat and onto her face.

‘Good, good.'

‘I said I fought dirty.'

‘I said good.'

Aggie slapped Malcolm's thigh. ‘Mal! Pay attention! I'm saying
things got dirty
. Me, Luke, a month's worth of simmering passion.'

Mal raised his eyebrows. ‘Go on.'

Aggie told him everything that had happened yesterday. She hesitated before divulging the full details of the encounter on her desk, but decided that Malcolm could do with some smut on a day like today.

‘Aggie!' Malcolm jumped to his feet. ‘Here, on this desk?'

‘Right about where you were sitting, actually.'

‘Ugh! Excuse me while I go and bathe in disinfectant.'

‘Mal, I'm so rapt in this guy I can't think straight. I know it won't be easy, but –'

The phone rang. Her hand shook as she lifted the receiver.

‘It's me,' Luke said before she'd gotten out a word.

‘Hi, you.' Her insides went squishy at the sound of his voice. ‘Busy morning, huh?'

‘Yes. Can I see you?'

‘Of course. I thought tonight we could –'

‘No. Now.'

‘I don't really have time right now. Mal's received death –'

‘It won't take long.'

The squishiness in her gut turned to nausea. ‘
What
won't take long?'

‘Can you just come over here?'

‘No, tell me now. What?'

Silence.

‘Luke? Sweetheart, please, I –'

‘I can't see you anymore.'

Aggie closed her eyes. ‘What?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Luke, please –'

‘God bless you, Aggie.'

God bless you, Aggie
.

‘Aggie, damn it. Get over here.' Aggie concentrated and managed to bring Malcolm into focus. He was very pale and breathing hard. ‘Look,' he said.

Aggie looked out the window she'd had replaced yesterday and cleaned today. A white van was parked in front of the clinic and on its side was a billboardsized
poster of a dismembered foetus. On the footpath between the van and the clinic stood a man with a megaphone, a girl of about fifteen holding a stack of pamphlets and two women holding posters of bloodied babies' skulls.

Aggie looked past them to the figure watching from across the road. Orange shirt, blue jeans, brown hand massaging a smooth forehead and brushing aside dark curls. Aggie lifted a hand; he turned and went inside, closing the door behind him.

‘Right.' Aggie took a deep breath. ‘Right then.'

Mal put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?'

She nodded, watching the man with the megaphone. He tucked a handkerchief into his pocket, checked some detail with one of the women, nodded and passed the information on to the young girl.

‘Citizens of Parramatta be warned,' boomed the man.

‘Mal, call the police. Tell them there's a fight.'

‘What are –?'

‘Call them now.'

Luke had just got off the phone from Pastor Riley when Greg came and told him that the protest across the street had been on the six o'clock news. A man had been treated at the scene for a bloody nose and split lip. An unnamed female employee of the clinic had been arrested over the assault.