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Kevin Wood
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@KevinStphnWood
6:00 AM 23rd April 2021
fiction

Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 22

 
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We met to discuss the plans for the new church at the home of Douglas Turner, one of the older church members. He’d broken his leg recently, so it was only reasonable for us to visit him. After all, he had offered his services as an architect free of charge.

“Looks like you should have pretty good acoustics,” said Al.

“It comes with the traditional design,” replied Douglas. “In trying to create a sense of the numinous, my predecessors happened to chance on something.”

Al nodded. “Golden section?” he asked.

“Of course,” agreed Douglas.

Priests are expected to know something of philosophical matters, so I had at least an acquaintance with such terms, but a Hells Angel? Then, Al was something of an enigma. His friend Porker had told me how to find out more about him, but I had enough on my plate, thank you. Building a new church, starting a soup kitchen, destroying a heretical cult, getting married… Granted, getting married had been put off until the new church was built – something that had slipped my mind when I burnt the old one down – but I was still busy.

“And you say we can build it from the old stone?” asked Sue, secretary to the church council.

“Yes, as it’s a smaller building than the old one, mostly we can reclaim the stone.”

“Even with a barrel-vaulted ceiling and dome?” I asked.
“Rib-vaulted. Yes, even with that.”

I glanced at Al and Sue.

Sue said, “I like the dome. Gives it a Mediterranean feel.”

It was an interesting feature, so I said, “Well, I’m happy to recommend this to the church council. Any objections?”

There were none, and I would have been surprised if there were. The design was superficially traditional, but with consideration given to minor details, like keeping warm, modern toilets, a kitchen and rooms for general use. Oh, and on Douglas’ insistence, secret passages. He liked secret passages, and if that was the price of a decent design, I liked them too.

“How long do you think it will take to build?” asked Sue.

“About half the time it takes to get Diocesan approval,” replied Douglas.

We finished our business, and I took Sue home in my car. Al offered to give her a lift, but she seemed reluctant to get on his bike for a second time. I waited as she walked to her door. Vicars are expected to watch passengers walk up the path and open their front door before driving off. I am not sure why. Most members of the congregation can perform this feat without getting lost. Presumably the vicar is supposed to watch in case they are mugged, although it is unclear how a vicar should respond to this eventuality. Theological training generally doesn’t include secret ninja skills. Once the person has opened their front door, you can leave. A mad axe murderer waiting inside? Not the vicar’s problem.

The week progressed smoothly. I arranged a church council to approve Douglas’ plans for the following week. There was an inquest to attend – I forget whose. I’ve attended enough lately that I’m starting to lose track. Some more routine vicaring, and then it was Saturday.
Souper Saturday.

The first Souper Saturday, my church’s flagship evangelism event. The brainchild of the lady least likely to have any brainchildren ever and managed by a Hells Angel. This is a combination that might cause some to raise eyebrows, but I was quietly confident. It is my destiny to become Archbishop of Canterbury, and the success of this project would clearly help me reach that end point. Hence my confidence.

By eight-thirty, some helpful council workers had set up a canopy over a two-stall area in the market square. There’s a market several times a week, but Saturday is the big one. The market square is the main feature of Sutley, and despite post-war attempts still remains a post card. Four streets form a rectangle around a cobbled area, and the town hall stands on the south edge of the cobbles. Shops front onto the square, with the council resisting the onslaught of the big chains as best it can.

Our patch was next to the town hall, adjacent North Street. If you ask the locals why the street on the South of the market square is called “North Street”, they will tell you that it’s because it faces North – before walking away shaking their heads. Mabel, June and I watched Psycho pull up in a Transit van. After a quick chat with the council workers, he called out, “Right, give us a hand with this lot!”

He swung open the doors, and Mabel and I started helping get out tables, chairs and other necessary equipment. I wasn’t sure where he’d obtained any of this, but I didn’t feel it necessary to enquire too closely. In a surprisingly short time, we were ready.

“Next job,” said Psycho. “You get these veg chopped up while I get rid of the van.” He took the van up North Street towards what the town council proudly refers as Sutley Integrated Transport Hub. It has bus stops, a small railway station, taxi rank – hardly worth the grandiose name. I don’t know why, but Star Wars fans keep taking selfies by the entrance sign. Psycho disposed of the van in the car park and walked back.

Souper Saturday was a success. We sold our first soup and roll just before ten, a takeaway for one of the other stall holders. A few more stall holders followed suit and then the general public started to come. By ten forty-five half the tables were occupied. A number of the congregation dropped in, of course, but mostly it was the public, encouraged by our very reasonable prices. After a couple of hours, June – who is no spring chicken – was replaced by Abigail, and we continued over lunch. Porker and Al turned up about one-thirty and took a table. I carried on chatting to the punters as I served them.
A little before two, I heard the thudding sound of big bike engines. I barely registered it, but Al and Porker stood up immediately. A second later, Psycho came from the kitchen area and stood beside them, chopping knife still in his hand. It occurred to me that I should take an interest, so I excused myself from talking to a middle-aged couple and moved to an observation position.

There were three bikes, and three Hells Angels that I didn’t know. It was plain that Al, Porker and Psycho knew them, and were not on the best of terms.

The biggest and ugliest of the newcomers asked Psycho – and I paraphrase slightly – “Where did you get those tables, you miserable little person?”

It didn’t require any imagination to see that things were about to spiral out of control.

Disclaimer: It appears that Rev. David Wilson is unaware that in the event of seeing a parishioner being attacked by a mad axe murderer, he is expected to go and fetch competent help. It is because of the possibility of the vicar summoning help in these situations that they are expected to watch people walk up their garden paths.

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