Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 24

“Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea?” I asked.

This is an excellent thing for a vicar to say at any time. It immediately sets the frame for anything that follows. There are certain social scripts that are programmed from birth, and this is one of them.

“Er – yes, thank you,” said one of the two, large drunken men, while the other said, “Um, OK, thanks.”

I was under no illusions – they were both still intent on causing me harm in an unpleasant and intimate fashion. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were even considering murder. But at least I had derailed their thought processes so it could happen in a more civilised way. Or ideally, not at all. I had obtained time.

“Mrs Horton,” I called, “Could you bring tea and biscuits for my guests, please?”

“How many guests, dear?” she called back from the kitchen.

“Two, thank you,” I replied, indicating that they should sit down in my study.

They duly sat and so began one of the more unusual interviews I have had as a vicar. I will happily admit that I did not predict the direction it would take.

“Now, how may I help you?” I asked.

“Right,” said the one on the left, breathing alcohol fumes throughout my study. “We know you did for Jezzer.”

“How do you mean?”

Before he could reply, his friend grabbed his shoulder and shook him roughly. After an unflattering assessment of his companion’s mental abilities he said, “You’ve forgotten the words!”

“The words?”

“Yes, we’ve got to say the words or we’re dead!”

The forgetful one turned pale and patted desperately at his pockets while admitting with minimal verbal eloquence that he had, indeed, forgotten. Eventually, both had retrieved somewhat grubby sheets of paper from about their persons and they lurched to their feet.

“Ihay avidday isthay isyay alyay,” said the first loudly, peering at the paper with one eye closed, and waving his spare arm like an amateur Shakespearean actor.

I was astounded, to say the least. Rather than tearing me limb from limb, a drunken thug was declaiming in Pig Latin. I could understand Pig Latin, of course – it is a silly game played by all school children who learn Latin, mangling English words by swapping letters and adding suffixes. Although I knew what was being said, it was clear that the two before me did not.

The message was, “Hi David, this is Al. I assume an educated man like you will understand this. Found these two idiots in the pub. They wanted to kill you, but they are afraid that you will use the Words of Death on them. I must talk to Psycho about that. This idiot is called Jon.”

At this point, the first one, Jon, stopped declaiming, and the other took over, “And this idiot is Moz. Words of Death or not, they were talking themselves into hurting you anyway, so I said that I could give them words to say for protection. That is the words they are saying now, so that I could get warning to you.”

While I was wondering why Al didn’t just phone me like anyone else, Jon took over again, continuing, “In a minute they will try to say the Lord’s Prayer backwards. That will be a good time for you to start running.”

Jon and Moz sat down again, exhausted by their efforts and the beer. Abigail took that moment to come in with tea and biscuits.

“Here you go, poppets,” she said, giving me my biscuits on a separate plate. “I made them myself, and I expect you to eat them all up.”

There was a muttered, “Yes, miss” from each of them and they tucked in.

Finishing the biscuits seemed to spur them into action again, and Moz started nudging Jon, really quite hard.

“What is it?” Jon asked, “Oh, yeah, right. The prayer thing.”

I was then treated to two drunken idiots attempting to say the Lord’s Prayer backwards. This is something that has absolutely zero occult significance yet remains surprisingly popular with the pseudo-spiritual crowd. Needless to say, they became confused, mixed words up, went back and corrected themselves and each other, and generally made a complete mess of things. I forgot all about Al’s advice to start running in my efforts not to laugh. I was about to help them out when I noticed they were getting wobbly. Not drunk wobbly, but more someone-has-doctored-the biscuits wobbly. Gradually they subsided to the floor, as I realised why I had been given a separate plate of biscuits.

Abigail chose that moment to stick her head around the door.

“Sleeping, are they?”

“Yes, thank you. A most helpful intervention. How long do we have?”

She looked down at the quietly sleeping forms. “Sometime around midnight, probably. It’s hard to be exact.”

I checked my watch. That gave us several hours.

“Well,” I replied, “We should work out what to do with them.”

“Drop them in the river with their bikes on top of them. When they recover the bodies, the police will assume it was the result of drink-driving.”

“Mrs Horton, that would be murder.”

“Yes.”

“I believe that we have covered this ground before.”

“They would have murdered you, given half a chance. It wouldn’t really be murder. More a sort of pre-emptive self-defence.”

“It would still be wrong.”

“Don’t you believe in self-defence?”

“I have no great difficulty with the theological implications of self-defence. However, I do have great difficulty applying that classification to the drowning of two helpless people.”

“But that’s the best time to do it!”

“Based on past experience?”

“This is the time to get rid of them,” said Abigail said, folding her arms.

Yet again she deflected as soon as I pressed about her homicidal tendencies. Still, as long as she keeps making me cooked breakfasts, I’m prepared to put up with the occasional dead body. I suppose it’s rather like having a cat.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “But no. And considering how entertaining they have been, it would be a serious breach of etiquette. Besides which, I have a better idea.”

Unconscious bodies are surprisingly difficult to move, although Abigail seemed to have the knack. They flop all over the place, limbs flailing in strange directions, getting caught on furniture. After a while, we managed to drag them to the church. Along the way, they gained a few bruises, but I had no problems rationalising my feelings in that regard. We left Jon and Moz where the altar used to be, then went back to collect their bikes.

The bikes were left at the open end of the wrecked quire, facing towards the road. They would be easily seen when the two sleepers awoke.

Finally, I wrote a note in Latin, and put it in Jon’s hand.

“What does it say?” asked Abigail.

“Try that again, and I’ll be very annoyed. Roughly.”

“Will they be able to understand it?”

“When two superstitious people regain consciousness in the burnt-out remains of a church at midnight and discover they have been left a note in Latin, they will be highly motivated to understand it. Besides, there’s always Google Translate.”

Around midnight, I was woken by the sound of shouting and noise from the direction of the church, followed by the sound of two bikes being started and driven off at high speed.

As I lay there waiting for sleep to return, I realised that I would have to learn more about Al. He played the part of the rough-and-ready hard man very well, but it was all a mask. Oh, there was also finding out about Psycho, tables and chairs, and Words of Death. Not to mention understanding how my housekeeper was able to doctor the biscuits so easily.

But mostly, I thought, as I burrowed under the bedclothes, I needed to find out more about Al.

Disclaimer: The Church of England does not condone drugging distressed friends of the recently departed.