fiction
Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 25
Naturally, the Church of England would deny this, but if it isn’t true, why did they spend 45 years rewriting the service books? You can argue that the period of 45 years is suggestive of problems itself, but the result wasn’t too bad. “Common Worship” is a service book for all occasions that allows considerable scope for services to be changed for local needs. It permits services that will engage congregations familiar with Netflix, YouTube and Disney+. It has genuine potential.
Naturally, churches have taken this potent resource into their hearts and used it to faithfully recreate services from the 1920’s.
You might ask why clergy don’t just make the changes. There are two main reasons. The first is fear of the congregation. The second is that preparing a standard Sunday service is easy, but the more you deviate, the greater the effort required.
Needless to say, services are something I will be addressing at St. James, but first I have to build the church up a bit more. Frankly, when I arrived, it was a basket case. This means Sunday’s service was exactly the same as every other Sunday, with a couple of extra announcements. I told people the results of Souper Saturday, our soup kitchen at the Saturday market. They were suitably delighted. We said a quick prayer for Jezzer, the Hells Angel who managed to kill himself right next to our soup stall. Very considerate of him, as many people stopped by for soup so they could watch the clean-up operation.
After the service, Al came over to see me. He’s another Hells Angel, but unlike Jezzer, he’s on friendly terms with the church.
“Hi David! Did you get my message OK?”
“Yes, a very valuable and interesting message. Why didn’t you just phone? Surely it would have been easier.”
“My daughter broke my phone. Besides, I thought you would like it.”
I shook my head and said, “Kids!”, neatly covering the fact that I’d been unaware that he had a daughter. “How old is she now?”
“Just coming up on four.”
“I did enjoy your message, and the company of the people who brought it.”
I had to admit that getting a pair of murderous thugs from a rival Chapter to recite a warning in Pig Latin was entertaining. It had given my ever-resourceful housekeeper the opportunity to drug their tea and biscuits so we could dispose of them. It also reminded me that I had to discover more about Al. He was becoming useful, and it is wise to understand those who are useful. Some might see this as part of my sociopathic nature, but to me, it’s just good sense.
After lunch with my fiancée, I settled down in my study to try and investigate the puzzle of Al. He claimed that a few years back he’d done a couple of tours as a roadie with a band called Uranium Death Cult. Porker, one of Al’s associates had painted an album cover for the band. I’d pressed him for information on Al, and he’d pointed to the album cover and told me to follow the breadcrumbs.
A Wikipedia article gave me the main facts about the band. A standard five-piece - guitar, vocals, keyboard, bass, and drums. Quite successful in Europe during their five-year run but didn’t quite make it in America. Then the keyboard and bass player left, apparently over the band’s failure to crack America. Four studio albums, of which the last, “Nail Through the Skull” (cover by Porker) was the most successful. The band rebranded as Plutonium Death Cult, with a new keyboard and bass player. They folded a year later, having produced one studio album that was universally slated.
The band members all used pseudonyms - Cobalt-60 (drums), Iodine-131 (bass), Uranium-235 (keyboards), Neodymium-144 (guitar), and Rubidium-87 (vocals). According to the band’s publicity, “The radioactive isotopes spontaneously emitted manifestations to bring the raw power of heavy metal to humanity”. Physics may not be my strong point – as a vicar I focus more on the “Why?” than the “How?” – but this statement appeared to be more about theatre than rigorous scientific endeavour. The band did seem to like theatre. There were no images of the band without their stage makeup, and no one knew who they were. Pure theatre.
I answered the door to be greeted by DI Dennis Thorpe.
“Dennis! It’s been a while – do come in!”
“Hello, David. No, I’d better not, if it’s all right with you. I was just passing and wondered if you could answer a couple of quick questions.”
“Of course,” I said, although I could guess what the topic would be.
“Do you know anything about a couple called Jon and Moz?”
“Yes,” I replied promptly. “Friends of the late Jezzer. They came around here last night in a predictably distressed state. I talked to them for a while, and then they left.”
“Can you tell me what they talked about?”
“Not the details – confidentiality, you understand. But obviously it related to the death of Jezzer. Any particular reason?”
“What time was this?”
“I think they left about seven. Abigail!” I called out.
“Yes, David?” she replied.
“What time did those gentlemen leave last night?”
“Just gone seven.”
Dennis rubbed his chin and said, “So, about five hours earlier…”
“What is it?” I prodded again.
“Oh, a little after midnight they were stopped on their bikes on the Musdon bypass.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“You’ll like this bit,” he said, grinning, “They were doing 120, stark naked!”
My mouth did drop open at this point. They had been fully dressed when Abigail and I had left them in the burnt out remains of the church. Drugged unconscious, but fully dressed. I could only guess that Abigail had crept back later and removed their clothes. She’s funny like that, I’m afraid.
“Do you know Latin?” asked Dennis.
“I know how to use Google Translate,” I replied.
“Ah. Perhaps you could help me with this,” he said, holding up his phone. It showed a photo of the note I had put in Jon’s hand when I left him in the church. Naturally I had written the note in a Gothic-looking script. I’m not stupid enough to write such things in my normal handwriting. I used my phone’s camera to capture it for Google Translate and wrote the translation on a piece of paper.
Dennis’ mouth quirked at the corner as he read, “Don’t make me angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”
I gave a helpless smile. “That’s what Google says it says.”
“Yes, well, they came up with a strange tale of ghosts and ghouls and ruined churches, and how they’d barely escaped with their lives. They practically begged the attending officers to arrest them.”
“Sadly, I can help you with the ruined church, but with little else.”
Just then a car horn hooted.
“Oops! That’s the wife. I told her I’d only be a couple of minutes.”
“Don’t worry. We can always catch up another time. Give my regards.”
Dennis hurried to the waiting car. As I watched him depart, I wondered if I should talk to Abigail regarding the sartorially challenged Jon and Moz. I ran several potential conversations through my head and concluded none would have a satisfactory outcome. At least she hadn’t killed anyone this time.
I was just settling down to my enquiries regarding the life of Al when the phone rang. I sighed, but often that is the way that Sunday afternoons are for me. People have this idea that vicars only work on a Sunday, and so consider it the ideal time to pester them.
On this occasion, it was Porker, and with news that made me quite happy to be disturbed.
“Hi David,” he said. “You know that work you asked me to do? Well, it’s ready, and I think you’ll like it.”
Finally! I could begin my work of destroying the Sons of Jesus Lemurian properly. And before my housekeeper went on a killing spree.
Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson’s attempts to discredit the desire of local churches to recreate church services of the 1920’s is as unreasonable as ever. Many members of the congregations derive great pleasure from re-living the church services of their childhood.