Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 5

Having discovered that the church treasurer, Geoff, had been embezzling the church funds, and that we owed a lot of money, I had decided on the only rational course of action. Specifically, burn down the church, and claim the insurance. This is where being a sociopath is useful. This entirely reasonable course of action wouldn’t occur to most vicars.

It would be inconvenient to burn down the church immediately, not least because the police were still hanging around after murder of Arnold the church warden. A week or so would be fine, though.

On Friday, my day off, I took Mabel to buy an engagement ring. She’s a little dim, but presentable enough. She’s also rather evangelical and believes that God has told her to marry me. I believe that a wife is a useful asset on the road to becoming Archbishop of Canterbury, and this was vastly more convenient than the “download-the-app, swipe-left, swipe-right” approach. Strangely, I found her company was not unpleasant.

That Sunday, during the service, after I had given the obligatory notices, and insincere regrets over the murder of Arnold, I came down from the pulpit.

“Mabel, would you like to come up here, please?” I asked.
She joined me on the chancel step, and I said, “Despite the recent tragedy, we do have some wonderful news today. Mabel has agreed to become my wife.”

There was much oo-ing and ah-ing, and general good wishes. People seemed genuinely happy for us, and Mabel smiled.

Well, everyone seemed happy apart from Geoff, who gave me the evil eye through the entire service.

A week passed with little worthy of note. I was interviewed by the police a couple more times, as was Abigail, the wife and murderer of Arnold. Privately, one of the detectives, a Dennis Thorpe, confided that he didn’t think they’d catch the murderer.

“Probably some opportunist from outside the area, surprised in the act and panicked. Might get them if they try something else, but I have my doubts.”

I wasn’t sure if this was a ploy to make me drop my guard, or his real opinion. Somehow, I didn’t think Abigail would drop her guard, and the rite of Confession sealed my lips. Meanwhile, she continued to stay at the vicarage, and act as a housekeeper. Very soon after that, the police downgraded the investigation, and disappeared.

Another Sunday came and went, and on the Monday, we buried Arnold at the church.

The next day, we had the funeral of Smiffy, a local Hells Angel. That was one of the most impressive funerals I have taken. There must have been at least a hundred Hells Angels from different chapters, all on their bikes. To judge by the patches they wore, some had ridden over a hundred miles to be there.

And I have to say that they were politer and better behaved than most the funeral mourners that I’ve seen.
As I greeted people at the door of the church, I noted with mild surprise that there was a TV crew recording the spectacle. Three of the mourners stopped for a moment. Al, Porker and Psycho, who had arranged the funeral. The last of these still had a bandage on his hand from where I had stabbed it with his knife.

“Morning Dave,” said Al. I prefer to be called David, but it wasn’t the time to bring that up.

“Good morning Al. Looks like a good turnout.”

“Lots of people knew Smiffy. Is it OK if we pop round later? Mrs Horton wants to take Psycho’s stitches out.”
“Of course.”

The service went without a hitch, and possibly for the first time in decades, the building was full. The eulogy seemed well received. It had been problematic, as you’re supposed to say positive things about the deceased. Tricky when Smiffy’s main attribute was low-level thuggery, but I went with “loyalty to his comrades” and that kind of thing. Smiffy was buried in the church yard next to Arnold, which no doubt would upset some. At the grave, rather than a handful of earth, the mourners poured tins of beer into the grave. The empty tins were collected by two Hells Angels with bin liners, which saved me a job. A few stood around smoking, but that’s not unusual. Then they cleared off to the pub across the river.
I took my own bin liner, and did a litter-pick for cigarette ends, picking up a few. Some, I dropped under the oil tank for the boiler, amongst the dry leaves that had gathered, together with a wind-blown newspaper. Arnold really should have cleaned this out. The debris was soaked with oil from the leaking tank. Oil doesn’t light easily unless you have a wick, and the leaves and paper would do nicely. I lit a firelighter with a disposable lighter, and dropped it into the leaves before continuing round the church. It would take a little while for the fire to develop.
Back at the vicarage, I was greeted by Al, Porker, and Psycho.

As I put the bin liner of fag ends in the kitchen bin, I enquired as to Psycho’s hand.

“It’s fine, thanks. Your Mrs Horton is amazing,” he said.

“Yeah, she’s far better than anyone at the hospital,” agreed Porker.

“I hope the funeral was alright for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, really liked what you said about Smiffy.”

“Well, if I can ever help you again, you let me know.”

“Sure. Did you know your church was on fire?” asked Al, as I saw them to the door.

I stopped dead. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Your church. It’s on fire.”

I wouldn’t describe myself as a brilliant actor, so I didn’t try. Instead, I looked around Porker’s bulk at the flames rising near the tower, before hurrying in to call the fire brigade. That done, I rushed to the church gate. I’d locked the building, so I knew no one was inside.

That was when Geoff the former treasurer decided to strangle me.

Disclaimer: The Church of England does not advocate the burning of churches. Not even to claim insurance money to pay the Diocesan Share.