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Kevin Wood
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7:00 AM 3rd September 2021
fiction

Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 41

 
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A trivial issue for one person may be a life-shattering problem to another. There are so many factors involved that it is impossible to catalogue them all – indeed, often the person themselves is ignorant of the root cause of their difficulties. There is also the risk that a person may perceive their genuine worries as “normal”. They might assume that they “mustn’t grumble”, despite sincere and heartfelt anguish. Thus, when someone phones a vicar up with “a bit of a problem”, the vicar should be awake to the possibility that the person may be in extreme distress.

Rev. Martin Dawson
Rev. Martin Dawson
Unless it’s the Rev. Martin Dawson, who possesses less utility than a chocolate teapot, and is a member of a secret, heretical society called the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. In which case it is safe to assume that the problem is he’s too lazy to do something for himself.

“Good afternoon, Martin,” I said. “Perhaps you could describe this problem to me, and I’ll see if I can help.”

I comforted myself that as I was – unknown to Martin – in the process of destroying his secret society, I wouldn’t have to put up with his nonsense for much longer.

“Well, David, it’s like this,” he started, “You remember that amber disc that I discovered over at Nebeck?”

“Just before the church collapsed, yes.”

“Well, from the Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria, I managed to track down another amber disc. Found it over at Norley.”

“Really? That is exciting,” I said. Exciting for Martin, but hardly surprising. I’d planted the objects and written the fake Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria as a series of clues in a treasure trail. All part of the plan to eliminate the secret society.

“Yes, apparently there’s two more amber discs to find, but I think I’m on the right track.”

“Good, good.”

“Thing is, they need to be fitted into some kind of frame to make them work. I’ve got detailed drawings of the frame, but there’s no indication where to find it.”

“Well, if you’ve got detailed drawings, what’s to stop you making one?”

“Do you think that would be allowed?”

“Allowed? I don’t believe the ancient ones would consider that an issue. After all, they would have had used many lesser people for such tasks. I can’t see that they would object to you doing the same thing.”

I was surprised that Martin needed my prompting. The Rev. Graham Walters – another heretic from the Sons of Jesus Lemurian that I had set up in opposition to Martin – had managed to get one manufactured all by himself.

“Ah,” said Martin. “I don’t suppose you know any… artisans who might be able to assist?”

“Perhaps. Why don’t you meet me tomorrow at the Fox and Hounds in Sutley at 11am?”

“Splendid!”

“I’ll warn you; it won’t come cheap, and it will be cash.”
With that, I terminated the phone call and phoned Porker - Hells Angel and expert forger.

At the appointed hour, Porker and I were waiting in the Fox and Hounds. It’s on the Musdon Road on the way out of Sutley to the South, a “family friendly” place that’s part of one of the big chains. There’s been mutterings that the chain is going to add a cheap hotel to the site - not a popular move locally, but I suspect it will happen after a couple of years.

Porker had a pint of bitter, and I had a lemonade. Not that I’m opposed to alcohol, but people find it off-putting talking to a vicar whose breath smells of beer, and I had some vicaring to do that afternoon. Martin arrived and nodded to us. He bought a pint and joined our table. Even sitting, the difference in size between Martin and Porker was noticeable. Martin is 5 feet 4, and Porker is more than a foot taller. Martin looked like a child beside him.

As he sat down, I said, “Now, I don’t think we need names, do we? You’re just two gentlemen helping one another out.”

Porker raised an eyebrow slightly, but Martin nodded vigorously. “Ah yes, I quite understand. Chance meeting and all that.”

Porker suppressed a smile at Martin’s bright-eyed eagerness.

“Now, I think we were discussing a diagram of an ancient artefact you had discovered,” I said to Martin. “Quite coincidentally I have discovered that this gentleman whom I have not met previously - and who sat at this table entirely by happenstance - is an artisan.”

Martin must have led a very sheltered life to believe that this was how you engaged the services of an artisan. There must have been a dozen places within easy reach that could turn out what he wanted. But the charade was necessary – if it were to be done openly then it wouldn’t fit into the world of secret societies. He gave a very obvious glance over his shoulder, then slid a sheet of A4 paper across the table, face down.

Porker turned the paper over. It was a photocopy of a page of the document that he had faked up under my direction. It showed a diagram of the frame to hold the amber discs, but with all text carefully blanked out. He examined it carefully then leant forward.

“I am aware of this kind of device. Would it be intended to hold four discs of a transparent material? About this size?”
He gestured with finger and thumb an object of perhaps a centimetre thick and a few centimetres across.

“You know of such things?” asked Martin

“Yes, and their uses. I can make this for you.”

“How long will it take?”

“Such matters are not certain,” said Porker, who had obviously read too many bad fantasy books, “There are conditions that must be met if it is to function correctly. Perhaps a week, with luck. If I rush, then it may not work at all.”

“A week then. Here,” said Martin, and pushed a brown envelope across the table. I am not sure why, but people seem to believe that covert payments should be made in plain brown envelopes. Perhaps it would be possible to reduce criminality by stopping their sale.

Porker held the envelope out of sight under the table while he checked the contents.

“Same again on delivery,” he said.

“What?” asked Martin, turning pale. “But that’s… that’s…”
Porker reached out a gloved hand and crushed Martin’s beer glass. Beer flooded down onto Martin’s lap.

“…That’s quite acceptable,” concluded Martin.

“You will be contacted when it’s ready,” said Porker, and Martin left in haste, dripping beer as he went.

Porker grinned and started picking bits of broken glass out of his glove. “That was fun,” he said.

“Indeed. How long will it really take you to make up the frame?”

“Oh, I knocked one up quick after you phoned me yesterday. Is he what the rest of the Lemurians are like?”
“A typical example, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t blame you for wanting to get rid of them, then.”
The next day the removal of the remains of the old church began. When it had burnt down, the tower had collapsed into the nave leaving the quire almost intact. It all had to come down, but because the stone was being reused, it had to be taken down piece by piece. All this was complicated, of course, by the church being situated in a graveyard, which also had to be respected. Douglas, the architect was there directing people, and stone masons were grading the stone that was already lying on the ground.

That evening, I got home exhausted, but satisfied. I’d stopped Douglas from doing too much, and they weren’t going to need any intervention on the job for a little while now. I was just considering a shower before dinner when the doorbell rang. My housekeeper answered it for me, and then called me.

“It’s Psycho,” she said. “He appears to have something on his mind.”
Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson’s prejudice against plain brown envelopes is quite irrational. Although it is true that they have, on occasions, been used for less than wholesome purposes, in the main their use has been entirely legitimate.

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