If you were to ask the typical non-churchgoer where you might find a priest at midnight on Friday the Thirteenth, they would probably say, “In bed.” The truth was that I found myself in the church crypt, encountering a serious problem with the tombs. On receiving this intelligence, it is possible that our fictitious non-churchgoer would nod sagely, and consider that all was well with the world.

However, I suggest that they would evince mild surprise if you were to further inform them that I was refereeing a disagreement between an accountant and a Hells Angel.

“Add value to a tomb?” asked Mike, “You can’t add value to a tomb. How do you add value to a tomb? You put a body in, and you seal it up. That’s it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Porker replied. “I throw in an escape kit.”

“What do you mean an escape kit? Dead people don’t need to escape!”

“You say that on Friday the Thirteenth at midnight?”

“We put dead people in tombs. That’s the whole point.”

“We are quite careful in that regard,” I interjected. “People would get very upset if we weren’t. It could lead to reputational damage.”

“But that’s not how people see it. It’s not a rational thing,” replied Porker.

“And what is in this escape kit?” I asked.

“A torch, a crowbar, a mobile phone and an instruction leaflet.”

“Instruction leaflet?”

“Yeah – it starts out by saying you’re not dead, and what you need to do to keep it that way.”

“Considering that most people are elderly when they die, have you thought that they might need reading glasses?”

“Good point – I’ll add that to the list.”

“How many have you sold?” I asked.

“Sold all of them. That’s why I want to buy more.”

“We don’t have to sell them to you,” said Mike.

Porker shrugged.

“Mike,” I asked, “How many have we sold, other than those we sold to Porker?”

“Four.”

“So we have sold four tombs at £5000, and he has sold six at £10000?”

“Yes.”

Porker looked smug. He was having a very smug evening.

“I have a suggestion,” I said.

Both turned to look at me.

“Porker, you know that the church isn’t going to sell you any more tombs.”

“Doesn’t worry me. I’ve still made £30000. Got it tucked under my mattress.”

“Well you should transfer it to a high interest account,” said Mike, who looked like he was trying to refrain from pouting.

“Are you mad? Do you know how easy it is to forge bank credentials? No, safer where it is.”

“And Mike,” I interrupted before the conversation could be derailed, “We aren’t selling large numbers of tombs.”

“Well, you have to look at tombs as being a long term investment.”

“So, why not have Porker sell the tombs for us at, say, ten percent commission.”

“Twenty percent,” said Porker.

“Fifteen.”

“Done.”

“But I expect a minimum of £5000 per tomb – and if you can get more, then we both win.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Mike started to nod, then paused and said, “Would you be including your escape kits?”

“Sure, it’s called Value Add. Better for everyone, especially the customer.”

“How do you know they work?”

“You what?”

“Have you done any field trials? We can’t be selling potentially faulty goods.”

“Well, no. Haven’t had anyone interred yet.”

“Then how do you know the escape kits work?”

“Well, if they don’t, who’s going to know?”

“These things have a way of getting out.”

Sensing another squabble, I said, “Porker, can you arrange for a volunteer for a field trial?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll even video it. Useful marketing material. I’ll talk to Al.”

“Al? Do you think he’d volunteer?”

“Get Al to climb into a coffin and then be sealed in a tomb? Nah. But I’ll talk to him.”

With Mike mollified, we went our separate ways. As I walked the path back to the Vicarage, I reflected on the night’s events and the whole Friday the Thirteenth thing. This led me to pondering Halloween – which, of course, is a contraction of All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints’ Day. I made a note to think about putting on a special Halloween service at midnight. It might be interesting.

I arrived home exactly an hour after I’d left. Which pleased Mabel.

The next morning at breakfast, Mabel asked me, “Can we get a dog?”

I paused before answering, so that she would know that I was giving her question serious consideration. Truth to tell, I had considered getting a dog. They are a popular vicar accessory. There are many vicars who are regularly seen about with, for example, a black Labrador. Part of being a vicar, after all, is meeting people, and dog walking gives you that opportunity. Of course, it also gives you the opportunity to clean up whatever the Labrador has eaten while you were talking to the parishioners. There is a definite cost-benefit aspect to consider. Still, as I conveyed to Mabel, there are numerous parishioners who do not like dogs, who are even scared of them, so perhaps not the best choice. I refrained from adding that as a sociopath I probably wasn’t the best equipped person to look after such a creature. It was hard enough dealing with the congregation and at least they weren’t continually trying to sniff each other’s bottoms.

“How about a cat, then?”

“Many people are allergic to cats,” I said, although I have generally found cats to be acceptable,

“Gerbils?”

I considered the implications of gerbils and my destiny to become Archbishop of Canterbury. An archbishop walking a dog seemed plausible. Likewise, the image of an archbishop stroking a white Persian cat while listening to the reports of the bishops was not unacceptable. Yet somehow, the idea of an archbishop allowing gerbils to scamper around Lambeth Palace didn’t work.

“People can have very fixed ideas about rodents, I’m afraid. Fish might be an option.”

“They’re not very interactive, though, are they?”

I conceded the point, and added, “Leave it with me.”

She accepted this, and we continued to break our fast. I was concerned, though. It was always possible she might take unilateral action and I would find myself landed with a four-legged friend. I had neglected to forbid bison after all. I suspected she wanted to mother something, although for many sensible reasons we had decided to wait a year or two before children. But sensible reasons didn’t always hold up in practical situations.

I would have to give this some thought.

I retired to my study, and started some work. Nothing too involved, because I had an appointment at nine. Just routine paperwork, of which the Diocese produces reams for no apparent gain. At ten to nine, there was a knock at the front door. Hearing Abigail, my housekeeper, move to answer it I continued working. Moments later, she tapped on my study door, opened it, and said, “David, the Methodist Superintendent Minister is here to see you.”

I supressed a sigh. The meeting had been pre-arranged, but it was not one I was looking forward to. It had been delayed for some months, due to the statistically unlikely number of recent fatalities amongst priests of late. In fact, the Bishop’s chaplain, Wendy[1] had delayed it still further by departing this life in an inconvenient manner. Most thoughtless of her. But now the meeting could be avoided no longer.

The Methodist Superintendent Minister was here to discuss the start of the Local Ecumenical Project between St James, Sutley and the Methodist Church.

[1] Footnote: As previously mentioned, Wendy’s fate is discussed at some length in the additional and previously unpublished material available only in the print edition of “Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar” – Rev. David Wilson

Disclaimer to footnote: It has been suggested that as the Diocesan Office of the Disclaimant wrote an afterword to the print edition of “Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar” that our previous disclaimer to the footnote may have been motivated by the concept of royalties. We would like to note that our commission on each copy sold is minimal, and therefore our probity should not be questioned.

Disclaimer: St Francis of Assisi is reputed to have demonstrated kindness to all animals. Logically this would have included gerbils, and so Rev. Wilson’s reluctance to accept these animals as companions would seem unreasonable. One might even consider it illogical considering his desire for inclusivity within the Church.