Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 35

Theological colleges do not tell future priests that removing a church’s foundations with a JCB is a bad idea. In fairness, they only have a certain amount of time to teach their students, and so concentrate their efforts on topics that are likely to bring greater benefit. On the basis that most priests celebrate Holy Communion more regularly than they use a JCB, this is entirely reasonable. Especially considering the importance of correct thumb position while saying the Eucharistic Prayer.

As the East wall of St John’s Nebeck toppled towards me, I grabbed the collar of the Rev. Martin Dawson and dragged him out of range. This may seem a strangely altruistic action for a sociopath, but he had something I wanted. I had agreed to help him this night in return for a document allowing me to build a new church. There was also the minor matter that I was using him to infect a heretical secret society with even more heretical ideas in order to destroy it. That wasn’t as important because I could always groom someone else to the role. But the document? It could take months to get another copy signed.

I caught my foot on the pedestal of a grave and we went sprawling. Fortunately, we were just clear. We lay on the ground and watched as the wall was followed by the roof, forcing the North and South walls out at an angle.
“Did we do that?” asked Martin.

“No,” I replied. “I warned the architect a while back there was a problem with the foundations of this church. I have it minuted in a church meeting.”

Admittedly, at the time it was something I had made up on the spur of the moment. Still, it had encouraged Michael Garrison, the architect to investigate. In the process he had conveniently left the JCB lying around.
We helped each other up.

“Still got what we came for?” I asked.

He held up a disc of amber, a centimetre thick and a few centimetres diameter, and said, “Safe and sound.”

“Best put the digger back and get out, I think.”

He did as I suggested, then handed me the document I needed. I signed and returned it.

“I’ll fax a copy over to you first thing in the morning,” he said. “Then you’ll just need the financials sorted with Graham Walters and you can get building.”

We went our separate ways, him back home, and me to sit in my car to wait for the arrival of Rev. Graham Walters of the Diocesan Finance Office. He was another member of the heretical cult that Martin favoured, and likewise being introduced to even more heretical ideas which would place him in conflict with Martin. I had just helped Martin retrieve a disc of (fake) amber from St. John’s Nebeck, and now I would do the same for Graham.

I was a little concerned that the noise of the church collapsing might draw attention, but no one showed any interest. At the appointed time, Graham walked up the path to the church. I intercepted him.

“This way,” I said, and led him towards the JCB. “I have ensured that this was available for our use.”

He was a different personality to Martin and necessitated less deferential treatment.

“Er, the church,” he said.

“Yes?”

“It appears to be a little… collapsed.”

“Most unfortunate, yes. It’s these new building techniques. That is why the new church in Sutley will be build according to traditional and ancient principles,” I said.

“Yes, yes, indeed. I have never heard of an ancient Lemurian temple collapsing. Oh, do you want to sign the financials now?”

Quickly, we got the mundane business out of the way, and I received assurances that I would have the necessary documentation before ten the next morning.

“Have you identified where the artifact lies?” I asked.

“At the West entrance of the church.”

“Can you drive the digger?”

“Oh, yes! In my last parish, we used to take the young people to Digger Land every year. That was before… before…”

No further information was given, so I made a mental note to check his history and said, “Get in the cab – it is clear you have been chosen for this role.”

Admittedly, after Martin’s attempts in the digger, I wasn’t too keen on letting Graham have a go. Still, I trusted him even less to find the trinket I had hidden, which meant I had to be on the ground. With a number of false starts he managed to get to the right location and started to dig. He was quite efficient at digging – clearly the result of those parish outings - and soon I was handing him the package containing another amber disc.

“It is glorious,” he said.

“It is indeed.”

“Will you teach me the Words of Death?”

I paused. This was something that Psycho the Hells Angel kept going on about, and I had no idea what he meant.

“What do you know of the Words of Death?” I asked.

“I know that when you say to someone words that no one else shall hear, then soon after, they die.”
“And where did you learn of this?”

“Forgive me, but I was passing through Sutley. I stopped, and heard some rough looking fellows talking. One was saying that you knew the Words of Death.”

“And what did the others say?”

“They said that he should shut the… That he should be quiet.”

It didn’t take much to work out. Psycho mouthing off, and Al and Porker telling him to keep quiet. Annoying. I could hardly teach Graham something that didn’t exist, but there were definite advantages to him thinking I did know this information.

I allowed the silence to stretch for a few more seconds, then, just as he was about to speak again, I said, “No. You are not ready.”

“When will I be ready?”

“When you are ready, the words will become known to you through cosmic osmosis. That is how you will know.”
“But, but what is cosmic osmosis?”

“This, too, you will learn. Your grandparents were Welsh, were they not?”

“Yes.”

“Does it not seem strange to you that the word “osmosis” is the same in Latin as Welsh?”

“Because both the Welsh and the Romans are descended from Atlantis!”

“This is true. Now go and study the piece you have discovered tonight.”

I was more than grateful when Graham Walters left. I climbed into my car and drove home.

The next morning, I had the usual breakfast that Abigail, my housekeeper prepared for me. Eggs, bacon, baked beans, and fried toast. Her cooking means I must make regular trips to the gym to control my weight, but it was a price worth paying.

“Did you hear about the church in Nebeck?” Abigail asked me.

“No, what’s happened?”

“It’s collapsed. It’s on the local news.”

“Really? Well, I’m glad that we’re not using the same architect that they used.”

She merely raised her eyebrows at me. I continued eating.

Just after breakfast, the fax machine – yes, the Diocese still uses fax machines – beeped and a copy of the financial documents from Graham came through. Half an hour later, the remainder of the documents from Martin arrived by the same method. The building of the new church could now officially go ahead. The morning was spent making phone calls, some to church members, an hour on hold with the insurers, the architect, various others.

Around elevenish, the doorbell rang. I was between phone calls, so I answered it myself, rather than letting Abigail do it. I resigned myself to a late lunch. When someone calls at the Vicarage late morning without an appointment, it always seems to indicate a late lunch.

I opened the door to a lady holding the hand of a young child of perhaps four. A quick assumption suggested mother and daughter. The mother was wearing light grey track suit bottoms and hoody, the kind of combination you can see every day of the week in every high street in the country. Despite the standardised clothing, the mother had a popstar-on-downtime appearance.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Danni. Al’s wife.”

Disclaimer: Despite the implications of Rev. David Wilson’s comments that the Diocese uses outdated technology, the modern fax machine has only been in existence since 1964. Therefore, it is clear that this is thoroughly up-to-date equipment, and most suitable for a forward-looking Diocese seeking to create new paradigms through creative synergies with current technology.