fiction
Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 18
No?
When it comes to weight loss, the rule is simple: eat less and exercise more. Unfortunately my housekeeper – who has murdered two people to my certain knowledge - provides a cooked breakfast each day. Although we have a good relationship, I would prefer not to reject her cooking and risk offending her. This leaves exercise as the preferred weight-loss option.
I considered – and rejected - various forms of exercise. Parkrun do an event at the park each week, but it seemed like too much effort; cycling would alienate many in the congregation; swimming lengths does not inspire me. Thus, I arrived one day at the council Leisure Centre in Sutley.
“Good morning,” I said to the lady with purple hair behind the counter.
“Good morning, Father,” she said, noting my dog collar. “What can I do for you?”
I smiled. “Please, it’s normally only Catholic priests who are called ‘Father’. I prefer to be called David.” This is one of those minor irritations of life that you become used to. Yes, some vicars like to be addressed as “Father”, but it’s unusual. I continued, “I need a programme of exercise, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“Have you considered getting a name tag? You know, to say not to call you “Father”.”
“Normally I find it easier to tell people my name. Now, I often work irregular hours, so I need to fit my exercise around that…”
“I have a name tag, see?” She gestured to a name tag that informed me she was called “Debs”. I smiled politely, having been trained in patience by church council meetings. She took this as encouragement to continue, “That way everyone knows to call me Debs.”
“Perhaps I should consider it,” I said, while mentally cataloguing her. Over-weight and under-brained. Not the obvious front desk choice for a leisure centre.
After a pause, she realised she was supposed to contribute to the conversation, and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“An exercise programme. I need to control my weight a little.”
“Why’s that?”
“As part of my work I have tea with many people each week. Each time there are biscuits, and as a matter of courtesy, I have to eat what is offered.”
“Wish my life was that difficult.”
“Indeed. Which is why I have come here.”
“Well, we have circuit training, Wednesdays and Fridays at five-thirty.”
“My life can be irregular. People do tend to die at inconvenient moments, and I’m not sure that I would be able to make a set time.”
Having acknowledged how tragic this must be, she suggested, “How about the gym, then? I’ll have to get someone to do an induction course with you, but it’s open from six in the morning until ten-thirty at night.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“I think Phil’s free. If you fill the forms in, he can see you when you’re ready.”
Having come prepared, I filled in forms, and got changed. I was introduced to Phil the trainer. He looked very believable, and some might have felt intimidated by his fitness. He was understanding of my schedule limitations, and soon had a plan worked out for me. A shower, and then home for lunch. I had that curious energised-yet-tired feeling that comes from honest exercise. It was quite pleasant.
After lunch, I settled down to my task of manufacturing dis-information for the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. I was aided in my work by the information that Abigail, my housekeeper had procured from this secret society. Some she had done by observation and sneakery, some by outright theft. Looking at the list of known members, I was not surprised that it was an entirely male organisation. It’s surprisingly hard work inventing this kind of stuff. The truth is far simpler – perhaps that is why it is less convincing. After an hour or two, I needed a change of scene.
“Abigail,” I called, “I’m just popping over to the church. I need to decide on a feasible location to discover the documents I’m putting together.”
“Alright. Well. Dinner is at five-thirty, and you have the meeting about the soup kitchen idea at seven.”
I nodded and went out. There’s a short path through the grounds of the vicarage to the churchyard, and a somewhat slovenly wooden gate between the two. The area was a lot safer than it was. Since the Rural Dean had been crushed to death beneath falling masonry the insurers had been busy. Anything in the slightest bit dangerous had been dismantled and stacked safely for removal.
I made my way through the ruined nave to the quire. The quire had been damaged less than other parts of the building, and there were hopes that some of it might be incorporated into the rebuild. To one side of the altar, as I had remembered, there were some interesting carvings in the stonework. I wanted to make notes on them, because I thought it might add a bit of colour to my fabrications.
I took a couple of photos with my phone. Yes, they were ideal. If you looked at the carvings just right, then you might suppose that they lined up on that flagstone just there. Normally, it would have been hidden under the carpet in the chancel area – the bit where the altar stands - but that had been removed now. After the incident with the Rural Dean, I supposed the insurers were worried the carpet might suffocate someone. Still, a bit of work with a crowbar, and I was sure I’d have the flagstone up.
I stamped on the it a couple of times, to get an idea of what kind of work I’d have ahead of me. There was a hollow sound. This was not what I expected. I tried the flagstones to either side. They were solid, but the one indicated by the stone carvings was definitely hollow underneath.
This was an unexpected event. I had come here to add a little spice, as it were, to my package for the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. It appears that I really had come across a secret hidey-hole, marked with obscure runes.
Disclaimer: The Church of England rarely condones the practice of faking ancient documents in order to mislead secret sects. The Templars brought so many scrolls back from the Crusades that the secret sects have plenty to keep themselves occupied.