Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 6

Now that Christmas is over, I shall return to my narrative. True, there is still New Year to navigate, but that is pretty quiet from the Church point of view.

To recap, the former treasurer, Geoff, had been embezzling church funds. In order to pay off the Diocese, I had to burn down the church for the insurance. The first convenient moment had been after the funeral of a local Hells Angel. Assuming the Hells Angels were responsible, Geoff had decided the best course of action was to strangle me. Personally, I am unconvinced that his reasoning was entirely sound, but it did not seem the appropriate moment to discuss the issue. Whatever my abilities may be, I have never counted self-defence as one of them. Thus, my response to Geoff’s attentions was to fall on my back and try in vain to remove his hands from my throat.

“This is your fault! You brought them here! It’s your fault!” he kept on shouting.

Fortunately, the ordeal only lasted a few seconds, although it felt longer. Geoff’s weight disappeared from my chest as Porker lifted him bodily off me. I climbed to my feet, feeling the heat from the burning church on my back. Porker held him with his arms pinned behind his back.

I dusted myself down, pleased to see that I wasn’t shaking. “Let him go,” I said.

Porker hesitated a moment, then released Geoff. I walked over to him, and whispered in Geoff’s ear, so only he could hear, “Perhaps. But I’ve never embezzled thousands of pounds from the collection box.”

Geoff regarded me a moment, the anger turning to fear, and then staggered away.

“What did you say to him?” asked Porker.

“Just a few words of forgiveness,” I replied, smiling the smile of innocence. “Thank you, Porker.”

From across the river, I could hear a hundred Hells Angels singing “Smoke on the Water”. In the distance were the sirens of a fire engine, but the fire had taken a good hold of the building, and I suspected there was little they could do. It looked like my act of arson had been effective.

“Sorry about the church,” said Al.

“Think of it as Smiffy’s funeral pyre,” I said, which seemed to cheer them up.

“Yeah, I reckon he’d like that,” said Al, as they wandered off to join their mates in the pub.

A TV crew had turned up for the spectacle of the Hells Angel funeral and were now merrily getting pictures of the church burning. They repositioned themselves to get the fire engines arriving. I assured the fire officers that the building had been empty, and all the doors locked, then I got out of the way but stayed visible. A few parishioners arrived, and I offered them words of comfort. The TV crew got pictures of that as well, then asked if they could interview me.

“There are some who are saying that it was the Hells Angels who started the fire. What is your opinion of that?” they asked.

“I absolutely disagree. They have shown the greatest respect at all times for the church and myself.”

“Do you think that it was unwise to take the funeral of one of their members?”

“No. The Church is here to welcome all people. When we reject people because of their lifestyle, we fail. When we judge others, we fail. When we make the Church a club for the select few, we fail. If we reject those who are not like us, we reject Christ. It is our duty to open the doors for all, without counting the cost.”

I carried on in that vein for a little longer, mentioning that Jesus’ disciples weren’t exactly regarded as pillars of society and the like, and after a while, they were satisfied. Hopefully, Robert Howey, vicar of Norley would see the interview. It always upset him to hear people talking about God.

They finished talking to me just in time to film the church tower collapsing into the nave.

Eventually, the fire came under control, and a long while later, the fire brigade was satisfied that it was safe. They still left one tender on standby, just in case, until the next day.

I was shown on the late evening news, followed by a shot of Al, Porker and Psycho, as Al read out a statement where they denied they had anything to do with it, expressed regrets that the church had burnt down, and hinted – rather unsubtly – that if they found out who was responsible, they would have a talk with them.

What followed next was, I presume, routine. The fire brigade started poking around, looking for what caused the fire, and the police came for a chat with me. Mostly, it came down to telling them that I hadn’t seen anything suspicious before the fire.

I inspected the damage, and found that although the nave was destroyed, the quire – where the choir and assorted clergy would sit if we had any – was almost intact. The quire was oversized for the church, taking about a third of its length, so a reasonable chunk of the building was left.

The report into the fire came back surprisingly quickly. I received a visit from one of the fire officers, who I welcomed in.

“Well, we’re pretty sure we know what happened, vicar,” he said. “Looks like the oil tank had been leaking for a while, and someone discarded a cigarette.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought oil would burn so easily.”
“Normally, no, but there was a build-up of leaves and rubbish around the tank. They caught, and then…”

I sighed. “Poor old Arnold. It’s terrible that he was murdered, of course, but between you and me, he wasn’t a very good church warden. He was supposed to have taken care of that.”

There were various appropriate mutterings to this, then I asked, “How long would it have taken to catch light? I’m surprised it went up so quickly.”

“Depends on conditions, but it can be hours.”
I paused with my mouth open. “I saw some school kids hanging around this morning. They cleared off when they saw me. I think they were smoking.”

“That’s probably the cause then, sir.”

“Hmm. Look, I wouldn’t want to approach the school about it myself – it would look too much like I was making an accusation without evidence. But perhaps if you were to offer them some words of advice?”

They agreed and left with the promise of a full report in the post.

A day or so of bureaucratic nonsense, filling in forms, suffering the visits of loss adjusters from the insurance company, arranging with the local school to use their hall for Sunday services, things like that. A busy time.

Then, Saturday morning, Detective Inspector Dennis Thorpe visited with one of his colleagues.

“Good morning, Reverend Wilson. Could we have a talk?”
“Of course, please come in,” I said, expecting either more questions about the murder of Arnold Horton – although that had died down – or, more likely, the fire.

I was somewhat surprised, when, instead, he said, “We regret to inform you that Geoff Thompson has been found dead.”

“Good grief! What happened?”

“Suicide, apparently. One of the neighbours was concerned that she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days and looked through the window. She saw him lying on the floor and called us. It seems he committed suicide.”

“That’s terrible! Do you know anything more?”

“Yes, he left a note. In the note, he said that he was killing himself because you had forced him into it.”

Disclaimer: The actions of the Rev. David Wilson fall short of the expected standards of the Church of England, and should not be considered representative.