fiction
Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 39
“Allow me to explain,” I said, “This is my church, and we do things my way.”
I watched with interest as the blood dripped from Mordred’s nose onto his white surplice. It was making a map of Africa, enabling me to test my geographical knowledge of several North African countries.
He gazed up at me, looking somewhat dazed. I continued, “You are a Reader, not even licensed to this parish yet. Out of courtesy, I allowed you to take the prayers. You abused that courtesy. I stopped that abuse. Do you understand?”
“You hit me!” he said, in a clear attempt to deflect from the point I was making.
“I asked if you understood why I had stopped the prayers.”
“I want the police! I’ll have you in court!”
Clearly, he was clinging to his deflection technique, so I was going to have to address that first. Most irritating.
“A moment,” I said.
I left classroom long enough to stick my head back into the hall where the service had been held. It’s only about two paces away. “Psycho!” I called, “Can I borrow you for a moment?”
Psycho shrugged and joined me in the vestry classroom. He took one look at Mordred and burst out laughing.
“Hang on,” he said, and ran out. A few seconds later he returned with Porker, who also found the situation amusing.
“Al will be sorry he missed this,” said Porker, shaking his head. “He had to take Danni and Mary home.”
Mordred just looked stupidly from one leather-clad biker to the other. I could now clearly identify Mozambique on his surplice.
Porker reached forward, and with a quick tweak of his large hands straightened Mordred’s nose. He then picked Mordred up and sat him on a table. It is easy to forget sometimes quite how big and strong Porker is.
“Right, bend forward and pinch the bridge of your nose.”
Mordred complied.
“Thank you, Porker,” I said. “Now – Psycho is our resident legal expert. It might surprise you, but he has great experience representing assault cases at the magistrates’ courts.”
I neglected to mention that his experience was limited to defending one person – himself.
“So, what’s up?” asked Psycho.
“He hit me!” said Mordred.
“Ah! Now this is where we need some expert advice,” I interrupted. “Tell us your name, for the benefit of Psycho.”
“I am Mordred of the family Williams.”
“OK, Mordred Williams…” began Psycho.
“No, no, not Mordred Williams. That’s a legal fiction imposed by the state without my consent. I am Mordred of the family Williams.”
“Don’t matter,” said Psycho. “As far as the court is concerned, you’re Mordred Williams.”
“Surely this is a detail,” I said. “All it does is create a joinder between Mordred Williams and Mordred of the family Williams.”
“You can’t do that!” wailed Mordred, sitting up straight and enabling me to identify Cape Town and Durban.
“What’s a joinder?” asked Porker.
“Legal thing,” replied Psycho. “Means they’re the same person.”
“Tell me, Mordred,” I said, “Would there be any civil law issues faced by Mordred Williams? Ones that you are trying to avoid with the name game?”
“You hit me!” he protested, showing the locations of Cameroon and Nigeria.
“Who did I hit? Mordred Williams or Mordred of the family Williams?”
Psycho hitched his trousers up and said, “I reckon you tripped over your dress and bashed your face on the table. Dangerous things, dresses.”
“Yeah,” said Porker. “That’s why we don’t wear them. ‘Specially on the bikes.”
Mordred’s nosebleed had stopped now, although I was pleased that Madagascar had appeared. I said, “Why don’t you get changed and go home. I’ll talk to you later.”
I thanked Psycho and Porker for their help, and rejoined the congregation who were now enjoying weak, stewed tea and cheap biscuits. I wanted to catch up with Rev. Robert Howey, who I had seen lurking at the back of the service. I really don’t like him, but if another priest should visit, it’s necessary to speak to them. I grabbed a tea and made my way over.
“Good morning, Robert,” I said.
“Ah, Good morning, David. I see you’ve acquired a new Lay Reader.”
“Yes, just moved into the parish.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy Mordred Williams. Or is that Mordred of the family Williams?”
“You know him?”
“Oh, everyone knows him. But of course, your last parish was in a different Diocese, wasn’t it? So, you won’t have heard of him.” Robert chuckled to himself. “Hasn’t been able to settle in any parish, because no one will put up with his fantasies.”
This reinforced the sketchy outline I’d developed of Mordred. The question occupying me was whether he would be an asset or a liability.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“Oh, that. Rather strange, really. You know Graham Walters – Diocesan Finance Office? Well, apparently there’s some obscure Diocesan regulation which means he has to independently take a service at my church. Only happens every seventeen years or something. Anyway, he booted me out, so I thought I’d wander over here and see how you were doing.”
“Most peculiar,” I agreed. I was quite satisfied with this news. It meant that the Rev. Graham Walters was having a nice game of Indiana Jones. I had laid a treasure trail for him and his friends in the secret society of the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. The intended result was that the “secret knowledge” they found would cause a schism in their society, thereby destroying them.
“That’s not the only peculiar thing that’s happened this week,” said Robert. “Have you bumped into Martin Dawson at all?”
“Attached to the Consistory Court? Yes, I’ve been dealing with him over the building of the new church.”
“Oh, of course. Well, he had to inspect my church last night. Another Diocesan requirement, apparently, not that I can find any reference to it. He just turned up out of the blue.”
“I no longer try to understand Diocesan regulations,” I replied. “What did he look at?”
“No idea. He shut me out of my own church for an hour before saying everything was fine and clearing off.”
“Really? Oh, do excuse me, there’s someone I should talk to.”
We said our goodbyes, and I left him, quite pleased with how things were going. Both the key players in the treasure hunt were getting into the spirit of things. It looked like my plan to destroy the Sons of Jesus Lemurian was working.
After the congregation had departed and I had finished clearing up, I walked home. It’s a short walk, which I would normally only drive in foul weather. Out of the school gates, turn right and start walking into town on the Musdon Road. You pass the estate where Porker lives on the right, just before the river Leybeck. On the other side of the road next to the bridge is the pub, known for its beer garden that slopes gently down to the water, and for the picturesque view of a burnt-out church. They were going to start removing the remains of the old church this week, which would no doubt please the drinkers. Apparently, people don’t seem to find views of burnt-out buildings especially relaxing.
Normally, I cross over at the crest of the bridge, so that I can see the traffic coming from both directions, but today I decided to on the same side of the road. Opposite the church yard there are allotments, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t visited them yet. An integral part of the community which I was unfamiliar with - quite remiss of me. I decided that I should rectify this immediately.
Disclaimer: It is disappointing (but unsurprising) that Rev. David Wilson neglected to provide appropriate advice on removing blood stains from surplices. This is the kind of detail that distinguishes the better type of vicar.