Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 45

When considering the best method of disposing of dead bodies, an invitation to theological discourse is seldom welcome. It may seem strange that a vicar would have problems disposing of the dead. After all, the Church of England has an entire mechanism devoted to this. Churches are typically surrounded by graves, and vicars are given specific training to ensure that dead bodies end up in the ground. And stay there.

The difficulty comes when a dead body arrives outside the official channels, as it were. Specifically, when the subject has been bludgeoned to death with a candlestick – this due to an altercation between different members of a secret cult intent on taking over the Church of England. At this point it becomes problematic to insert the corpse into the workflow without causing undue interest. It may seem strange that I was helping this cult hide their indiscretion, but I was intent on destroying them. If they were revealed now, some would escape and restart their nonsense elsewhere. This was unacceptable, as it would interfere with my destiny to become the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I will admit, I had not expected them to start killing each other – as they came from within the Church of England, I had expected them to destroy themselves with meaningless debate on irrelevant issues. Clearly, they were more heretical than I had thought. Still, the problem of the bodies remained, and it goes without saying that I could not afford to allow their disposal to be traced back to me.

Then, in the middle of all this, a champion delphinium grower asked me for my opinion on the ontological argument for the existence of God.

Still distracted by my waste disposal problem, I said, “Naive and outdated.”

I was, of course, familiar with the argument, as it had been put forward by a previous Archbishop of Canterbury around 1000 years ago. Still, perhaps not the best response.

“Really?” asked Maurice the delphinium grower. “What argument would you use?”

“I don’t,” I said, recovering my equilibrium.

This clearly confused him, and he asked, “Why not? Isn’t it important to you?”

“The existence of God is important to me, but the arguments are not. The problem is however good the argument, there is always a counter argument. It doesn’t matter whether it’s for or against, there’s a counter argument.”

“So why do you believe?”

“I made a decision. No rational argument, I just decided what I was going to do,” I said. Which was, I suppose, more or less correct. “It seems to have worked out alright,” I added.

“But what if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong. But because of it, I will have helped a lot of people along the way. That’s win-win.”

“Isn’t that a bit simple?”

“I’m told growing delphiniums is simple, but if you want to win the championship, you need attention to detail. It’s the same.”

Maurice nodded, so I said, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s the only thing I remember from my RE classes at school.”

I was suspicious. How much does anyone remember of their RE classes from school? Arguably, I should have better recollection of this than most, but what little I do remember was not what the teacher wished to impart. My sole memory is Mr Edwards noting that the disciples James and John were known as the “Sons of Thunder”, and James Miller making flatulent noises. Whatever else someone is likely to remember about RE lessons, ontology isn’t one of them.

I tried diverting him onto his delphiniums, but he came back to the topic twice more, and wouldn’t let go until we’d had a serious discussion about it. I concluded that although the Church of England might have its oddballs, allotment holders could give it a run for its money.

Maurice saw and nodded. “Ah, when the wind’s in this direction, often you get a whiff of Martin’s leek feed.”

“Not the most pleasant smell,” I agreed. “Even if he is a leek growing champion.”

“Always smells like rotting meat to me,” said Maurice, as I made my excuses and left.

I returned home and changed into my only non-clerical clothes – jeans and a tee-shirt.

“Going somewhere?” asked Abigail, my housekeeper.

“Just part of solving the problem of corpse disposal.”

She was about to respond when the phone rang. I sighed and picked it up. “Saint James Vicarage - David Wilson speaking.”

It was Debs, the over-weight, under-brained receptionist at Sutley Leisure Centre. After I’d helped out one of the fitness instructors with a problem, he’d told everyone how wonderful I was – which was nice – and passed my phone number on to Debs – which was not. Debs is needy and has a personal life like a soap opera. My natural inclination is to discard people like this, but in her job, Debs sees a lot of people, and would spread the bad news about me quickly. I would be patient. She might be useful one day.

Next I had a phone call from Mabel, my fiancée. Although I was wanting to get on with the task in hand, there is a reasonable expectation that one should be polite and pleasant when speaking to one’s fiancée. Unfortunately, people who are a little dim, or a little evangelical do not always pick up clues that other people have to be getting on. As she is both, the result was that it was too late to do what I had in mind.

I had to push back my plans to the next morning, but then I headed into Musdon by train, dressed in my casual clothes. I got off at Musdon Parkway instead of Central Station. It’s a modern affair, with lot of glass and stainless steel which serves a retail park, local businesses, and new flats. From here, it's a five-minute walk to the Tesco Extra.

Hands in pockets, I wandered over to the mobile phone section, and started browsing. Within seconds an assistant accosted me.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Um, yes, perhaps you can.”

The assistant’s shoulders slumped a little, but he gestured for me to continue.

“My kid brother, you see. Little idiot got caught playing with his phone in school. I thought having a dumb phone for a couple of weeks might be educational.”

“In that case, I suggest this one. Cheap as chips, and as dumb as you can get. Plus,” he added with an unpleasant smile, “It’s social suicide!”

“I’ll take it.”

I collected one of the free pay-as-you-go sim cards on the way out, which came with five pounds free credit. I composed a text message as I walked through the car park.

“Allotment 26, Sutley. Unwanted items, £5000 cash each”

I pondered whether Rev. Graham Walters would work out that he should take his inconvenient bodies to the allotment of Martin the champion leek grower. Was “unwanted items” too obscure? Should I change it to “dead vicars”? “No,” I decided. “Leave it as it stands.” He might not be the quickest on the uptake, but he’d work it out. Eventually.

I hit send, then removed the battery and sim card from the phone. Sim card and packaging went in a bin, the phone “accidentally” fell out of my pocket as I was crossing the road – and was crushed by an HGV seconds later. The battery went in the recycling at Boots. An obscure text message sent from an untraceable phone, keeping me and the bodies well away from each other.

As I took the train home, I did wonder how it would work out. If Martin was what I thought he was, then the bodies would quietly disappear, he’d win another Leek growing championship, and build a new greenhouse. Alternatively, if I was mistaken, he’d discover two bodies on his allotment and call the police. He might make the money disappear first, but he’d call the police. Eventually the bodies would be identified as two priests who had gone missing a few days earlier. After that, well, the police would hit something of a brick wall. Regardless, I should be in the clear, and anyway, my money was on the vicar corpses becoming leek fertilizer within the week.

Of course, throughout this, I had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were. Rev. Graham Walters led one faction of a heretical cult, meaning that there was the other faction’s leader to deal with. Predictably, just as I was about to sit to dinner that night, I had the anticipated phone call.

Disclaimer: Rev. David Wilson’s lack of recollection of RE lessons is somewhat disturbing. It is reasonable that these should be an important formative event for any priest. It should also be noted that the accepted reason for St James and St John being referred to as the “Sons of Thunder” was not due to a diet of fish, but because they were very vocal.

A map of Sutley may be found here:
https://kevinwoodauthor.com/SutleyMap.htm