fiction
Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 48
In a similar way, when dealing with members of a secret heretical cult that is intent on taking over the Church of England, it is better to make obscure-sounding phone calls to arrange furtive meetings. That way they are more likely to accept the fake documents and artefacts that I was using to destroy them. As a side note, I had expected the destruction to take the form of debating themselves to death, but they were being rather purist in their approach. Still, I suppose bludgeoning each other with candlesticks demonstrates commitment.
I had managed to split the cult into two opposing factions, and for rather complicated reasons had arranged one of the faction leaders to receive a device he needed. The fact that it had been knocked up by Porker, Hells Angel, forger and member of my church was neither here nor there. It was being purchased by Rev, Martin Dawson for a ridiculous amount of money.
“When?” asked Martin over the phone. He was keeping to the obscure phone call protocol for arranging secret meetings.
“One hour.”
“Where?”
“Fox and Hounds.”
He terminated the call.
Martin arrived at the appointed time. He looked around on entering, acknowledged us, and bought a drink before coming to our table.
“Do you have it?” he asked.
“Relax,” said Porker, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. It emphasised his massive stature, as I am sure he was aware. “If you have the money, then I have what you want.”
“I want to see it before I pay.”
“Are you suggesting I might try and rip you off?” asked Porker, leaning forward and putting his forearms on the table. The table creaked.
“No, no, not at all,” said Martin. “It’s just... well, it’s an intricate piece, which needs to be made to a high degree of accuracy.”
“Listen, mate – it’s taken me a week to make it, and you know why? For something like this to work right, you haven’t only got to get the dimensions right. You can only work on it during hours one, two, three, five and seven of each day.”
“Really?”
“Of course. And you have to line up the pieces strictly East-West because as the Earth turns it aligns the crystalline structure of the metal.”
“I never knew...”
“And that’s why you’re paying me. Now.”
“Oh. Oh, right,” said Martin, and slid a brown paper envelope across the table. Porker took it and slid it inside his jacket.
“Aren’t you going to count it?” asked Martin.
“Nah. If the money’s wrong, I’ll find you. Simple as that.”
“It’s right. The money’s right. It’s all there.”
It seemed to me that there was more than a sheen of perspiration on Martin’s forehead.
Porker slid over a jiffy bag, from which Martin withdrew a device. It was formed of a series of rods supporting four mounting rings, with an eyepiece at one end.
“Slip each amber disk into these rings,” said Porker. “Rotate them until they align while looking through the eyepiece.”
“And that will reveal...”
“I don’t know what it will reveal, and I don’t want to. I just made the thing. Power like this is not for the likes of me.”
Martin nodded solemnly and said, “You have the wisdom of your craft. I go now.”
He left, leaving his untouched pint behind. Porker downed his drink, and started on Martin’s.
“You know,” he said, “It takes me about eight pints before I start talking like that.”
That evening, I had an appointment with Violet Johnson. She is variously described as “a sweet old lady”, “doing very well for her age”, and “daft as a brush”. These are all true, but she is happy, and capable of looking after herself, so why disturb her?
My appointment was to watch the fairies at the bottom of her garden. Perhaps not the most obvious task for a future Archbishop of Canterbury, but it gave me a chance to keep an eye on her. Her home is on the South side of Sutley, with a view of Musdon. You can make out the Minster quite clearly. Her late husband had been something in finance – it is hard getting the details from her now – and left a very pleasant house. Not large, but with a nice garden.
“Hello, David,” Violet said, as she opened the door to me. “Do you want to come through?”
I greeted her, and followed through the house. As we passed through the kitchen, I noted a row of washing machine tablets on the work surface. They held blue and red and green transparent liquids in a gel, almost like jewels. It had been an idea of her daughter’s, but she refused to use them, because they were too pretty. Instead, she continued to use powder. I helped her move a couple of chairs and a bistro-style table down the garden. More accurately, I moved them, and she instructed me. The garden slopes down from the house, protected by conifer hedges to each side. At the bottom of the garden, shaded by silver birch and rowan trees is a well. A genuine well, with water at the bottom, although I wasn’t sure how deep it was.
“We should see the fairies soon,” said Violet, “Now the dusk is coming.”
We settled on our cold metal chairs, and I drew my coat around me. The evenings were really starting to draw in now, and it wasn’t a warm night, The sky was too clear for that.
“Are you warm enough?” I asked her, because I am professionally required to check such matters.
“Oh, quite warm dear,” was the reply, as she poured me a cup of cocoa – not hot chocolate – from a thermos.
The darkness closed in, and the night was quite still. There was the sound of traffic in the background, but otherwise it was quiet. Sometimes, a leaf would fall from one of the trees.
“Look, there!” said Violet in an intense whisper. “Above the well.”
I looked, and naturally, I could see nothing.
“I think I missed that one,” I said.
“Look for the little flash of starlight on their wings.”
“Is that one there?” I asked, pointing in approximately the direction of the well.
“Oh, you lucky boy! Not everyone can see the fairies, you know.”
And so we went on, sipping our cocoa, with me agreeing that I could see imaginary fairies. Occasionally she would provide comments about the different colouration, or other matters of significance.
“You can always tell the rowan fairies, because there’s a glint of the colour of the rowan berries in their wings.”
“Really? So are the others from the birch?”
“Oh, yes, and they come to mingle over the well. It’s like a market place to them.”
“So would they normally keep to their own trees?”
“Sometimes there would be a territorial dispute, but without the well we’d hardly see them.”
“It is fortunate that the well is here, then.”
“That’s why my Henry had it dug. It’s at least twenty feet down to the water, but he said it would bring out the fairies, and it has.”
As I made my way home that night, I pondered whether her late husband, Henry had been pandering to her fairy obsession, or if she had started seeing the fairies after his death. Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than playing with the fairies.
The week proceeded smoothly through the days, with another successful Souper Saturday and a calm Sunday service. Everything was satisfactory until Tuesday, when I had an email from the office of the Bishop.
The Diocese wanted St James, Sutley for form a Local Ecumenical Partnership with the Methodists.
Disclaimer: As usual, the Rev. David Wilson has failed to provide essential information. Without knowing the type of birch tree in Mrs. Johnson’s garden, it is not possible to accurately identify the type of fairy that was present. This is typical of the slipshod approach that he takes to parochial matters.
A map of Sutley may be found here:
https://kevinwoodauthor.com/SutleyMap.htm