A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

  ‘You confirmed my daughter tonight, Bishop,’ said the earnest man, who’d been waiting to speak to him for some time.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Bishop, ‘and which one was she?’

  ‘Diana.’

  ‘Diana? Splendid girl, you must be very proud.’

  ‘I’m very happy for Diana but perhaps more worried than proud if I’m honest.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It was your sermon, Bishop.’

  ‘I don’t speak words to please but I hope I always speak the truth.’

  ‘I’m a probation officer by trade.’

  ‘I see. A noble and challenging calling.’

  ‘So I’m in contact with people who commit crime, those who you call “bad people”.’

  ‘By their fruits shall we know them.’

  ‘I understand. But the more I see of bad people the more I discover they’re really rather normal people.’

  ‘Well, my friend, normal people don’t commit crimes or our prisons would be rather fuller than they are!’

  ‘I don’t find demonising people helpful.’

  ‘Who’s demonising?’

  ‘But that isn’t why I’m worried tonight.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘And so why are you worried?’ asked the cleric with polite seething. He adopted a patronising tone, not liking this man’s spirit.

  ‘Well I have to say, Bishop, that if you were a client of mine, and let’s hope you never are, but if you were, I’d be looking at the way your own self-punishing psyche finds relief in the punishment of others.’

  Sixty Seven

  Abbot Peter felt the chill as he made the grassy climb. It was 9.00 p.m. Falling away to his right were the white cliffs, a perpendicular drop that had been Christopher Thornton’s final journey. The leap had caused shock in Stormhaven as suicides do. Those who give noisy warning rarely commit the act; it is the quiet ones who jump, those who just walk out the door in silence.

  ‘I can’t believe it! I mean, why didn’t he tell us? I don’t understand.’

  Abbot Peter knew now why Christopher had felt bad; but the bigger mystery remained: why such a radical solution?

  ‘Life breaks us all but not all break themselves,’ he reflected. ‘Why is it some of us survive?’

  He’d left Tamsin asleep to visit his special place, the place of solitude, before the final act. The Rhodian jigsaw lay shattered in his study but the murder jigsaw was taking shape as he looked back on his home, now lost to view in the winter dark. He didn’t know if his niece would wake in peace; he knew only that her disordered soul must rest. Away to his left was the golf course, an empty stage of eighteen holes as his path steepened, taking him to the top of the hill which now flattened. It was here he’d stood with Christopher yesterday but now he continued on, walking a further hundred yards. After a little searching in the damp undergrowth, he found the path, a small and undistinguished affair. To one who didn’t know, it appeared the way to oblivion, seemingly taking the walker over the edge of the cliff. But if you trusted it with a first step and then a second, it became a protected if windy route, a sharp, narrow and chalky descent. You walked with care, clinging to the rock face on your left, more a ledge than a path. To your right was a fatal fall, a straight drop down to the watery smack of tide on stone.

  Peter made his careful way until arriving at his destination, a small cave in the side of the cliff. And in the doorway of the cave, gazing out across the English Channel, was a large round stone with a natural indent for the human body. Peter called it ‘The Seeing Stone’ after something his father once said.

  ‘We all need the seeing stone,’ he used to say. ‘No seeing, no live.’

  He’d probably meant ‘no life,’ his English was not the best, he spoke it like a child. But then again perhaps he’d said exactly what he meant to say. In the desert, Peter would climb up to the Chapel of Grace to contemplate the heavens above and the valley below, his solitary place of decision. In Stormhaven, he’d edge his way carefully towards the cave in the side of the cliff and take his place on the Seeing Stone.

  He sat now in the still holding of the rock. Here was a brutal but all-seeing solitude, a mountain seat of freedom which gazed on all that arose, whether wind, wash, gull or distant ship on the altering horizon. All was movement, all was change and all was passing as Peter sat in silence, discerning the shifting textures of the sky. It was good to be free. And then, when the moment seemed right, he put his freedom to work, shining the torch light of consciousness on the band of poor players, currently suspected of murder.

  Peter knew and approved the old adage: spiritual people enjoy the flowers along the way but also grasp the nettle. And now was the time for grasping as the inner chemistry of events began to cohere. Uppermost in Peter’s mind was the force of the internal fracture expressed in the external savagery of crucifixion. Everyone lives their fracture as best they can, sometimes hiding it, sometimes transcending it. But when the pain is too much we lunge at others and sometimes, with hammer and nails in hand. This was considerable dysfunction, considerable uncaring, but whose? In many ways, he knew the shocking and impossible truth but for clarity, must stay uncertain until all other possibilities fell away.

  Nine people had sat down for that fateful meeting in the parish room the night the vicar died. Of those, Anton and Clare had since been murdered and he removed himself from the equation also. This left six probable suspects: Ginger, Sally, Jennifer, Betty, Malcolm and Bishop Stephen. They all had reason to dislike Anton. Anton threatened Ginger’s livelihood with his questioning of the youth work; he’d rejected the advances of Sally somewhat cruelly; he’d set the Bishop against Jennifer, his greatest supporter; he’d referred to Betty as Betty Bogbrush within her hearing; he’d removed Malcolm’s painting from the church, treated him with disdain and possibly been involved in some minor fiddling of the church accounts; and for Bishop Stephen, he’d been an under-performing clergyman in an under-performing area for which Stephen was responsible.

  These were the surface things and none in itself a reason for murder by crucifixion. So what of things buried deeper in the psyche, the secret shapers of life. Peter poured himself coffee from his flask and sipping gratefully, looked out on the black sea. The nine gathered in the room that night had been a particular nine, each representing a different number on the Enneagram circle. And the number of each? Anton had lived from the Seven space and Clare from the Four, but tragically they were now out of the equation. With Peter creating his life from the Five space, that left six numbers to consider.

  Sally lived from the Two space, whose tipping point of stress would be feeling they weren’t needed or were unappreciated, leading to wounded pride and dangerous resentment. Could such things turn a curate into a murderer? Ginger lived from the Eight space. The eight’s point of terror would be the exposure of the weakness they could not admit in themselves and to see their empire threatened. Under extreme stress they would react with avoidant despair which might well include savage vengeance. And then there was Betty, hardly the likeliest candidate but clearly disturbed over these past few weeks by something. Betty lived from the Six space. The Six’s tipping point is around a loss of trust. If trust is felt to be abused, any darkness is possible and any madness pursued.

  A large gull joined Peter in the cave, so magnificent in the sky but awkward on land, like a god in reduced circumstances. It strutted about in apparent surprise at this unexpected presence, before launching again into the cold night air, swooping down and then up, hollering, screaming, rolling with the battering gusts of wind. Peter was alone once again, still life on stone and considering Malcolm who lived from the Nine space. His psychology was most dangerous when a lack of personal identity encouraged a fantasy ego that could presume anything and do anything. So was Malcolm a lethal fantasist? Or was it in Bishop Stephen that th
e walls of civility fractured? Stephen lived from the One space, a way of being that is most threatened by a sense of blame, by anyone declaring them wrong in some way. Their self-hate will quickly be transferred onto another. But could that become crucifixion? And then there was Jennifer, Anton’s supposed white knight, but his thought was interrupted as a boat appeared on the horizon, faintly lit, a distant thing, chugging its choppy path to somewhere and suddenly Peter was thinking of the cascading jigsaw in his study.

  ‘Of course!’ said Abbot Peter who knew he must get back home and do something he’d never done before. He slid slowly from the Seeing Stone, stepped out of the cave and onto the ledge path that would take him back up the cliff. He felt the minutes pressing, danger walking towards his door. He moved as quickly as he could but time was draining away, as in an anxious dream when you want to get there but you can’t and you don’t and you know you never will.

  Sixty Eight

  It proved to be the final entry in the murder diary, the diary of a seaside murderer and one rather hastily written, because since the whole CD business at the Christmas Fayre, the killer had been in a slight panic, feeling that things could not always be controlled as was appropriate. And it felt like less of a game now, felt nastier, more anxious, which was a shame, because it was better if it was a game.

  ‘I must deal with the murder tools because I don’t think they’re safe anymore. I will go back tonight and deal with them. It’s been a good place until now but they can’t stay there.

  This is ridiculous. I keep forgetting that I’m the murderer. But less of that word, I don’t like the word, it’s not a good word, too separating, so let’s all just stop using it. It’s not helping anyone.

  But I’ll get the murder tools and put them somewhere, throw them somewhere, easily done, offer them up to the sea in a weighted bag. That sounds interesting.

  And then I’m free which is probably what I deserve, no I do, definitely.’

  Sixty Nine

  Tamsin was woken from her sleep by the phone. It took some while to gather herself, ripped from the first deep hour of slumber, with no idea where she was or time of day.

  And then the phone stopped ringing.

  ‘Damn,’ she said.

  And then it started again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Inspector Shah?’

  ‘DI Shah, speaking, yes.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I have a confession to make.’ A man’s voice.

  ‘Who is this speaking?’

  ‘Can we meet in the church?’

  ‘What do you want to confess?’

  ‘I’ll be there for the next half hour if you wish to hear me out.’

  ‘Why the church?’

  ‘It’s the place for confessions, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is that you Ginger?’

  But the phone was dead.

  Tamsin sat for a moment, heart beating. For the first time in the investigation, she wished Peter was around. She rang him, only to discover his phone on the kitchen table.

  ‘Damn.’

  Remembering earlier events, she pushed open the study door. The room lay still, clock ticking, icons sleeping and the jigsaw pieces restored to the table. She’d go without him. She hadn’t needed him so far and didn’t need him now. She dressed quickly, pondered her car keys but decided to walk the half mile to St Michael’s. The cold would do her good, give her time to think. The identity of the caller remained a mystery. Her first thought was Ginger and sometimes the first thought is your best. If it was Ginger, she was aware that until this point, they’d only experienced uncomfortable conversations, battles for territory with no clear winner.

  But tonight there would be a clear winner. And it would be her.

  Seventy

  Peter was already in a hurry. The discovery that Tamsin was gone from the safety of Sandy View only made him move faster. After collecting his tools, he set off along the sea front. With cold shingle and turbulent wave for company, he made his way towards his destination. He knew the beach hut he wanted. It was there on Betty’s mantelpiece and there again in the picture of her father on the beach in Stormhaven. It was hut No.7 from which Betty seemed to emerge on the night of the murder. Then the incident had puzzled him but no more; now it was assuming significance. He stepped off the road, onto the shingle and walked along the line of huts, closed for winter. Soon he was standing outside No.7 and noticed two things. A newly fitted lock on the door and above the door, evidence of a fresh name painted on the hut lintel:

  ‘Rest ‘n Peace’.

  Darkly ambiguous. More menacing, however, was the word ‘JUDAS’ written in thick magic marker across the door. Peter took a chisel and hammer from his bag and with a couple of blows the padlock was splintered free. Beach hut security was minimal at best but even so, breaking and entering seemed strangely natural to the Abbot. He was now pulling open the door and letting the darkness out. He stood in the entrance and felt in his bag for a torch. It was the one piece of technology he’d brought back from the desert. A candle would have been more romantic in those dark monastic corners but not nearly so effective as this fat beam of light which now played across the space. It smelt like a cricket pavilion from a long time ago, wood and resin and was unnervingly clear with no chair or kettle, beach towel or discarded bottles of lotion. In fact there was nothing here for a holiday; just a small covered pile in the left hand corner - a small pile which revealed itself as the murder gear.

  Seventy One

  Tamsin stood in the dark church. The door had been open and she’d walked in. It was dark.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Detective Inspector Shah. I’m here!’

  Silence.

  ‘You said something about a confession.’

  There was suddenly a hand on her shoulder. Tamsin spun round.

  ‘Malcolm?’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Well, don’t look so surprised. Who did you think it was?’ Tamsin screamed and Malcolm put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

  Seventy Two

  ‘I think we should tell someone,’ said Sally.

  ‘We?’

  Ginger was just finishing off some long-postponed paper work for the council. He’d had an uncomfortable call from the youth department on Friday; uncomfortable for them at least.

  ‘Okay. I think I should tell someone.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Ginger. ‘Other people’s rules mean nothing.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sally and in her pride, she did. Other people’s rules were not for her. ‘But I don’t like lying.’

  ‘You already have.’

  ‘And I was surprised how natural it all was.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re surprised.’

  ‘I do have a dog collar round my neck!’

  ‘Hah! You really think that makes a difference? Everyone lies and you’re no different.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I want to stop.’

  ‘Brave woman.’

  ‘So shall we go?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘It’s time for me to take off my dog collar, I think.’

  ‘And you’re sure that’s what you want?’

  ‘Haven’t I spent six months with you deciding?’

  Seventy Three

  Abbot Peter stood staring at his beach hut find.

  One item after another exposed to the light. Yes, here was the murder gear. What struck him most, however, was the normality of it all, the dull essence of the articles laid out before him. It wasn’t a house of horrors; no dark tools from the torture chamber. Everything he could see in the torchlight was available at a DIY store, innocent and helpful in a cupboard under the sink. The yellow rubber gloves, several reels of silver grey gaffer tape, the protective
plastic overgarment for messy jobs like painting and drainage clearance, the all-purpose cloths, the kitchen knife and the hammer and nails. What possible problem could there be with items such as these? Only on this occasion, intentions and usage had not been pure. The gloves had hidden finger prints, the tape had tied and imprisoned a body, the over-garment had protected against the blood stains of murder, the kitchen knife had spliced a heart rather than carrots while the hammer and nails penetrated wrists.

  Only the bottle of chloroform, ‘Duncan’s Blue Label, London and Edinburgh’, looked slightly at odds with innocence - unless someone was installing air conditioning in their home, in which case it would be essential. Then Abbot Peter froze. There were footsteps on the shingle, a visitor only a few feet away outside. He switched off the torch and stood in the trapped darkness of this little wooden box. It was hard to tell in the wind, but he’d heard a crunch, another crunch and then nothing. So where was the visitor now? Peter inched his way round, his heart beating fear. He’d closed the door of the hut behind him, but it was a forced door, a fractured entrance no longer sitting true in its place. No one would enter the hut unaware of that revealing truth. And suddenly the door crashed open, the wind rushed in and a silhouetted figure appeared at the entrance and then went. Peter stepped back, jabbing the torch light at the open hole, waiting. He was crouching now, haunches tense, back against the wall, a monk far from prayer, watching and waiting. Or had he imagined it? Had it been mere shadow, a trick of the dark?

  With shocking ferocity the door slammed back shut, followed by eerie quiet, the closed-in quiet of a wooden seaside hideaway in winter. It wasn’t right, not how it should be... not for Abbot Peter, at least. People here should be making tea and laughing, eating ice cream, reading the summer gossip, preparing for a dip, wiping sand from their toes and anticipating fish and chips in the early-evening sun. Instead, he stood cold and fearful in the solstice dark of the longest night, close to the tools of savage murder.