by Percy Quirk
The men, all seven Vicars, extracted Mr. Creasey from the sack and, with some effort, fastened him into the interior of the statue. Once his ample frame had been secured the devices of evident torture that were present became more comprehensible. There were many, although one, around the loins, particularly caught the eye. I cannot, to this day, understand why I did not pass out there and then.
Once Mr. Creasey was fully inside, the external shell of the statue was swung shut. The mouthpiece of the calf was closed unceremoniously and all that could be seen of Mr. Creasey were his terrified, defiant eyes.
Next, Sergeant Haylock opened the clasp of the whore statue and stood back. I think I moaned audibly at what I saw inside, to the amusement of those present, and moaned again when he fixed me with that one, bright eye and said:
“Before we get to Creasey, I think we’ll start with you, Mrs. Evans.”
I looked around for William and caught my last glimpse of him descending the stairs to the nave below.
“It’s no good looking to your husband,” the Sergeant said. “In fact, this particular remodelling of the organ was at his request. I will be visiting all of the churches in this diocese in time, but we can consider this the prototype, if you like.”
I heard Reverend Jones let out a high-pitched, boyish giggle. Nobody paid him any mind, however, as they were as transfixed as I was. I was only dimly aware of the sound.
Speechless, I looked again at the internal workings of the statue. Although there were, as with the calf into which Mr. Creasey had been interned, many sharp and unpleasant items there were also mechanics that were, quite obviously, of a sexual nature. In the seat of the statue was a large phallus, ten to twelve inches in length, which could be inserted into the crotch of the statue and, indeed, its occupant. The breast cups contained fasteners and small, delicate machinery, the purpose of which was not clear. The statue itself was arranged so that the arms and the legs were splayed wide apart, and there were also small wires that seemed designed for distributing electrical currents through many different parts of the interior, and through whoever was captive inside. Again, all of this seemed to be controlled and powered by whichever pipes were employed by the organist below.
“I have written many pieces of music, Mrs. Evans,” Sergeant Haylock explained. “Some of them will bring pain, and some will bring intense pleasure. Some will combine the two. Your body will become the direct recipient of my art and your husband’s skill. My wife and I, for she is still my wife, will enjoy each mass from this gallery, Mrs. Evans. The choice of music, however, will be entirely your husband’s choice.
“What do you say, Mrs. Evans?”
You might expect me to have been defiant. You might have expected some sense of outrage, or moral courage at this point. None were forthcoming — Mr. Creasey had done his job too well.
“Thank you, Lord Haylock, sir,” I said, and curtseyed. This was greeted by spontaneous applause from the Vicars, until Sergeant Haylock held up his hand for silence.
“Quite right, Mrs. Evans,” he said. “We expected that it would be more difficult to wean you off your particular dependencies than it would be to use them to our own advantage: the creation of art, and of a good wife.”
I lowered my head, ashamed.
“Now you, Creasey,” Sergeant Haylock said, turning to the frightened, crying eyes that were visible inside the calf statue. “We’ve got a particular melody for you, and one that ends in quite a crescendo. I understand, having spoken to the Vicars, that there is need of a castrato for the choir, and I seem to remember you had a beautiful voice when we were younger.”
There was laughter all around, and Mr. Creasey’s eyes bulged inside the statue.
With that William, seated beside the nave below, began to play an unfamiliar tune, and the splendour of the melody all but drowned out the sounds coming from Mr. Creasey inside the golden statue.
“Bravo,” applauded Mr. Jones. “Bravo!”
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