The Vicar of Morbing Vile

by Richard Harland

  I was still goggling over that when Mr Quode landed on my shoulders. He had launched himself at me bodily through the air. With naked arms and legs he fastened on like a fleshy pink polyp. Voluptuous moaning sounds came from his throat.

  I jabbed with my elbows but he wasn’t so easy to dislodge. There was a soft yielding quality about Mr Quode that made it difficult to land an effective blow. I felt a warm wetness on the back of my neck as his tongue slid down under my collar.

  “Gerrrofff!” I yelled frantically, provoking the other inhabitants to a further outburst of screams and howls. I stood in the centre of the room and twirled around on the spot, rotating faster and faster. It worked. Suddenly Mr Quode lost his hold and went flying. He fetched up with a pulpy sort of slap against the wall by the fireplace.

  But I had no time for triumph. There was an even greater danger than Mr Quode. It was announced by a great bellowing hoot from under my feet. I looked down and saw a thin glittering length of metal sticking up through a crack in the floorboards. The needle of Mr Caulkiss’s syringe! It had missed my shoe by inches. He was still after my blood!

  “Grruphhh!” With a baffled snort he withdrew the needle back down through the crack.

  “Tee-hee-heeee!” cackled Craylene on the other side of the door. “Happy Xmas, Mr Smyeeeeeethe!”

  “A moi! A moi!” Mr Quode had got up onto his feet again. “Mmmmmmmoi!”

  “Yeeeeowoooooooo!” Gambels howled in his kennel like a coyote.

  Then Mr Quode reached out with his fingers and extinguished the candle. That was the beginning of the worst night of my life.

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Fifty-One

  I don’t know how long it lasted. Hours I suppose. It seemed like years. The only light was the light from Melestrina’s lantern at the window. But that only shone when she was displaying a new placard. Every time she changed placards there was a period of darkness. She had a never-ending supply of new placards.

  N°54: SEVEN GREAT POSITIONS FOR MASTERS AND SLAVES

  and

  N°88: THIS INSATIABLE BODY: A CARNAL EXTRAVAGANZA

  Everything seemed to happen a million times over. Around and around and around they hounded me. I dodged from the the chest to the bunk to the fireplace and back again. If I stood in the centre of the room, Mr Caulkiss’s needle spiked up at me through the floorboards. If I retreated to the sides, Mr Quode came slithering towards me in the dark. I could never stay still for more than a moment.

  At the same time I had less and less room for manoeuvre. As Craylene continued to push her Little Ones in under the door, a tide of raw meat spread out and occupied the floor. Cutlets, sausages, chops, rumps, liver, loins, kidneys – it was like an invading red army. And all the time she tittered and squealed:

  “Come and play with us, Mr Smythe! Here’s Maxie and Brutus! Come and play some games with Maxie and Brutus!”

  In fact, all the inhabitants were calling out in the craziest way, coaxing and wheedling and trying to persuade me:

  “This way!”

  “Over here!”

  “Don’t be shy!”

  “You’ve got us all excited!”

  “We want you now!”

  “We can’t control ourselves!”

  “Come!”

  “Blood!”

  “Desire!”

  “We’re all hot and panting!”

  “You can’t leave us like this!”

  I don’t know how I survived. Several times Mr Quode latched on to me in the dark, and I barely managed to shake him off. Several times I trod on the advancing red margin of Craylene’s meat, and went skidding and crashing to the floor. And one time Mr Caulkiss stuck his needle actually into my shoe – but only into the outer edge of the sole. I had to hop around in a circle until I could yank my shoe free.

  And still the voices grew more insistent and more insinuating:

  “You can’t resist!”

  “Let go, Mr Smythe!”

  “Give yourself up!”

  “You’re almost there!”

  “You know you want to!”

  “You can do it!”

  “Now you’re ready!”

  “Don’t hang back!”

  “You can’t hang back!”

  “A little bit further!”

  “You’re almost with us!”

  On and on and on. It was like some wild and whirling game. A hundred times over I told myself I couldn’t keep dodging away like this. I was living on my reflexes, my last-minute reflexes. But my reflexes were slowing down. I was getting so tired, so very very tired. Desperately I shouted:

  “Leave me alone! Please!”

  But they only cackled with laughter and shouted back louder than ever:

  “Now! Now!”

  “No more delaying!”

  “You have to come up to scratch, Mr Smythe!”

  “Think of all we’ve done for you!”

  “Food and shelter!”

  “Nursing you back to health!”

  “Taking you for walks!”

  “A special banquet!”

  “Dramatic entertainment!”

  “You have to repay us!”

  “For all our kindnesses!”

  “You have to start doing things with us, Mr Smythe!”

  By the end I was undoubtedly hallucinating. Their voices seemed to be coming from inside my own head. Tempting, demanding, cajoling…I could no longer tell what was real and what wasn’t. Everything began to blur into everything else. Mr Quode’s sprig of holly…spare ribs and tripes…“Join us! Join us!”…N°104: FORBIDDEN FANTASIES: FROM CLEAVAGE TO CLAVICLES…“You need us! You need us!”…sausages crawling towards me over the floor…gasping and whinnying…

  I admit it, I was very very close to giving in. It would have been such a relief just to go mad like the rest of them, just to stop struggling and sink down. I seemed to hear someone gobbling like a turkey…N°121…N°176…“We are the power!”…soft warm liquid sensations moving across the small of my back…bloodcurdling laughter…floating, drifting…N°289…N°305…sensations creeping over my waist and circling my navel…“Happy happy Xmas, Mr Smyeeeeeeethe!”…

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Fifty-Two

  It was the phrase ‘Happy Xmas’ that saved me. “Happy happy Xmas Mr Smy-eeeeeeethe!” I had heard it many times already through the night. But suddenly something clicked in my mind. Suddenly I actually thought about Xmas; thinking about Xmas, I thought about Santa Claus; and thinking about Santa Claus, I thought about Santa climbing down the chimney. Inspiration! Suddenly I had an idea for a way to escape. I could climb up the chimney!

  I shook myself and came out of a sort of trance. I discovered that I was half sitting half sprawling on the side of my bunk. I must have collapsed. And there beside me on the bunk was Mr Quode.

  It was disgusting. He had snuggled up beside me like a calf to a cow. His bare fat body was throbbing rhythmically. I couldn’t see his head because it was buried beneath my coat.

  I realised then what the soft warm liquid sensations were. I flung open my coat and jacket and shirt. He had wormed his way in under my clothes, right next to my skin. When I exposed him, he was licking voluptuously all over my stomach as though I was some particularly delicious ice cream.

  I seized hold of his red fringe of hair and pulled his head away. He lifted his eyes in my direction – wide, blind, pleasure-glazed eyes. His tongue lolled out all wet and slobbery.

  “Mmmlllubbbblllmmmm,” he murmured. He was beyond the power of articulate speech. I gave him a push that knocked him clean off the end of the bed.

  At the very same moment, as if on cue, Melestrina withdrew her pole to change placards once again. With the lantern gone, the nursery was plunged in darkness. Just what I needed! But I had to move fast.

  Feeling my way in the dark, I crossed the room towards the fireplace. I heard Mr Caulkiss give a roar, stabbing up once again with his needle. But once agai
n he missed me.

  I came to the fireplace, planted one foot in the grate, and ducked my head in under the mantel. I was lucky that the vicarage had wide old-fashioned chimneys. Even so it was a tight fit. I wished I hadn’t been wearing so many thick clothes. I squeezed my shoulders up past the baffle and stood with my head in the chimney.

  The walls of the chimney were furred with soot. I took a deep breath and hoisted myself up. The first part was the worst. With my feet dangling in mid-air I had to use my arms and elbows for leverage. My progress dislodged great clouds of soot. I choked and gagged and nearly vomited.

  But a few feet above the fireplace, my chimney joined in with another chimney. Now there was more space for climbing, and the going got easier. There were still no footholds of handholds. But I discovered how to lean with my back against one wall, whilst bracing my legs against the other. Inch by inch, I levered my way upwards.

  Muffled sounds arose from the nursery below. Voices were shouting: “Where is he?”

  “He must be somewhere!”

  “What’s happened to him, Quode?”

  There were loud thumpings and bumpings. Then a period of silence. Then:

  “Light the candle, Quode!”

  “I don’t have any matches!”

  “Unlock the door then!”

  “I can’t see the door!”

  “Feel for it, Quode!”

  Higher and higher I climbed, and the voices grew more and more muffled. Soon I could no longer distinguish the words. I had the impression that everyone was arguing and that Mr Quode was getting the blame.

  It took me ten minutes to reach the top. At the top, the chimney terminated in a smooth round chimney-pot. I reached up high with my arms and hooked my fingers over the rim. The pot was narrow and for a moment I thought I was going to get stuck. But I heaved and wriggled and eventually managed to squeeze through.

  I emerged out into the cold night air. The night was pitch black, as black as the inside of the chimney. I rested with my arms on the rim of the pot. And then I realised that something had changed. It had stopped snowing!

  I heaved once more. Now I was sitting on the rim of the pot. I lifted my legs and clambered out onto the ledge of the chimney. I felt the cold crunchy snow packed all around – but still I couldn’t see it. I lowered myself down onto the roof.

  But the snow-covered roof was steep and slippery. I couldn’t sit and I couldn’t crawl. I could only slump across the ridge of the roof with my head hanging down on one side and my feet on the other. It was the only possible position.

  I was stranded. I would’ve like to climb down from the roof – but how? It seemed too dangerous to attempt in the dark. Besides, my legs were shaking and my arms were trembling. I was very very tired.

  I lay there thinking, trying to recover my strength. But my body had had enough for one night. After the endless running and dodging in the nursery, after the climb to the top of the chimney…Without meaning to, I relaxed and closed my eyes. Waves of drowsiness washed gently over me. I couldn’t help it. Even draped across the ridge of the roof, in the most uncomfortable position imaginable, I started to nod. In a matter of moments I was fast asleep.

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Part Five

  CHRISTMAS DAY

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Fifty-Three

  I slept deeply and peacefully. I had no dreams until the very end of the night But then I had a nightmare so terrifying that it made me wake up.

  It seemed that I was looking out from the window in the parlour downstairs. In the dream there were no drapes or undercurtains over the window. I looked straight out at a huge rearing wall with buttresses. It blocked off the entire view. The stonework was dark and heavy, but the buttresses were outlined with a sort of unreal ghostly glimmer.

  I came up closer to the window. The closer I came, the more I could see of the same huge wall. Evidently it was part of some tremendous building. It extended out endlessly on either side, with buttress after buttress after buttress. Up above, there were windows, tall Gothic windows, rows upon rows of them. They gave forth a ghastly yellowish light. But still I couldn’t see the line of the roof.

  I moved forward until I somehow passed through the window and stood in the open outside the vicarage. Now I could see. It was like looking up at a cliff, hundreds of feet high. The line of the roof was encrusted with battlements and pinnacles. Everything was outlined by the same wierd glimmer against the black of the night sky. Further in the background, I could just vaguely make out the shape of something even higher: a stupendous spire. It seemed to reach right up to the stars.

  “This is the Church of Morbing Vyle,” I said to myself. “Soon the congregation will arrive. I must be there at the West Porch to see them go in.”

  It was as though my intention immediately came true. The next thing I knew I was standing waiting by the West Porch of the Church of Morbing Vyle. The doors were wide open. I could see the brightly-lit interior, already packed with a tremendous throng of people. And there were more arriving all the time.

  They came on four great highways, four great radiating highways that converged to a centre directly in front of the West Porch. They came in huge grey and black limousines, purring up at tremendous speed. They leaped out almost before their vehicles had stopped.

  I watched in amazement. There were people of every nationality, talking away in every language of the world. There were judges, generals, politicians, bankers, archbishops, duchesses, commissars, sheiks, beauty queens, businessmen and movie stars – dignitaries of every kind. I even recognised several famous faces amongst them.

  And the clothes! They were dressed in the most lavish garments of silk and lace and fur, dripping with jewels and ornaments. I saw exotic oriental robes, Paris designer fashions, ceremonial uniforms with medals and braid. Most of the males wore black or white, while scarlet was the predominant colour for the women.

  On and on and on they came, in a brilliant bewildering stream. They swept right past me and in through the open doors of the Church. Their feet seemed hardly to touch the ground. They were possessed of a terrible vitality. They laughed and shouted and flung their arms in the air. There was something almost tigerish about them.

  Then suddenly the doors of the Church slammed shut. The congregation was complete. Suddenly there were no more limousines, no more people arriving outside. The ghastly yellowish light shone forth more brightly than ever.

  I turned and looked. Now I could see them in the windows, silhouetted against the glass. The congregation must have numbered many many thousands, maybe millions. They seemed to be piled on top of one another, perhaps standing on each other’s shoulders. Some even clung to the tracery of the windows, or swung around like monkeys in the roof.

  Then the organ began to play. A deep low resonant note, which gradually became a rhythmic pulse, which in turn became a melody. But a very uncanny sort of melody. It was like a hymn with only half a tune.

  As the music grew louder and louder, the people joined in with singing and clapping. Their singing was an incredible babel of sound, every word uttered simultaneously in a hundred languages. Louder and louder and louder. I could feel the ground reverberating under my feet.

  Then a spirit of demonic frenzy swept through the congregation. Still piled on top of one another, they whirled and danced and capered and cavorted as though they were having fits. At the same time, they started to strip off and exchange clothes. I saw half-naked archbishops wearing the swimsuits of beauty queens, beauty queens wearing the wigs of judges, judges wearing the sequined dresses of movie stars…It was total chaos.

  At the same time I realised that something had happened to the light. It had taken on a dull and sinister tinge of red. There was a red film spreading up over the lower parts of the windows – a film of blood. It splashed against the glass from the inside of the church. Higher and higher it spread, like a tide. Soon the light was entirely red and the congregation wa
s hidden from view. The windows were awash with blood.

  Yet still the organ played and the voices sang. The volume of sound swelled to an unbelievable crescendo. Now the organist was playing in multiple harmonies all over the keyboard, with amazing impromptu flourishes and glissades. A musical virtuoso, I thought to myself, an absolute genius.

  That was when a new and different voice rose up from amongst the multitude. It began very gently, not really loud at all. But it had a quality that pierced through every other sound – a quality of extreme pure sweetness. Like liquid silver it flowed, and all the other voices fell into place around it.

  I turned and stepped inside the porch of the Church. The doors were shut but I could see the handle to turn to go in. Should I go in? What else was there to do? Why else was I standing here?

  An inexplicable necessity seemed to be laid upon me. I approached the doors. I didn’t want to enter, and yet it seemed somehow inevitable that I would. I took hold of the handle…

  There was a strange sort of struggle going on inside me. On some higher level of consciousness I resisted and rejected the necessity. But I knew that if I kept dreaming I was going to turn the handle, I was going to enter the Church. The only way out was to escape from the dream itself.

  It was one of those weird moments when you become aware of the dream even though you’re still dreaming it. I stood with my hand on the handle and said very firmly:

  “It’s only a dream. Only a dream.”

  My hand started to turn the handle.

  “It’s only a dream! Only a dream! ONLY A DREAM!”

  I screamed the words over and over in my mind, trying to make them come true. It was a tremendous effort of willpower. I forced the door out of existence, I refused to let the handle be real. Frantically I sought to make contact with the ordinary world again. Where was I? I had to be somewhere…