A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

  ‘And you young and fit!’ replied the Sarkar, striding ahead up the steep path. ‘Perhaps you’re just young!’

  ‘It’s good for a man to know where he’s going!’ Gurdjieff called out, sulkily.

  ‘We never know where we are going!’ replied the man ahead, turning for a moment. ‘We just imagine we do.’

  Though the path was unforgiving, it was not merely the physical demands that caused Gurdjieff pain. The discomfort lay also in being led by another, when he was the one who led. It was he, George Ivanovich, who had always been the one at the front, demanding trust from others. Roles were now reversed, however. Here was a man demanding that he follow and follow blind, which did not improve his mood.

  They walked a further hour in separate state. Gurdjieff was thinking of Yorii. Since their encounter in the cave, they’d twice met on the compound. Gurdjieff had been given gardening duties and these took him all over the settlement. The first encounter took place when he saw her talking with a friend. Yorii introduced him to her companion as ‘the Russian with the mad eyes.’ In response, he’d said it was better to be mad when the sane were so clueless. This seemed to go down well, making them giggle and raise their eyebrows.

  Their second meeting involved no laughter. It took place a few days later, when Gurdjieff, on entering one of the Oratories, was struck in the face by a large beam of wood, carelessly carried. If he expected sympathy, however, he was to be disappointed. It was the carrier who turned on Gurdjieff in fury, saying he should look where he was going. Gurdjieff, still sore, needed no invitation to return the angry words. The carrier became increasingly foul-mouthed and threatening, his breath betraying intoxication. Yorii then appeared and tried to intervene. The carrier knocked her savagely to the ground and lurched hurriedly on his way.

  ‘I’ll get him,’ said Gurdjieff. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘He’s my father,’ said Yorii.

  ***

  Up ahead, the Sarkar came to a halt and beckoned George Ivanovich forward. Emerging from shadowy wood into bright open space, Gurdjieff felt his spirits lift. Standing on the heights, the valley sprawled silently and splendidly before them. Away to the right was the community they had left that morning, snug and separate on the mountain side. They had walked a distance, most of it uphill and Gurdjieff dripped with sweat.

  The Sarkar sat on a rock in a state of calm. ‘Work makes for sweet essence,’ he said.

  ‘Not if you’re a foul-mouthed carpenter,’ thought Gurdjieff, as he took from his back-bag a bottle of water and drank keenly.

  ‘And the trusted must himself learn trust,’ added the Sarkar. ‘You find trust hard?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The men took in the view. It was a magnificent and detailed panorama.

  ‘I like to come here,’ said the Sarkar. ‘It’s a place of such clear vistas. Come and sit on this stone!’

  He indicated that Gurdjieff must now take his place on the rock. The Sarkar climbed down and the young adventurer climbed up. Once there, he was inwardly consumed by a sense of honour:

  ‘That the Sarkar should give me this stone throne, so smooth and holding!’

  He looked out across the valley, king of all he surveyed.

  The Sarkar said: ‘The place where you now sit, I call it “The Seeing Stone”. You step out of a dark wood and suddenly you see everything! The Enneagram has a similar effect. It too is a clear revelation.’

  ‘I had heard rumour of darker things.’

  ‘Darker things?’

  ‘Some fear it.’

  ‘If a fear of the sea denied you the pleasure of swimming, you would not be considered wise. It is the same with the Enneagram. Do not allow the fear to deny you delight.’

  ‘Are people right to fear it?’

  ‘In a manner. Certainly the Enneagram enters the forbidden places of the human soul. But it does so only to heal. It visits the darkness only to make light of it. It is good to make light of life, do you not agree?’

  ‘It sounds well enough.’

  ‘The Enneagram, like the Seeing Stone, is concerned with seeing and light. In particular, it’s concerned with the nine types of humankind.’

  ‘You said that some called it the “Nine Faces of God”.’

  ‘So they do. The world is unity but there are nine different facets of this unity.’

  ‘And one of these facets belongs to me?’

  ‘The Enneagram excludes no one. You shall find yourself there as sure as day follows night.’

  ‘So describe these nine dispositions.’

  ‘You press me like an Egyptian jewellery seller.’

  ‘You make me impatient!’

  ‘No, I reveal your impatience. It is not the same.’

  Gurdjieff shrugged in frustration.

  ‘But you will tell me?’

  ‘That is why we have come to this place,’ said the Sarkar.

  Thirty Seven

  Whatever Tamsin’s doubts, St Michael’s Christmas Fayre was going to be the best ever! This is what Sally said and others agreed. They were going to rally round and make it so. There had been one or two against the idea at the committee meeting, feeling a Fayre to be inappropriate, ‘what with the tragedy’. They suggested something in the New Year, when things ‘were more normal’. For most, however, life went on and death disturbed little.

  Some people said, ‘If I know Anton, it’s what he would have wanted,’ and this was hard to oppose. The first party to transfer their desires onto the deceased usually win the argument.

  Others added that ‘It would be a victory for the murderer, if the Fayre is stopped.’

  Well, no one wanted another victory for the murderer.

  And Stormhaven had its history to consider: ‘St Michael’s Fayre has taken place for over 800 years! We will not allow the murderer to break the chain of history!’

  The unspoken challenge was that they would not allow the police to break it either.

  Some were also aware that it would be an administrative nightmare to postpone things, and expensive. We must not speak of expense at such times but it was a factor. The publicity was printed, the flowers bought, the cakes baked, the stall tables delivered and the income allocated. They were going to make it a Christmas Fayre to remember.

  And so the cogs of parish life turned. Fliers were placed in newsagents’ windows, delivered by Betty; stall holders were contacted by Sally; entries for the children’s painting competition were collected from the school by Ginger; Jennifer reminded the children in assembly - the last one of term - and the Mayor was reassured that, apart from the vicar being fatally nailed to a cross, all was wonderfully well.

  If she was honest, the mayor had been hesitant at first, unsure about the best move in these unusual circumstances. Where in the mayor’s ‘Advice for Office’ manual - so helpful on issues like expenses and the proper titles of local dignitaries - was the chapter on ‘Attending parish fayres when the vicar has recently been crucified’? She had no desire to step into a public relations disaster and you never knew which way the local press would jump, particularly the Sussex Silt.

  ‘Mayor set to dishonour dead priest’ had been the headline half way down page five yesterday, but the story itself was less aggressive than the headline, merely explaining the dilemma which she faced. Someone had said it would dishonour Anton. But there’s always someone to say anything and plenty of more positive views were printed as well; and so having taken local soundings, she decided to accept the invitation. She was later to declare how stirred she was ‘by the wartime spirit shown by the parish’ - even though, as a pacifist, she added, she didn’t approve of war. Just the spirit.

  Any lingering concerns the Mayor might have had were finally put aside when Sally spoke to her on the phone: ‘We really need a figure of unity at this time
,’ Sally said. ‘A leader around whom we can gather in these dark hours.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the Mayor, who liked this idea. She longed to be more than just another Councillor with a toilet chain round her neck.

  The Bishop had also liked the idea when Sally pressed him to attend: ‘Bishop, we really need a figure of unity at this time,’ she’d said. ‘A leader around whom we can gather in these dark hours.’

  Bishop Stephen agreed to be that man. He had been due to visit a pig farm near Heathfield as part of the ‘Christ and the countryside’ initiative. He could picture it now, wading around knee deep in pig dung with a big grin on his face for the cameras. ‘Always smile at the pigs,’ said his press officer from the safe distance of his computer terminal. ‘Otherwise they’ll have you in a caption competition.’

  ‘They’ll have me in a caption competition whatever I do,’ he’d said. ‘A pig and a bishop? It’s just too easy.’

  But now he had an escape. Christ and the countryside could wait; he’d go to the Christmas Fayre at St Michael’s.

  Of course, Sally knew the truth. She knew that she was the figure of unity in the situation rather than the mayor or the bishop. How easily people were flattered into actions that suited her. She’d done it all her life. Behind the leadership of others, she would lead and be needed and be loved.

  Thirty Eight

  Once again the notebook came down from the shelf, as the murderer took seriously their duty of record. The diary of a murderer or the murder diary; they were still deciding. They would like to talk with someone about their role in the story, their lead role. That would be better. But in the absence of such space, some amused jottings at the absurd nature of it all:

  ‘I know how people see me, but people only see others in one way, through a very narrow eye glass. So people see me but they don’t see me. They all make their assumptions and their assumptions are wrong.

  I’ve done them a favour in a way, that’s my understanding. A big favour. I watch them walking around going ‘tut, tut, isn’t that terrible’ and feeling very selfrighteousness and full of their own moral rectitude. And it’s all because of me! Can’t they see that? When you can call someone else terrible you feel so much better about yourself. God knows why. You’re just as terrible yourself if you could see it.

  The world needs murderers. We are the downtrodden saints. Holmes needed Moriarty - they don’t write crime stories like those anymore - and Jesus needed Judas. We don’t hear sermons on that, but I’ve always thought it. Jesus needed Judas. I hope they appreciate what I’ve done for them and their sad little lives.

  We could call it the Judas Appreciation Society.

  Thirty Nine

  Thursday, 18 December

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder about the good people of Stormhaven,’ said Tamsin as she sat with Abbot Peter on a bench in the High Street.

  They were enjoying the public privacy of a busy place, and with a clear winter sun in the sky, reflected on the morning’s events.

  ‘Firstly, they can’t forget their vicar quick enough. There was no chance of the Christmas Fayre being postponed!’

  ‘It is a popular event.’

  ‘And secondly, they throw brick messages through people’s windows at three in the morning.’

  ‘Desperate times.’

  ‘And Jennifer of all people! Head of the local school and church warden! Hardly the prime suspect.’

  ‘Snob.’

  ‘It’s a fact. Study your criminology.’

  ‘We know it was you. Those were the words on the brick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The question is, who is the ‘we’ and what is the ‘it’?

  ‘Well, the ‘it’ is pretty obvious. It has to be the murder.’

  ‘Other things do happen in Stormhaven.’

  ‘I must have missed them. And remember, police are not huge fans of coincidence.’

  ‘It’s a surprisingly random universe.’

  ‘It may be but within the random, crime remains a little pocket of predictability. Once the facts of the matter are out, things quickly become certain. And in this case, it appears someone is certain even now.’

  Abbot Peter made a face. He did not worship at the shrine of anyone else’s certainty. Certainty had the worst of historical track records.

  ‘Perhaps Anton will come back and tell us. I have this strange feeling we haven’t heard the last from him.’

  ‘Do you suggest we visit a medium?’

  ‘No. In my experience, the dead come and find us if they need to.’

  ‘A ghost is not admissible evidence.’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Then more fool us. Still, we work with what is. The charge on the dog collar was that he was a failure as a vicar. How do you think he would have pleaded?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know? No one admits to failing at work. They rationalise it. It’s someone else’s fault. They were unlucky. It was just the wrong time. It’s a terrible thing to be told you’re a failure.’

  ‘Have you ever been so called?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘No! And I don’t plan to be.’

  ‘Yet we all are.’

  ‘We’re all what?’

  ‘Failures.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘Oh I do but not just myself. Strands of success are rather isolated phenomena in the textures of our lives.’

  ‘I don’t see that at all.’

  ‘And neither, I think, could Anton. Personal failure would not have been something he could consider. He sits through a meeting in which his boss, staff and most of the congregation disown him. It’s a sort of crucifixion in itself. But he doesn’t care!’

  ‘Well perhaps he should have cared!’ said Tamsin, with some feeling. ‘Perhaps that’s why someone had to crucify him! Because he was so lousy at his job!’

  ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  Tamsin got up and started walking towards the church. Peter watched her go.

  ‘Well, are you coming?’ she asked, turning around. ‘We need to speak with Jennifer.’

  Abbot Peter did follow, but slowly. Something significant had entered his mind but again, like a mouse across the kitchen floor, too quick to be caught. It had disappeared down through the hole in the sub-conscious, leaving no trace but the droppings of frustration.

  Forty

  The glaziers were mending the window as they spoke. SOCO had been and gone, removing the brick and message for testing, though no one expected much. It would be surprising if a gloved hand had not thrown the brick and the message was Rockwell Extra Bold, a standard computer font. It seemed likely a man was responsible or at least a strong arm. It had arrived through the window with some force.

  Yet inside, the house was now calm; a yellow space of minimalism and tranquillity. Mrs Pipe had once said Jennifer rushed through life like a ‘thrown stone’, strangely prescient in the circumstances, but she returned at the end of the day to a peaceful setting. It was efficient, simple and expensively natural. She had been cleaning up when they arrived, using white vinegar.

  ‘I use it for all surfaces,’ said Jennifer when the Abbot remarked on the surprising absence of chips. ‘There’s really no need to use any man-made cleaning products. No need at all.’

  Peter could imagine a school assembly on the subject. Jennifer did good school assemblies, everyone was gripped. But who’d tell the children that their head teacher was a murderer? Those would not be easy words to choose and Abbot Peter hoped no one would have to.

  ‘I was absolutely terrified,’ said Jennifer, as she recalled the night before. ‘I was awake, thinking about school things when I heard the smash.’

  ‘And you knew instantly it was your home under attack?’

>   ‘I did.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Well, I lay there for a moment, scared rigid. I was trying to think of a possible weapon to use. And then I remembered an old piece of piping left by the plumber in the airing cupboard.’

  ‘Which you found?’

  ‘Yes, I put on my dressing gown, grabbed the piping and then walked slowly down the stairs. I don’t know what I must have looked like, copper pipe in hand!’

  ‘And in a way, it’s of no great consequence,’ said the Abbot who had never understood people worrying about what they must have looked like.

  ‘And then I was wondering about the Nativity rehearsal,’ continued Jennifer. ‘If I got attacked, who would handle it? I’ve been the one overseeing the nativity this year and I do want it to go well. The kids deserve it.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ said Peter. ‘I’m looking forward to it. You can’t put a price on a good nativity.’

  ‘Well, you say that, but a school in Brighton is charging £4 a head for theirs this year.’

  ‘Did you hear anything else?’ asked Tamsin, moving swiftly on from the marketization of the birth of Christ. ‘After the breaking glass, I mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I stood and listened for a while and heard nothing. By the time I found the brick on the floor, I was pretty sure I was alone.’

  ‘And how did you feel?’ asked Abbot Peter.

  ‘How did I feel? How would anyone feel in those circumstances?’ Jennifer was slightly exasperated.

  ‘We don’t know and can’t ask because anyone doesn’t exist,’ said Abbot Peter calmly. ‘That’s why I was asking you.’

  ‘You must have experienced something similar, Abbot.’

  ‘Me? Not really. My desert monastery was built to withstand attack from all sides, a regular old fortress! No stones through windows there.’

  ‘Why would a monastery be a fortress?’ asked Jennifer, suddenly intrigued.

  Tamsin gave Peter a look of warning which, if he saw, he chose to ignore.