A Vicar, Crucified

by Simon Parke

  ‘In the early days, around the seventh century, the Bedouin were less than pleased with its presence. We imagine everyone wants a nice monastery in their back garden but it simply isn’t so. Things came to a head in the fourteenth century, obviously, when they ransacked the place, burned the library and killed most of the monks. Those were unpleasant days.’

  ‘But seven centuries ago,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Yes, things come and go, though, don’t they? The Bedouin are a great deal more accepting now, more focused on their own survival in these changing times.’

  ‘You must come and do an assembly on it,’ said Jennifer. ‘The kids would love it.’

  ‘That would be a great honour, but in the meantime, we return to my question.’

  ‘Which question was that?’

  ‘I was wondering what you felt.’

  Suddenly the focus was back on Jennifer, who might have imagined her attempts at distraction had worked.

  ‘Well, you feel invaded. That’s how you feel.’

  Abbot Peter nodded while noting her inability to personalise her feelings.

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘And the note?’ asked Tamsin, still irritated by the desert diversion. ‘What did the note mean?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘I suppose it means someone thinks you’re guilty.’ Jennifer looked out the window for inspiration.

  ‘I wondered about it being an old pupil, stirring things up,’ she said. ‘Or a parent. Perhaps that’s more likely. Children tend to forget, but parents, never! When you see your child as an extension of yourself, you take any criticism of your offspring personally.’

  ‘Are there any current difficulties in the school which might have led to bad feeling?’

  ‘There are always difficulties in a school. Growing up is difficult. Life is difficult. I face angry parents every day, all claiming injustice, incompetence or both. But nothing has occurred to make me expect this.’

  ‘So an old school vendetta is possible,’ said Tamsin. ‘A murder in town gives someone the chance to get their own back on the Head, after a perceived slight in the past.’

  ‘It was the only thing I could come up with.’

  ‘Unless someone genuinely thinks you’re guilty,’ said Tamsin. ‘Is there any reason why someone might feel that?’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. As Abbot Peter knows, I was the only one who voted for Anton at the meeting. He was my protégé. Anton is the last person I’d want to hurt.’

  ‘So who’s the first person you’d want hurt?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘It’s a manner of speech.’

  ‘But my question still stands.’

  ‘Don’t we all want to hurt someone?’

  ‘Someone in the parish even?’

  Jennifer calmed herself and placed her hands on her lap. She was suddenly a Head, reporting back candidly to the governors.

  ‘I believe some people in the parish - and some beyond - have treated him appallingly, yes.’

  ‘And you think one of them to be the murderer?’

  ‘Oh, I know so. Some people just have to win.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I have more than enough on my plate without doing your job.’

  ‘But you have your suspicions.’

  ‘Everyone has their suspicions.’

  ‘And someone’s suspicious of you.’

  ‘True. Or perhaps someone’s just angry with me. There’s a difference. I tell the children that resentment is anger kept artificially warm. That’s how I try and explain the brick. It’s important psychologically to explain these things. Otherwise, it’s hard to proceed.’

  ‘And Clare? Do you have any idea where Clare might be?’

  ‘I have no idea at all. Who knows? It’s not like her to disappear, but in the end, she’s an independent woman. She could be anywhere. Perhaps she’s gone on holiday; she likes her holidays.’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  ‘I admire her. She’s done very well.’

  ‘But you don’t like her.’

  ‘She reminds me of the royal family.’

  ‘Why so?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘She perceives herself as rather special. She wants you there in appreciation, but not too close. No one got too close to Clare.’

  ‘Got?’

  ‘I mean gets. I’m sorry, but it’s suddenly like she’s dead. What other explanation is there?’

  Forty One

  ‘You’re rather in my face,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘And you’re rather in my office,’ replied Ginger, towering over her.

  ‘Do you always work with no light?’

  ‘Do you always push open doors without knocking?’

  ‘The murderer didn’t knock and until they’re found, neither shall I.’

  ‘I was just going, anyway.’

  ‘Which explains the light being out?’

  They stood face to face in a dark room, only partially lit by the wall window out onto the Church hallway.

  ‘I’m a great one for the environment, Detective Inspector and I hate all unnecessary pollution.’

  He looked at her as he spoke and for a moment, Tamsin felt like one of the pollutants he abhorred.

  ‘Shall we go?’ said Ginger. It wasn’t an enquiry.

  But Tamsin didn’t go. Instead, she turned on the light and saw a clean and ordered room. There was a small picture of Martin Luther King addressing a rally and a poster of a South American Bishop, with the words: ‘Murdered for love’.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a wise way to behave,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Not wise? Why wouldn’t it be wise to turn on the light? Let there be light, surely?’

  ‘You shouldn’t do those things. You don’t have the right. It’s my room and my light.’

  ‘Do you pay the bills?’ asked Tamsin, taking a seat. Ginger did not respond. ‘No? So who does pay the bills?’

  Again he did not respond.

  ‘So the church pays the bills. Sounds like this room is church property to me, then,’ she continued. ‘Do go if you must. I’m happy to stay and amuse myself.’

  There was a knock on the door. Ginger looked quickly to Tamsin and then moved to answer it.

  ‘You said the lights would be out,’ said an irritated Betty before anyone could say anything.

  Forty Two

  Not far away, Abbot Peter knelt in the side chapel of St Michael’s. He’d left Tamsin and her enquiries to seek retreat from the changes and chances of this fleeting world. Here was seclusion, entered through a curtain, like the holy of holies in ancient times. He had taken off his shoes, lit a candle and placed himself at the railing, which surrounded the altar. The altar was bare but for the figure on the cross. Peter contemplated him with fresh eyes. Head bowed, the Christ figure seemed resigned to the nails; sad not struggling. It was as if he had known things would come to this, almost ‘c’est la vie’; whereas Anton had looked surprised and the surprise had stayed with Peter.

  He’d come to the side chapel because if something is worth doing, it’s also worth not doing.

  ‘We do things better if sometimes we don’t do them,’ he’d say. ‘“Teach us to care and not to care”, as T. S. Eliot instructed.’

  People were work for the Abbot, always had been, and rest only really came in solitude. He could cope with people as long as he knew when they’d be gone. To this extent, the ordered hours of the monastery had suited him. The prayer bell may have rung at 4.00 a.m. But he would be carried by liturgy and routine through the day and he was always alone in his cell by 9.30 p.m.

  Those were different times, however, and ordered hours were now disordered. They’d been disordered by a foolish ‘yes’. He had been flattered
into acceptance of the Special Witness post. He’d submitted to the request of a pretty lady; to the manipulative asking of a niece. She was undoubtedly a clever girl, but pushy. And now it seemed she was to spend another night at Sandy View. She’d made the announcement on the way back from Jennifer’s, saying it made operational sense.

  ‘Operational sense?’ Truly, this was a new language for Abbot Peter.

  A police car would bring her things over, including sheets and some fresh fruit. Peter was unsure how he felt. The offer of a bed the previous night had been a generous whim, not a declaration of permanent intent. It would be nice to see her, of course; they had much to catch up on. But did he want her staying? People were work and sometimes relations were the hardest work of all.

  Amid such contemplation, he saw the hand reaching out from behind the altar, a desperate stretching hand.

  Christ was not the only dead body in the side chapel.

  Act Three

  He got up to open the window. The cold air rushed in as white breakers hit the shore. Tonight, they were waters of judgement. He knew what must be done.

  Forty Three

  George Ivanovitch sat on the Seeing Stone. The air was still, the valley silent.

  ‘You are to imagine a room in which nine people are gathered,’ said the Sarkar.

  ‘I understand,’ said his pupil.

  ‘At first sight, they may appear the same. Perhaps they are all of one colour or share a craft, family or creed. But in this room of nine people, whatever their outward links, they are inwardly different. And though they appear similar and perhaps do similar things, they will do them for very different reasons. The Enneagram looks at the root of action not the action itself.’

  Gurdjieff listened. From the moment he’d found the manuscript in the underground vault, he had waited for this moment.

  ‘So let us move around this group of nine souls and describe each personality, using a number to describe each.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘So we start with Point One. The One is industrious for good as they perceive it. When unhealthy, of course, they are self-righteous, resentful, moralistic, myopic, blaming, rigid, dogmatic and with a rather fixed view of the world.’

  ‘I see why people fear this knowledge. It is less than polite.’ The Sarkar was unswayed.

  ‘Ones seek the correct way, the right way and believe the right way is their way. Perhaps they procrastinate sometimes for fear of making a mistake. Feeling the blame when young, they do not wish to be wrong again. They possess inside them a judge, an inner critic who declares them always guilty. So to escape and deflect, they in turn declare others guilty. They tell people what they should do and ought to do. They are angry people - angry that they and the world are not good - but avert their gaze from this trait believing that good boys and girls should not be angry. Left unacknowledged, their rage becomes resentment. Never put the blame on a One, my friend. They will come for you. But like every number, they are both nightmare and glory, and in health, when living from the mercy pool where self-hate dies, they are clear thinkers and visionaries for good in a world they no longer judge but perceive as quite perfect now. Here is their true majestic self - serene, shining, noble, laughing, ordering, applauding and quite happy to admit mistake. Wonderful. Shall I move on?’

  ‘Tell me all nine. I listen well.’

  ‘So be it. Point Two. Can you see them?’

  ‘I see them.’

  Gurdjieff was enjoying this game.

  ‘The Two has a great outward energy but for what? Some call them ‘The Cat’, flattering endlessly to get what they want and what they want is for others to need them. They need to be needed. When unhealthy, of course, they are out of touch with their needs, fixated with relationship, resentful if neglected, superior, smothering, patronising and rather self-important saints. They ask always the question, ‘How are others disposed towards me?’ Their inner desire is to be indispensable; to be needed by everyone they know. They are content not to lead; happy instead to be indispensable to a leader. If their care for others is not appreciated, however, their pride is hurt and resentment runs deep. Pride is the stone they trip on daily, pride dressed as caring: ‘It is others who need help not I!’ This is how they think. But pride merely covers their lack of inner substance. Once they see this, however, once they discover and touch their true inner will, they move from nightmare to glory. Exchanging pride for humility they live a most creative role in the world. Discerning their own needs they are free now to care without caring - nurturing, compassionate, connecting, perceptive, intimate and responsive, their true majestic self awakes! Wonderful.’

  Gurdjieff remembered being seduced by a woman such as this. She had never forgiven him when he walked away and now he saw why.

  The Sarkar continued: ‘The Three is different again.’

  ‘They are all different!’

  ‘Indeed. And the Three will be known for inspiring confidence in those around, though perhaps a little more than is merited. When unhealthy, of course, they can be cold, calculating, secretive, selfpromoting, corner-cutting, prestige-seeking and quite numb to their emotions, well-defended from how they feel. They are activists, confident in their moves, needing action to drown frightening introspection. So they drive things forward, desiring success and victory over others. Threes are the golden people in a way, efficient and attractive, people whom others would like to be like. They are also the most deceitful, hiding their motives even from themselves. They crave success because their self-image is defined by it. They crave activity because they fear the exposure of their inner life to the light. They simply dare not fail and will do all things necessary to ensure they do not. Success is their only identity, until one day, they come home to a kind universe in which they need not defeat or outperform everyone. From nightmare to glory! They learn loyalty, a bigger cause than themselves and now shine a rather brighter light. They are hopeful, truthful, humorous, loyal, self-aware, engaging, authentic and with boundless energy, true rather than phoney gold. Their majestic self awakes! Wonderful.’

  ‘I’ve met them,’ said Gurdjieff, ‘but perhaps not understood them.’

  ‘Then let us continue and I now describe the Four, a rather special number.’

  ‘Special?’

  ‘That is how they imagine themselves, perhaps. They consider themselves special in some way, attracted by the authentic and tragic. Birth, intensity, abandonment and death - this is their territory! When unhealthy, of course, they are controlling, self-pitying, demanding, alienated, blaming, elitist and coloured by despair. They are the white dove cooing, melancholic, moody and in love with sweet sadness. They keep their distance from those present and obtainable, desiring instead the unavailable, the impossible and the absent, the fantasy. Even as they pull people towards them, they push them away. They are the abandoned ones, creating beauty out of pain and darkness from their envy. At their tragic heart is the worthlessness of the abandoned, a sense that their origins are fatally flawed. Hence the pursuit of the special and a fantasy sense of worth. Their genius emerges as they bring their profound awareness to the reality and joy of this present moment, this practical now, where all is quite well. Here they become luminous, personal, content, authentic, intuitive and relating. From nightmare to glory, they discover their infinitely valuable and original selves. Wonderful.’

  Gurdjieff recognised one such as this immediately, though whether it was good news, he could not say. His heart beat faster.

  ‘Next!’

  Forty Four

  Peter sensed a man behind him as he knelt in the side chapel; one who had arrived unseen. Malcolm Flight was probably six foot tall but carried himself as a smaller man; as one not important in the world. With a straggly beard of brown ginger and sandals even in the rain, he was a stranger on the earth, like his hero Van Gogh.

  The Abbot
remembered last year’s Maundy Night vigil. It had been an especially cold event, with the church heating broken. Everyone huddled together in the parish room for the night, drinking tea and improvising blankets. Except Malcolm. He knelt alone on the stone floor of the church. At 5.00 a.m. he got up to make some coffee. He found almost everyone asleep, but was soon back in the cold church with his drink, kneeling again on the stone, where the Good Friday cross was laid out on the floor, the cross which had recently found further use.

  ‘I’m glad she’s found at last,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Clare.’

  Abbot Peter looked towards the hand stretching out from the side of the altar.

  ‘I can’t believe the police didn’t find her,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘They haven’t been looking for her.’

  ‘Then perhaps they should have been looking.’

  ‘Clare was not a missing person. She was an independent woman with means and free to go wherever she wished.’

  ‘I told them she might be here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the church.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’ Malcolm Flight stood in silence.

  ‘That’s how everyone describes her,’ he said with bitterness, ‘ “an independent woman” - but what’s that supposed to mean?’

  There was hostility in his voice.

  ‘At the very least, it means she was free to go wherever she wished.’

  ‘She’s not free now,’ he said. ‘But then, which of us is?’ The Abbot stayed on his knees at the altar rail.

  ‘So what is your part in all this, Malcolm?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything you wish to tell me?’

  Malcolm rolled a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘Not here, Malcolm.’

  Malcolm looked at Peter and then put it out on the back of the box.

  ‘You didn’t go home after the meeting, did you?’ he continued. ‘You were here in the church.’