Living a Lie Part 2 & Last

Living a Lie Part 2 & Last 

By Janet Baldey

She looked down at the pitiful remains of Feng.   At that moment no one would recognise the demure librarian; a regular Diana, she blazed with righteous anger.

         ‘She must die!’ Her voice proclaimed a triumphant clarion call.

        

Joey the budgie, trapped in his cage, looked at her in alarm.   Fluffing up his feathers, he sidled towards his bell and gave it a quick reassuring ping with his beak.

*  *  *

        

‘This is terrible!’ The butcher’s eyes bulged as he stared at the note trembling in his hands.

        

‘It certainly is.   The grammar is appalling, the punctuation non-existent and doesn’t the stupid girl know there are three s’s in repercussions?’

        

Disapproval was etched deep into the lines of her face as the headmistress’s beady eyes noted every error.   She was fuming; it was bad enough to be blackmailed but worse to be blackmailed by an illiterate.

        

‘What’re we going to do?  My wife’ll kill me!’ The butcher’s jowls quivered like jellied veal.

        

‘Oh!  Pull yourself together man.  Do you think we’re going to be beaten by a chit of a girl?’

        

Gradually, what she was implying sank into his ox-like brain.

        

‘What do you mean?  Marjorie, do you know who sent this?’

        

‘Of course I do.  It’s as obvious to me as that boil on your nose.’

        

She read the note aloud.

        

‘If you dont want peeple to no  what you get up to on  Friday evenings, make sure you make the rite choyce about whose going to star in the skool concert.   If you dont, I cant be held responsibel  for the reppercusions.’

        

‘Hah!   She’s as good as signed her name.   The wretched creature has been badgering me for months.’

        

The butcher’s face shone with relief. ‘So, it’s alright then.   You give her the part and we’re off the hook.’

        

‘I’ll do no such thing.   She’s completely deluded, she thinks she can dance but she’s got as much grace as a pregnant hippo and I’ve got the school’s reputation to think of.   Anyway, it wouldn’t stop there. You must know that!’

        

Sometimes she wondered why she had got involved with a man who made slugs look astute. With a pensive look on her face, she walked towards the window.   Outside the moon had just broken free from a tether of cloud, and was bathing the vicarage in a clear, lemon coloured light.

        

‘We have to put a stop to her antics once and for all.   Apart from anything else, her continued existence is having an adverse effect on the school’s league tables’.

  *  *  *

        

His white robes billowing around him, the vicar stood at the lectern surveying his flock.    He looked down at the rapt faces, upturned towards him.  They were drinking in his words like nomads at an oasis.   His powerful voice soared as, exalted, he flung out his hands.   His heart was full and heavy with joy.  He’d been charged by God to preach His Holy Word.    It was his calling to convert the heathen; to rescue man from Evil and wrest them from the sins of the flesh.   Oh! Would that every day was a Sunday!

            

         Alfreda shifted in her seat; even her well padded rump couldn’t protect her from the hard wood of the pew.    She looked around the church and scowled.   Empty, as usual.   Except for Clarissa and even she had to be forced to come.   She looked at her husband as he preened and strutted on the podium.   She couldn’t imagine why he bothered; nobody had attended his Services for months.   No doubt the lazy, good for nothings were far too busy fornicating and stuffing themselves with food.   At the thought of food, her stomach rumbled.   She glared at the vicar as he thrust out his scrawny chest and screeched.   An impious thought sneaked into her mind.

        

‘Get on with it man, I’m hungry.’ 

 She visualised their lunch, shrivelling in the Aga, the potatoes softening and the stringy lamb drying out in a greasy pool of gravy.   She was well aware that their wretched maid scurried off to spend Sundays with her mother as soon as the family left the Vicarage.

        

As Arnold continued his rant, she gave up and closed her eyes.   She was just drifting into her long running day dream involving a rather attractive wife who happened to be married to the Master of the Hounds, when she was disturbed by a curious noise.    On the pew next to her, a hive of rather cross bees was being robbed of its honey.  Her eyelids snapped open.   Beside her, Clarissa’s head was slumped to one side and her mouth gaped.    As she watched a trickle of saliva rolled down the girl’s chin.   With a ferocious jab of her elbow she made contact with the girl’s fleshy body, jerking her awake.   No matter that they were the sole members of the congregation, they had a duty to keep up appearances.

At long last, Arnold’s sermon ground to a close, he gestured to the long-suffering organist and as the last anthem thundered in his ears, he stood transfixed gazing, if not heavenwards, at least towards the rafters.    At that moment, a pigeon rudely awakened from its doze, shuffled along a beam.   It took aim, fired and the glistening projectile landed fairly and squarely in the middle of the vicar’s shining pate.

*  *  *

Later that same evening, as the ground mist’s chilly tentacles groped the frozen grass, three separate groups of wraithlike figures crept up the hill towards the Vicarage.   Their hoarse whispers already muffled by the fog, trailed into silence as they approached their destination.    Each group had a separate agenda but one aim in common, to silence forever those that were living a lie.

Inside the vicarage, Alfreda sprawled on the sofa, back issues of ‘The Horse and Hound’ scattered around her.    As she leafed through their pages her jaws chomped rhythmically on a thick hunk of bread and dripping and soon the glossy pages were smeared with fingerprints.   At last she belched and tossed the remains of her meal to the hound lying at her feet.   Draining her beer, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.   Egad, she was bored.   She glanced at the clock; still Sunday.   It was such a pain that her morals forbade her to go cubbing on the Sabbath.   Ridiculous really, like going without at Lent.   No point to it at all!   She pounded her thighs in frustration.   Then an idea struck her, jumping up she reached for her hunting horn.  At least she could practice.    With a scarlet face and distended cheeks she puffed out the melancholy notes of  ‘Gone away’ at full volume over and over again.

Above her, the ceiling creaked and bulged as Clarissa practiced her dance steps, pausing only to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of the horn.   In his study, the Vicar, with wads of cotton wool stuffed tightly in his ears, crouched over his computer.

Shaking his head in sorrow, he pursed his mouth.

‘Those poor, dear children’, he whispered, his hands trembling on the mouse.

‘It really shouldn’t be allowed.’

His eyes gleamed as he scrolled down the screen.

 

And so, that pious, God fearing family spent a serene evening engaged in their various pursuits, blissfully unaware of the dim and shadowy groups of figures flitting in and out of the rhododendrons, drawing gradually nearer with every tick of the clock.

*  *  *

         ‘Fire.   Fire.  It’s a fire!’

The newest recruit to the village Fire Service, burst into the rest-room, his face rivalling the flames he’d just spotted.  For six boring months, he’d done nothing more exciting than polish brass on hoses but now at last, he was going to see some action.   He jumped about the room, unable to contain his excitement.

‘Can I press the bell?’

Chief Station Officer Hancock, looked up from the deck of cards he held in his hands. ‘Are ye sure lad?’
        

‘Yes, yes.  The vicarage.  It’s on fire!’

‘The vicarage, eh.’ The Station Officer rose and walked to the window.   Looking out, he saw a blazing chrysanthemum blossoming on the distant hill, its scarlet and gold petals shooting upwards into the night sky.

‘Hm, looks like you’re right.’

Strolling back to his seat, he sat down and picked up the cards.‘Right lads.   We’ll just finish this hand and then we’d best be off.’

*  *  *

‘Well, that’s a shame.’  Hancock turned the key again; the engine spluttered but did not catch’.

He shook his head. ‘I did tell them, at the last Council meeting. We need a new vehicle.'   I said.   'But Vicar wouldn’t have it.   Said he needed the money for the Church Spire Fund.’

There was the sound of muffled snickering from the back seats and he turned, holding up a thick finger in reproof.

‘Now, now lads.   It’s no laughing matter.’

By the time the elderly motor was resuscitated and coaxed up the hill, everyone knew it was too late.   The house was a ruin, its skeletal frame engulfed by roaring flames.   Every so often there was a sound like thunder as burning timbers crashed to the ground accompanied by showers of crimson sparks that danced off into the night.

Craning their necks, they stared skywards at a small group of figures clinging to a roof strut.   With horrified fascination they watched as first one and then another lost their grasp and plunged into the flames.

The vicar was the last to fall and when he saw what was waiting for him, his mouth opened in a horror stricken scream.

The demon was right. The Devil was much worse.

Copyright Janet Baldey