16 In a Cell

The Reverend Paul Wolf finds himself in a cell and looking for a way out of an unwanted predicament

WORDS MEAN DEATH

16 In a Cell

The Reverend Paul Wolf sat on the bench-cujm-bed in a far from cosy cell in Brumpton police station and stared at the locked door. He frowned because the impossible had happened. Despite prayers and even an attempt at spells he found in an old and rather tatty book he had been apprehended by the law. And he had done nothing wrong, had he? He was convinced of that. Admittedly, he thought his attempt at self-preservation might have caused discomfort to others, but then, wasn’t it the function of all life on Earth to preserve itself?

Janice hadn’t helped, of course. Even after he’d spelled his plan out syllable after syllable, she had been no help at all, except she’d found the idea of being in a wheelchair amusing enough to go along with it.

It must have been forty years since he’d convinced her that they were married. She’d had her doubts at first, but in the end his logic had swept all doubts away and she had accepted that they were bound together in holy wedlock.

“I’m a wearer of a collar so I have the right to marry anyone who presents themselves to me, and I have presented myself, and you have been with me, so we are married,” he had insisted. “We can do the things that married people do,” he had added with a leer. Not that he had any plans to do any such common thing, not with her even though it was said she was beautiful. But if she was, he couldn’t see it.

The funny thing, though, was the way he‘d never consummated the marriage. Not once in forty years had he risked fathering a child with her as the mother. Instead he’d spent most of the time being an absent husband. And why not? There were loads of women on the planet who were too old to be fertile, and if he ever felt the need, many of them would welcome him with open legs. And if he suspected they might start discussing him with friends after he’d insisted that they did nothing of the sort for fear of death and hellfire, then they were old, weren’t they, and no surprise to anyone if they passed away in their sleep. It’s what old people did, wasn’t it? Nobody would be too alarmed, would they? And he could always arrange that. He was clever.

So life had gone along. True, quite early on the Bishop had been very stern and taken his living away from him with instructions for him to go to the nearest job centre and find a more suitable job than the church could offer.

”Try bricklaying,” he had suggested with a leer,

Bricklaying? That Bishop was now long dead or he’d have a few things to say to him if he wasn’t, like what an unchristian toad he had been, not seeing the holy spirit of humanity in the Reverend Paul Wolf.

Then that dreadful composer of fiction and lies had got hold of a few snippets and, because he lived next door to the fool, had used him as a template for an evil churchman. He’d read the rubbish he’d written, lies, all lies, even the bit when he stood in all his glory and naked as the day he’d been born in front of a b***h who had told stories about him, and done the right think to her, had rid the world of her wickedness with a wonderful shiny blade. Not that blades were his favourite means of encouraging them to exit this life, there were vials of magic that soon extinguished the flame of life. Poisons, they were called, but there was nothing evil about them even though criminals sometimes used such things to get their evil way.

He had a small envelope of some wonderful and rather oxic powder tucked in the lining of the jacket he was wearing even as he sat in that cell. He’d blessed it, of course he had, he was a man of God, wasn’t he, whatever the Bishop said? That b***h of a police woman deserved a belly full of that, and no mistake!

And Janice. Had she finally gone behind his back and told tales about him? The police Inspector had suggested such a thing, though it went against the many years of cleansing her mind of doubt that he had put her through. He smiled when he remembered what he had said to her in order to keep her disciplined.

“I am the voice of your Lord,” he had said, “and I know you are lame. You must save yourself by living a life of sacrifice. Other women, sad and evil women, may lie down for their men and allow disgusting things to happen to them, but if you join that evil sisterhood you will die, and go to the deepest depths of hell where you will suffer endless torment with fires singeing your flesh… and as a reward I have a shiny new wheelchair for you to rest in so that you never have to strain yourself, and your life will be whole and happy…”

And she had swallowed it, lock, stock and barrel.

Or had she deceived him for four long decades? He must find out, and if she has then he must put things right…

He jumped as the cell door opened, a squeaky key having been turned in a lock that should have been consigned to scrap long ago. Locks that squeaked were an annoyance to the Reverend Paul Wolf. And other things that squeaked, too, like the idiot Copperly’s toilet flush.

“Well?” he barked at the young officer who stood in the doorway, looking at him as if there might be something wrong with him.

“This way, mate.” The officer grated the instruction as if the world would come to an end if he said anything different,

“You’re no mate of mine,” Paul responded, and remained seated.

“So you reckon you’re clever, do you?” leered the young officer, “well, what I know about you and your filthy ways suggests that I wouldn’t want scum like you as a mate!” he drawled. “Now do as I tell you and come this way, or I’ll bloody make you!”

“Then make me!” leered the prisoner.

“I only need one invitation!” snapped the officer, “And here’s a tip: when you want to disable a fellow, go for the balls first! Now are you coming or must I make you?”

The Reverend Paul Wolf smiled disarmingly at the officer who, being young, thought he knew more than he actually did.

“Your balls, you say,” grinned the Reverend, and in a matter of seconds the young officer was lying prostrate on the floor, clutching his groin and almost weeping with the sudden excruciating pain.

And the Reverend, trusting that he’d remembered the circuitous route he’d been obliged to take earlier, ghosted past the groaning officer, and vanished.

© Peter Rogerson, 25.01.24

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