All the boys knew him as ‘The Vicar’, but it turned out he was much more besides that.
He was in his fifties, flushed in the face and dressed in black, with a white ‘dog collar’ choking him.
Nobody thought he was a real vicar; we get all sorts in our game. People fantasise: they’re vicars, army squaddies, old-fashioned school masters with swishy canes.
We had to tell him the naughty things we’d been up to. Childish stuff like smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, or being disrespectful to our mothers.
Once that was over out would come The Vicar’s hairbrush, or slipper or strap and away he’d go. There’d be an hour of patting, pinching, and preening and then he handed over a few dirty notes ‘for the taxi fare home’ and he would waddle on his way. The easiest money we could earn.
Today, when scrolling through my phone searching for the next client, I happen across a news story. Bishop [name withheld for legal reasons] dies of heart attack. And with the story is a photo and it’s The Vicar. The report says he was beloved in the Church with his place in Heaven assured.
I was sad to hear The Vicar had popped his clogs. No more easy money.
Then, I thought there’s one last pay-day. I got the Sun website – they pay a fortune if you drop a pile of shite on someone.
But I was too late, one of the other boys beat me to it.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 