MR SCRAB'S STORY

As told to Martin Smythe in
THE VICAR OF MORBING VYLE

(Martin, trying to make his escape during a snowstorm, accidentally awakens Mr Scrab, who lives under a grate in the back garden.)

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A muffled voice called out from below: "Arrrrrgh! Who's there?"

I cursed to myself. I had roused Mr Scrab once again! I looked down and saw a sudden movement break through the smooth white snow by my feet. The surface caved in and four long withered fingers stuck out like a claw. A moment later, and four more fingers stuck out alongside.

"Who is it then? Who comes to see old Mr Scrab?"

The claws worked back and forth through the snow, widening the hole. Scrape, scrape, scrape. The black patch of the grate appeared and a foul rotten smell wafted up to my nostrils.

"Ah, Mr Smythe, is it?" Still I couldn't see his face. "And what brings you to see me?"

"Oh, I - um -"

"Come to tell me the news, have you?"

"Have I?"

"But I've already heard, see? Caulkiss and Quode told me. The Great Return! Soon our Lord will be with us once again!" His voice grew phlegmy with emotion. "Ah, happy I am, to have lived to see the day! A blessed miracle, Mr Smythe! Is it not a blessed miracle?"

"I suppose."

"What's that? You suppose ?" His voice turned rough and rasping. "Are you a true believer or aren't you? Are you with us or not?"

"Of course, of course," I said placatingly. "I'm the same as all the rest of you."

"Well then! Don't you know what it means? The Great Return?"

"It means that the Vicar is coming back to life."

"Indeed it does. Praise the Lord! But what do you know about Him, our Vicar of Morbing Vyle? How much have they told you?"

"Well - er . . ."

"Have they told you how He first came to Morbing Vyle? What He did with the choirboys? His artistic creations? His Ultimate Work? Have they explained all that to you?"

"Not exactly, no."

"Hah! You haven't been told properly then! I might've guessed! The Caulkisses and Quodes can't tell you properly because they were never there themselves. They should've brought you out here to me long ago. I'm the only one that can tell it properly."

"Yes, I'm sure. But now I'd better be off . . ."

"Because I was there , see? I can remember everything. You need me to tell you the full story."

"Perhaps some other time."

"What's that?"

"I'll come back later."

"No, now! You must be told now! Now! Now! NOW!"

Suddenly he was shouting at the top of his voice. I glanced nervously around. He would bring out the Caulkisses and Quodes with his noise.

"Hush! Not so loud."

"Stay and listen then," he said, quietening down.

"Okay. I can only stay for a minute though."

I bent down towards the grate, to keep him talking in a quiet voice. A fresh whiff of foulness drifted up through the bars. I held my nose.

"Five minutes," he said. "It won't take long."

But it did. It took ages and ages - an hour at least. For all that time I stood bent over the grate, listening to Mr Scrab's voice rambling on and on. And soon I didn't even want to get away. I forgot about my plan of escape, I forgot about the freezing cold. The story of the Vicar of Morbing Vyle held me in its grip. I was as if hypnotized. At long last I discovered the explanation behind all the mysteries I'd been trying to solve. It was the most dreadful story ever told …

It began in 1895. That was when the Vicar first arrived in Morbing Vyle. He must have made a great impression even then. Mr Scrab could still describe the event in every detail, though he was only a child at the time. "He was like no-one we'd ever seen before," he said. "So beautiful! Like an angel!"

The Vicar arrived in a fine carriage pulled by two black horses. That in itself was remarkable, for ordinary vicars never rode in anything more grand than a sulky. His age was remarkable too, for He was still in His early twenties. As for His appearance, He was strikingly attractive in a delicate, almost feminine way. Slender and slight in build, He had a high domed forehead and thin features, perfectly modelled. His skin was very pale and His hair was truly golden. Half the women in the village fell in love with Him on the spot.

He had come to replace the previous vicar, recently deceased. No-one knew anything about His birth, His background, or His religious training. Later on, there were rumours that some powerful family influence lay behind His appointment, and that He had never actually completed any formal training. Later on again, there were rumours that the previous vicar's death might not have been due to natural causes after all. But He never told anyone anything about His past. Not even Mr Scrab knew.

So He was an object of gossip and wonder right from the start. He remained aloof from the life of the village, refusing to play the expected role of an Anglican vicar. Except for His services and sermons, He spent all His time in the vicarage, closetted with His books. Often there was a light burning in His study window all through the night. The servants at the vicarage said that He was writing, pages and pages of writing. "He was working His way towards the truth," said Mr Scrab. The villagers thought that He must be some kind of genius.

He continued in this way for three or four years. Morbing Vyle at the time was just a typical farming community, just like the neighbouring villages of Lynford and Mundford and Brandon. As Mr Scrab told his story, I remembered the old photo in the book on ecclesiastical history, and the description in the correspondence of Sir James Russell. A small church with a tower, thatched cottages, a half-timbered pub . . . At first, there was nothing very special about Morbing Vyle.

But little by little things began to change. Especially because of the Vicar's sermons. No-one had ever heard anything like them before. They were brilliantly clever and original - and yet easy to understand too. Following a chain of perfect logic, He reached the most daring conclusions. For the first time in their lives, the villagers began to think of religion as something more than just a social duty. Now they actually looked forward to the Sunday service. And afterwards, they stood around debating the sermon amongst themselves. Even the more disreputable members of the community began to attend: the young lads, the drunkards, the women of dubious reputation. It was a real religious revival.

Not that everyone agreed with the Vicar's approach. The Low Church Anglicans, in particular, thought that He didn't refer to the Bible nearly often enough. And they were disturbed by His fondness for ritual and regalia. Dozens of candles, purple and red robes - He even introduced incense. 'Might as well be a Papist,' complained the Low Church Anglicans. But for others, the Vicar's aesthetic effects were exciting and uplifting and spiritual. The women were especially impressed - and so was the young boy Scrab.

By the time the strange events began, the village was already divided between those who were for and those who were against Him. And the strange events intensified the division. Those who were against the Vicar began to circulate ugly rumours. Those who were for Him became even more ardent in His defence. For some of His followers, He could do no wrong.

The first strange event involved Mrs Haddon, a young widow, very good-looking. But one fine day she lost her good looks. She sat in the church and refused to move. When anyone tried to talk to her she just nodded or shook her head. Then it was discovered - she was totally toothless. Every tooth in her head had been pulled out. And what was even stranger, she refused to say how it had happened. No-one could get a word out of her. It was a complete mystery.

The second event involved the church organist, Mr Knowles. All of a sudden he locked himself up in his house and refused to play at church ever again. For several days he was in an inexplicable state of terror. Then he disappeared. The story circulated that he had left the district. For three Sundays the church services were conducted without music. Then on the fourth Sunday, the Vicar introduced a new kind of organist: - a mechanical machine. It was fixed above the keyboard in a sealed box, with long metal levers extending down to the keys. And not only could it play every bit as well as the old organist - it even reproduced the exact manner of his playing.

That was when suspicions about the Vicar really started to spread. No-one was quite sure of what they suspected. But there was something sinister and disturbing about the whole business. Many of the villagers even stopped going to church. But not for very long. The Vicar's followers soon drove them back.

They were by now an almost fanatical band, the Vicar's followers. What they lacked in numbers, they made up for in determination. And they had very determined ways of getting the villagers back to church. As a first step, they daubed the doors of the non-attenders with graffitti: 'BACKSLIDERS!' 'DEAD SOULS!' 'MATERIALISTS!' The messages were written in human blood. And if that wasn't enough, there were even more bizarre forms of threat. People woke up to find crossed knives laid out on their kitchen table, or all their clocks turned upside down, or coils of rope piled up at the foot of their bed. As for Scrab's own father and mother, they were painted with black spots on their faces while they slept.

Then came another strange event. It was the Vicar Himself this time, behaving more strangely than ever before. This time there could be no doubt about His unorthodoxy. It happened in the middle of August, when the church was decked out for the Harvest Festival. All the usual baskets of fruit and sheaves of corn were arranged around the altar. Then the Vicar appeared to conduct the service - with no clothes on. His delicate pale body was decorated with loops of foliage and clusters of fruit. Apart from that, He wore only the scapular over His shoulders. There was a great gasp of shock from the congregation. They sat through the service hardly able to believe their eyes. Afterwards everyone agreed that it was the most scandalous thing ever.

Following the Harvest Festival, there was no church service for a fortnight. The Vicar kept to His vicarage, and rumour had it that He had suffered some kind of breakdown. But He was only perfecting His plans. When He was ready, He posted up notices to say that services would begin again next week, and that everyone was expected to attend. His band of followers made sure that they did. But even His followers didn't know the enormity of what was to be revealed. "It was His first great work of art," said Mr Scrab. "It was the Revelation."

The villagers filed into the church and took their pews. The Vicar was already there; but the choirstalls were empty. Where were the choirboys? The Vicar made no move to begin the service. He just stood by the altar, hands folded in prayer and a curious expression on His face. The congregation waited and waited. Then someone looked up - and fainted. Up in the rafters hung the dead bodies of the choirboys, all twenty four of them. They had been nailed to the wooden beams in various dramatic attitudes. All were naked, with wings of papier-mache attached to their backs. They seemed to be flying through the air, like the angels and cherubs in old-fashioned paintings.

There were screams and cries from all over the church. Mothers shrieked and fathers cursed, recognizing their own children pinned up overhead. But another sound silenced their anguish and rage. It cut through the tumult and sent a shudder down every back. It was the sound of the Vicar laughing - a sweet silvery tinkle of a laugh. And as He laughed, He unfolded His hands and displayed them, palms upward, to the staring congregation. The palms were red and wet with blood.

Then there was another sound again: a cracking splitting sound. In every part of the church, the Christian images suddenly started to disintegrate all by themselves. Crucifixes snapped, windows burst, statues shattered. The Biblical scenes represented in stained glass cascaded to the ground in a million fragments. And the Vicar just kept on laughing His laugh . . .

That was the turning point. As Scrab explained it, the Vicar had always been held back before, struggling within the limits of traditional Christianity. But now He had broken right away and discovered His own true message. Now everything appeared to Him in a new and dazzling light. And it was His own true message that He preached on that day, after the Revelation and the shattering of images. As for the congregation, they sat on as if frozen in their places, too stunned to move.

Mr Scrab didn't say what the message was. But it must have been an amazing sermon. Because, by the end of it, the Vicar had won over not only His previous band of followers but some of the other villagers as well. They were instant converts to a new religion - disciples of Cruelty and Murder.

As for the rest of the villagers, they were reduced to a strange state of helplessness. After the sermon, they gathered around in furtive groups, whispering and plotting and trying to decide what to do. But while they dithered, the Vicar acted. First He ordered His disciples to kill all the horses in the village, except the two that pulled His own carriage. Then He mounted guards on all the roads. Morbing Vyle was cut off from the rest of the world.

So the reign of terror began. Of course, the rest of the villagers outnumbered the Vicar's followers many times over. But the minority had an intensity that the majority lacked. "The strength of His Spirit kept the weaklings in their place," was the way Mr Scrab put it.

The Vicar collected His victims at night. He rode around in His carriage for hours, clip-clopping along the streets until He had made His selection. Then He dismounted, went across to the window of some particular house, and called out the name of some particular person. His voice was so overwhelmingly sweet that the victim was as if under a spell. He must have had some almost supernatural power. The victim rose up and walked out of the house straight into His murderous arms.

Of course, I was reminded of the checkout girl's nightmare. Mr Scrab's story explained it all: why the family hid under the table, why they prayed for the horses not to stop. And the other part of the dream fitted in too: the part where the villagers went out in the morning and there was something terrible to be seen, something discovered on the outskirts of the village. What they had discovered was one of the Vicar's works of art.

Mr Scrab described the works of art as though they were works of great creative genius. Listening to his descriptions, I felt like throwing up. For human bodies were the raw material through which the Vicar's aesthetic sensibility expressed itself. Altogether He must have murdered sevral hundred people. Some of the worst horrors I can't even remember - I think my mind must have refused to take them in. But I still remember enough to haunt me for the rest of my life.

Obscene parodies of nature - that's what they were. With the aid of wooden frames and props, He mounted His corpses in the most bizarre poses. He liked to develop new and unspeakable forms of copulation - the very old with the very young, for instance. One time He modelled a mother eating the head of a baby. Another time, it was two young lovers with their bowels pulled out and knotted intricately together. He used cosmetics to apply realistic facial expressions of love, desire, tenderness, or whatever.

But above all He liked to dismember bodies and reassemble them according to His own creative whim. He put heads onto torsos back to front, He nailed on extra arms and legs, He constructed faces with multiple mouths and noses. On one occasion, He used dismembered human parts to ornament a tree, fastening eyes and fingers and toes to the twigs and foliage. On another occasion, He laid a row of twenty kneecaps down the middle of the street.

He was also highly sensitive to the aesthetic beauty of random effects. One of His victims He impaled upright on the spire of His church, in order to observe the patterns of the blood trickling down. Another time He amputated the limbs of the village postman and set him to crawl about on three outspread sheets of white linen. The resulting bloody trails and central body formed one of His favourite compositions, which He then decorated with pink and lilac flower-petals.

The depredations went on for two and a half months. For all that time the ordinary villagers were in a state of terrified helplessness, like animals transfixed in the presence of their predator. The Vicar's followers, on the other hand, grew more and more bloodthirsty, inspired by the sermons which He now preached in His church every day. The more He told them about His message, the more they gloried in all His works.

It was during this period that Scrab - still only ten years old - became a convert. "I saw the truth," he said. "I rejected the unbelievers." The unbelievers, in his case, were his own father and mother. He ran away from the family home and went to live in the vicarage, where all the followers now dwelt. A few days later, the corpses of the father and mother turned up in one of the Vicar's works of art. But Scrab felt no pang of remorse. They had died for the sake of a higher cause.

In fact, Scrab saw everything in the most perverse and peculiar way. Retelling the Vicar's deeds to me, he kept using such words as 'sublime' and 'holy' and 'sacred'. The more vile and horrible the murders, the more he spoke of them with reverence. It was like a genuine religious feeling - but all turned upside-down. His voice grew especially hushed and worshipful when he came to describe the Vicar's Ultimate Work.

The Ultimate Work was to have been His masterpiece - His biggest, most uncompromising artistic statement. In sheer unspeakable obscenity, it would have far surpassed His previous creations. But it was never finished. It killed Him first. Of all the incredible events in His story, His death was the most incredible.

It began one morning when the Vicar was having breakfast, after yet another night of Murder and Art. "Thoughtful He seemed," said Scrab, who was there at the time. "And out of sorts." He ate more and more slowly until finally He came to a complete halt, with a forkful of poached egg a la Vyle suspended half way towards His mouth. He appeared to have fallen into a trance. The followers came to look, but did not dare to disturb Him. Then suddenly He banged His fork down on the table.

'It is not enough!' He said. 'My inspiration is growing weak. I have been falling into a rut. An artist must always keep moving on. I shall venture into new territory. Morbing Vyle is too small for the scope of my genius. I shall gather my materials from further afield."

The followers were dismayed and troubled. But the Vicar was adamant. For the next five nights He drove His carriage out through the forest and sought for His victims in other villages and towns. And every morning He returned with a whole carriageload of young female bodies. Four the first night, five the second, seven the third. But still He wasn't satisfied. 'I must have more blondes,' He said. 'I feel an idea coming on.'

So on the fifth morning, He returned with six blondes. And now He was ready to begin. He called His followers together and gave them instructions. He needed a variety of additional materials for His composition. "We had to collect pillows," said Scrab. "And fish-hooks. Ripe tomatoes. A dead swan. Paint. Two dozen coathangers. And bucketsful of manure."

It was late in the afternoon by the time everything had been collected. The followers had encountered difficulties with the villagers. 'They're getting sullen and troublesome,' they told the Vicar. 'You've been away too many nights. They're losing their fear of you.' But the Vicar only laughed. 'Wait till they see my masterpiece,' He said. 'They will learn a fear to last them the rest of their lives.'
The bodies and other materials had been deposited on an open grassy area at one end of the village. The Vicar started off by painting the grass a pale blue colour. Then He began dragging the bodies onto the grass. He wouldn't allow His followers to help. 'It has to be done perfectly !' He cried. 'The idea is coming clearer and clearer in my mind!'

But even as He worked, the followers saw that there was something wrong. His forehead was furrowed with deep creases. Again and again He kept wincing and gritting His teeth. Until finally He drew away from His Ultimate Work and staggered towards His followers clutching His temples. 'I have a headache,' He muttered. 'A terrible terrible headache.'

They walked Him back to the vicarage and put Him to bed. He slept for fifteen hours. But then they had to wake Him up. There was some bad news.

'The villagers have escaped,' they told Him. 'They must have heard about you falling sick. They formed up in one big bunch and marched out through the forest. There were too many of them - we couldn't do a thing!'

The followers were fearful and trembling. But the Vicar sat up in bed and said 'I must get back to work on my masterpiece again. I must finish my Ultimate Work.'
So back He went to the grassy area, back to His Ultimate Work. He arranged the pillows and positioned the bodies on the blue painted grass. Then He took out His tools - the saw and chisel, the hammer and nails. But already He was struggling, already the creases were there in His forehead. And as He lifted His saw across the first body, suddenly He clutched at His heart and collapsed to the ground in a heap.

They carried Him back to the vicarage and laid Him once more in His bed. He had suffered a massive coronary attack. His eyes were closed and His pulse was very feeble. He seemed to be in a kind of coma. But He roused up in the evening, when some more bad news came in.

This time it was the guards from the roads around the village. They burst into the vicarage shouting at the tops of their voices 'Fire! Fire! Fire in the forest!' They had seen flames leaping up amongst the trees. There were outbreaks to the north, south, east and west. 'It must be the villagers lighting fires!' they cried. 'They're trying to burn us alive!'
'Ah,' said the Vicar, 'I must get back to my masterpiece. There may not be much time.'

No-one could stop Him. He walked out into the night, accompanied by His followers, through the streets of the deserted village. There was a lurid orange glow in the sky, and a heavy smell of smoke. When they came to the bodies and the blue painted grass, the Vicar halted and surveyed the whole scene. The eerie light seemed to give Him new inspiration.

'Yes yes yes! Now I see it!' He cried ecstatically. 'The total composition falls into place! The blondes all together in the centre! With a splash of bright blood across the foreground! Balanced against the whiteness of the swan! And something long and pointed . . .'

But even as He stood there gesturing, the twitches began to run through His limbs. It was like a fit. For a couple of seconds He was shaken by a succession of violent spasms. Then He went suddenly rigid and toppled down flat on His back.

Again the followers picked Him up and rushed Him back to the vicarage. "He was completely stiff," said Scrab. "And cold, icy cold." But still He wasn't dead. He sat propped up in His bed and beckoned the followers to gather around.
'It is true, I am dying,' He told them in a whisper. 'My body has betrayed me. It is the triumph of Nature over the Spirit. I have conceived an idea so transcendentally vile that flesh and blood can not endure it. My heart and nerves and muscles are breaking down at the mere idea of what I have conceived. What you see are the symptoms of a body rebelling against its own mind.'

All around the followers wept and tore their hair. 'Don't die Lord!' they wailed. 'What will happen to us if you are gone?'
'Do not despair,' whispered the Vicar. 'I shall conquer death. I foresee it all. My spirit must go its own way for a time, gaining strength and power. Then it will return and compel this mortal body to its commands. O my followers, I shall rise again.'

'But what about us, Lord?' The followers were not consoled. Outside in the night the burning forest was shooting its flames hundreds of feet up into the air. The village of Morbing Vyle was completely encircled by fire. 'O Lord, must we die?'

'Have faith,' He whispered. 'Be not afraid. The fire cannot destroy you. You must endure. Preserve my message, generation upon generation. I promise you. I shall return.'

They had to bend very close to catch His words. When His voice stopped, they thought He Had died. But then He raised His hand and signalled for pen and paper. No longer able to speak, he wrote His instructions down on paper. How they were to seal His body in a leather bag, with enbalming herbs. How they were to put the bag in an altar, and build a great new church to contain the altar. He sketched the plans for the church on the sheet of paper.
'But when will you return Lord?' they begged Him. 'Tell us how long we must wait!'

But by now He was beyond any kind of reply. As He finished His sketch, the pencil fell from His fingers onto His chest. And where it fell, a tiny bruise formed. "It was the lightest gentlest tap," said Scrab, his voice husky with emotion.

"But to Him it was like a mighty blow." The tiny bruise grew larger and larger, an ominous liver-coloured mark. It spread across His chest, it covered His torso, it reached up into His neck and over His face. In a matter of minutes, His whole body was a single purple bruise. "And that's how He died," said Scrab, finally bursting into loud sobs. "He just ebbed away quietly, there and then."

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