The Lower Strangling Chronicles
The Reverend Simon Abernathy was many things, but a Catholic was not one of them.
However, he begrudgingly had to admit an interest in the concept of confession, something he wanted to implement at his staunchly Protestant church, St Gerald the Damned, in the sleepy Glevumshire village of Lower Strangling.
And so, on a misty October morning, he set up a makeshift confessional by the altar and invited people in from far and wide to confess their sins before the Lord.
Most of the confessions were minor misdeeds, such as breaking one’s diet slightly by having a cheeky chocolate bar as a treat, having impure thoughts whenever a certain weatherwoman appeared on TV, and telling a little white lie to a host by saying their cooking was delectable when it was actually the opposite.
But then a middle-aged man shuffled into the church.
Bent over, he hurried to the confessional, glancing left and right to make sure someone wasn’t observing him.
His skin was pale, and his expression grave.
The man eased himself into the DIY confessional and cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” the man said, glancing up at Simon.
Simon shifted and rubbed his hands in anticipation.
“That’s quite alright. Well, not really, but anyway, what sin do you speak of?” Simon said, smiling warmly. “Gluttony? Pride? Greed?â€
The Vicar paused for a moment before tentatively adding, “Lust?”
“Murder,” the man said calmly.
Simon almost choked on his drink until he realised he wasn’t actually drinking anything and calmed down.
“Right. That is quite serious, then, isn’t it?” Simon said. “Who did you murder, exactly? If you don’t mind me asking, of course, and how?”
The man gazed at his feet.
“A friend of mine. I made him some chickpea curry when he came over,” the man said.
“That sounds like a rather nice thing to do,” Simon said, before frowning. “Unless, of course, you planned to bring about his demise with a cleverly administered poison.”
The man stared at Simon wide-eyed and raised his hands. “I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear! It just happened.”
“I see,” Simon said. “Proceed.”
“The meal started well. We had a good chat,” the man said, wringing his hands. “But then he just came over funny.”
“Hmm,” Simon said, nodding.
“He went to have a lie down, and then he just… didn’t wake up,” the man said. “I feel really awful about it.”
“I’m sure you do,” Simon said. “You said you didn’t intend to kill him, is that correct?”
“Yeah,” the man said, nodding his head rapidly. “Absolutely.”
Simon leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. “Well, if you were to hand yourself in to custody, and you managed to convince the Jury, there’s a chance you might just get away with a Manslaughter charge.”
“I see,” the man said, starting at his thumbs whilst twiddling them. “What about the Higher Judge? What would he think?”
“Excuse me?” Simon said, gawping at the man. “I daresay this case would go much further than the local jurisdiction, let alone all the way to the Chief Justice herself.”
“No, I mean him, upstairs,” the man said, pointing to the ceiling.
“Hmm?” Simon said, glancing upwards himself. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. St Gerald’s is only one storey, and I am the most senior figure here.”
“No. As in, you know,” the man said, before leaning closer to the vicar and whispering, “God.”
“Oh, him!” Simon said, chortling. “Yes, I’d forgotten about him. No, he’d be more than fine with it, I’m sure, if you repent and do the right thing, of course. There’s nothing that God won’t forgive.”
“So he won’t send me to hell, then?†the man said, smiling at the Vicar.
“No, absolutely not,” Simon said, guffawing before becoming more serious. “But I would strongly urge you to hand yourself in to the authorities and make amends with your deceased friend.”
“Sure,” the man said, nodding. “You sure nothing bad will happen?”
“No,” Simon said. “I’m sure you’ll only be charged with manslaughter and receive a lighter prison sentence than murder.”
“Very well,” the man said, smiling at Simon before rising to his feet and taking a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”
Simon bowed his head. “Best of luck, and God bless.”
The man thanked the priest, then turned on his heel and strode confidently toward the exit.
Once he was gone, Simon flopped back into his seat, and rubbed his face as he sighed.
No one had confessed an actual crime to him thus far, and secretly he wished no one would.
Of course, since he wasn’t actually a Catholic, there was a chance the church wouldn’t excommunicate him were he to report someone to the police himself.
Still, the fact he managed to persuade someone to hand themselves in to custody filled him with immense pride.
“Right,” he said as he rose from his stool. “Time for a pint.”
A huge grin appeared on his face as he rubbed his hands in anticipation and strode out of the church towards Lower Strangling’s signature pub: The Hangman’s Noose.
The man did indeed hand himself in, telling the police everything he confessed to Simon, and he spent the night in a prison cell.
As the sun rose the next morning, a young man in his mid-fifties marched into the station and banged his hands on the reception desk.
The Custody Sergeant glanced at the visitor and gawped at him.
“Can I help you?” He asked, placing some peanuts into her mouth.
“Hello, yes,” the visitor said, clearing his throat. “I’m here to seek James Upstone’s release.”
The Custody Sergeant squinted at the visitor. “You what?”
“I want to request James’ immediate release without charge,” the visitor said. “You see, there’s been a mix-up.”
The Custody Sergeant leaned in his chair. “I don’t think there has been. He came in himself saying he killed someone. I think that’s enough reason as any to believe he’s a prime suspect in a crime, even if it’s manslaughter.”
“That may be so, but he’s mistaken, as are you,” the visitor said. “I should know, after all, I’m the man he thinks he killed.”
The Custody Sergeant turned pale and stared at the visitor wide-eyed.
The visitor smiled and laughed. “I’m not a ghost, sir. No one ever saw a body; the only evidence you have that James Upstone killed a man accidentally or otherwise is his own word, and he didn’t see a body either.”
The Custody Sergeant slowly leaned towards the visitor. “How would he think he killed you if he never saw your corpse?”
“His cooking indeed made me ill with mild food poisoning,” Jeff said. “But I managed to drive home and made a full recovery. But my client, the late Sir Geoffrey Bowman, unexpectedly did die yesterday morning. James simply heard the news and assumed it was me.”
The Custody Sergeant slowly swivelled in his chair. “Let me guess, you’re also called Geoffrey Bowman?”
“Yes, that is my birth name,” the visitor said. “But my name is spelt J-E-F-F-E-R-Y whereas Sir Geoffrey’s name is spelt G-E-O-F-F-R-E-Y, and I only ever go by the name Jeff.”
“Surely he would know that, as a good friend of yours,” the Desk Sergeant said. “Along with whether you’re also knighted or not.”
“The fact his curry made me ill mortified him,” Jeff said. “The similar name in the news report would have been enough to feed into his paranoia.”
The Custody Sergeant nodded. “Well, I’ll talk to the Inspector and see what we can do.”
“Excellent,” Jeff said. “Be gentle with him, though. I’m not sure how he’ll react to me actually being alive.”
The Custody Sergeant bowed his head. “Will do.”
As the Custody Sergeant left his office to arrange James Upstone’s release, the man he supposedly murdered eased himself into a waiting chair and read one of the magazines on the pile next to him.
After the Custody Sergeant had a quick chat with the Custody Inspector and brought her out to see Jeff so he could explain himself, they finally released James Upstone without charge.
“But I killed him. I’m sure,” James said as he shuffled into reception, glancing at his captors.
“Oh really?” the Custody Sergeant said. “Tell that to him, then.”
James froze and stared wide-eyed at Jeff, who smiled and waved at him.
“Hello, James,” Jeff said. “As you can see, rumours of my killing have been greatly exaggerated.”
James’ skin went pale, and he began to sweat. “But… you were ill. You went to sleep and didn’t get up.”
“I’ll explain in the car,” Jeff said. “Let’s just focus on getting you out of here and back home, shall we?”
The Custody Sergeant and Inspector unlocked their detainee’s handcuffs, and he slowly stumbled towards Jeff.
But then he sighed, and fainted.
The police staff sidled round him, and gawped at the unconscious man before them, unsure what to do next.
Jeff laughed, and strode over to James. “It’s fine. When I heard he went into Confession and handed himself in to the police, I knew the discovery that it was all in his head would be a bit of a shock.”
The Custody Sergeant and Inspector backed away as Jeff picked up James and carried him out of the Custody Suite.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” Jeff said as he vacated the building. “Hopefully we won’t bother you again. Farewell.”
The Custody Staff waved Jeff goodbye and stood there silently for quite some time before the Sergeant went back behind his desk and the Inspector continued her duties, neither of them really knowing what had just happened, or even if it was real.
“So the whole debacle was completely imaginary?” Simon said, sipping his Gin and Tonic at the Hangman’s Noose after Jeff had recounted his story for the third time that morning. “Well, that’s just marvellous, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Jeff said, placing an arm around James. “It’s put my mind off my client’s untimely passing.”
“It wasn’t that unexpected, was it?” Dave Peterson, a resident of Lower Strangling, said. “I mean, he was almost ninety.”
“Perhaps, but he was full of life,” Jeff said. “He was going to attend an event promoting his final novel this weekend, but sadly we’ll have to organise alternative arrangements.”
“I’m so dreadfully sorry for your loss,” Simon said, bowing his head and frowning. “And for making you spend a night in Police Custody for no reason.”
“It’s fine. Neither of us knew I was innocent,” a much perkier James Upstone said, sipping his Throckmorton Ale. “A huge weight has been lifted off my chest.”
“The Good Lord above will be more than happy to have you in heaven’s ranks when your time comes,” Simon said, beaming as he drank his G&T. “But of course if you do commit a crime then appropriate action must be taken.”
“Of course, Reverend,” James said, bowing his head and crossing himself. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”
Dave leant back on his stool and gazed at the ceiling. “Now that old Geoff Bownman’s popped his clogs, I’d assume his Londinium penthouse will be on the market soon.”
“That would make sense,” Jeff said. “I’m sure it will be a much sought-after address.”
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted a top floor flat in a Londinium skyscraper, with sweeping views of the city,” Dave said.
“You’ll have to get in there quickly before your boss snaps it up,” Sarah Peterson, Dave’s wife, said as she swirled her red wine and sampled it.
“True, true,” Dave said, nodding. “Then again, it’ll be a bit pricey though, so perhaps not.”
“I think he’s also got a wife and kids who’ll inherit it,” John Granger, the landlord of the Hangman’s Noose, said as he poured yet another glass of ale and handed it to a patron. “You’ll have to keep looking to find a similar apartment.”
Sarah rolled her eyes and finished the dregs of her wine.
“I’m very much looking forward to Sir Geoffrey’s final novel,” Simon said. “I’ve been an avid fan of his for years, even if I vehemently disagreed with his politics.”
“You’re not the only one,” Jeff said. “If you’re interested, I could talk with the publisher and see if you could get a discount off the novel.”
“That would be wonderful; of course I’m interested!” Simon said, rubbing his hands. “It would almost make up for not having him as a guest at our Literary Festival.”
“Oh, you have a Literary Festival, do you?” Jeffrey said, leaning closer to the vicar. “I’m sure my other clients would be interested in attending.”
“By all means, tell everyone you know,” Simon said. “The more authors we have, the better.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” Jeff said, jotting something down in his notebook.
“Well, Si,” John said, propping himself on the bar with an elbow. “Do you think this Confession thing has a future at St Gerald’s?”
“In short, no,” Simon said, gazing down at his feet and running a hand through his hair. “It was much too stressful for me. I think I’ll leave it to the Catholics from now on.”
“I thought you did a pretty good job,” James said. “You listened to my confession, and gave me good advice.”
“Thank you for saying so,” Simon said. “But the point still stands, yesterday was the first and final time St Gerald the Damned will hold a Period of Confession.”
“Let’s drink to that,” John said, filling up a new glass and raising it. “Cheers!”
So everyone around the bar of the Hangman’s Noose clinked their glasses, drank in unison, and all was well.
