THE VACANT VICAR

It was the year of our lord 1697. Wild beasts stalked the fields but knew better than to raid the crops of Bloat.

Bloat was an oasis of peace, piety and plenty. The soil was rich, a thick holy loam tended with loving care by the vigilant farmers of the parish and blessed by a generous God.

At its heart was the ancient church, a towering keep, resolute, reliable and righteous, planted in the middle of the village like a sacred brain fanning out it's harsh tidings of rural toil and Christ's protection.

The church was run by the Vicar. He was a trustworthy man, a pillar of Bloat's structure. But the Vicar had fallen from grace, a secret he battled with in the confines of the midnight chapel. He had taken to wine and to the sins of the mortal flesh, frenziedly bedding both plump curates and lonely farming wives and imbibing endless chalices of the holy claret as he impaled them on the altar.

The villagers talked and the talk grew thunderous, eventually pounding on the Vicar's oak door that Christmas, driving him out in a drunken state, half-dressed, his cassock wide open, his dripping member still engorged and the nude wife of the Squire running out of the vestibule yelling:

"To Hell with you all cock-lickers!"

A pack of hounds was sent forth to drive the Vicar to some distant parish and the Squire banished his wife to the dark frigid hills beyond the light, where she fell further and further into the wild embrace of the cruel winter.

Bloat appeared to prosper in the New Year. For a while at least. The barns were full of fecundity and the village-folk enjoyed fitful dreams wet and sweated. The Squire took to a new wife, a beautiful visitor with red hair. She was regal, lusty and of fierce temperament. He adored her but at the height of his carnal fires she left abruptly and did not return. He was desperate to be sated.

Meanwhile Bloat was still without a vicar. A barren basket, it was the first year in a hundred where the fruitful mass was missing from rustic life. The sacred heart had furred and the old faith of the people grew limp as the barned seed began to fester.

As the sun sank on Bloat that March the rutting hares stopped and stared at the stranger striding along the cinder path toward the village. At turns voluptuous, curvaceous, hideous and feral, the vague form solidified into a long-haired man wearing a course habit and carrying a long pronged pole to aid his awkward gait.

The man pounded on the thick door of the Squire's hall, where he was shown in by a full-chested housemaid. She bid him welcome and in the darkness of the hallway kissed him voraciously.

"Do I know you Father? You look vaguely familiar," said the Squire ramming the embers with a fire dog as the guest appeared.

"I can't imagine it my Lord. I have come by here but once before and I do not recall your penetrating figure."

"Penetrating eh! I have been known to enter my subjects with noble cause!" slapping the stranger hard on the shoulder from where the merest wisp of inky smoke arose.

The Squire chuckled at his own banter, as did his guest, who raised his bushy monobrow and smiled from ear to ear like an oyster.

"Come my fellow. Sit. Drink. Of what can I do for you?"

"Thankyou good Squire. I wish to be erected as Vicar in this vacant seat. Bloat needs a new masseur of souls I wager. My own God has guided me to you like a hungry drone in need of honey."

The stranger placed his hand on the Squire's thigh, grinned and squeezed. The noble felt inexplicably aroused and his bulging codpiece strained.

"You appear fulsome Squire. Let my humble digits assist!"

The guest undid the leather thongs at one side holding the Squire's codpiece in place. His turgid phallus sprang out and the stranger began to rub it with increasing vigour.

"The vacancy. I would like to fill it Sir!"

"But are you ordained?"

The stranger flicked his hair aside and took the Squire's cock entirely in his mouth and suckled. The Lord moaned and as he looked down he was sure he saw his errant wife's long red hair and the guest mounting her naked rump. He shook his head.

"The bacancy?" he mumbled with a full maw.

"It's yours. You are most assuredly our new Vicar!" he wailed climactically.

"Thank you Squire. You shall be first to be relieved!"

The stranger patted his flaccid member, rose and left, riding the red-haired housemaid out like a heated nag.

The Squire looked in shock and horror as the figure's cassock burned away revealing a steaming red body with a barbed tail and goat-hoofed legs kicking the filly.

The stranger turned one final time, a horned devil with a shark's smile, atop his bounding witch.

"Thank you for opening up your congregation Squire! Now go to Hell!!"

He clicked his steaming fingers and the screaming knight burst into violent crimson flames and was gone.

The devil laughed as he loped into the ripe streets of Bloat, the naked housemaid, the erstwhile wife, now straddling his scarlet shoulders, ferociously stroking his long horns howling:

"We're coming!"

The Mysterious Case of the Tenter Poles

Bledbottles is a typical village. Nothing special. Nothing new.

Well apart from the new village sign which had been erected on the boundary, where I lived. 

It must have been done at night. I certainly didn't see them putting it in.

It was your typical village sign. Metal. The name in large letters and something famous about the place.

Except Bledbottles wasn't famous for anything. Well, maybe villagers drinking cows' blood with their milk. For good health. Yuk! Disgusting!

I was walking our dog when I first saw the sign. Actually I was stuffing a poo bag in the bin when it caught my eye.

Why did we need a new sign anyway? We already had one. One of those large millstones popular in the Nineties. As if every village was full of millers back in the day. Regular flour magnates. More like millstones round our neck!s!

So, now there were two signs. One in front of the other. I suppose it wasn't so strange. We have two beef farms, two dairies, two schools, two pubs, two off-licences and two graveyards.

Well one graveyard and a cemetery to be exact. A cemetery has no church. I didn't know that until recently. Like the difference between cottage and shepherds pie. One has lamb, the other beef!

I digress. Bledbottles. So good they named it twice! Like the Big Apple. Except it's not. It's more like a big clot. Thick. Wet. To be avoided.

The famous something on the new sign had me intrigued though. Home of the Tenter Poles.

What the hell are those?

I'd heard of tent poles. Surely the signmakers hadn't spelt it wrong. I'd also heard of tenterhooks. Like being on tenterhooks.

I had to look it up. Tenter Poles: poles used for drying skins.

Skins? What kind of skins?

I asked my old Dad. 

Where are some tenter poles round here? 

Oh those things. Near the graveyard. They were dug up and put there.

Dug up? Where from?

The skin factory.

What's a skin factory?

An old tannery. Where they made leather.

Where's leather from?

Cows.

I thought about this.

Cows. 

Who ran the tannery?

The skin masters. The Glovers. A big old family. They brought wealth and health to Bledbottles. Lots of local people were employed by them. There's still Glovers in the village. Very well respected people. They run a massive tannery in Leeds now. Very rich too. They live in the big mansion near the church. Near those Tenter Poles. It's the old tannery slaughterhouse done right up. Like a barn conversion. The Glovers had the poles moved there for posterity. They own half the village but no-one ever sees them. Keep themselves to themselves. 

God! Living in a slaughterhouse! How gross!

I went off and an itch began to bug me. The kind of itch that needs scratching. Yep, I just had to see those tenter poles.

Cycling across the village was easy. The poles were in the shadow of a huge Yew, it's ancient dark a circular night. 

Getting up close I saw that the poles were actually four stone pillars with holes in them. The holes must have been for wooden bars where the skins were draped over. These had obviously rotted away over the last century, what with all that skin juice!

I shuddered at the thought and took a bite of my Mars Bar. All this detective work was making me peckish.

Whilst I was there I thought I'd have a wander round the graveyard. So many ancient souls. Lots of familiar names too. Old village families lying there en masse. But one thing I noticed. There were no Glovers. No Glovers at all.

Odd.

I finished my Mars Bar and was about to cycle off when I noticed activity at the back of the old tannery house. Curiosity getting the better of me I got off my bike and snook round.

Peeking through a crack in the large garden walls I saw something very strange. There where lots of really old people getting out of a minibus and shuffling into the large house. A young woman closed the bus doors and followed them inside.

I decided I'd been there long enough and rode home.

"I saw some odd stuff today Mum. At the Glovers."

"The Glovers? What were you doing there?"

"Oh, just following up on a local history project. Dad knows about it. Anyways, do you remember any of the Glovers' funerals?"

"Funerals? Well now that you mention it, no. But then again I haven't lived here all my life. They will have been whilst I was away."

"Oh, right. Yes."

Mum hadn't been away that long. Four years at Uni. That was years ago. It didn't explain how there were no graves. There must have been some deaths in the family over the last hundred years.

The next day I visited the register of deaths and births in our small Museum. I was right. No deaths of any Glovers in the ledger.

Impossible!

They must be hiding deaths and burying the dead elsewhere for God knows what reason.

I biked to the mansion that night. Dressed in black and keeping my dynamo off, I didn't want to be seen.

I snuck to the rear of the big house again when a security light flooded the walls with light. I froze and dipped into shadow. The light snapped off and I moved slower than ever to reach the top of the wall.

From there I could see a row of new tenter poles with masses of hides hooked onto the lines. Some of the hides were pale and some dark.

I could also see into a large annexe, which was brightly illuminated. Inside the same old people I saw earlier where covering themselves in what looked like lotion. They were slowly rubbing it all over their faces and arms and some their entire bodies.

In the middle of the room was a table on which an elderly lady was laid. The young woman I'd seen before, together with a young man, we're doing something to her. They looked like they were stitching her clothes. No. That's not right. They were stitching her .. face!

I gasped and nearly fell over my bike. 

What the hell were they stitching?

I peered again and the elderly woman on the table stood up. She was naked for God's sake. Her whole body was old, saggy, browny and dull. There was stitching everywhere. Like a teddy bear. As if she'd been stitched together. She was ancient, except her face. That was young! They'd stitched on a new face!

Jeeeeesus! This time I did fall over my bike before cycling off as fast as I could. 

What the hell had I just seen? New faces being transplanted by the Glovers? 

I had to tell my Mum and Dad.

Dad was showering. I waited for him at the door, which was ajar.

"Dad. You're just not going to believe what I've seen over at that mansion!"

"Which mansion Son?"

He stepped out of the shower and I saw his shoulders in the mirror. They were all leathery and saggy and I could see ... Stitching!

Oh my God! My Dad too! Christ!

"So what did you see Son?"

"Oh nothing much Dad. It's such a massive house isn't it. I just.. just couldn't believe the size of it!" 

I had had to make something up really fast and make my excuses. I had to check something out. My Mum!

She was in the garden forking spuds She bent down to loosen some weeds. And there it was. A leather patch on her lower back. Clear as day. Stitch marks and all!

My Mum and Dad. I bet the whole village was in on it!

Leather. Patches. Stitches. Skin. What was going on in Bledbottles!

In desperation I went to the police station. A house really. Near the stream. Just a single copper in a small building. 

I walked into the foyer. Gathering my thoughts before ringing the bell I noticed a poster for a missing girl. Staring at it I realized with horror that it was the same girl I saw at the mansion. At least her face was. Being grafted onto that old woman! 

Jesus Christ! Is there no end!

"For God's Sake, tell me you know about this!" I screamed at the policeman behind the desk brandishing the poster of the missing girl.

"Of course, she's been missing a month"

"But the Glovers. The leather parts. The face grafts. She's there. The girl's there!" I blundered, not able to get out of my mouth what I was thinking.

"Now take it easy. Sit down young fella. Here, have some blood and milk."

I sat and actually drank the local brew with tears rolling into the glass.

Immediately I felt sick and dizzy and the last thing I remember was the policeman reaching out.

I woke up in a vaguely familiar place.

On a table!

I still felt groggy. That policeman must have sedated me the old sod.

Next to me there was activity. 

A man was lying on another table. A young girl was sorting metal instruments next to him. He was talking to her.

"Oh hi Son! You awake!"

"Dad?"

"Yes Son! It's Dad. I've come in for my mid-life upgrade!"

"What?"

"You know! I'm getting a new face. A younger model! Yours!"

"Mine! What! No! Dad! No, please!"

I tried to get up but I was strapped to the table.

"I'm getting your shoulder skin too. Mine's been leather for a year. Gets it ready you see. Prepares the ground you might say."

"But Dad! Mum will find out!  I'm her son!"

Mum stepped out from the shadows and stood next to my Dad smiling.

"Hi Son! So glad Dad gets you!"

"I am. So glad. It's special. Mum's getting hers next year. And her back too. She's so excited. It'll be your older Sister's. We'll go on a cruise once we're both done! Our village is famous round here for its fresh looks in old age. Outsiders think it's the blood and milk but we know better don't we son, now you've scratched the surface you little Sherlock you!"

I screamed and wrestled with the straps. Turning I saw the tenter poles through the window. A hide face was draped over one, dripping blood into a bowl. It had eyes, nose. But no mouth! Oh no! No mouth!

"Ah yes Son. I forgot to say. You'll get your mouth back when your older. Much older. We can't have you blabbing now can we! You have to face up your responsibilities!"

Everyone laughed at Dad's quip. Mum. The Policeman. The neighbours. My sister. The whole village had turned out!

My Dad was prepared. Then the old young Mrs. Glover approached me with a scalpel.

"Now hold still. Its going to hurt ... A lot!"

As the tip entered my skin I could hear the whole room howling with laughter, which got louder and louder when they peeled off my face and placed it on my Dad's raw muscles.

"Keep it in the family. That's what we always say! A little stretching and it'll fit like a glove!"