Read by Tony Bell (third story in podcast, at 36 minutes 30 sec, here)
When Mike Shephard burst in on the congregation of St Mary’s one wintry Sunday morning his announcement was met by six gasps and a groan. Five of the gasps belonged to Kathy Dudlingham. The groan came from the vicar.
“Sorry to interrupt, Reverend Herold,” Mike said in his thick west-country accent. “It is Reverend Herold, isn’t it?”
Kathy Dudlingham turned to him furiously. “You know full well it’s Harold. Just like that murderous bastard Harold Shipman. That’s right isn’t it, Reverend?” she smiled.
“Well, anyway,” continued Mike Shephard, sweeping his wild grey hair off his forehead. “I’ve got somethin’ I need to share. Somethin’ important.” He was stood in the entrance of the cavernous church, and took a couple of steps up the aisle. “I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why I’ve chosen ‘ere, and why I’ve chosen now, to make this announcement. Well, it’s simple. Because an angel told me to.”
Kathy Dudlingham gasped at this. Even Trevor Mosely, the only other person present, who had appeared to be asleep until that point, removed the hat from over his eyes and sat up. Reverend Harold groaned.
“Greg, he was called. Huge, with white wings and beautiful teeth. Came to me in a dream last night. I’d been out to check on the animals, the pigs are plannin’ an escape you see, I can sense it, and wanted to make sure the new fence was holdin’ up. Course they looked all innocent but I could hear their whispers on the breeze. They’re evil ‘em pigs, I know it. And –”
“Get to it,” huffed Trevor Mosely. “Less pigs. More angel.”
“All right Trev, keep yer hat on. And them pigs is relevant, because this angel, Greg, he told me two things. Firstly that the pigs are indeed evil and they’re definitely plannin’ an escape, so I were right to put in a new fence.” He scratched his chin. “Although he did add that I should think about using metal stakes rather than wooden ones, as it’s gonna be a wet month and there’s a bit of wood rot around. And secondly, I’ve been chosen to be the divine voice of Lord God ‘ere on planet Earth.”
Kathy Dudlingham’s gasp echoed off the stone walls as Reverend Harold looked heavenwards and asked silently what he had done to deserve this.
“Now I know how that might sound,” said Mike Shephard raising a finger in the air. “But I don’t normally remember a thing after a bottle of whisky, and yet I remember that dream clear as day. And, what’s more, the angel Greg gave me some proof.” He grinned proudly. “A number from the National Lottery next week. Number 22.” Both Trevor Mosely and Kathy Dudlingham gasped at this. In fact, Kathy gasped twice. “You can call me mad, or crazy, whatever you want, but not until those lottery results come in. The Saturday draw, mind. The Big Man doesn’t care for the mid-week one apparently.” He then took a seat on one of the many empty pews and gestured for Reverend Harold to continue.
“Thank you for that,” said the vicar wearily. “And congratulations on your new role.” The will to live fast draining out of him, he cleared his throat before gathering up the notes from his only-just-started sermon. “I think we will end things there today. A little shorter than usual I know, but I think you’ll agree no less powerful. It’s not every week we hear from angels called Greg after all.”
Kathy Dudlingham gasped a final time but before she could make known her disappointment at the sudden curtailing of proceedings Reverend Harold had retreated to his vestry and locked the door.
*
Over the course of the next week word spread around Curley-on-Culm as to what had happened. While it was only ever met by a gentle shrug or half-raised eyebrow, there were more than a few villagers looking out for the lottery results when Saturday evening came around. And, when the six balls came out and not one of them was number 22, there were plenty of jokes made in the village pub. Mike Shephard, it was agreed, was completely stark raving mad.
The following morning Reverend Harold found himself in front of his usual congregation of two. Kathy Dudlingham was sat in the front row as always while Trevor Mosely lay stretched out at the back as was his custom. The vicar had only just uttered the first word of his sermon when Mike Shephard threw open the doors and marched in.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he panted. “But the road’s flooded from all that rain overnight. Had to walk.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “He came again, Greg. Another dream.”
“I hope he apologised about giving you the wrong number,” chuckled Trevor Mosely from under his hat.
“He did!” exclaimed Mike Shephard. “He were very embarrassed indeed.”
Kathy Dudlingham gasped while Reverend Harold sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he would not be completing his sermon again this week either.
“He said he hadn’t made it clear that he was only givin’ the bonus ball number, not one from the main draw. And he were right, weren’t he? It was 22, the bonus ball.”
Trevor Mosely shrugged. “Didn’t check that.”
“Well I did. Anyway, to say sorry he’s given me two numbers from the main draw for next Saturday. 12 and 13.”
“You win a Lucky Dip if you get two,” chirped Kathy Dudlingham excitedly.
“Greg’s words exactly,” beamed Mike Shephard.
“I don’t suppose Greg passed on any other messages from the Lord besides the lottery numbers?” enquired Reverend Harold. “Any words of wisdom? Some guidance for how we may enrich our lives?”
Mike Shephard shook his head. “Nothing I remember.” He clicked his fingers. “Oh wait. No. There was one other thing. Apparently I really do need to reinforce the new pig pen fence. He’s certain the posts I used have got rot now. I’m not so sure though, seem good to me.”
At that Reverend Harold forced himself to smile and once again brought the service to a premature close.
*
The following Saturday night the mood in the village pub had shifted slightly. News had circulated quickly that the numbers 12 and 13 were the first two out in the lottery draw and there were notably fewer villagers willing to openly declare Mike Shephard as completely mad. In fact, the next day the congregation at St Mary’s had swelled to a mighty 20 and Kathy Dudlingham was forced to evict Vivian Sidebottom from her usual seat at the front.
At first there was no sign of Mike Shephard and the congregation grew restless as they awaited his arrival. Reverend Harold was particularly restless due to the fact that, given the recent interruptions, he had not bothered to prepare a sermon. As time ticked by, and despite various attempts to delay proceedings, which included an impromptu singing of ‘Jerusalem’ and a telling of his favourite joke about the Virgin Mary, which received both a gasp and stern look from Kathy Dudlingham, he was left with no choice but to make something up.
He therefore sighed a great sigh of relief, when, in the middle of a long-winded analogy between the Feeding of the 5,000 and a Wetherspoons breakfast, Mike Shephard arrived.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he puffed as he looked around the church. “Blimey, busy in ‘ere today.”
“Did Greg come again?” asked Trevor Mosely immediately.
“He did indeed.” Mike’s face turned to a frown. “Had a big argument about my pig pen we did. I’ve inspected it several times and I’m certain what I’ve built could stand up to a herd of buffalo, let alone five Gloucestershire Old Spots. Even evil ones.” He shook his head. “I’m not one to question the power of God, but I do question what he knows about wood rot.”
“The numbers. Did he bring more numbers?” Trev said.
“Oh yes. 6, 18, and 24.”
There was a rustling as pens were pulled from pockets and the numbers scribbled down. Then, sensing that everyone had got what they’d come for, and with no desire to carry on with his Wetherspoons breakfast analogy, Reverend Harold uttered an ‘Amen’ and swiftly departed.
*
The subsequent Saturday evening 26 people in the Curley-on-Culm area won £30 on the National Lottery for matching three balls. The Saturday after, 43 people won £140 for matching four. The number of winners would have been higher, but as it became clear that an extra number was being revealed each week Trevor Mosely sent a message on the FRIENDS OF CURLEY-ON-CULM WhatsApp group suggesting that it was best not to shout too loudly about what was going on. Firstly because the powers that be at the National Lottery might not like it, and secondly, and most importantly, the more people who knew, the more people there would be sharing the jackpot when all six winning numbers were revealed.
*
The evening that 55 locals won £1,750 for matching five balls, Mike Shephard was all anyone could talk about in the village pub. He was, it was now unanimously agreed, anything but mad.
The next morning the largest congregation ever seen gathered at St Mary’s. There was not a spare seat to be had and, much to his frustration, Trevor Mosely was forced to sit rather than lie. However, shortly before ten o’clock, five minutes before the service was due to begin, Reverend Harold received a call from the police. Solemn-faced he then announced to the packed pews that very early that morning Mike Shephard had been trampled to death by a drove of manic pigs that had knocked down their rot-infested fence. The news was met with a gasp from Kathy Dudlingham, then shocked silence.
As people consoled one another, at the loss of Mike Shephard, and particularly the loss of the £12 million jackpot, Reverend Harold opened his mouth to speak. But he stopped himself. Then he strode purposefully out of the church as a sly smile spread across his face.
No one in Curley-on-Culm ever saw their vicar again. All they ever found was his dog collar and clerical dress in the bus stop bin. He had, it seemed, vanished without a trace, without taking a single thing with him.
In fact he had taken two things with him. His passport, and a secret. You see very late the previous evening he had received a phone call. From Mike Shephard. Mike had been visited by the angel Greg once more, and now knew all six winning numbers. But, almost two bottles of whiskey down, he was worried he would lose them. Given their worth, he said he would sleep much better knowing that someone else knew them too.
At the time Reverend Harold hadn’t appreciated being woken up in the middle of the night. But, as he lies sunbathing on the golden sands of Zanzibar, he’s incredibly glad he was.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow him all the days of his life; and he will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
The Lord who, as far as he’s concerned, is called Mike Shephard.
Amen
(c) Jonathan Sellars, 2024
Jonathan Sellars is an author who mainly writes for children. He has a picture book, Polly Plum: Brave Adventurer, published with the National Maritime Museum, & his poetry can be found if you know where to look (try his Instagram or ask his mum). His own children don’t rate him.
Evening Standard Award nominee for A Man for All Seasons, Tony Bell has performed all over the world with award-winning all-male Shakespeare company Propeller, playing Bottom, Feste, Autolycus and Tranio. TV includes Coronation Street, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, EastEnders & The Bill. He is also a radio & voiceover artist.
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