This story stands alone but if you want to read my first story based on this event, click here.
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“Fucking hell,” Roger murmured to himself and pulled his coat around him. “What a place!” He checked his camera and microphone were rolling, touched the knot in his tie and ran his fingers through his hair.
When he told people he was a crime reporter for the BBC it
was always met with a ‘wow!’ He bet his friends and family didn’t imagine him
freezing half to death in a two bit shithole of a village on a Sunday morning
with a hangover the size of Watford.
But here he was waiting for the churchgoers of this village
to come out of All Saints on their way back to their Sunday roasts.
He’d already tried to knock a few doors, but either people
didn’t answer or they gave him short shrift when they found out what he wanted.
So now he hoped the good Christian folk would be more, well Christian.
The door opened. Roger, coughed and held his microphone at
the ready.
“Excuse me madam, can you answer a few questions about the
death of Gertie?”
The middle-aged woman in her bright blue dress walked
straight past Roger as if he didn’t exist.
“Excuse me sir, what do you think about the news that Gertie
the goose wasn’t shot?”
The elderly man also ignored Roger.
“Do you know who made up the story of the drive-by
shooting,” Roger asked a frumpy, pale woman whose blue hat cast a shadow on her
face. But again there was no answer; she just walked by scratching her arm.
Usually people couldn’t wait to be on TV. If this had been
the death of a child, they’d be queuing up to comment about what a sweet kid it
was. Last week they’d been honking to his colleague like a horny goose, but
this week Roger was faced with a wall of silence; Hertfordshire’s very own Goose
Omerta.
He waited for more
people to emerge from the church but no one came. He popped his head in. The
place was deserted; a congregation of three!
“Hello” Roger called out.
He saw movement and headed down the aisle.
“Hello,” he said again. The elderly vicar looked pale in his
black robes.
“Could you cast any light on the death of the village goose?”
Roger said noticing the man’s beard and moustache were beginning to yellow at
the edges.
The vicar ignored him.
“Anything at all?” Roger pressed.
“The goose is dead. There’s nothing we can do.” The vicar
continued to sort out the hymnbooks.
“Do you know why someone made up the story of a drive-by
shooting?” Roger asked.
The question echoed around the old building.
“Why such an elaborate lie?” Roger’s voice had gone just a
little high-pitched. He decided to change tack.
“Do you know where Mrs Ayton lives?” She was the woman who
had been quoted in all the reports the week before.
The Vicar turned around and stepped towards the reporter. Roger’s
professional smile was only just clinging to his face.
“There’s no Aytons in this village.” The holy man stunk of
alcohol.
“But…” Roger squeaked.
“Listen here young man,” the reverend suddenly looked much
bigger. “If you know what’s good for you, you will stop asking questions and
bugger the fuck right off.” The vicar shook his walking stick just in front of
Roger’s nose.
Roger wiped spit from his face.
“You don’t want to end up like the goose do you?”
“Is this what happened to the goose? Did you kill it with
that stick?” Roger stood his ground.
“Fuck off out of my church.” Reverend Hazard yelled and brought
the stick down hard on Roger’s shoulder.
“You hit me!” Roger said as he watched the vicar lift the
stick back up. “You killed the goose didn’t you?”
“You are like that bloody goose; village favourite my arse,
village pest more like.” He swung again. This time Roger saw it coming and
ducked out of the way and scurried out of the church.
Fuck this for a game of soldiers, he thought to himself as
he ran to his car glad to get away from this strange old village.
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