Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  When he came back through, Doe pulled out one of the cans and sunk half of it in one deep draw and parked it to one side of the sink. Unzipping his fly, he buried his head in the nook of his elbow to cover the stench and pissed into the sink. His aim wasn't the best because his sight was obscured by his arm and finding that it was perilously close to his beer can he decided to turn around and just let it hang, releasing an arcing rainbow of yellow all over the floor. He had just enough in reserve to polish some of the flies off the crusted turd on the door handle, sending them buzzing off to find a new home.

  “Oh-wee! I'm going to cook up one hell of a stink now!” he said and grimaced at the thought.

  He jerked out the last few drops, looped a finger through the plastic rings that held his cans together and emerged from the stench into the night. Had he been more sober at that point he probably still wouldn't have seen it coming.

  He felt his head jerk back without warning, seeing a fist flash before his vision blurred. The blow to his skull came at such speed that it registered no immediate pain. Stunned, he had absolute clarity of thought and as he felt his body plummet backward and just before he crashed to the ground, it crystallised into one sentence.

  I wish I would have used the damn toilet.

  TWELVE

  What the church choir group lacked in numbers, it more than made up for in lung capacity. Head of the Choir, Donald Spence, stepped from behind the organ and sat with the rest of the group when he saw the priest surface from below. Fr Regan had already removed his outer robe and was dressed in his normal attire, that is to say, black slacks and black pressed shirt which was now pressed to his chest with sweat after the steep winding stairwell climb. It had taken him a considerable effort to ascend to what the group affectionately called the Pigeon Loft – the small area high above the congregation where acoustically they were able to bellow their organ and their hymns would carry down below.

  Normally he would meet the group as they descended, discussing specific hymn requests ahead of funerals or weddings and it had been months since he had last made the effort to visit them.

  “That was beautiful guys. Lewis would have been very proud of each one of you.”

  They each nodded their agreement without looking up and Fr Regan could see from the way they were seated, slumped over and rubbing hard faces and hands, that they were emotionally exhausted. The guitarist of the group, Paul Ledley, a young whip barely out of his teens, strummed silently, before inserting the pick in the top fret and holding it tight, like a jealous lover.

  Regan could read their faces like scripture. Moving to the front of the landing the priest looked down from the great height. Most of the pews below were unoccupied but for the back of a few grey heads bent over in prayer on the benches, paying respects to the deceased or perhaps suddenly aware of their own mortality.

  Fr Regan went to tidy away the microphone stand and prop that had held in place the hymn sheets for the day. The commotion stirred some of the choir group who peered up from their seats. He faced them now until they all looked up, the dazzling, rainbow coloured window in the distance framing him like some bejewelled Saint.

  “How are you all coping? I know Lewis was close to many of you.”

  “He was, father,” Spence said. “Putting aside the fact he was our best chorister, he was a bloody good, decent fella too. Sorry for my language.”

  The group lowered their eyes almost in joint collective prayer as if to remind themselves of the memory of their friend, except for the lead female vocalist. Her corkscrew red hair spilled over a clouded freckled face which was one shade short of mahogany. The young woman fidgeted with the open, high white collar around her neck, as if unsure if it was too cold or too warm. Regan could see it was tinged on the inside with the same colour of her face. A poor effort at fake tan, uneven and stretched under the pervasive bright light that bathed the Pigeon Loft.

  “You're alright Donald. It was a tragedy and we'll all feel the loss deeply.”

  “Any idea when the funeral is father?” chipped in the guitarist.

  “Well, arrangements will need to be managed by the family but we'd be looking at a couple of days at most. Lewis' body will likely be moved to the family home later this evening or tomorrow, if you would like to pay your respects.”

  Regan couldn't tell if the heavy sigh that accompanied the guitarist's confirmation was out of grief or at the prospect of an all-night wake, which the younger, energetic members of the community would typically observe.

  “What happened below?” Spence asked. “We couldn’t see from where we were.”

  Regan rubbed his face, some of the groups tiredness affecting him.

  “Larry Doe.”

  The organist shook his head and gave a wry smile. “Some gall that guy. Absolute waster.”

  “Now Donald-” the priest started.

  “He is, father,” said the guitarist. “Sits on that bridge all day just staring at the traffic. He’s a weirdo.”

  “Not only that,” Spence said, bolstered by the support of his younger colleague. “Dangerous too. I’ve seen him sniffing around the church too father. You might want to lock up the front door more often. I’m sure he’s been in here.”

  “I know he has,” Regan replied. “I’ve seen him.”

  Spence and the rest of their faces looked at Regan in surprise. He smiled at their confusion and took a seat nearby.

  “Listen, that’s not important now,” he said. “He’s still a member of the community. No better or worse than the rest of us. We should remember that, especially when we fall on tough times too.”

  The group nodded, respecting the priests desire not to divulge more. The guitarist peeled the instrument off his chest and tucked it into its soft hollow bed, before snapping the case closed.

  “I know it's too early to discuss funeral hymns,” Regan said, “but I do know that there was one that Lewis was particularly fond of – ‘Nearer my God to Thee’.

  The organist looked around and saw the smiles pierce through their faces.

  “He could sing that better than anyone I know. I think it would be a nice send-off.”

  “Absolutely. I'm sure it would be a nice tribute. Louise Tighe would, of course, have the final say.”

  “Of course,” Spence said. “I suppose if she was looking for ideas, it might be a nice suggestion.”

  “Yes. I'll mention it to her.”

  “How is she, father?” said one of the members, who had been silent so far. “She's pregnant as well isn’t she?”

  “That's right,” Regan replied, slowly shaking his head. “Very tough for her now. A big burden to carry. She's strong though, and we've got to be her rock.”

  The redhead who had been silently observing the exchange suddenly shifted in her seat. Imperceptible to those on either side, but from Regan's view, she seemed uncomfortable and unwilling to engage in the conversation.

  “I just don't know what possessed him. To leave a wife and two children behind and one on the way. It just...” Donald let his sentence hang unable to find the words.

  “I know. I know,” Regan replied.

  The priest patted Spence’s shoulder and looked at the dejected face staring down at the long thin fingers, which danced so beautifully on the ivories each week.

  “Did he show any sign of distress in the weekend's service?” Regan asked. “Mention anything to anyone?” They all looked at one another, shrugging their shoulders. “Any kind of stress. Worry about the future. Conflict?”

  They responded together with a negative. Had it been different circumstances Regan would have smiled at the timed delivery. Years of singing together had formed the group’s sense of timing, when to sing and when to fall silent, joining together in harmonies, and when to strike the right note, anticipating each other's respective roles like the intricate workings of a clock.

  “Maybe he brought it on himself.”

  The new voice took Regan by surprise, and even more so when he
saw it was from the high-collared redhead. He was very good with names and even though she was a new acquisition to the choir several months earlier, he was disappointed that his memory failed. What he did recall was Spence’s initial description of her – “spiky but a bloody good singer”.

  The group turned to look to the source of the statement. Spence said: “Now, now, Fiona. We don't know what state of mind poor Lewis was in. He was a tortured soul who saw only one way out. Isn't that right father?”

  He looked up at the priest as if the man held the very secret of the Universe in his hands which made Regan feel the weight of his pending response significantly heavier.

  “Hold on Donald,” she said. “Let's be honest here and call a spade a spade. Lewis was no Saint.”

  The man started to interject but Fiona raised her hand to stall him as her point was just beginning to sharpen.

  “Doesn't the Bible say something about people who take their own life not making it to Heaven?”

  The woman rose from her seat, picked up a book of papers and slid past the group, who sidled aside to let her pass.

  “You said it yourself, Donald. What kind of man ... what kind of a real man leaves behind a family and cashes in his chips four decades early? I've got nothing but contempt for him now. I had respect before but we were all duped. I for one won't be going to his funeral. Selfish, selfish little man.”

  Silently she made her exit towards the stairwell, bouncing curls bobbing on her head with each step. Before Regan returned his gaze back to the group, he noticed on the final step of the woman's turn as her face caught the light at a sharp angle, the stretched tan across one side of her face had become thinner, unequally applied. For a moment, he saw a dull colour beneath the layer, covering the eye socket of the woman. A hard edge submerged beneath a sink of dirty water. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, he thought but as he swatted it away the image returned, persistent like a wasp until he finally let it shroud his mind’s eye. He had seen the tell-tale sign before. Part of his role in the community was to be a mediator and peacekeeper. But his powers were limited to those who spoke up; those who refused to suffer in silence. But there were others; frightened women who hid behind closed doors, behind a mask of feigned happiness or carefully applied makeup that he couldn't reach. His mind groped for an answer as to who would strike the woman and whether there was any connection with Lewis Tighe.

  THIRTEEN

  Doe knew before he had hit the floor that his nose had been broken, again. The sharp pain that flooded his brain had been prefaced by a dull pop, like the sound of a door knock from beneath the surface of water.

  When he regained consciousness, he found himself prostrate on the cold concrete floor in darkness, a weak light from a vent above just giving shape to nearby objects. Through blinkered eyes, his vision was obstructed by a peculiar foreign mass at the front of his face. Pain continued to strobe there as he realised that his malleable nose had again shifted from its designed origin and this fact was confirmed when he found that his breathing had a nasal shrill to it.

  As he rose to gently pad his new feature, he found himself glued there by the chilled pool of piss which was still drying. His shirt and trousers were already wet so swallowing this truth, he slumped back down in resignation waiting for his other senses to slowly reboot. The sickly sweet smell enveloped him and began to wisp its way up his broken nostrils. It fused with the metallic smell of his own blood as they danced their way along his mangled nasal passage.

  There was an eerie silence in the toilets and when he struggled to his feet, he flashed the light switch to assess the damage in the mirror. Underneath a giant set of breasts and a penis that wore a neat pubic hat was a space free of graffiti and he examined himself closely.

  Beneath the mask of blood, he could tell the nose was badly swollen but, fortunately, displaced in an old position which could be corrected quite easily. Painfully. But easily. Doe wiggled his nose in the mirror and could feel the foreign touch of something a part of him but not quite natural like tonguing a new tooth filling for the first time. With trepidation, he cupped his nose in both hands, panting heavily and braced for a sharp snap.

  On impact, needles shot up from his busted nose, blinding him momentarily.

  “Sonofa-!”

  Opening his eyes, the room filled with stars as he threatened to tumble him back to the slippery pool below, grasping the hand basin to steady his feet. The initial shock began to subside and, feeling his breath return to normal, he found the passageway unobstructed.

  The bleeding had long since stopped and the thin trickle of water from the sink wiped the crusted pool from his cheeks and neck. The acrid taste of it was in the back of his throat and he spat a loaded clot of it at the concave edge of the basin where it crawled toward the plughole. Doe accelerated the slug’s path rinsing his mouth out with the water until the taste and smell of blood no longer clung to his insides.

  A new pain introduced itself at that point, politely waiting in line for the chance to better acquaint itself with the victim. He touched the back of his head and could feel a large golf ball sized swelling. The patch of hair there was wet but didn't have the texture of being clotted by blood nor was there any cut, which was a relief.

  “Ow, my head.”

  He rubbed his face and moved the jaw to search for any other damage. His tongue did a dental inventory check for good measure but the angle of the blow struck dead centre, above his mouth. His lips were still dry and he picked up one of the ciders on the floor and poured it down his throat. It brought instant relief and soothed a growing headache that he was determined to outrun.

  “Who the hell?”

  The blow had knocked him out cold. The person certainly knew how to throw a hook.

  “No way they getting away with this,” he said. “Just ‘cos I came into their chapel.”

  He was breathing hard but there was a tremor in his voice. Tears began forming in the corner of his eyes. As if the stench that engulfed him had suddenly congealed, it formed an image in his mind.

  “I’m sorry Lewis,” he said and squinted away the image with the tears.

  He picked up the cider and took another long swallow of it. He felt the pain ebb away again like a wave. He looked at the warped reflection in the dented mirror. Like something from a house of mirrors his nose was stretched and bulbous. He studied the reflection for a few seconds before throwing a punch at the wall.

  “You can’t shut me up! Bastards!”

  He followed with another and another and didn’t stop punching until his knuckles painted the wall bright red.

  FOURTEEN

  The TV was always on whenever Fr Regan worked at his little bureau in the corner of the sitting room. Not only did it serve as good company in the lonely parochial house, but the never-ending DVD loop of Detective Bourbon helped to feed his creative imagination. Sometimes, when he reached an impasse in his work, a soundbite from the great sleuth would wiggle its way into his thoughts from the TV set, coaxing him out of the conundrum – “…the deeper you dig, the darker it gets,” or a word of advice to Mrs. Jessop, “no matter how thin you slice it, there’s always two sides.”

  Mrs. Jessop was the long-serving maid at Bourbon's residence and had been an unlikely sidekick in several of the episodes in the second season. Despite being played by an actress in her eighties, so light that it looked like a door breeze would carry her away, the frail little woman still possessed a hefty swing with her trusted rolling pin. Twice already she managed to thwart Bourbon's nemesis Hiddink, saving her master from certain death.

  However, the peripheral characters were of no interest to Regan, not while Bourbon was centre stage.

  “Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.”

  Hearing this, Regan looked up from his notepad, pen poised and studied the detective on the small screen. Bourbon, tall and clean-shaven, bade farewell to the little old lady before walking to the corn
er of his study taking his deerskin jacket from the coat rack in one fell swoop and wrapping it around his lean frame. On the little bustling street outside, clumps of snowflakes drifted down. He turned his collar up and took in the hive of activity before him as the traffic honked, a throng of people moving in each direction and then the detective plunged into the thick of it. The camera panned back to show that the man had already blended into the crowd as the snow storm raged around. Soon, the gaggle of people was lost from view and Bourbon with them, on his way, no doubt, to a new mystery and adventure.

  As the credits began to roll, the memory of Larry Doe bursting into the church earlier in the week crossed his mind.

  “Sober man’s thoughts. Drunken man’s words,” Regan said, looking down at the bobble-head Jesus whose flawless, olive skin was now lined with cracks and globs of glue.

  He returned to the notepad where the homily was being prepared for the funeral of Lewis Tighe. His stopwatch beeped and looking at it, Regan saw it was midnight already, before turning back to the pad where he had written only a paragraph. He reached for the page, tore it up and threw it at the TV screen.

  He picked up a thin booklet from the table and skimmed through the pages. It was the latest edition of the ‘Spy and Lie’ mail order catalogue. He had seen many of the items before and quickly flicked to the back and the New Arrivals section. A few of the products caught his eye. Spy glasses with a small inconspicuous mirror tucked in the corner. An invisible ink pen that showed the scrawl only under UV light. Try finding a UV light when you need one, he thought. Laxative pills. The logic behind that one was lost on the priest. Some of the items delved into spurious areas and he slapped the issue down on the table in disgust.

  Regan moved to his armchair, kicking clear a path through the scrunched up paper balls on his way. The opening scenes on a new episode began to play and he laid back to watch under half-shut lids. Soon, whether it was the lateness of the hour or the weight of his thoughts on the Lewis Tighe suicide, the images in his mind and those on the TV began to overlap. He could see the detective in the little village of Ballygorm. They were running down blind alleys and leaping over neighbours’ fences. Next scene they were in his car, swerving around familiar houses, dodging other cars and speeding bullets, a real life action hero in this sleepy corner of Ireland.