“You see Mrs. Jessop, we must be careful not to cast aspersions based on the testimony of others.”
Regan nodded, listening closely. Bourbon was in Joe Boyd’s barn, plastic bags tied around his ankles as he walked the straw floor. Animals on either side, fenced in and quiet, were entranced by the man’s words. He continued his lecture, back straightened and hands locked together behind him.
“Doe may be a reprobate, a drunk, a blight on the community …”
Regan nodded again and noticed that he was dressed in a floral pinafore, rolling pin in one hand.
“… he might slip into the church undetected and top up his bottle with water from the baptismal font …”
Regan nodded again and watched Bourbon tracing his steps back and forth, long strides soundless and quiet leaving no trace – sign of a perfect sleuth.
“… he may be all of those things and more. But,” he said and stamped the word on the ground and turned toward him, “has he given any indication that he is, in fact, a liar?”
Regan shook his head.
“My thoughts exactly,” Bourbon said, and bending down picked up an object from beneath the cover of the straw and gave it to him.
Regan looked down at the set of pliers in his hand and noticed the slick blood around the metal teeth. A human fingernail was glued to its surface.
“Be on your guard tomorrow,” Bourbon warned. “A killer’s best hiding place is in plain sight.”
Regan sat up with a start.
FIFTEEN
The funeral went ahead without interruption. The episode involving Larry Doe was not to be repeated. But that didn't stop precautions being taken as Tommy Docherty and one of the Kirwan boys made it their responsibility to hover around the entrance and eject any unwelcome guests.
The grieving widow, Mrs. Tighe, remained expressionless throughout the homily. She was seated in the front row with a child on either side of her like human crutches. They twitched at the cuffs of her black overcoat and she tapped them on their backs with absent-mindedness, her face still frozen in a perplexed look. Her detachment slowed her movements as the congregation rose to their feet to take Communion as the children pulled their mother to her feet.
Fr Regan had seen it many times before and sympathised with the woman who was in shock. Her gaze never left the coffin, which was propped on an adjustable table in front of the pulpit, even as her children shooed her toward the Eucharistic Minister who was now offering the Communion wafer.
The organ began to play the funeral hymn ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee,’ as two lines of the congregation formed along the centre aisle of the church, people slowly rising to their feet with heads bowed.
“Body of Christ.”
The priest placed it gently into the woman's mouth which was opened just a crack and onto the bed of a dry tongue. Had it not been for the children tugging her along, Louise Tighe might have stood rooted to that position until her own Earthly time had expired, staring in bewilderment at the casket containing her deceased husband.
The turnout was so great that even when the hymn had ended there was still a long procession of people queueing for Communion. Except for some low mumbles at the back of the room, usually older members of the community with badly tuned hearing aids taking advantage of the opportunity to catch up with distant friends and relatives, there was a respectful silence as those in prayer knelt and paid their own respects to the man who had taken his own life.
The service continued outside, where the body of Lewis was carried to its final resting place – a burial plot connected to the church a short distance away. It started a fresh sixth line following five lines of graves which stretched twenty metres wide, the graves ordered chronologically. It was easy to identify where the snake of graves started and where it ended, with the older, grander tombstones at the tail in the back corner. Those tombstones were theatrical, fitting for the time, rarely frequented except for curious visitors or wannabe horror writers. The inscription on their faces had long since faded, battered by decades of high winds, bitter winters and burning summers making identification of those interred there impossible. The owners, departing from a mortal life in old age where they were forgotten, were served the same dish in the afterlife, all evidence of their existence wiped - anonymous despite the towering stone.
In the body of the snake of graves lay those poor unfortunates who had living relatives. Memories of the deceased now were far away, like a distant melody. Visits became fewer over the years. Little trinkets and framed photos lay broken against the ground. Potted flowers which had once been fresh and vibrant with colour, were replaced by a more functional box, weighted to stand against the weather. Hard plastic stems pulled through the cardboard surface and painted flowers peered out, garish and bright, unflinching through the seasons.
Towards the head of the zig-zagging line were the recently deceased; more modest headstones, curved, rounded like a thumb sticking from the ground. More care was taken in the inscription, gold embossed in places, chiselled deep in others – determining that future generations wouldn’t consign them to the forgotten few tucked away in the corner. The flowers were freshest where they stood, but stretching further back, the relative decay of the plants reflected the advanced decay of the grave owner. Plastic flowers, an aesthetically pleasing and more economical option taken by all except the freshest of graves.
Fr Regan slowly traced his way along the gravel path with the altar boys and girls in his wake before stopping at the edge of the lawn. Lewis' plot had been excavated by the grave digging Tucker brothers, whose great grandfather dug the very first grave in the cemetery a century earlier. The Tuckers were hard men with sharp bones – skeletons bound by thin skins. Their big pointed knuckles clasped around heavy shovels that cut with a precise staccato into the hard clay, which at times would be so badly frozen over it would take an entire day to hack through.
The Tuckers played an important role in the community but they were not a social bunch, living on the fringes of local society. There had been some wild stories attributed to some of their night-time grave digs, great material around Hallowe’en for ghost stories for the village children. Although the adults too had heard these stories, no one’s curiosity was sufficiently piqued to ask the brothers directly about the veracity or source of the tall tales.
The coffin was eased down slowly by the two men into the narrow grave, which hugged it tight along the sides. They performed their duty with a consummate ease as the coffin softly landed on solid ground six feet below. The brothers walked off to one side, wiry frames covered by shirts as loose as their slack jaws.
“As we say goodbye to our dearly departed brother, husband, and father Lewis, we ask that the Lord guide him and protect him in his everlasting love and that he will find peace and communion with his own Mother Maeve and Brother Alex. We ask this through Christ, our Lord.”
“Amen.”
The wind picked up a little and flapped some of the pages in Fr Regan's hand which made reading more difficult but he passed the sheet to one of the standing altar boys who held it up to him with both hands.
“I offer your Son now to you O Lord, so that you may protect him from harm and that he will share eternal life with you and your Apostles in the name of the Holy Spirit, forever and ever.”
Approaching the grave opening, the priest sprinkled Holy Water on the coffin and blessed himself, a blessing the mourners repeated. Louise Tighe stepped forward under the careful watch of her children, face still clouded with uncertainty. She took the small hand shovel that was beside the mound of dirt, crouched down and dug in with a feeble shaking hand and approached the grave opening.
As Fr Regan and the others watched, they noticed the woman hesitate and begin to vibrate as if resonating with a chord struck by the gathering wind. The hand that held the shovel at waist height was now shaking. The priest looked at the other family members who were all in tears, except the children who were looking at their mother and not understan
ding. They looked to the priest with a confused expression, which was shared by some of the other mourners.
Some distance away and near the church entrance, Regan noticed a woman standing alone. She wore a black dress with white trim that stopped at her knees. She was disconnected from the group and what he could see from her face, which was covered in dark shades, looked young. The auburn hair that peeked out from under a stylish black hat gleamed like copper in the sunlight. Regan hadn't noticed her during Mass. The woman was careful to maintain her distance, had dressed in accordance with the funeral attire but seemed to have little interest in getting close to the service. Regan couldn’t help but stare at her trying to place the woman in his mind. Before the thread of logical deduction could branch out, he was snapped out of it with the sound of a child’s scream.
SIXTEEN
The high-pitched scream came from the youngest of the two Tighe children which instantly froze the blood of the priest as he saw Louise Tighe suddenly collapse in a heap on the ground at the outer edge of the grave. She started to slip into the grave itself.
Before she had fallen completely into the pit Tommy Docherty leapt forward to catch her, and heaved her back out again in one swift movement. The crowd murmured in disbelief. Regan approached the pair and knelt down to look into the face of the woman. She was deathly pale with eyes swimming in the back of her head. The energy had left her and she was propped against the bending knee of Docherty, who tried to rouse her.
“Louise, are you OK?” No response.
The murmurs around them grew in intensity as those watching seemed to close in on the trio. Regan noticed a parting in the crowd as a figure hustled his way into the scene and crouched down to the woman and felt her brow, which was almost translucent.
“It's OK gents. She's just taken a wee turn, that's all. Come on now Louise, honey. Take your time. Deep breaths.”
He simulated deep calming breaths which, although designed for the fainting woman also helped to restore some calm in Regan's demeanour.
“Will she be OK?” Docherty asked, still propping the woman's head in his big hand which looked like it had power enough to crush it like a vice.
“She will in a few minutes,” he said and stood for a moment and faced the encroaching crowd. “Now if you'll all just be kind enough to take a step back, we'll continue the service just after Mrs. Tighe has come around. Nothing but a fainting spell.”
Fr Regan looked up from his crouched position and observed the front few take a short step back. The man turned to the two young children who were buried behind an older woman's arms.
“It's OK kids,” he reassured them. “Your mother will be right as rain in a few seconds.”
He tussled their hair, smiled and returned to the patient. The colour in her cheeks was beginning to return as the eyes began to take focus and were observant of her surroundings.
“What....where....”
“Louise, it's Father...”
“You're OK Louise,” the other man cut across. “You're absolutely fine. It’s Doctor Woodhead. Your kids are fine. You just had a wee dizzy spell there and fainted.”
The woman seemed to regain some strength and tried to sit up, which the man prevented. They waited a few moments more watching as she took in several deep breaths and her cheeks seemed to draw colour from the air.
“Doctor Woodhead?” she said and stared at the man directly for the first time, vision clearing.
The doctor’s easy smile broke into a broad grin showing a set of flawless white teeth, polished to perfection.
“Easy now. Take your time. Father, can you take her other hand there?”
Regan moved to her side to act as leverage to haul her back up and offered a hand to assist. The woman snatched her arm from his grasp.
“I can get up myself. I certainly don't need your help,” she said.
When she had stumbled a step, there was no hesitation from her when Docherty stepped in and held her under the arm to prevent another fall.
The murmur in the crowd had quietened down.
Woodhead escorted the widow with Docherty’s assistance to the edge of the semi-circle of people again, holding her steady and upright least another fainting spell take her. When they slotted her into the little pocket of people where the rest of the family were stationed, Woodhead nodded to Regan and remained standing by her side.
Regan drew the altar boy near and continued the rest of the sermon. After the final blessing, he announced that the Tighe family would like to invite those who knew Lewis to join them in the community hall nearby where tea and scones would be served.
Well-wishers and sympathisers approached the Tighe family at the end, offering condolences. There were some tears from young and old and the widow wasn't entirely unmoved by the emotion. By her side, Dr. Woodhead whispered into her ear and she seemed to steady from the words, able to smile and accept their kindnesses.
Regan was still smarting from the sudden rebuke, but he had seen too much anger at funerals to know that people can lash out – against their fellow man – against God – against religion. Such moments pass and when the dust settles and people move on and you are in that big lonely house on your own, those are the times when you need a shoulder to cry on. And that's when he'd be there.
When the throng had dispersed and as Dr. Woodhead wrapped an arm around the woman to guide her and her young family toward the community hall, Regan took a final chance to offer his own private consolation and remind her that his door was open.
Calling her name, she half turned to face the priest. His approach slowed, seeing a steel enter her eyes again.
“I wanted to say that Lewis would have been very proud of you today. He's in a better place and is looking down from above.”
There was no reaction. Even Woodhead by her side seemed to squirm a little under her hostility. She continued to stare at the priest but without expression. Regan looked first at her and then at the doctor.
“If you like, I can come around to your house tomorrow?”
“No thanks. You’re fine,” she said calmly and was ready to turn away completely again but was stopped by Regan's voice.
“It can help a great deal Louise, to just talk to someone. If you wanted to offer a few prayers...”
“Jesus Christ! It's pills, not prayers I need! OK?”
She turned her back on Reagan who tried to catch Woodhead's eye but was too late, with the doctors sweeping arm already around the woman's thin shoulder and holding her close. Together they walked off silently, leaving Regan alone with his thoughts at the cemetery gate.
“I wouldn’t worry too much father. She’ll come around.”
Regan turned around, surprised to see the woman and smiled as she approached. She was dressed casually, dark denim jeans and a sports hoodie added to a baseball cap confusing her gender to those at a distance. Her hands were bunched into the front sleeve of the hoodie as she stepped forward, a youthful face looking up at Regan.
“I hope you’re right Sheila. These things take time. Thought you might be working a shift today?”
“I am,” she replied and looking down at her feet, spotted a smudge of dirt on her white trainer and wiped the offending toe tip on the back of her calf. “Thought I’d pop over before then”
Regan stepped sideways to accommodate the young woman on the gravel path, and they walked side by side away from the graves, toward the side wall of the church. The wind had picked up again, carrying the sounds of chatter from the community hall. Steaming vats of thin vegetable soup portioned out to hungry members of the community. Fingered sandwiches stripped of their meats, blotted with mustard and neglected in the hope of a fresh batch which would never come. Digestive biscuits, the perfect complement to coffee and tea which was in strong supply would fail to appease the younger children, complaining and tugging on their parent’s clothes but without reward.
“Fancy a bite to eat?”
“No. I’m pushed at is it. I need to check in for
11.”
“Seems like they run a pretty tight ship in the hospital.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Sheila said and offered a laugh that was devoid of any humour. “Thought I’d let you know that I gave those pliers to one of my colleagues in the lab.”
Regan held out an arm around the back of the woman, guiding her off the path and close to the exterior wall of the church. There was a hollow in the wall, providing some relief from the picking wind and when they were positioned there, he asked her to continue.
“Not much else to say rather than that father.”
“So he doesn’t know if the blood was human or animal?”
“No. There wasn’t anything else on it, hair or otherwise so it takes a few days for the blood samples to come back.”
“Is there any way that if they do come back, you can tie it to someone? If it’s human?”
Sheila winced and looked away from the priest. Regan studied her smooth face, a cheek that was too white and hollow for a woman in her early twenties that should be in her physical prime.
“I…I don’t know how I feel about this.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”
“You know I trust you father, but without you telling me more about it, there isn’t much I can do. What are you hoping to find? Is this connected to Lewis?”
Sheila was looking at the priest again, waiting for his response. Regan deliberated, thinking back to the image of a fingernail he had dreamt the night before, a figment of his imagination. He didn’t hear the woman’s prompt initially, still locked in his own thoughts until a fresh gust of wind pushed him back against the stone wall, disconnecting his thoughts.
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