Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  The bell above the door rang to announce a new visitor. A man approached the front desk and muttered something to the receptionist who ended her call and assumed a professional tone again. All four patients returned the generous smile of the man who took a seat beside the little boy, who seemed happy for his little blue Ferrari to have another obstacle to scale and, sure enough, off it crept in his direction.

  “Gilroy, manners! Sorry father, I don't know what's got into him today.”

  “You're OK. We were all that age too. Anything to while away the time,” Fr Regan said, and he caught the eye of the little girl who shied away suddenly.

  “Corbetsons to Dr. Murphy’s office,” the speaker in the upper corner of the room said in a screechy voice.

  “Up you get now,” the woman said, and stood up, taking the boy by the hand.

  The little toy dropped from his hand which Regan retrieved from under the chair and returned to him. They thanked him and turned away from the desk and opened a hallway door disappearing from sight.

  Silence settled again and Regan became aware of the little girl snatching an occasional glance his way as he plucked a few hairs off the front of his black shirt. He also noticed that the large woman with the little girl was transfixed by her magazine, which featured a beautiful woman in a bikini on the front. There was a sad smile on her face as if remembering a distant memory.

  “Father Regan to Dr. Woodhead's office.”

  The priest stood up in surprise and approached reception. The other patient was lost in her magazine and hadn't heard the speaker. Her daughter did and was clearly reaching a new threshold of boredom, with no other visitors to act as a distraction. So she did what most kids do in such circumstances. Scanning her arms and legs she found a cornflake knee scab to play with.

  “Jenna,” Fr Regan said to the receptionist, “I'm pretty sure Bernie has been here a lot longer. I'd be happy to wait.”

  The young receptionist peered over the high table and looked in their direction before back to Regan.

  “I know father, but when you arrived, Dr. Woodhead insisted on seeing you first.”

  “Really? But I haven’t made an appointment?”

  “I know. Please, you can go right through. First door on the right.”

  She waved an arm to the side to signal the door into the hallway. Regan was about to ask another question but the phone rang and the receptionist picked it up and took out a scribble pad to jot down the details.

  He turned away and walked toward the hall entrance. He glanced back at the two people in the waiting room. The woman was fanning her large face now and had her eyes closed. Her black hair was short and flat on her head like an oil spill. Her face was angled toward the ventilator fan in the corner of the room. The little girl meanwhile, had picked off her scab and began dotting a magazine page with her finger with the blood from her knee.

  She looked up and saw the priest looking at her and waved. Her mother looked across and scolded her.

  “For Goodness Sake,” she said. “Ye gat blood on your hands.”

  The priest swallowed hard, shook his head and passed through the hallway door.

  TWENTY

  The spider was fat and lazy. It hid in a small hollow of the brick wall, tucked in behind the breeze. One spiky leg balanced on an invisible thread feeling it catch the wind. The string plucked and vibrated. Sharp, pointed movements rattling through its leg and up its body. It waited until the tremors became less pronounced and the pauses between grew longer and longer. It crept slowly from the burrow and onto the outer ring of the web, eyes narrowing to the centre. Fresh struggles from the captive started again with its emergence. The spider watched it wrap deeper against the silvery threads. Suddenly, the construct under its legs broke and above, a window levered open.

  The fly was alert and desperate. The sticky lines had untangled, snapped and finding a wing liberated, it managed to break free from the prison. It hit the window pane as it shot upward and when it had regained its sense of direction, flew through the still room in a victory parade before coming to rest in the upper corner. It landed on a speaker box where it took a moment to recover from the exertion. Its wings were tracked back and forth to remove the slick film that covered them. Perched on a glass nipple, the fly inspected it for a few seconds. Cleaned, it vaulted off the box and landed on the table surface of books.

  The girl was poised and waiting. She smashed the rolled up magazine down hard on the fly which was killed instantly. A little projectile of yellow pus squirted from its side. Standing, she inspected the guts closely before leaping from her seat and giving a triumphant cheer. The bloodied tissue on her lap fell to the floor.

  The woman was uncomfortable and impatient. The breeze brought a pleasant coolness back to her face. She looked at the girl and scolded her, struggling to bend down and pick up the tissue. She rolled off the plastic chair, the second time of asking and walked to the front desk.

  The receptionist was blushing and smiled. She offered a fresh tissue to the woman who returned to her seat. The mobile phone that rested between her thighs beeped again and she picked it up. She read the message from Stryker and scanned the room. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her tucked white shirt out from underneath her trousers. Her mobile phone camera was angled at her exposed taut stomach. She pulled the elastic waistband of her pink panties up over her hip. She snapped the photo and pressed send.

  The doctor was curious and watching. His face was close to the laptop screen. His eyes adjusted to the grainy pixels of the seated receptionist and his heartbeat raced. There was a knock at the door. He quickly closed the laptop screen and called for the person to enter.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Fr Regan opened the door to be greeted by the GP who remained behind his desk. Dr. Woodhead glanced away from the laptop computer and watched the man enter, motioning to a seat opposite.

  Before Regan moved to the chair, he gave a furtive glance around the room. A cushioned bench lay along one length of the room, tightly covered with a thin white sheet. Two posters were affixed to the back wall. The first was lettered at the top and read ‘The Human Endocrine System’. It was gnarled on an outer edge. The other was a full-length poster of a human body, half of which was turned inside out revealing the delicate organs, tissues and musculature, and the other half showing the skeletal structure that supported them.

  Regan stood facing it for a moment studying the inverted mirror of his own shell while in turn, Woodhead studied the priest from head to toe.

  “Impressive poster. Is it to scale?”

  “Not exactly. The picture is more of an indicator of where vital organs are located. Smaller organs wouldn't be so clear cut so it's more for patients to get a better understanding of their condition, the source of their pain.”

  “I see,” Regan said, his back to the physician. “It must be very complex. This jumble of organs interacting with each other, hidden under a coat of skin. It must make your job very difficult I imagine.”

  Woodhead shrugged, looked back at the laptop and then around the room to see if there were any other unusual objects that the priest might deem worthy of comment.

  “Not when you've been doing it for a couple of decades’ father. The tell-tale signs of sickness are always there.”

  “Can you always tell the signs? What if they are psychological?” Fr Regan turned around and took the single seat that faced the smiling doctor.

  “I'm not a psychologist or psychiatrist. Should the patient express signs of non-physical trauma or distress, I would refer them of course. I can only do what's within my remit and license!” he said and spread his arms to his sides in mock helplessness.

  “Of course.”

  The silence lasted for a few seconds longer than was comfortable. Neither man broke their stare.

  “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  “Yes?” Regan asked. “Jenna said that you were expecting me.”

  “Well, I figured you might pop around for
a chat. Unless there’s something that you need me to look at?” Woodhead said and narrowed his eyes, looking for a sign of distress on the priest’s face.

  “No. Not all. Your instincts are spot on.”

  “I thought so,” Woodhead said. “You seem to be in good physical shape for a man of your age. You were hoping to talk about Louise I take it?”

  Regan nodded his head and watched as Woodhead took a big breath and reclined in his seat. His hands reached behind his head and kneaded together. The priest expected to see damp patches under the pits of his arms but the doctor remained cool and composed, an easy grace accompanying his movements. Regan snapped his gaze back to the man’s face. Woodhead was staring into space, slowly nodding his head.

  Regan took a moment to study him. Short, sandy hair formed a wave at the fringe, a few silver strands reflected in the light above his ears. Early forties, Woodhead had a countenance that managed to appeal to the young and old. A light tan and slim build emphasised the vitality of his relative youth, backing up the health advice he imparted. Evidence of his two decades of experience showed around his eyes. Little wrinkles shaped around his cool, blue eyes speaking to a seriousness in his countenance; one observed through many battles won and lost in his medical career. His smile, which was rare when it arrived, flashed only briefly and didn’t touch the rest of his face. They locked on the priest suddenly.

  “I suspected that’s why you were here. You’re only doing your civic duty I suppose,” Woodhead said. “It was only a fainting spell. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Did she tell you what happened the day of Lewis’ death?”

  Woodhead sat up suddenly and rolled his chair closer to the table. His jaw had locked again as he shook his head.

  “Myself and Tommy Docherty had to break down her door.”

  “What for?”

  “I saw her with a knife in the living room. I think she was going to do something stupid.”

  “Jesus!” Regan nodded. Woodhead had formed a steeple with his fingers and was looking beyond the priest at a point in the wall.

  “I’m worried that she could be headed for some kind of breakdown. It's become too much, what with the stress of raising two kids in the middle of all this. Not to mention a third on the way.”

  Woodhead flashed a smile and leaned back in his chair again.

  “You know I can't betray my patients, father. There is a certain confidentiality that a man of your vocation is also bound by.”

  “Yes, I know, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I felt that one of the flock has drifted.”

  Woodhead smiled despite the grave look on the priest’s face. Noticing it, he battled with it as it flickered on the edge of his mouth until he finally ironed it out.

  “Rest assured, I’ve prescribed medication that will help her with that. She's been given a course to help with the stress and is responding well to it in the last few days.”

  “You saw her on Saturday. She wasn't herself.”

  “Grief can break the strongest foundations, father. She’ll be fine now that she is back on medication.”

  “I hope so. She seemed distant. Lost.”

  “I agree. I’ve seen it many times before. I’m sure you’ve seen it plenty of times too, doing what you do. She's a strong woman though. She'll be fine.”

  “Lewis Tighe was strong,” Regan said. “No one saw that coming.”

  Dr. Woodhead glanced up at the clock behind the priest. Regan knew what was there having taken an inventory of the room the moment he had stepped inside.

  “Yes. Very unfortunate. It was a terrible shame alright. A lovely lad.”

  “It was. Out of interest, did Lewis ever come around?”

  “To the clinic?” he asked and received a nod from the priest. “He came with Louise usually. Especially during the early stages of her pregnancy. Her second one I mean. I wasn’t in Ballygorm for the first.”

  “I mean, did Lewis ever come here on his own?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’d have to check the records.”

  “Was he on any medication before he died?”

  Woodhead shook his head and smiled. “Father, I don't see what you're getting at or why. Lewis committed suicide.”

  “I understand that,” Regan replied. “I was curious to know what state of mind he was in before he died, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course. No one knows. But you identified his body at the scene and pronounced him dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing suspicious?”

  “No.”

  “No foul play.”

  “No,” Woodhead said, suddenly becoming irritated by the questions, “and I said all that to the authorities in my report. The coroner also came to his own conclusions too. Now if that's all, then I really have people to see. Patients.”

  He emphasised the word and stood. Regan took the none too subtle signal and also rose but keen not to end the conversation so quickly.

  “Of course. Where are my manners! I didn't mean to suggest anything,” he said, trying to soften the approach. Dr. Woodhead was still standing and his arm was now bowed at the waist signalling to the door.

  “Fine.”

  “I was just curious to know what drove a perfectly happy, healthy, confident and successful young man to commit suicide. I just can't put my finger on it.”

  “It's a mystery and something we'd all like to know. It's a big loss for the community, especially the choir. He was a member I heard?” Regan nodded, his expression solemn and tired. “I've questioned whether there was anything I could have said to identify the source of his pain,” Dr. Woodhead continued, “but we never discussed it. And of course even if we did, I couldn't divulge it anyway. I place a lot of importance on keeping confidence with the patient. It's why they trust me.”

  “Even if that means perverting the course of justice?”

  Woodhead took a sudden step back and his composure dropped. His temple which should have bunched with wrinkles with the remark remained flawless but shone under the lights.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you!” Regan backtracked, noticing the sudden change in the man's body language and raised his own hands in defence. “I was speaking purely hypothetically. As you said - we each have our secrets. It's part of our job. Some secrets, though, are more important than others, and at what point do you betray your confidante without betraying your vocation? I've wrestled with it myself on many occasions.”

  The doctor was tight-lipped and remained impassive, still staring at the priest.

  “I'll go now,” Regan said. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time. I'm just keen to make sure our community stays strong. It's important now that we all pull together. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do and I’ll continue to do my bit. As you know I'm not a religious man but wherever he is now, I hope he’s at peace. But the dead don't speak, and if they did I'd rather not know what they're saying.”

  As Regan stretched out his hand to Woodhead, the doctor paused a beat before offering his hand in return. His face was stony, unable to find fertile ground to grow a smile. As Regan left he couldn't help but think how wrong the man had been.

  Sometimes the dead did speak. All you had to do was listen.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The drive was short but the return leg became insufferable in the heat of Fr Regan’s car. The windows were lowered a crack as if to test the conditions. His choice was to boil in the heat of his car or let the fetid stink from outside singe his nostril hairs.

  While Regan had been chatting to the doctor, farmer Boyd had fertilised his fields with a mixture of animal and human slurry and it bathed the town in its smell. No one was immune. Every man, woman and child was exposed to the stench. It wiggled its way through every crack and crevice, prompting housewives everywhere to scramble to their washing line and remove the still wet clothes, fearing the noxious odour of raw sewage that would infect them.

  Those clo
se enough to ground zero with sensitive noses made sure to alert their closest friends by phone to barricade the windows and close all the doors. Those were the lucky ones.

  The lightest window breeze was enough to displace the small note that was parked on the passenger seat of Fr Regan's car. It blew off the seat and fell to the floor cushioned by the table of dented cans below. Carefully, Regan reached down, his eyes still on the road, and picked it up and looked at it to confirm he hadn't picked up a rogue paper, but it was the same one. He read the three words again aloud, “Don’t Believe Them,” before he pocketed it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

  The construction site where Tighe had worked was in the town of Reamcastle, a place where Regan's remit didn't stretch. Undaunted, he took it upon himself to visit in any case, hoping to better understand the last few days of Lewis' short life.

  His questions were initially met with little resistance but with the same helpless expressions that greeted his enquiries within the community of Ballygorm. The foreman, a kind-faced German named Hessel, with spiked blonde hair which remained upstanding even when he removed his hard hat, had been kind enough to let the priest intrude on the workers lunch break.

  He guided Regan carefully through the site, pointing out various obstacles in their path that could trip up a less observant person. The ground was broken in places, large holes to be filled at a later date. Planks were placed across the yawning pits, vibrating under the priest’s feet with the steady, confident march of the foreman ahead. Regan traced the man’s footsteps carefully, sidestepping pyramids of sand, and trestle boards topped high with mortar. Rogue instruments littered the sides of their route, with Hessel bending over to pick up the tools as they passed and placing some in his pocket and others on a higher flat surface out of harm’s way.

  He turned and mouthed a complaint over his shoulder to Regan which the priest couldn’t catch above the sound of a cement mixer. Regan looked inside as they passed, saw sloshing bricks being tumbled inside. The mixer spat a line of dirty water from its entrance, with the priest taking a moonwalk back, just in time to avoid being soaked, although it was too late for his shoes. A dirty grey grime coated its surface, helped by a stony wet path that had been churned by workman’s boots. He lamented his lack of foresight and quickened his step to keep up with the foreman.