“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
***
Shortly after the Sacrament, the man drew his last breath. There was no dramatic end. No confession. No last words. The breathing had become shallow and staggered, barely audible above their prayers and when they had finished, they could tell he was free from suffering. The eldest of the two women pressed two fingers against her father's neck and her ear to his mouth before looking back at her sister and shaking her head.
The younger daughter, realising with sudden pain that her father had died, ran from the room, sobbing. Regan saw the other sister stiffen beside the deceased like a tear suddenly frozen in grief but excused himself to tend to the other woman, whose footsteps were pounding down the hallway away from the room and towards reception. He could see that she hadn't heard what he had said and moving to the door, looked up the hallway and saw the grieving daughter at the front desk being comforted by Sheila.
Whether it was because his senses were more engaged in the emotion of the occasion or he had taken on a few too many energy drinks to stay awake, he glimpsed a movement in his peripheral vision at the opposite end of the hallway.
As a boy, his father had once told him that if you look quickly enough and at just the precise moment, you could see your Guardian Angel or Protector.
“He's always with you. Always looking out for you but he can't make himself known. If you're lucky enough, you'll see him, especially when you feel a presence that someone is watching you. They're very quick and you have to be sharp to catch them. I've seen my own a couple of times when I was your age but it's very difficult, like trying to hold a puff of smoke in your hand.”
He had long since stopped believing there was a physical person watching his every move but it didn't stop him throughout his adolescence from trying to snatch a glimpse, eventually becoming convinced that his father had been joking. Adulthood and priesthood soon put an end to such flights of fancy.
Except for that moment.
Something compelled him to look and in the darkened hallway he caught an outline at the far end of the corridor. It certainly didn't take the shape of something ethereal and otherworldly. In fact, whatever it was, looked decidedly human and as the door swung closed behind it, Regan read the large typeface on it spelling EMERGENCY EXIT. Amidst the wave of emotions, he was feeling at that moment, curiosity surfed highest and turning left and away from the front desk, Regan walked slowly to the door, knowing full well from previous visits that two flights down and at the end of the stairwell the door would be locked. The only exit was back through his floor.
TWENTY-SIX
Pressing the contours of the bruise didn't help the healing process but nevertheless Supt. Tommy Docherty was bored so he persisted.
“You need to give up that hurling. You'll be a rainbow jigsaw before long.”
Docherty looked up. His colleague for that night was Steady Eddie Chambers. Eddie was anything but steady, fond of too much gargle and had a short fuse to go with it. A real hoot to be around at closing time. Docherty hadn't come up with the name. Steady had been in the game for at least a couple of decades before Tommy had even joined the force.
The Steady moniker was more of an ironic tag akin to calling a bodybuilder ‘Tiny’ or a stupid person ‘Brains’. A few months earlier at the Annual Emergency Service Awards an inebriated Steady had to be restrained by six officers when he threatened to storm the stage and tell a few home truths. What those truths were, no one could tell because of the drunken rambles and subsequent amnesia for days after.
“Rainbow jigsaw. That's a good one! It’ll harden me.”
Chamber's didn't reply, instead busying himself with a folder on his lap, sifting through its contents before slapping it on the table. Although well into his forties, he still worked gel into his hair which had thinned considerable in recent years. In truth, his scalp was now more gel than hair like badly patching together a mirror smashed to smithereens.
“Any update from Reamstown tonight?” Docherty asked.
Steady turned down the volume of the radio on his desk. Though Eddie didn’t own the radio, while it remained on his desk – which was 365 days of the year – the other officers let him control it. They knew his mood swings all too well and they had forewarned Docherty in advance of his first sitting with the man. Old enough to be his father and a fat midget lighter, Docherty had heard enough not to rattle Steady's cage, nor to question his fondness for the “non-stop Love Zone classic hits every night between 10-6am”.
“Nowt. The prods are quiet. I tell ya,” Eddie said, letting out a sigh, “the sooner they join us up the better. Totally pointless having both of us here. This place is dead.”
“You mean us join them?”
“Or the other way around. Whatever.”
“If that happens, there might be a few of us let go. Don't know what I'd do if I was let off.”
“Course you do,” Eddie replied. “You'd have even more time to pick off your scabs and poke your bruises, your twat!”
Steady leaned back and propped his foot on the table, mirroring Docherty’s relaxed posture. The Supt laughed politely in spite of the name calling. Steady always seemed to finish a joke with a cuss or derogatory expression, which he probably felt emphasised the joke but tended to have the opposite effect. None of the four officers at the station took offence at Steady’s barbs. The two others not on duty tonight had a half century of experience between them and were wise to his antics. It was thanks to their scheming that Docherty ended up partnering Steady for night shift work.
“Christ, I could do with a pint now,” Steady said and wiped his face clean of the sweat and hair gel that had oiled it.
“You and me both mate. Can't wait for the weekend.”
The fingers parted on Steady's face and he looked through them with bug eyes, as if the Virgin Mary herself had floated down from the Heavens and appeared to him in a vision.
“Oh yeah! This weekend. I heard that there's something on alright. It's that ... charity thingy ... whatchacallit ...?”
“The fundraiser.”
“Yeah, that's it! On Saturday night for your one.”
Docherty nodded his head and watched the older man sit up quickly on his seat. He was chewing on his lip, eyes narrowed ahead in a day dream. Steady was focussed on teasing out the image, embedded in his mind like a thorn in his palm.
“Oh yeah! No offence scrote but your town's a shithole, but when opportunity knocks, Steady opens. Christ I hope your one’s there.” The man let out a soft, painful cry as if the thought hurt.
“Who? Bernie?”
“She the big black doll?” Docherty nodded and laughed, and received a scrunched up ball in the face for his troubles. “Nah. I wouldn’t touch her with yours mate. I hear she’s had more pricks than a second-hand dartboard. I’m talking about your other one. Not the farmer’s wife, though she’d get it too if she asked nicely. The widow Tighe. Would love a crack at that.”
“God almighty. She’s pregnant Eddie!”
“I’m sure everything still works. She gonna be there or not?”
“Not sure. Should be a decent turnout I suppose. They’re rolling out the red carpet. Brought in a musician from Dublin for it. A bit of a country and western type so not sure how that'll go down.”
“Yeah. That Tighe one would definitely get it,” Steady said, following his own thread of thought. “Two kids or not, she's still tight.”
Curling his hand into a fist, he bit into it like an apple, still seeing the images as if they played on a movie reel on the wall opposite. Throwing his feet off the table, he swivelled around on his seat and checked the calendar, prodding at the date with a big wet finger.
Steady stood and fixed his trousers which had tightened and bunched at the groin and pulled down hard on the area in spite of the officer being only a few feet away. Docherty spun away from the sight, a look of disgust on his face.
“Only a few days�
�� time, Christ. I'm going to make her the belle of the ball. My balls.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Regan turned to the nurse who was comforting the grieving daughter.
“Did you see who left through that door just now?” he asked her.
Bewildered, Sheila shook her head while continuing to gently stroke the back of the woman's head. The violent sobs had abated for the moment, as the bereaved unhooked herself from the nurse and wiped her face dry.
“I’m sorry,” said Regan. “I'll be back in a moment.”
“Where are you...”
Turning away, Regan quickened his step and raced towards the door. He was sure he had seen something, someone. When he reached the door, he gently pushed the bar down to the open position. Using his arm as a pivot he hid behind the fulcrum and levered the door open slightly. Should there be a sudden violent force on the other side, he would be protected by the impact as he was closer to the hinge. Archimedes Law. Thank you very much Detective Bourbon, he thought.
He dared not look back at the two women in the corridor lest they think he had lost all sense, but nevertheless could feel in the silence their eyes locked on his back.
“I know you're down there. You have nothing to fear.” Regan's voice was loud and projected a pitchy quality when he threw it from the safety of the doorway.
The descent to the bottom floor was barely visible with the little brightness borrowed from the dimly lit corridor. The door was heavy and threatening to close with the force of its own weight. He increased his effort to keep it open and then pushed it a little wider.
The priest rested his arm and held his foot in the middle of the door frame, taking the first tentative steps into the landing. Under his shoes, he felt the metallic studded grating which gave some comfort as a grip should he need to give chase. He hadn't run in years and even then it was probably on a much flatter surface than steep flights of stairs.
Frequent hospital visits over the years granted him a certain knowledge of the building’s interior. The building was relatively small and they occupied the second of two floors, with this specific wing dedicated to gravely ill patients. The very spot on which he stood had been well worn by shuffling feet and cigarette butts. A place to momentarily take a breather, gather one’s thoughts, muster some courage to face an emotional scene in one of the rooms lining the hallway.
Regan needed to find his own courage now and was all too aware of his vulnerability as the thin light stretched around his frame and cast a shadow onto the first flight of steps before fading into pitch darkness.
“Hello? Is there anyone down there?”
The voice was swallowed up in the room and sounded weak, and the priest noticed that the landing was very cold, a chill of perspiration on his brow.
“Father, are you OK?”
The voice from behind seemed very distant and Regan raised his hand to give a thumbs up. There was a thick iron banister that followed the length of the stairs. He leaned over it to look down at the lower steps but he was looking into an abyss of pitch dark. His every movement echoed against the hard walls, yet when he stilled his breath and rested for a few seconds he could neither hear or detect any flicker of movement from within. But he could feel something.
Bourbon would have had a flashlight and his sidekick on speed dial to coordinate the successful capture of the rogue. Not to mention ice running through his veins and a well-equipped catchphrase, delivered with impeccable timing as he ran through the motions.
Regan meanwhile had a 30lb weight around his belt, an addiction to energy drinks that would make a sweet tooth jump from its gum in panic. Although they made him jittery, at least his senses were alert. Not to mention the fact that he had his bible as a weapon, which had given him some comfort to be holding, even though his sweaty palm had slickened its cover.
Kneeling slowly, the priest wedged the open bible under the door and the rough surface of the floor held it in place. He could hear the mumblings of the women now who he reckoned must have thought he had lost his mind, using the Word of God as a doorstopper, but He did work in mysterious ways.
He slowly crept toward the first step keen to disguise his movement but all the time feeling that his rapidly beating heart drummed off the walls.
“I'm approaching slowly. You have nothing to fear.”
Regan could have been saying the words to himself. Maybe he was wrong, he thought. Maybe there was nothing here, no-one. Step by step he felt the waning light, his protector growing weaker and weaker. With the descent, his eyes began to adjust as he turned the first corner and shielded his eyes from the lighted doorway above which was now crowded with the two women wearing confused expressions.
“I'm almost at the bottom,” Regan said. “I'm moving very slowly. Please come out.”
Suddenly, any doubt in Regan’s mind was extinguished. There was a shuffling below the flight of steps on which he stood. Confirmation that he was not alone, and although it should have provided relief, it did the opposite. His bravery had limits and he was approaching a cornered animal.
The cold sweat dripped freely from his face and his heart pounded but the curious stares of the two women from above prevented him from turning back.
The handrail was solid in his trembling grip, an umbilical cord back home to safer ground. He measured out the inches until finally he hit the bottom floor.
His rapid squints in the darkness failed to conjure an image in the corner where he detected the noise earlier. His body was still tensed in flight mode, ready to leap up the stairs at the first sign of movement.
Knowing that he had reached the end of the line but frightened to make himself known, Regan found the next words caught in his throat, fearing no response and having to grope blindly into the corner. The alternative was no better because he was unsure how to react if there was a response.
Blindly, his eyes searched for something, a moving shadow, the white of an eye, a glint of a belt buckle. With senses attuned, his breathing stopped to hear the slightest move and the moment seemed to last an eternity until at last his heart quietened and his breath began to slow. A deep swallow of the cool air helped to wet his dry throat which audibly crackled and seemed to free his tongue again to give a final command.
It stopped short in his mouth as he felt an ice cold hand suddenly reach from the darkness. It clamped down hard on his own grip.
“Hello father.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Big Joe Boyd lay back in his favourite chair, legs propped up on a pouffe, an ornate oriental stool of his wife's choosing. His arms dangled from the arm rests like he had been dropped from a great height and splattered in every direction. A wet rag lay on the floor, and with difficulty, he reached down for it. He blew his nose hard into it and touched the tips of the sensitive nostrils. His cough was wet and he swallowed back the phlegm that had erupted from his big chest. He was exhausted, though this had long ago become his default state. His daughter stared back at him from the portrait on top of the TV before he looked away from her and pressed the power button on the TV remote.
The death of Lewis Tighe had affected him. Not because he was found in his own barn, but rather because it had given rise to the inevitable soul-searching, holding a mirror up to his own life and the impermanence of it all.
In Tighe's case, the rumour mill got spinning quite quickly, as will happen in a small village. Tittle tattle was a hobby for bored housewives and jealous folk pained by their neighbours’ big gardens or new cars. Whispers and speculation fed their hungry imaginations that in the past had been satiated with mundane events like a new phase of roadworks that slowed village traffic, or the hype surrounding the annual Vintage Rally.
Big Joe lived in a bubble and had little time for such rumour mongers. He lived in fact. Facts paid the bills. Therefore, as cold as it sounded, the fact remained that the man Tighe was dead and he wasn't coming back and the sooner people got on with their lives, the better.
Joe wasn't completely unawar
e of what was happening around him. Every Saturday night he allowed himself one beer in the local pub, The Fort. He had never been a big drinker. It wasn't conducive to a productive next morning on the farm, but he allowed himself this one indulgence and, for all his reticence and detachment from most of the villagers, it felt nice to enjoy a change in scenery.
He had seen alcohol destroy good men, good families. He had watched it sink them in debt and it served as a nice reminder that, although his hard hands were too hard to blister and that the early morning rises were a constant battle, he was happy with his lot.
Big Joe also had his ear to the ground thanks to his wife Evie and her boot pressing on his head. He had definitely bitten off more than he could chew with Mrs. Boyd, but he wouldn't have it any other way. She complained that he worked too hard. She was probably right.
They had a long running joke. Indoors he referred to her as ‘the Neck’. Joe was made from stock where the man was the head of the household. Evie, an out of towner, pointed out that that might be the case, but the neck could turn the head any which way she wanted. She was also a constant pain in the neck for Joe. She knew it and seemed to take great satisfaction in the fact. But their relationship worked, where many others failed.
Thoughts of his wife suddenly gave him reason to check the clock on the wall by his side.
11.10pm.
His mouth opened in a yawn and he threw it away with his hand. The TV was flashing images of a crime scene, with a squinting detective-type in a long, fluttering coat. He was examining A scene with a magnifying glass. The sound was muted and Joe continued to watch as the man stood, slipped off his latex gloves and pocketed them. A broad grin erupting on his face before he cut through a crowd that had huddled around the outstretched arms of the police officers.
Sigil Page 10
