Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  “Rubbish,” he said and coughed into a balled up fist.

  There was the tickle of a feather in the back of his throat that he couldn’t dislodge. It continued to brush his throat as he flicked through the other channels. Joe couldn't concentrate on the images, his energy levels depleted. Time to recharge the batteries in bed.

  Suddenly he heard the crunch of stones outside and the door opened sharply. A few seconds passed before the living room door followed suit.

  “What are you still doing up?”

  Joe turned his head and saw his wife shimmy off the thick coat and hang it on the standing coat rack. He watched her remove the layers and admired her lithe figure which managed to retain its youthful bounce. Her black dress was a new purchase, a little velvety belt neatly folded at the waist with a hemline cut to the knee, showcasing long thin pins beneath. She looked a picture of radiance, as she always did before she opened her mouth. With hungry eyes, he watched her approach before easing down on the empty couch.

  “Wanted to stay up and wait for you. Just about to hit the hay. Well? Any luck?”

  The woman hadn't looked up yet, busy fiddling with the buckle on her high black boot. It came off and the audible ease she gave out almost made Joe sink deeper into his own seat. Easing the tired foot between her palms, she twisted it back and forth until the circulation had returned.

  “One line. £5.”

  “That's better than nothing,” Joe chirped up. “So you broke even?”

  “That's not the point,” she said. “I didn't go there to break even. I went there for the big money. Jeez.”

  “Ah well. At least you didn't leave with nothing.”

  “I might as well have. Bloody Francis Tierney won the big money. Again. Twice this month. Absolute joke. It's got to be rigged. I don't know why I bother going.”

  “You don't have to go. You could stay in and relax here?” Joe said and reached out a hand to touch his wife’s elbow which was still rinsing the pain out of her foot. She recoiled as if his touch were ice.

  “What? Sit here with you?” she said with scorn. “And watch this filth on the TV?”

  She glanced at the box in the corner of the room and he followed her gaze. The channel had landed on one of those reality TV programs which Joe abhorred. Kids barely out of their teens, necking shots of tequila off the naked torso of some male stripper in a nightclub.

  He fumbled for the remote which had now fallen down the crack of the armchair he was in.

  “I ... it wasn't ...”

  “Save it, Joe,” Evie said, standing up. She bent over and plucked her two boots up on long dainty fingers, hanging them over her thin shoulder. “I'm going to bed. Make yourself comfy on the couch darling. Disgusting.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sheila was making coffee at her nursing station, making a sloppy job of it as she continued to eye the young woman with suspicion. The little room which doubled as a kitchenette cum living room was hidden behind the ward desk, easy access for night shifters to a constant supply of caffeine or a chance to get some shuteye with a little well-worn couch taking up an entire wall in the room.

  The woman was seated at a small circular table facing an empty seat, staring ahead in a world of her own. Sheila's experience suggested that the woman must be on some sort of medication or drugs although the suspicion was her own. Fr Regan had insisted on speaking to the woman first, but it didn't stop the nurse attempting to make small talk.

  The woman appeared to be of similar age, yet Sheila couldn’t place her nor did the two grieving daughters, when Regan surprised them all by climbing out of the darkness and into the lighted hallway with the stranger.

  The woman emerged from the stairwell, dressed casually in jeans and a heavy hoodie. She appeared unsteady at first like a new-born calf, rocking on weak legs devoid of the strength to prop itself up. Fr Regan, himself appearing worse for wear, sweated brow glistening in the dim light, struggled to carry his unexpected load into the hallway.

  “One sugar or two?”

  The woman blinked like a reptile, slow and sticky, washing away an image.

  “One, please,” she replied in a weak voice and suddenly looked around and studied her surroundings.

  The small room was claustrophobic even to the well-adjusted nurse who lamented the lack of windows or natural light.

  “I should-”

  “You're fine!” The nurse answered quickly and returned just as the young woman was rising from her seat.

  She settled back down again either through lack of energy or the aromatic fumes of the drink in front of her. The woman approached it cautiously as if sensing a trap before her thirst overpowered her sense of danger and she took a sharp sip.

  “Careful. It's hot!” Sheila said.

  The warning came too late, and she winced, lip curling up and showing a polished set of teeth. Sheila’s eye studied the smooth pink gum line. Unbroken.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Sheila looked at the skin of her hands and her eyes closely. She was layered from head to toe which made prognosis difficult. Although the stranger’s long hair was sleek and red like polished metal, the nurse could see it was flaked with specks of scalp. The door swung open and the two women looked up and saw Fr Regan in the entrance. His face seemed to relax when he saw them. Smiling to the nurse, Sheila reluctantly rose, vacating the seat for him.

  “I made you a cup of coffee father. Sitting on the worktop over there,” she said, pointing. Regan nodded and thanked her.

  “The two daughters would like to make the proper arrangement for their dad, Sheila. Can you help them with that please?”

  “’Course. I'll be outside if you need me.”

  The door clicked shut, and Regan stood for a moment, a little uncertain. The silence that preceded his move to the coffee cup was deliberate, the sound of the teaspoon rattling off its ceramic sides emphasising it further. When he walked to join her at the table it was slow and measured. Regan had seen it practiced before by Bourbon in interrogation techniques where the conscience of the guilty suspect would go crazy under the weight of the voices in their head. On TV the witnesses felt the need to release the vent and fill the silence first. In reality, that wasn’t the case. The silence dug its heels in and it didn’t seem like either of them were planning to move it.

  The woman seemed unperturbed when Regan took the seat opposite, and he wanted to be careful with the next words that came out of his mouth, wanted to make the right first step. Every silent second that passed only seemed to highlight the need to open with the right channel of discussion. Flicking back and forth between various scenarios and their various endings only seemed to stress the priest further, until at last, he felt like the guilty person and took a loud slurp of his coffee. The woman parked the empty cup down between them with a degree of finality and stood, flipping the hood back over her head. The coffee seemed to have revived her.

  “Thanks for the coffee father.”

  Regan was so stunned and incensed at his own inactivity that when the woman made the short step to the door, her hand on the handle, he shouted.

  “Wait!”

  Her back was turned to him but her hand hadn't moved. Regan stood and faced her back and finally found his voice and thoughts align.

  “I saw you before. You were at Lewis Tighe's funeral.”

  The woman seemed to deliberate, waiting for the priest to continue. Encouraged, Regan found renewed confidence.

  “It was you, wasn't it? You left me that note?”

  The hand fell away from the door handle and Regan thought he could detect the slightest tremble in the padded frame of the woman.

  “Please. Talk to me,” Regan implored.

  When the woman turned around, her face was streaked with tears, and what started with an imperceptible tremble desperately hiding from view, now become an overpowering shudder of raw emotion that washed over her.

  Regan watched her struggle and blot the flowing tears with the arm sleeve
s of the hoodie that quickly became wet. The short, sharp erratic breaths could have been from a teenager, especially given the attire she was wearing.

  “Sorry father,” she said when she had gained better control.

  Regan smiled at her and pointed back to the table where they both took their seat again.

  “It's alright. We're all entitled to have a good cry now and again. Does wonders for the soul.” The woman smiled and accepted half of Regan's own coffee, and knocked it back in one swallow.

  “Tell me. What were you doing here, Maggie?” Regan asked.

  “How did you know my name?” the woman asked, surprised.

  “Your dad’s worried sick. You can’t hide behind hair dye and contact lenses forever.”

  “You spoke with him?” she asked, her tears welling again. “Of course, you did. That’s your job.”

  She sat back in her chair and folded her arms looking to one side. She pulled the two cords hanging from her hood down and tightened the opening around her face making it look like a balloon knot.

  “Listen,” Regan asked, “are you in any trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Glumly, Maggie shook her head. She wouldn’t meet the priest’s gaze.

  “You sure?” Regan prompted.

  After a pause, Maggie said: “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  “Me?” Regan asked and immediately regretted the little laugh that accompanied it after the woman's expression suddenly darkened. “Of course, I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?”

  She didn't answer, looking up from the coffee cup and towards the door again. Regan could feel the air begin to cool again, the ice beginning to return.

  “Well Maggie Boyd,” he said and held out his hand with a smile. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction. I'm Father Regan as I'm sure you're aware at this point. This isn't a Hallowe’en costume.”

  The attempt at humour thawed the tension a crack. She took his hand and shook it, a fist pump like her father.

  “You were at the funeral last week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you leave the note for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Maggie paused which made Regan ponder whether she had not heard him and was about to ask the question again before she locked eyes with him and spoke.

  “You’ve been asking questions about Lewis. I...”

  Regan was worried that she'd burst into tears again. Slouching over the table as if feeling a new tiredness there, her hand moved to her face smoothing the soft forehead. Regan reached across the table and gently touched her elbow.

  “It's OK Maggie. You're safe here. It's only you and me.”

  She sat back up, looked at him, coy and unable to voice the words.

  “Yourself and Lewis were seeing one another.”

  Maggie Boyd nodded. It was the saddest admission of love the priest had ever seen. She covered her hands over her face, wiping away any remaining tear trail.

  “Which is why you came back to the funeral. To say your goodbyes,” Regan asked and seeing the response etched on the woman's face, knew he had surmised correctly.

  “I had to see him one last time. Pay my respects,” Maggie said, and it took all her strength not to cry again. “I've said too much father. Please don't let anyone know.”

  The distressed woman continued to stare at Regan searching his eyes for redemption or at least his implicit trust with the sordid secret. The pain on her face suggested she had suffered enough.

  “Of course,” he said, and held the palm of her hand for reassurance.

  Her smile came much easier, suddenly unencumbered by the thoughts that had weighed upon it.

  “Thanks, father. I know you think I'm probably scum of the earth right now, but I couldn't help my emotions. I hadn’t been back in Ballygorm in six years but despite everything, I had to be at his funeral.”

  “The note you left. What did you mean?’”

  The woman removed her hand from Regan's and looked uncertain in herself again.

  “I've already said too much. I really should go,” she said, but standing, found Regan impeding her way to the door. “Please father,” she said, trying to sidestep him but he matched her movements. Defeated, she stood still and looked at him.

  “You said earlier I'm in danger. Why?”

  “Lewis and I were close. Soul mates. He told me everything. He told me about his wife. His children. Everything. He was going to leave them for me next year and we were going to start a new life together. I couldn't go back to my family.”

  “The note Maggie,” Regan persisted, trying to bring the woman’s narrative back on track.

  “We had to live our lives in secret. I didn't want anyone knowing. They’re bad people father. Evil. It wouldn’t be in their plans to see us happy.”

  A fresh wave of emotion, this time anger snarled on her face. Regan could see her face darken under the hood now, and the hands by her sides were pumped.

  “It's OK,” he said. “They don't need to know anything.”

  The words fell on deaf ears as Regan found himself pushed from the doorframe, the woman showed strength that surprised him. He managed to grab the table in time to steady himself.

  “Sorry father. I can't.”

  “Maggie. Why did you come here to warn me?” Regan shouted after her. The door was almost closed on her. She deliberated on the other side and turned to him.

  “I promised myself that I’d never step foot there again. I had to find you away from there. If they knew I had come back…well, I don’t know what they would have done. Sorry if I spooked you. They're all involved father. Every last one of them.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “In murdering Lewis.”

  Maggie Boyd turned and the door closed shut on Regan, leaving him with a horrible sense of foreboding.

  THIRTY

  Two days later, the Godpod trundled through the main road of Ballygorm. High above, the midday sun had rolled off a blanket of cloud, dazzling the vision of the driver, who lowered his visor. It came off in his hands, falling into his lap. A quick glance in the rear view mirror confirmed there was no one behind him, so Fr Regan pulled the car over to the kerb. When he was parked, he fiddled with the visor, trying to slot it onto the plastic hooks which seemed determined not to want to cooperate.

  The sound of shouting made him lift the visor up and looking through the windscreen saw a group of youths running toward the car. Aged between eight and ten, some were carrying hurling sticks and waving them overhead as they gathered pace.

  “God almighty.”

  Not fearing any physical danger from the boys, Regan was still keen to get away before they had cornered the vehicle. He still remembered the incident a month earlier when the boys began rocking the vehicle while it was stationary. Inside, Regan was tossed around like a rag doll. Despite his entreaties, it had spurred them on even further. Only when Joe Boyd pulled up in his tractor, did the boys fun stop, slinking off to terrorising another citizen.

  Regan tossed the visor onto the passenger seat, dropped down the handbrake and made a choking start, swerving around the boys who slapped the car’s hood as it passed.

  Holding out a hand to screen the sun, the car made its way past the white-walled building of the clinic; the hub around which the community buzzed. Regan stole a glance at his side, unsurprised to see curtains drawn and no vehicles in the car park given it was a weekend. It looked beautiful bathed in the glow of the afternoon sunlight.

  Drivers passed it with pride, seeing it pass by in their rear view mirror. A flawless sleet roof strong. The white pebble-dashed walls clean and beaming. Dog walkers pulled their animals away from the lamp post at one corner, not wishing to foul the picture. Sprinting runners, slowed down breathing the scent of brightly coloured flowers hanging in pots from the door and on window ledges.

  Regan’s own research into Ballygorm before he had moved there revealed a dif
ferent picture. Historical literature stated that the site had once been a funeral pyre. The first Viking landing on the island of Ireland a century earlier had used the location, near the coast to conduct their rituals - cremating their warriors, later expanding the practice to execute insurgents. The priest reckoned that if the villagers of Ballygorm had known this little fact it might have accelerated their drives, encouraged the dog owners and quickened the runners’ sprints.

  Several minutes later, the restaurant sign loomed into view. With no cars parked along the kerb outside the building, Regan licked his lips at the prospect that the kitchen mightn’t be particularly busy, his Ulster Fry drawing tantalisingly closer. Parked, and heaving himself out of the seat, Regan locked the door and walked around the car, finding it difficult to wipe the hungry smile off his face. The front door of the small restaurant pulled inwards and a young woman shot out, tears streaking her face. They almost collided as she side stepped the priest.

  “Please Jenna, I can explain!”

  The woman showed no sign that she heard, nor did her strides slow. The tanned legs underneath the thigh-skimming skirt charged forward like pistons. The little leather bomber jacket she had been wearing wrapped tighter around her shoulders.

  Turning to the source of the voice, Regan was surprised to see the bloated frame of one of his altar boys in the doorway. The young face was crestfallen, looking on as the woman faded into the distance. Tears appeared to be close to forming in his eyes, a strain on his face which wobbled a lower lip. The sound of laughing behind the young man broke his demeanour. He glanced over his shoulder into the restaurant before stepping fully outside, his face losing its former softness.

  “Ian? What happened?”

  The young man seemed surprised to see Regan, unable to save face despite his best efforts. He tried to smile and shrugged his puffy shoulders but didn’t have the conviction or the years to carry off nonchalance.

  “Just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  “Big boy gat found out, dat’s one happened.”

  Regan didn’t need to peer over the teenager’s shoulder to discover who had spoken. It was the same Jamaican accent in the doctor’s clinic from the week before. Chuckles of laughter accompanied the statement and Regan saw the teenagers face flush bright red, before stepping away from the doorway and passing the priest.