Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  Gradually, he began to peek out from his foetal position. After what seemed like an age, his heart rate began to slow. Eyes opening, Regan still sat beside the pillar of light that shone from the living room behind him.

  “If there's anyone there,” Regan shouted. “You best clear off. I'm not into games.”

  His breath caught in his throat expecting a response but all he could hear was the voice of Bourbon on the television. It brought a sense of normality back again, and he considered that his mind might have been playing tricks on him. Accompanying the sound of the TV set, Regan could hear something flapping, like an ocean sail catching a high wind. He couldn't connect it with anything that would naturally make the noise and found the courage to peer around the door frame and into the room.

  The thin blind that had covered the window where he had sat beside, hung limp from the spooled reel. It was split into two and both ends were dancing in the air current like licking flames from a fire. Sliding off from the wall, Regan crawled on his chest toward the centre of the room until he could see from his vantage point through the window, or at least what remained of it.

  Shards of glass had spread out, glistening off the light from above. Sensing the new danger, Regan stood on his feet and surveyed the spread of the razor sharp fragments on the carpeted floor. He traced the little sparkling diamonds glinting on the surface. His eyes moved away from the broken glass and came to rest on an object that had found its way to the far end of the room.

  Regan crouched down and gently touched its surface. Wisps of smoke rose from it. Despite the fire damage, it had cooled considerably and he picked it up and stood to inspect the charred remains. The leather bound cover was gnarled and twisted but as he flipped it onto its back, there was no mistaking what it was or who it belonged to. The golden yellow cross had almost flayed off the cover but persisted like a blistering tattoo scalded by a regretful owner.

  It was a King James version. His King James bible. The primary one that he used as source material for his sermons. The same bible that had recently gone missing. Regan’s mind began spinning, trying to figure out who was trying to scare him, and if it was a warning to steer clear. Either way, he knew he had to tread carefully. The stakes were higher than ever.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Docherty hurled for club and county, a permanent fixture in both teams. From a long line of hurlers, his father and grandfather hurled before him. On his mother’s side, there was a camogie influence so he was born into a world of competition and physicality. Genetically blessed with a long and lean muscular physique, it had hidden away underneath rolls of puppy fat and he looked ill at ease when his father gave him his first stick at the age of eight. It took several years and gentle pressure from his family before he looked on the sport as more than just a hobby until slowly it became a vocation.

  By that stage, he was eleven years old, something of a late starter. As he began training in earnest, starting with the continuous pounding of a sliotar against the wall of their family home, he was amazed to see the effect it had on his body. The fat began to melt away and was replaced by hard sinewy muscle. Puberty hit early and his sudden sprouting gave him more confidence, especially when introduced to the U12 league where he dwarfed those around him. Not as technically polished as the others, he began to use his physicality to boss games. As the years passed, the boys turned to men and his size advantage became less obvious. His technical skill set was constantly expanding and he reached a similar level to others who had been playing for longer, but he still lacked the edge, having grown to a modest 6ft 2 inches.

  Like a sculptor, Docherty stood back from the model and observed himself with a cold, hard detachment, pondering flaws in his work and areas that needed correction. His father was unhelpful during this period of self-reflection, content with the fact that his son had embraced the sport, cheerleading from the side-line. The game had changed since Docherty Senior’s day. These men were now athletes on strict diets, teetotal for the most part, sport blurring with science to capture the essence of what made the greats great.

  Docherty began to deconstruct his game carefully. He studied videos of matches recorded on the little handheld camera by his proud mother. Comparing that to classic games he found online, he identified the biggest area he needed to work on was his grace. There was very little differentiation between the above average and the great in terms of technical skills. They could all catch a ball in mid-flight, running at pace. They could all swivel on a dime and hit one from sixty yards over the bar. They could all dribble with the ball on a stick and take on their man. But it was how they managed to find that yard of space. It was how they managed to lose their man and leap into the air amidst a throng of clashing ash sticks.

  It boiled down to speed and strength. Docherty built a complete workout plan, began taking protein supplements and overhauled his diet until, soon enough, his shoulders filled out and narrowed down to a thin waist. His body fat dropped to 6 percent, a band usually occupied by elite marathon runners or competition body builders. It was almost unheard of for an athlete of his sport, and his energy levels were boundless.

  The season that had just finished seemed to put him on the map. Teammates considered him a freak of nature as they laced up with him for pre-season training. They were amped up for the first league game of the Autumn campaign, inspired by his leadership and grim determination. As the new season got under way, their opponents looked at his new physique in awe, especially at the first throw in when he charged quickest, swiping at the ball and shoulder charging their captain - a tough as nails man a decade older, onto his backside.

  Competition was fierce and sometimes the dark arts came into play. Young bucks looking for the edge or older men in their twilight years still trying to reclaim some of that vintage magic.

  The side effects of the steroids were a gradual thinning of the hair if you were lucky. Some athletes brewed cocktails of anabolic steroids mixed with all sorts of weird and fantastical ingredients that looked like it had come from the pages of a Roald Dahl book. An unlucky few had to contend with shrivelled testicles and growing man boobs. All in the pursuit of living the dream.

  Docherty's rise was as swift as it was sensational, and still in his mid-twenties, critics said he had his best years ahead of him. The local fame brought with it a pressure which he was uncomfortable with at first but soon got used to. It helped him stay sharp and rise to the occasion. His shoulders had carried the weight of expectation from his family and now a county as their secret weapon gave them hope for the county championships.

  That night at the fundraiser though, as broad and strong as his shoulders were, Docherty found that even his strength had limits.

  “Are you sure I can't call you a taxi?” he asked.

  The woman was practically asleep in his outstretched arm which failed to cover even half of her girth. She looked up into his face traipsing her legs along the floor as she was being led to the exit.

  “Na honey. I is a short walk fra here. Gemme outside.”

  Docherty looked over his shoulder and caught the exasperated and flushed expression of one of the barmaids. She flashed a weary smile at him before upturning a stool and placing it on the table. The bar was empty, with the gaggle of drinkers in mass exodus a few minutes earlier. They had been hard to move and Docherty helped expedite their exit seeing the drained faces of the two bar staff who were exhausted from their shift.

  When they stepped out onto the little tarmacked entrance, the cold invigorating wind seemed to sober the woman up. Docherty watched her closely, arm still straining under the load. He was encouraged when she found her feet and gave a shudder which made her jelly cleavage lap. The police officer, whose arm felt like it had been wrenched from its socket pointed to the woman's shirt where a couple of the buttons had come undone.

  Bernie stared up at his finger and to where it was pointing and gave a wicked smile, hovering on sharp heels that somehow had pointed her tree stump legs. Docherty noti
ced her teetering and stayed close. She mistook this proximity as flirtation and closed the small gap between them, thrusting her chest into his stomach.

  “No, Jesus. Bernie!”

  The woman stepped back, mock hurt on her face, her hair gusting onto her face which she struggled to part behind her ear. Looking down, and seeing that her bosom had spilled out, she was overcome by laughter which made her breasts inch further from their nesting place.

  “Christ sakes. Cover yourself up!” Docherty said, scolding the woman in a tone that sobered her up quicker than a cold bath could.

  The sudden realisation that she was drunk and half naked with little recollection of the last couple of hours brought with it a sense of shame and sadness. She tried to hide it for now, an emotion she would wallow in when she was alone later. She buttoned her shirt with difficulty, chubby fingers that no longer had the dexterity to perform the task.

  “There we go. That's better,” Bernie managed and forced herself to look at the man and present a weak smile.

  She saw his tense face relax a little before she stepped back and leaned against the brick wall of the building. The air was fresh and inviting, cooling her skin and freezing the sweat that covered her body. Taking big gulps of it seemed to restore her senses again and she could see the policeman watching her.

  “Come on. I'll walk you home.”

  “No, that's OK,” Bernie protested.

  “Come on Bernie. You're in no fit state to-”

  “I am!” she interrupted in sudden defiance. “I'm only fifteen minutes fra here. Ten tops. I gat a shortcut. I'll be OK.”

  By this point, she was dimly aware of being plucked from the restroom where she must have fallen asleep. The overriding shame of how she must have looked and in what state was incredibly embarrassing.

  Given the eerie silence and few cars in the park in front of them, it must have been after closing time and it felt like a suitable punishment that she'd make her own way home without aid. Although Docherty had helped, she was still stung by the insensitive tone he had used and didn't want to be any further inconvenience.

  “I can take you some of the way.”

  “No,” she said, unable to meet his face, fearful that a knowing smile would be there.

  Had she been using the toilet and fallen asleep? An image crossed her mind of a grotesquely overweight and drunken woman slouched over a tiny toilet seat. The person was snoring loudly, drool running down her chin with her legs akimbo braced for an aborted shit.

  Docherty was about to say something, but the woman was headstrong with a determination that was as strong as the heeled shoes that carried her. From the doorway, he watched her walk off on unsteady feet before she had the common sense to remove her shoes and carry them in her hand. As soon as the darkness of the night swallowed her from view, the officer turned away, tossing his car keys in the air and humming a country and western song that had caught in his head like a popcorn kernel between his teeth.

  Bernie was in the shadows and looking back at the officer who was bathed in the light of the tavern entrance. She wanted to see if he would make a final effort to join her or suggest a taxi ride. But there was nothing. As his back turned, he slipped away from the spotlight and disappeared from view around the corner of The Fort. She began crying without sound, letting the tears drop freely and without obstruction. Her thoughts switched to her daughter who would no doubt be worried about her mother. She would be awake wondering why she hadn't returned like she promised an hour earlier. The thoughts seemed to feed the tears and they continued to stream until eventually their chilled trail reminded Bernie of the falling temperature.

  Over her shoulder, through blurry vision, she could see the steeple of the church above the conifers that lined the perimeter of the parochial grounds. Even though her thighs chafed with the effort, and her goose bumped skin shivered in the arctic wind, it at least narrowed her focus as the effect of the alcohol began to dissipate.

  The gated entrance to the church was always open and she passed through, observing the grand structure in front of her. It looked gothic and other-worldly in the circumstances, with a pale crescent moon dipping low in the sky. Bernie took a few seconds to recover her strength and allow the accumulating sweat to evaporate off. In five minutes she had gone from the homely comfort of a warm toilet seat to shivering in the cold staring up at the House of Dracula. At least that's what it looked like in the movies. She half expected a bat to zigzag across the sky and the thought started her engine again, remembering from a childhood school lesson that bats were attracted to scent. She was sure the alcohol didn't mask the perfume she had sprinkled liberally on her neck and chest.

  As she lowered her head and started for the graveyard shortcut, ably led by her bison chest, Bernie saw in her peripheral vision a little square of light that had suddenly popped on. The only property on the grounds belonged to the priest. As she began to wonder what he would be doing awake at such an hour, there was a loud crash and the sound of splintering glass. The light beam was broken suddenly by a figure outside the building that she hadn't noticed until that point.

  Bernie ran as fast as she could to the border of the conifers and tried to blend into the darkness. The exertion had taken its toll and she breathed heavily, eyes focused ahead on the shape which was running away from the house toward the gate entrance. The little bungalow with a single solitary beam of light projected from the room like a lighthouse in distress. The figure was advancing slowly. Bernie began to feel her own position threatened and moved closer into the thick shrub but found her back meet the walled enclosure.

  The assailant had reached the gated entrance and Bernie could see the back of their head clearly as they looked toward the priest's house as if anticipating some movement within. The pale glow of the moon cast a greyish light on the grounds with the figure covered from head to toe in black. She continued to stare wide-eyed, hand covering her mouth to soften her laboured breathing.

  The air of silence was so heavy around her that when it was broken suddenly, she didn't realise the source until it was too late. A dance tune that had been programmed into the phone by her daughter suddenly started its muffled tune. It was in her jean pocket. Immediately looking up, Bernie could see that the figure had also heard it with their face twitching one way and another like a bloodhound picking up a scent. Desperately, Bernie tried to slip her hand into her jean pocket and managed to hook out the top of the cell phone which only brought the audio into sharper focus. With considerable effort, she managed to squeeze the pocket until the phone was free and quickly shut it off.

  Standing still and the breath caught in her throat, she looked back toward the entrance where the person had stood moments earlier. They were no longer there. She had scared them off. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped out from the conifers and was immediately met by the figure by the side.

  “You!?”

  With a deftness of movement that caught her off guard, Bernie found a forearm wrapped around her neck, the air slowly drained from her lungs. Behind her, the attacker kicked the back of her legs hard and she buckled forward onto her knees. The cell phone dropped from her reach and onto the grass. She clawed and kicked at the figure behind her, but couldn’t break free from the hold. Crying out, the breath was snapped from her. The lack of oxygen making her vision swim. Slowly, she felt the energy fade with each passing second, adrenaline saved for fight or flight found neither recourse and she sunk back into the tight arms which held her. The phone buzzed again, and her hand reached out to it but the arm jerked her back, tightening its grip. Bernie could see the caller ID and read the name of her daughter – Tanisha’s smiling face displayed on the screen. The shrill jingle continued to echo in her ears but didn’t last long as she finally slipped out of consciousness.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Although it had been a fitful sleep interrupted by coughing bouts, Joe Boyd felt somewhat restored when he awoke that morning. He couldn't wait to get started and had actually
risen a little before dawn – unlike his wife who was able to hit the snooze button on her biological clock and sleep longer. When Boyd opened his eyes he was getting up.

  For once, the counterweight of the bed as he slipped off it, failed to rouse his sleeping wife. He quickly dressed, left the bedroom and walked down the landing stairs into the kitchen. There, he switched on the kettle, opened up the windows and let the stale air escape. It was very early, even by the animals’ standards who he was certain still slept soundly. Betwixt with late night and early morning, it was his favourite part of the day.

  Not yet time to begin the chores, Boyd waited in the kitchen for the kettle to boil and fixed himself a cup from beside the sink, where the dishes had been washed to his wife’s bidding, a contrite husband's efforts to mend fences.

  The thoughts that had plagued him throughout the night had relented for the moment, giving him this quiet time to meditate and enjoy the coffee.

  Fr Regan had helped to assemble his thoughts about his Maggie, a chain of logic that had broken under his clumsy hands, fortunately pieced together again on careful re-reading of the letter. To receive word from his only daughter after a period of a year was worth celebrating in itself, but to read that she was well and healthy brought relief to his face. She needed space to figure things out and planned to emigrate and find work in the States. When Boyd had first read those words, he found himself losing her all over again. Regan assured him that it wasn't the case and with Maggie starting a dialogue again, it suggested good news.

  Boyd pondered this and hoped the man was right. The circumstances for her leaving when she did, had never been explained to him. As a father, he blamed himself. Perhaps pressuring his daughter too much about the legacy of the farm and the importance of keeping it in the family.