The mug was too hot in Boyd’s grip and he decided to take it outside to cool in the night breeze. He pulled his jacket off the rack before stepping onto the hard gravel stones, under the watchful house light that stretched his shadow long.
The steam rose from the piping hot mug and mingled with his own misted breath as he began to stretch his legs and walked the length of the yard. His sudden appearance seemed to inspire the other early risers to follow suit and his ears tuned to noises faraway of birds in morning voice, first a solitary chirp in a familiar pattern, pausing for response and then repeating the noise again. Soon others joined in the chorus as if the birds were in rosary to each other. A prayer to raise the dead, or at least those to wake those who still slumbered.
His own animals were unaffected by the noise and still slept in peace. He thought it best not to disturb them and walked past the barn that housed the pigs.
The second disconnected barn loomed into view which he also passed. It served as his storage area for barley, food stuff, grains and equipment. It was bolted tight lest some pig with the cunning of Babe suddenly grow opposable thumbs and gained entry.
There was only one other building ahead of Boyd and now, sufficiently acclimatised to the heat of the coffee he downed it in one big swallow, freeing a hand to slide the thick bolt across the barn door. It wasn't as big as the other barns, nor did it have to be. It was a dumping spot for pallets, breeding ground for projects which would remain half-finished, broken machinery equipment and a jumble of bits and bolts strewn around the room, hanging from walls and spread across the straw floor.
Boyd made for the centre of the room and pulled on the cord of the lightbulb. He almost tripped over a hard mechanical arm that seemed to grope on his trouser leg in the darkness. Eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness, he saw the mangled tractor part which hadn't been functional for a long time.
He wasn't sure why he kept such pieces. Perhaps with all them he could build his own Transformer tractor to replace himself on the farm. He laughed and it felt good. Boyd walked around the room picking up various pieces, patting some, smiling at others, surprised at their appearance as if the old friends had thrown a surprise party. He couldn't recall the last time he had been in the outhouse – weeks if not months and he couldn't believe the state he had let it lapse into.
Once upon a time, he had plans to turn it into an office, a little escape pod of his own where he could retire after a stressful day. A place where he could switch off, put his feet up and unwind. On one wall hung a dartboard which he had put up almost a decade earlier. A little bracket arched out from the wall above it, its job to shine a light on the board. A few stray darts had dotted the metal frame which housed the bulb which had died a long time ago. A fat grey insulated wire sprouted from it, stapled down as it snaked its way along the border of the roof back to the doorway. The board was barely pockmarked and still looked relatively new save for the wire frame which had lost its silvery colour to the rust years earlier.
Three darts were still embedded in the bullseye and his memory cast back to a time when he was teaching his young daughter how to play. She would have been the same age as in the portrait. A world away. He suddenly remembered lifting her in his arms, light as a feather as she placed each dart one by one in the centre of the board. He hadn't thrown a dart since then and approached the board with a sad smile and plucked the arrowheads out.
Taking four strides away from the wall, Boyd found his path blocked by a pallet which lay face down on the straw. He picked it up and placed it against the wall and returned to what he imagined to be a reasonable distance from the board. His first throw in a decade popped back out, striking the steel wire and almost landed back at his feet again. He shook his head and smiled at his luck, before throwing the other two, each of which landed squarely in the ‘one’ bed.
“Best not give up the day job,” he said and looked down for the third dart between his feet.
The red sparkled flight should have been easy to find under the yellow floor but Boyd fumbled around picking up the straw strands in his hand, throwing them to one side.
The solitary light overhead cast the ground in shadow and Boyd pivoted his body around to shed more light on the area, treading carefully. As he began to smooth the surface free of straw, he saw the bare ground below, a dull red colour that caught the light. It didn't belong to a dart and as Boyd began to trace the line of red which was marked on the floor, found that it grew in size until he was suddenly sweeping the straw clear with both hands. Before long the hard surface was exposed below. When the lines had been followed, connected and traced back to his original position, Boyd carefully got off his knees and looked down in amazement. He was standing in its centre.
“Jesus Christ!” he whispered to himself.
THIRTY-FIVE
Even though the dawn light had strengthened, there was no entry for the pale rays to enter the windowless structure.
Boyd opened the door wide and Regan grazed past his big chest and entered the room, scanning the walls and surfaces for clues. Most of the instruments were covered in a fine dust, particles that danced in the breathless stale air as the light entered from the doorway.
“There's a switch just above you father.”
Regan felt the cushioned straw from underneath him suddenly replaced by a hard surface. Pulling on the draw cord, Regan now looked down at the cleared circle at his feet. Boyd approached before coming to rest just outside the shape as if repelled by some invisible force.
“I wasn't sure if I did right in calling you. It might be more of a police thing, but I thought, well...”
Regan spun on his toes, without taking his eyes of the familiar marking on the compacted soil. Crouching, his finger touched a line closest to his shoe and traced it slowly along an edge before it turned back on itself to form a triangle on the outer quadrant. There was a slight hollow where the perfect star was formed, like it had been imprinted on the taut skin of the ground like a tattoo. The blood red colour of the straight lines darkened under his shadow which made the marking blend against the dark ground it was etched on.
“I never seen the likes of it father. I thought you would be interested. It's one of those religious patterns that you hear about. Like a crop circle.”
The priest had momentarily forgotten that the farmer was there. Standing, he looked at the confusion on Boyd’s face before leaping over a star point as if it could pierce him.
“You're right Joe. A pentagram. Thanks for calling me. You did the right thing.”
Both men continued staring down at the outlined shape, silently tracing the route of the marked lines with their eyes. There was no noise from either inside or outside the building as if the animals had also been stunned into silence at the discovery. In the centrepiece of the star, two frowning beady eyes looked up at them, as if following their movements, peering into their thoughts. Those points were scored deeper into the ground than the other lines and formed part of a facial structure which occupied the full outer edges of the inverted star. Horns filled the top two triangles. On each side were ears stretched and feathered underneath. On the final, bottom triangle the face narrowed into a snout with a short beard ending on a single jagged point that parted the room and both men.
“Looks kind of like a goat doesn't it?” he said confirming Regan's thoughts exactly.
“Mind if I...?” Regan was holding his phone up and pointed it at the image.
“No. Go ahead.”
Boyd had long ago finished his coffee and although it was approaching 7am, craved a second cup. Since the priest arrived, he felt much better not least because the man's presence warmed him, more than the coffee could. The farmer was as stupefied as the priest looked and felt the pressing of practical matters begin to seep into his mind.
Regan, who himself had slept considerably less than Boyd, was awake when the call came through. Still edgy and fearful of turning on the light in the still blanketed night sky, he made light work of get
ting ready, a task made easier because he had slept in his clothes. His agitated state like the darkness that enveloped his house, broke with the dawn.
Regan was still staring at the pentagram: “When was the last time you were in here Joe, before this morning?”
“Month, maybe two.”
“You never saw this pattern before?”
“Never. No father.”
“Could it be that it was here longer but was covered by the straw?”
“Possible, I guess. I don't spend much time in here.”
“Do you lock the door?”
“No. Nothing but junk in here anyways. Never saw the need.”
“Have you ever seen anyone on your land that shouldn't be here?”
“You mean like Lewis Tighe?” Regan nodded. “No. And if I did, they'd get short shrift. Criminal trespassing. I have a gun for that. It's for the foxes mind you, but I'm not afraid to bare my teeth if someone shows up.”
Although he was a big man, full of bluster there was a conviction in his eyes that left no doubt in Regan's mind that he would guard his land to the death. A land that had been passed from generation to generation, richly supplying his family and those before him with an abundance of food. Boyd was owner but also caretaker, asked to pass it onto the next person in a state better than he received it. The cycle appeared in all likelihood that it would skip a generation in light of his daughter’s recent news.
“What do you reckon father? Does it mean anything?”
Regan looked at the man, noticing that the wiry whiteness of the hair of his head had also spread to his fresh stubble. It seemed to age his face, turning sharp angular features shaped by high winds and cold winters into a hollow. His cheekbones created their own shadows under the watchful light that studied the men.
“Probably some kids pranking,” Regan concluded. “I wouldn't worry about it too much.”
“Probably right,” Boyd nodded. “Anyways, should I just leave it or what?”
“Yeah. No point in making a big thing of it. Just keep your wits about you in case you see anything strange. And if you do, give me a call, will you?”
“Will do father. Thanks for coming around. And thanks for last night. I never got the chance to say it.”
Boyd reached his hand across to Regan which the priest took with some trepidation, memory fresh from their last handshake.
“Anyways. I best get back. I've got morning Mass to prepare for.”
“Right, right.”
“You know Joe. If you ever need someone to talk to, or want to get out of the house, come round. Either to Mass or give me a call.”
“Thanks, father.” The man blushed as if the priest had just asked him out on a date.
“I mean it,” Regan said. “And rest up. Looks like that cold’s getting worse.”
Boyd nodded and wiped his nose with a shirt sleeve and smiled. The big man turned around and opened the door, the light filtering in which made them shield their eyes. Regan walked along the outer edge of the circle that trapped the pentagram, before taking a few backward steps onto the straw. His back suddenly felt the wall, glancing to his left to see the dartboard and two glittering arrows embedded there. It was a little darker here, the weak light beam not quite having the air miles to travel this far. Crouching down onto his heels, Regan scanned the surface for a final time seeing the slight indentation in the Earth marking the lines.
Boyd hovered in the doorway half inside, turning from the room and taking in big breaths of the country air. Regan glanced up at him from before getting to his feet, using a column of empty buckets for propulsion before walking to the centre of the room, pulling on the bulb drawstring. Boyd heard the click and moved to one side to let the priest pass through, before closing the door and stepping out onto the gravel with him.
“Sounds like you've got your hands full,” Regan said, standing by the car snapping the door handle back and forth.
Boyd looked at him blank-faced before the priest cocked a palm to his ear which the farmer took to mean the sound of the animals. The farm had suddenly come to life with noise, awakening with empty stomachs, a symphony of animal voices bound together impatient with the farmer and the change of routine. The big man approached Regan and the jammed lock and for a second, the priest had a sudden vision of the door being ripped off its hinge from the merest of tugs and shooed Boyd away gently before finally getting it to click open.
The car seat wasn't built for comfort, with a skin that barely contained the metal springs that pressed into his back. Nevertheless, he was happy to be seated in it and confirmed his earlier offer should Boyd need an open ear, before slowly driving off.
As he passed across the yard of the Boyd farm, the mouth of the house on his side opened up and a head popped through the door. Regan raised a hand to the woman and Evie Boyd, with a head full of curlers returned the gesture, wrapping her thin frame tighter in a big pink dressing gown, and peering each way for her husband.
Each stone under tyre vibrated up from the metal chassis of the car, suspension long ago depleted. In the rear view mirror, the farmer was already unlocking the barn door, before turning to meet his wife who had barked something from the house doorway. Beyond the slumped frame of Boyd who seemed to drag his feet across the stones, Regan looked at the little building at the far end of the yard, staring at the closed door there.
You didn't need to be a detective or a priest to understand or recognise occult symbology. He considered the scenarios as the little building slid off his mirror. Best case was that he could find some sort of connection with the death of Lewis Tighe. Worst case was that he had just wasted £19.99 on the device, carefully hidden within one of the buckets. He just hoped that the Boyd's didn't get a sudden compulsion to do a spot of gardening.
THIRTY-SIX
Fr Regan was putting on his robe in the vestry, when there was a knock on the back door. Signalling one of the altar boys to open, the tall frame of Tommy Docherty appeared, dressed in his Sunday finest and standing over the young boys like he was wearing stilts.
“Morning Tommy. What brings you here?”
“Hi, father. Boys. Couldn't help but notice the window on your house as we drove up today. You been doing a bit of DIY?”
Regan groped underneath the robe, finding the clip-on microphone which he promptly fixed onto the edge of the neck opening. Loosening it sufficiently, he was satisfied with its placement and that it wouldn't give off a noise by scratching against the layers or his face. Instinctively, he tapped the sound box at his belt buckle like an aged cowboy confirming his holster was equipped.
“Something like that. I'll explain another time. Your folks OK?”
“Yeah, yeah. Front row and centre today,” he said and smiled.
“That's good.”
Regan looked at the jet black velour jacket of the officer which seemed to accentuate his sleek, whip-sharp frame. If a panther could dress itself, it'd wear that shade Regan thought. The officer spotted him looking and seemed to grow even taller, chest expanding, hovering over the hurried pack of altar boys who were fishing in a wardrobe for their own robes.
“A gift from the folks,” Docherty said and the priest nodded his approval.
“Very nice.”
Regan's hands disappeared from view rummaging deep underneath the sea of green cloth, checking this pocket and that, ticking off a list of items in his head as he went until finally content with the setup of the audio.
When he turned again to Docherty his attention was caught by a little white ball, waving at him from atop the man’s broad shoulder. Regan reached up and plucked it, holding it between them both in his fingers.
“You know, if that was a feather, it would have been very good luck. A sign that the angels were close,” Regan said.
“Hardly likely,” Docherty replied rinsing down the rest of his jacket sharply should there be a relation nearby. “That's from Lambchop.”
“Which is...”
“Clue’s in the
name,” he said and smiled. “A lamb. Walks into our yard only a few weeks back, sure as anything and all on its own and comes right up to the front door and starts bleating. No sign of a mother or anything. Sure, muggins here opens the door and Lambchop looks up to its new mammy and that's the way it’s been ever since.”
The image of the tiny lamb cradled in the big outstretched arms of the hurler made Regan smile. Docherty allowed himself to laugh too, suddenly compelled to inform the priest about the surrogate's nocturnal habits and an insistence on following his potentially life crushing boot steps around the house like a second shadow. Although the man lamented the sudden responsibility and complained mercilessly about the animal, he was also half joking and Regan knew that he was fishing for mock sympathy.
“Sounds like you have your work cut out now!”
“You can say that again father.”
“OK, boys. Everyone ready?”
The altar boys were already in military drill pattern of 2x2, looking up at the two men in discussion, a picture of patience. They were all different sizes and bunched together in a way that reminded the priest of the Head Whacking toy at Barry's amusements.
“Father, I wanted to ask you something.” Docherty's former cheer had left his face as suddenly as it had arrived.
“Go ahead.”
“If you can include something in your bulletin at the end of Mass, that would be great. Just to see if there is anyone that can get in contact with, or has information about Bernie Cameron. If they could get in touch with me or one of the lads at the station?”
The first image that presented itself was from the previous night in the Fort bar. Regan’s shoulder felt the sudden pressure again and he shook the image away.
“What’s up with her?”
Docherty winced like he was in a tight spot and suddenly needed to release a toxic pocket of air.
“I got a call earlier from her neighbour. Her little girl was expecting her home last night.”
“She didn't show?”
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