“Anyways, I'm lying down and the animals are settling and getting used to me being there when I hear a couple voices. I'm frozen thinking that I’m done for, that they'll spot me, but they don't turn on the light.”
“What were they talking about?”
“This is it. They were fair quiet, but I could still make ‘em out. It was like they were meeting in secret. I'm lucky I had a good spot.” Doe's voice became more animated as if he was reliving the experience anew and feared his capture at any moment.
“What were they talking about?” Regan repeated, unable to contain his own growing excitement.
“People getting sick from the meat. They said something about injecting some hairmone or something into the cows so that when people eat it, they have to go to the doctor.”
Regan considered this new information and failed to see a connection with the Tighe suicide, Bernie Cameron or his own threat, still freshly imprinted in his mind.
“Did they say anything else?”
“No father. That was it. They also talked kind of funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“Formal like. Kind of…I dunno…in character. One of those old movies like Shakespeare. Proper English. They said goodbye weird too.”
“What do you mean?” Regan repeated, suddenly aware of his parrot questioning.
“They said, ‘Flesh and Blood’. I thought that was pretty weird.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“Dunno their names but I seen them about.”
“What do they look like?”
“Well, one of them is average height, skinny looking like he needs a good feed. Bald too. Scar from his mouth like he's got a perm’nent laugh. The other is older, maybe in his 40s. He drives the silver Merc. Butter wouldn't melt type. I ... hope I done OK by saying something father?”
The priest was already processing the two profiles and cross checking them with his own database.
“Father?”
“Yes,” Regan replied keenly aware of the anxiety in the man's voice. “You did great. Tell me, did this happen before or after Lewis Tighe passed away?”
The question seemed to move Doe, the squeak of the leather pew suggesting knees shifting uncomfortably.
“It was before, father,” he said with a sadness in his voice. “I tried to warn him. He was the only person that treated me normal. Saved me a couple times from serious beatings. Very nice man. His wife too. I know they was expecting a baby and I wanted to let him know. I didn’t want them getting sick or nothing.”
“That was the night before he died wasn't it?”
“It was. He probably thought I was off my head on drink or drugs. Didn't believe me. But I never touch drugs. I drink too much, I know. But I’m working on it. At least I tried father, you know? Least I tried to warn him.”
Regan felt one of the many knots surrounding the mysterious circumstances of Tighe's death loosen.
“Tell me Son, do you know the Hail Mary?”
“Probably the only prayer I do,” he said.
“Good. If you say four of those after you leave here today, that will be your penance for your sins.”
“You mean to say that's it? I'm cured after I say that?”
“You could say that!” Regan laughed. “But come back again, especially if you want to speak to someone or want to know more about the pictures on the walls.”
“Thanks, father, I will,” he said. “See you again soon.”
Regan could hear the man get up slowly from the cushioned pew, before opening the door.
“Oh and Larry?” Regan said.
“Yes, father?”
“If you need to top up your water bottle, that’s OK too. You’re welcome here anytime, just come through here and I’ll sort it out.”
Doe thanked the priest and Regan could tell by the inflection in his voice that they left a smiling face before the door clicked gently behind.
For his own part, the quiet darkness seemed absolute but the temporary sensory deprivation seemed to fuel more power to his image search of the profiles which the man had just revealed. They had suddenly sprung into his mind from the darkness and the priest could see them clearly. The description matched and for the first time in a long time, he suddenly felt like he had caught the scent of the trail. And it was putrid.
THIRTY-NINE
There was a knock at the door. Despite it being early afternoon, Regan still took the precaution to peer out from the one good window in his sitting room to see who it was. He couldn’t see the visitor but had a fair idea, and moved quickly down the little hallway and unlocked the door.
“Good man Ian. I wasn’t sure you’d come. Come on in.”
The stout teen followed the priest through the hall and into the little living room which doubled as Regan’s study. The priest moved to the corner of the room, flipped the lid of his laptop and pressed a button.
“I’ll grab another seat. Won’t be a sec.”
The teen looked around the room, puffing out his cheeks, drumming his fingers on his thighs as he made a perimeter. There was little that held his attention, although his steps stopped short at the window which had been covered in cardboard. Reaching out a finger, he traced the border of the covering, feeling the tape pressed tight against the plastic frame. Little chance of the air escaping.
“Careful. You might nick it on some glass.”
He turned and watched as Regan slid a second chair alongside the bureau and motioned for the teen to sit.
“What happened?” Ian said as he claimed his seat.
The laptop had fired up and Regan was patiently waiting for the password prompt screen to load. The priest rubbed his face wearily as if the question had pained him. When he emerged from his palms, Ian could see that his eyes were pink and bloodshot.
“Nothing. Bunch of young ones probably. Up to their tricks again.”
“I could have a word if you want father?”
Regan looked at the young man. His cheeks were pitted with acne scars, a blush of rose from a distance which up close suggested a difficult puberty. His skins cause wasn’t helped by a waxy layer, a communion wafer whiteness which stretched over a bloated face.
“No, you’re fine. Thanks anyway. Here.”
The priest pointed to the screen when a window appeared. Ian turned to allow Regan to type in the password, and after a few seconds the desktop screen had loaded, albeit heavily pixelated with the icons twice their normal size.
“See? It’s got this weird look about it. The colours are off and the internet is slow.”
Ian lifted a leg and hooked his hands around the knee, leaning back. He flicked his eyes away from the screen and gave a soft nod.
“Looks like your computer’s gone into safe mode.”
“Why would it do that?”
“Few different reasons,” Ian said. “It might be- “
There was a muffled sound of a ringtone. Ian dropped his knee and slid his bulk out on the seat, reaching into his pocket for the phone. When he pulled it out, he looked at the screen, slid a finger sideways and deposited it back in his pocket again.
“Sorry about that.”
“Was that Jenna?”
“What?”
“The screensaver on your phone. It looked like Jenna. The receptionist at the clinic.”
“I…no…it was nothing. Just someone off the internet.”
Regan watched the young man lean forward, angle the laptop in his direction and begin to type instructions. A cluster of windows popped up, multiplying in rapid succession with the teens bidding. The speed at which he entered the commands made the priests head whirl, until with a final key stab, he sat back and crossed his arms.
“What just happened? Don’t tell me. You just hacked into the Vatican?”
A snigger from Ian, as he tilted the screen down a fraction, showed Regan his handiwork.
“I’m doing a virus scan. When that’s done, I’m going to defragment your hard drive. It hasn’t been done in
years. That will help speed things up, but it’ll take a little bit of time. Then you can reboot like normal.”
“OK. So, you think it’ll run better then?” Regan asked and received a quick nod from the teen who seemed a little deflated that a more testing challenge couldn’t be offered. “Great. How long before it does all the checks?”
“I’d give it a couple of hours to be honest, father. Just let it load in the background. Make sure it’s plugged in at the mains.”
“Thanks, Ian. One more thing while I still have you.”
Regan reached down to one of the drawers in his bureau. Ian moved his seat back to allow the drawer to fully extend and watched with sudden curiosity as the priest pulled out a plastic bag and placed it on the table. He slid the drawer closed with his foot and noticed that the teen had edged his chair closer to the table. Regan removed the bag and pulled out a chrome box with a short antenna on its top. Turning it in his hand, Regan flipped open a tab and confirmed the presence of batteries before clicking it back in place.
Ian’s eyes were all over the device though he was reluctant to ask the obvious question, and was therefore relieved when it was the priest who spoke first.
“This is an EchoSeeker. Not sure if you’ve ever used one before.”
Regan passed the device to the teen who took it and studied its face. It was a fairly simple design, a sleek silver face with minimal controls. A toggle switch was dead centre with an ON button imprinted on one edge. A slide shutter in the top right which Ian flicked back and forth, two LED’s underneath. Finally, underneath the emboldened text ECHOSEEKER 3000, was a circular dial, the edge of which caught Ian’s thumb as he slowly twisted it in increments, measuring the inches carefully until the dial had reached its limit.
“That’s the- “
“Range setting,” Ian jumped in. “Widen the range of transmission so that the receiver can pick up the message.”
Regan looked at the altar boy, impressed with his knowledge. For his part, Ian had suddenly seemed bored with the toy and gave it back to the priest again who took it and carefully returned it to the table.
“Exactly. Seems like you know your stuff!”
“Anyone my age would about that kind of tech.”
“Great. I was wondering if there was any way to increase the range? It says on the box that it has a range of…” Regan’s voice dropped off, trying to remember the figure before looking around his feet for the box that the device came in.”
“Probably 500 feet with this device father,” Ian said. “You’d need to get fairly close to activate it. Probably a nine-iron.”
“No way of extending it then?”
“No easy way. You get what you pay for. Hope you kept the receipt.”
Ian stood and dried his wet palms on his jeans. Regan followed, tucking his seat into the bureau and guided the teen back through the hallway to the door again and expressed his thanks for the help.
“Not sure if you heard earlier in Mass but there’s a bit of concern about Bernie Cameron.”
“No, I never heard,” Ian said, stepping through the doorway and half turned from the priest.
“Seems like she’s gone missing. You’re close to the other altar boys. Have you heard anyone say anything?”
Ian shook his head quickly, bunching his hands deeper into his jeans. His head was lowered, unable to reach higher than the door handle. Regan studied his face, seeing the eyes flick around, like a rodent searching for a meal. He seemed reluctant to stick around longer than was necessary.
“I don’t know if there was any history between you two,” Regan said and drew a flash of eyes from the teen, “but what’s in the past is in the past Ian. I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said in the café.”
The teen nodded quickly. It didn’t change his stony expression and seemed to Regan like a token gesture to acknowledge that he agreed. His swollen body swivelled around on his hips as if to make to leave, face turning with it.
“Anyway. Thanks for your help again. If there’s anything you can tell me, in confidence, just let me know.”
The teen grumbled a response and turned away quickly. Regan closed the door and watched through the small window in the door, as he walked off, pulling out the mobile phone and raising it to his ear.
FORTY
Dotted around the countryside were black spots, areas where the Wi-Fi connection signal was weak and it plagued the residents of Ballygorm, not least Fr Regan, who lived in the centre of a twilight zone of the signal. Sporadically the connection would suddenly wake up from a slumber and sneeze the download at lightning speed down the network line, before gently dozing off to be picked up at a future date.
The laptop that the diocese provided was old and slow but enough that he could teach himself basic computer and internet navigation. A former altar boy in a different diocese was keen to share his breadth of experience, namely internet memes, vines and social media trends. Regan picked up enough to go it alone - a period in the wilderness - trial and error with painstaking slowness, frozen tabs, hit and hope and pop-up windows. For months he was led into a forest of advertisements until eventually he began to educate himself and felt comfortable enough to surf without the fear of breaking the internet.
Given the events of that morning, and faced with a delay waiting for his laptop to reboot, he decided to visit the local library, which opened for four hours in the afternoon. Strictly speaking, the library was anything but local, ten miles north of the village in neighbouring Shaysburg. In any case, he was happy to leave the community behind for the afternoon and although his body was still racked in pain from being bent double for the confessional, he persevered, the prospect of a lengthy, hot bath when he returned home sustained him.
The library car park was almost full. He hadn't visited the modest brick building in months and given the delicacy of his research subject, he removed his clerical collar, tucking it inside the glove compartment.
On entering, Regan made an enquiry at the front desk. The middle-aged bespectacled librarian guided Regan past an aisle of books toward the back of the building where there was a free internet terminal.
“Your first time here?” the man asked over his shoulder.
“No. I've been here a few times. I just don't get out much.”
“I hear that,” the man laughed as if sharing a joke. “Dying breed as our libraries are, sometimes you can find all sorts of delights when you least expect. Things that you wouldn't find online.”
The man stopped suddenly and pointed to the far wall where Regan could see two long desks like train tracks that supported around a dozen bulky PC monitors that had seen better days. Half of them were occupied, an older generation perhaps taking their first tentative steps online and unaware of super-fast fibre broadband, laptops and tablets.
“Thanks,” Regan said, smiled and shook hands with the man.
“No problem. I'm Stephen Breagal,” he announced. “Let me know if you need anything else. Happy to help.”
Regan went straight to the computer furthest away from anyone else. Opening up a search screen he typed: Pentagram.
The results which came back unfiltered were many and varied including a long line of fashion accessories that included rings and pendants to appease that little devil inside. There were also links to Satanism sites, narratives on the symbolism in pop music and politics and various colourful artwork and visuals graphics.
Regan decided to narrow the search and became more specific with the enquiry:
Pentagram Devil Worship.
He almost felt unclean typing it as if he were accessing porn on a public network. The thought that someone might recognise him made him nervously shift in the seat and he was painfully aware that he had moved closer to the monitor in an attempt to shield the screen from curious glances.
This time, the search yielded a fleet of images, the blood red inverted star balancing on a tip, the hallmark Satanist symbol, all too familiar thanks to the mainstream Hollywood mo
vies. The images varied slightly only by colour and stylistic quality. Some of the lines were formed by the contours of fanciful dragons, serpents, naked bodies or daggers shaped to make the five distinctive points touch the outer circular band.
The priest entered another search query:
Pentagram Devil Worship Goat Head.
The first line of images was exactly like the one crudely drawn on the ground of Joe Boyd's farm. Regan waited for the webpage links to load and clicked on the first entry. While it loaded, he looked around at the other computer users, firstly to see if anyone had looked his way and secondly to see if they were searching for anything quite as macabre. All were locked in their own little oblivious world.
Once the page was loaded, Regan's eye caught the big scrawled letters on the top of the site. It headed up a lengthy essay on the homepage which the priest imagined to be the doctrine of the Church of Satan.
He read enough of the diatribe to know that it didn't warrant closer investigation but found himself trawl through the page until the symbol appeared again. Clicking it brought him through to another page which detailed its history.
“Sigil of Baphomet,” Regan mouthed to himself, before spending a crash-course minute educating himself on the symbol’s origin.
The Sigil of Baphomet was connected to the religious order known as LaVeyan Satanism, an esoteric following founded in the 1960s, which subscribed to the atheistic philosophy that there was neither God nor Devil. There was no deity higher than each individual and each person could become God-like, in the traditionalist sense of the word, by adopting certain desirable characteristics. The seven deadly sins often attributed to the dark side, could be blended with 'lighter' virtues like enlightenment or liberty to create a perfect image consistent with one’s belief that they were now God-like.
The more Regan read, the more uncomfortable he began to feel. Deciding to change direction, he opened a separate tab and entered a new search:
Baphomet.
He quickly learned from an online fact sheet that the name had been connected to paganism and the occult for centuries dating back as far as the Inquisition in the late 1000’s. The goat’s head symbol originated from a French occultist 150 years earlier depicting Baphomet as a winged hermaphrodite, the binary opposites merged, male and female, part animal, part human and containing the dark as well as the light.
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