Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  If the ambulance entered from Regan's right to left, it came from the general hospital and was headed for Ballygorm to make a collection. That was not a good sign. Then again, when did a screaming ambulance ever fill the heart with glee, save in the case of the injured party of course. If it swung in the opposite direction from left to right, it meant that there was a patient probably from Ballygorm but maybe Shaysburg being urgently rushed to a hospital. As it happened, the ambulance blushed from his right-hand side with a growing beam that was no threat to Regan and his relative distance.

  Once it had passed, he got to his feet and scolded his sleeping legs to keep up hoping that whoever the poor patient was, it had nothing to do with this sordid mess.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Word spread fast around Ballygorm that the person who had been rushed to hospital was Bernie Cameron. The initial relief was soon replaced with horror. The village didn't really need TV, media or internet to publicise news. All it needed was a gaggle of church-going, busy-body pensioners who could collectively carry the word around quicker than any broadband connection. Regan awoke to the news in the morning, the call coming through from Tommy Docherty.

  The woman was found stuffed in a cupboard. Still wearing her lemon ensemble from the Saturday night, she had been cooped up in the locked box for the best part of eighteen hours. Regan winced at the thought and could only imagine the distress the woman must have felt, for all intents and purposes being buried alive in complete darkness, unable to move and slowly deprived of oxygen.

  “What kind of state was she in Donald?”

  Regan’s mobile phone was on the dashboard tucked into a corner against the window. It was on loud speaker and Spence had to shout to be heard which made the raw emotion that was already in his voice sound hysterical.

  “Dipping in and out of consciousness father,” he said before going into the detail.

  By the time the services had arrived, the first few Bingo players had already assembled, keen to secure their favourite lucky seat or for the hard of hearing, a place closer to a speaker where they could distinctly hear the numbers called. The emergency services had finally cut through the gawking pensioners speculating and jostling for a better look from the ground platform and fastened an oxygen mask around the woman's mouth which she was slow to respond to. It had taken four of them to secure her on a stretcher which was so small that it looked like a second spine with the woman rolling around on their extended arms which shouldered the burden.

  “I thought I had locked the doors. I…” the emotion threatened to overwhelm the man.

  Regan was too busy parking his car outside the clinic to be of assistance or offer a conciliatory note. When he had successfully parked, he was surprised to hear crying on the other end of the phone.

  “It’s OK. You can’t blame yourself, Donald. If it wasn’t for you getting there early, who knows what another hour trapped in that closet would have meant.”

  Regan said his goodbyes, disconnected the call and stared ahead at the front door of the building. The flower baskets were freshly watered and ran a trail of water down a slope toward his car. He picked the sun visor off the passenger seat and propped it on the dashboard, wedging it against the windscreen. Popping the glove compartment at this side, he reached in and pulled out the little plastic bag, resting it on his lap. Staring at his reflection, his hand dug into the bag and emerged with a quarter of lime. Head tilted back he raised the fruit above, steeling himself with a few quick breaths and squeezed until he felt the juice seep through his fingers before dropping into his open eye.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Monday mornings were always busy in the small clinic. Injuries sustained during the weekend, sporting or drunken – usually the latter.

  Jenna had just unlocked the front door and retaken her seat at the reception desk. She liked to predict the time of the first unscheduled visitor for the day. The log book showed that the first scheduled patient, Mrs. Tuohy, a woman in her 40’s with a fine figure and heavily bronzed, had a slot reserved for 9.30am. It wasn't her job to speculate about their various ailments – but on occasions Dr. Woodhead would throw her a nugget of information or pass a comment about a patient when the day was winding down and he called her into his office.

  The door gently opened prompting her to glance at the wall clock, high above in the waiting room, and watched as the floating head approached the desk.

  “Morning Jenna,” Regan said brightly. “I don't have an appointment. I was hoping to catch Dr. Woodhead if he's not too busy?”

  She smiled back at him. “You’re in luck, poor thing!” Jenna said. “It sounds like you have a bad cold coming on.”

  “I know. It just came on quickly. I'm normally pretty strong against these things. I don't know what's got into me,” he said and received a sympathetic word before she picked up the telephone headset.

  Regan listened to the one-sided exchange, the young woman pulling a wad of gum from her mouth testing its springiness between a thumb and forefinger. A touch of crimson seemed to colour her young cheeks through the water filled eyes of the priest, and she politely smiled and stroked her long auburn hair when the short call disconnected. The pink ball glued to her finger was swiftly returned to its watery grave and she smiled at Regan.

  “He'll see you now. I hope you get better soon, father.”

  “I'm sure it's nothing that Dr. Woodhead can't fix.”

  “Of course! He’s the best! We’re very lucky to have him.”

  “Everything OK the other day?” Regan asked and received a confused expression which made him elaborate. “I saw you were in a bit of distress outside the cafe on Saturday.”

  The young woman winced at the memory, the affable smile on her face gone for the moment. When she looked back up at Regan, there was a look of embarrassment, fidgeting with a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes.

  “Not worth talking about. He’s a creep. Led me on. I can’t be dealing with little boys, father. Lesson learnt,” she said and had an expression on her face like she meant it. Regan changed topic, hoping to return some of the former cheer which he had helped vanish.

  “Dead right. Tell me, have you had many people coming in with the same flu and cold symptoms lately?”

  The woman seemed a little surprised at the question having expected their conversation to have ended at that point and, considering it for a second, she nodded her head.

  “I think there's something going around, yeah. Like what you’ve got. We've seen a lot of people come in the past two weeks especially.”

  “Is that strange? Any unusual patients?” Regan asked.

  The other woman blushed now as if she was being asked to divulge her darkest secrets, unsure if this question was betraying some sort of confidence.

  “I ... not really, father. We get new people coming in as much as we do the older crowd. When these bugs go around in a small village it's bound to ... you know ... multiply. It's been busy alright,” she said and picked up an open logbook on the table as if to demonstrate her point, “but nothing we can't handle. Nothing Dr. Woodhead can't handle.”

  “Or Dr. Murphy.”

  “Yeah. Dr. Murphy too of course,” she said and blushed.

  Regan thanked the woman who pressed a buzzer which unbolted the lock and the priest pulled the door open and traced his steps along the corridor, wiping his face dry of the streaming tears. As he stood outside the closed oak door, a copper nameplate displaying the occupant’s name, his damp fist hovered mid-knock. It had been four days since his last visit and so much had happened during that time, too much to process.

  The door snapped open suddenly, startling the priest who involuntarily took a hop backward.

  “I was wondering if you had gotten lost!” said Woodhead, forcing a smile.

  He seemed taller than the last time, exuding a confidence which contrasted with Regan's own state, feeling a panic at the sudden sharp appearance of the doctor which caught him off guard.

 
“I ... uh … was just … well, I don't know what I was doing!” he answered and followed it with a little nervous laugh.

  Woodhead's stare was disconcerting. Unable to match its intensity or duration, Regan broke off and sheepishly smiled again. Dr. Woodhead took half a step to the side and directed him into the room, eyes concentrated on his face as Regan passed close by.

  Regan took a seat opposite the doctor and fishing into one pocket, then the other, eventually found the damp handkerchief and blew hard into it, emptying the sinuses of their wet load before folding it and returning to its home. He was acutely aware of the unhygienic nature of carrying a snot rag around with him but he had very few instances where he needed to use it. This being one such instance.

  “Sounds like you've got it bad Fr Regan.”

  Woodhead leaned back in his chair with a contented face which was the picture of health itself. If you did a survey and asked the participants for the desirable physical characteristics of their GP, Regan imagined they would closely resemble those of the man who sat opposite. Old enough to suggest a wealth of experience, young enough to inspire the cross-section of the community. His blue eyes were crystal tips, thawing to pools of Azul when circumstances required it, grieving or ill patients finding solace there.

  “Just came out of nowhere. Probably lack of sleep,” Regan responded.

  “Anything you'd like to confess?”

  Regan was aware of the barb, although the remark didn't change the man's countenance.

  “No. I'm just keen to nip this cold or flu or whatever it is in the bud. I don't have the time to get sick. You know how it is Dr. Woodhead?”

  The GP smiled and glanced toward a notepad on his neatly organised desk. A white ceramic cup looked out of place there and sat beside an open laptop to Woodhead's right. There were a bunch of coloured pens sprouting from the cup spread like some office flower reaching for the artificial light above. As Regan watched the doctor pick a pen from his neat pen holder and write on the fat pad, he wondered if Woodhead might be obsessive-compulsive. Or maybe he was just tidy, a virtue that he wished he had.

  Tearing off the top page, Woodhead handed it across the desk to the priest. Regan could barely decipher the scrawl and watched Woodhead dipping the pen right side up back with the others into the cup.

  “Yin and Yang?” Regan asked.

  Noticing the man's indifference, the priest pointed to the cup where the symbol was printed on its face.

  “Is that your way of restoring balance to a chaotic world?”

  “No,” Woodhead said. “It's just a cup.”

  “Beautiful symbol. A life lesson if ever there was one. Take the rough with the smooth. Every action has a reaction. The Chinese should know after all. They live longer lives than anyone else. There must be something in the water there!”

  Regan smiled watching the other man’s face closely, which if anything had suddenly grown bored.

  “Maybe,” he said. “If you take that to the pharmacy, they'll give you something for your cold. It's best to take it while the symptoms are still in their infancy. We wouldn't want it escalating.”

  Regan nodded and felt the eyes begin to water freely again. Mention of the sickness had brought on a fresh wave as if he were one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating from the eyeballs. He sneezed into the hankie again, dabbing his flaming nostrils for effect.

  “Anything stronger, in case it does get worse?” Regan asked and immediately felt the eyes of the GP scrutinise him. “Just in case.”

  The doctor smiled and pulled open a drawer down at his side. Regan watched as he pulled out a little tub of pills and slid it across the table. He picked it up and read the label aloud.

  “If you find yourself getting worse, take this. I’ll book you in this time next week to see how you’re getting on.”

  “Thanks,” Regan said, slipping the document into a dry pocket, and lifting the pillbox before getting to his feet. “It really is a beautiful mug though.”

  Woodhead had already moved to his laptop and looked up with mild impatience.

  “It was a gift from a friend.”

  “Interesting choice though. Does the symbol mean anything to you?”

  “No. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “It just fascinates me. I'm always interested in symbols, finding out hidden meanings.” Regan could see something cross behind the eyes of the doctor for a fleeting moment, like a shadow had passed between them.

  “I'm sure you do. There's enough symbols in your religion to last a lifetime. Happy hunting!”

  Regan was still standing and faced the desk. Woodhead stared at the screen on his laptop. Finding the conversation had run into a cul de sac Regan turned and moved to the door.

  “Lovely car by the way. Is that the new model?”

  Woodhead had heard but hadn't looked up, his mind wondering elsewhere. The frustration was evident on his face, but at the mention of his car had weakened a little.

  “Yes. Mercedes S3.”

  “Very nice. I'll be going then. I'll see you soon.”

  As it closed gently shut, Woodhead looked up at the door, and then back at the laptop screen’s live feed.

  “Not if I see you first, Fr Regan.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Regan had planned to go home directly after the clinic visit, and recapture some lost sleep but when he turned into his driveway and saw the little desolate building he reversed back out again. The little brown container of pills swam in his lap as he turned onto the road and he put it in his breast pocket for safe keeping.

  Water was still teeming from his eyes and he was careful to use his dry hand to wipe them clean. He had seen Bourbon employ the same tactic and although he was no actor, Regan didn't have to feign the discomfort which strangely hadn't been shared by his Detective hero who seemed completely unaffected. That's Hollywood for you I guess, he thought. Rosy pink blood vessels had spread from the edge of the white corners across to the iris and with the accompanying sensitivity to light, he lamented the missing visor to protect his sensitive eyes.

  He drove to the hospital. When he got there he was told by a nurse he didn't know that Bernie Cameron remained in a serious condition but was stable. She was still unconscious and hadn't spoken since arriving last night. Regan looked down the hallway and could see the same little girl who had been in the doctor's clinic last week, dressed in pink with hair braided and falling down the slope of her back. An older woman sat beside her, caressing her small shoulders who Regan figured to be her Grandmother. She wore big Jackie O shades and didn't seem to have the same composure as the little girl, buttoning her lip as if struggling with the emotion that strummed it.

  “We've got to stop meeting like this, father. People will start talking.”

  Regan turned and was pleased to see to see Sheila. She looked better than last time they had met. She had obviously caught up on some much needed sleep and smiling, she ushered him away from the desk and into the corridor where they had a moment alone.

  “How is she?”

  “Not great to be honest father. She was stuck in that cupboard for a long time with very little air. But if it had been a... a…” Sheila struggled for the right word before Regan offered a few for her to weigh.

  “A normal sized person?”

  “Yeah. If she had been, then the conditions wouldn’t have been anywhere near as bad. But, she was in very bad health before, not to mention pissed out of her mind. Sorry about my language.”

  Regan waved away her attempted politeness and glanced sideways across to the two family members now who were sat motionless.

  “She'll pull through though, right?”

  “I expect she will,” Sheila answered and her face brightened. “We can't say for certain yet if the lack of oxygen will have any impact on her brain, but the doctors are confident that she'll make a recovery but it will be slow and steady. We're already supporting her by drip-feeding her the nutrients she needs. Strawberry daiquiris aren't what we had in mi
nd for a person's five-a-day.”

  Regan didn't remember Sheila showing her dark humour in the past but found himself relieved when she did. It felt like a long time since he had last laughed.

  “And the little one?”

  “She's a tough cookie,” she replied, and followed his own glance to the little girl.

  Regan caught something in the nurse’s eyes at that moment – affection, maternal instinct. He didn’t know Sheila’s status; if she was dating anyone. She had barely shifted gear from her teens, which didn't necessarily mean that she was without a partner, but his own experience suggested that her generation were becoming pickier. In less of a hurry to commit. Regan had noticed the trend in his three decades in the priesthood. Wedding vows shared much later, normally after the co-habiting phase, still a contentious point from some stalwarts in the ministry who refused to conform to societal shifts. Regan officiated over weddings of men and women whose ages gradually crept upward, enjoying their freedom of choice. As he watched Sheila’s wistful smile and the concern in her stare, he imagined that she would make a good mother someday.

  “One other thing, while I have you.”

  “Sure,” she said, suddenly breaking free from the spell the little girl had inadvertently cast. Regan pulled the little tub of pills from his breast pocket and gave it to her. She read the label and looked blankly into his face.

  “Can you tell me what exactly these are?” Regan said.

  “You were given a prescription and don't know what the pills are for?”

  “No. Not exactly. Just humour me.”

  “Maybe it's for your eye,” she said and pointed at his face as if he needed guidance where his eyes were.

  The sting and tears had abated but they still felt puffy, Regan thought and suddenly grew concerned that he had done some irreparable damage.

  “No. My eyes are fine,” he said, blinking wildly which only brought the nurse’s attention closer. “Just poked myself with a finger during sleep.”