Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  The answer seemed to satisfy her and she lifted the container up to catch the overhead light and read aloud the medication.

  “Thorazamide. Can't say I'm familiar with it, father. But I'll ask around and see if anyone knows. You sure you're alright?”

  “Fine. That would be great if you could. You can keep the container.”

  “You sure?”

  Regan suddenly was reminded of something that Louise Tighe had said to him on the day of her husband’s funeral; “It's pills not prayers that I want.”

  Regan looked at Sheila: “Absolutely. Never felt better.”

  “OK. Let me get back to you in that case. But on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Who was that girl from last week and what did she want?”

  The image of Maggie Boyd jumped into his vision. The nurse was smiling at him and tapping the medication bottle with a fingernail. He shook his head and breathed a heavy sigh and smiled.

  “Come on then. Let me buy you a coffee.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Sometimes village life felt like living in a snow globe and he forgot that fact. It wasn’t protected by a glass dome but the community applied its own subtle pressures preserving its own identity and building invisible borders that marked its territory, defined its people.

  So it shouldn't have been a surprise that when Regan revealed the identity of the woman, that the name wasn't unfamiliar to the nurse.

  “She took lumps out of my friend a couple weeks ago.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Why do you think? Over a man.”

  “Lewis Tighe?”

  “Yeah. My friend, who shall remain nameless, used to work with Lewis. Anyway, they got close even though she knew he was married. One thing led to another and soon they were making weekly trips to a hotel in Shaysburg.”

  Regan took a sip of his coffee, its surface all froth and cream and unable to find any liquid as he raised it. He parked it back down and stirred its top which levelled the full cup to a half one.

  “Where does Maggie Boyd fit into this?”

  “He upgraded I guess. Saw a younger, fitter model to take for a ride. Their hotel visits became less and less and my friend, like a typical redhead, all fire and brimstone, started staking him out.”

  “And that’s when they came to blows?”

  “Exactly. She saw them. Going to the same hotel that they had been going to for months.”

  “What happened?”

  The nurse hadn’t yet touched her own coffee. It was still sitting on the saucer and she fidgeted with the handle turning it this way and that as if she was placing a football for a penalty kick.

  “Lewis was caught and he froze on the spot. The woman – who we now know was Maggie - jumped my friend. Pinned her to the ground and started raining blows down on her with her shoe and fist. Lewis eventually pulled her off and ran inside the hotel with her. He must have been worried that someone in the street would have called the police.”

  Regan remembered the woman from the choir. Fiona. Hers was a heavily made-up face and he suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for her. Those thoughts continued to pester him long after he had said goodbye to Sheila and left the hospital.

  He was back in the car again and slid his shirtsleeves up, an arm hung out the window, thankful for the fresh air.

  The little sign welcoming him to Ballygorm shot past, but he slowed his speed as the long plain fields of Boyd's farm, lush and green appeared under the visor which shielded his sensitive eyes. As the car steadily approached, Regan looked out the side window and could see the figure of Joe Boyd in the courtyard, carrying a bucket in either hand. Beyond, the colourful print of his wife’s dress appeared against the backdrop of the grey facade of the building. She was balancing on a step ladder and was leaning into a colourful hanging basket, tipping a watering can there.

  Regan beeped his horn and raised his hand, but neither of the couple responded. He couldn't see the entry of the back building from the car but didn't doubt that it had remained unopened since the previous morning.

  In three short minutes, he drove the length of the main road without seeing a soul. Most of the villagers at school or at work. Regan pulled up onto the kerb and came to a stop outside the police station.

  He stopped short of locking the door as he climbed out, almost daring someone to do him the honour of stealing it, and pushed the heavy entry door to the station. It was a small room, a line of three plastic seats opposite a front desk. Their orange surface was pockmarked with cigarette burns, gum knotted under the curved metal that framed the back rest. Seeing no sign of anyone, Regan resisted the idea of taking a chair and moved to the cork noticeboard, fixed to the wall.

  A Community Watch notice pinned dead centre caught his eye. The image showed a smiling family huddled around the television. A tanned man with impossibly white teeth and a woman, presumably his wife, young and beautiful tousling the hair of two young children, all smiles and freckles. They were the type that only ever existed on a photo album template or some rogue popup ad promising a revolutionary vitality pill to restore balance to a stressful lifestyle. Unbeknownst to the group, a window in the background showed a dark silhouette, hands stretched out and pressing against the pane of glass, peering into the living room.

  Regan read the lettering that accompanied the image at the bottom.

  Suspicious Activity? Call the Ballygorm Hotline 24/7.

  The bottom of the card once had a row of piano key stubs but they had since been ripped off. One lone stub remained, a downturned middle finger containing a mobile number and Regan plucked it off.

  “We don’t be needing any prank calls now. I know your kind father.”

  Regan hadn't heard the door open beyond the front desk enclosure. When the priest turned, he saw the man studying him, a forkful of spaghetti noodles hovered just short of his gaping mouth. He chowed down on it, a satisfied sound escaping his closed mouth.

  “You have no worries about that.”

  “Glad to hear it. Getting all sorts of gobshites calling. Think it’s some kinda sex chat number. Told Mooney it would be a bad idea to give out a mobile number. His way of thinking that people are more comfortable texting us than calling.”

  “But you don’t agree.”

  “No. Course not. Don’t have the time for text. Especially when I’m the one managing the phone. No time to wipe my own arse these days. What can I do you for father?”

  “Is Tommy in?”

  “Not today Josephine. I got lumbered with minding things around here while the sun splits the stones outside.”

  He speared the fork into the apex of the thick steaming noodle hill. “I'm Officer Chambers. Friends call me Steady.”

  Regan watched as the man hoovered up the long noodles, splashing the red Bolognese sauce on his cheeks in the process. He made no attempt to hide his lack of table manners and seemed oblivious to the smear that reddened his face. As he bent down, attention completely fixed on his plate, Regan could see that the man's hair was waxed and patchy in places, thickening into crowned spikes where the density was just enough. He recognised him as the drunken man in the company of Docherty the night of the fundraiser.

  “Nice?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The man approved and came back up for breath again, raising a hand palm and flapping it against his open mouth like a Navajo Indian. “Hot hot!”

  Instead of seeking water, Chambers instead swallowed the contents of his mouth, clearly hoping that the necessary cool juices of his throat and stomach would dampen the heat. His fists were pumped and eyes closed as Regan watched the reaction in curious fascination, seeing his body jerk under the intensity until the bolus of food must have reached its final destination and his eyes opened again.

  “Phew. That was a close one! Damn hot those chillies. Bring on a serious sweat I tell ye!”

  The plate was almost clean and Regan wouldn't have been surprised it the officer had raised it and began licking it lik
e a cat, but he didn't and instead set it down at a hidden lower level out of sight. His tongue managed as best it could to lick around the rim of his mouth but came up short and, using a sweaty palm, he wiped his face clean and spread what he found on his navy hip pocket.

  “Nothing like a good feed to kill a hangover.”

  “Still hungover from Saturday?”

  “Christ! Were you there?”

  Regan smiled and it drew Chambers up taller like a puppeteer pulling on strings. He drummed on his swollen belly.

  “Not as young as I used to be. Takes at least a couple days to come round. Get the right food in me and I'm right as rain. None of your processed crap.”

  “A big fry-up normally does it for me,” Regan said.

  “Eughh!” Chambers stuck out his tongue which was either red from the sauce or was swollen and pulsed from the food that had tiptoed there on its way to the furnace. “Too heavy. Carbs are for the serious athletes, father. We do a lot of walking on this job and we need to keep our energy levels up. Anyway, all this talk of food is making me think of dessert.”

  “No problem. I'll be on my way. I just wanted to see if there were any leads on Bernie Cameron from last night?”

  “You trying to do our job for us now?” he said and gave an exaggerated suspicious side glance to the priest.

  “Not at all!” Regan smiled. “I just came from the hospital and it looks like she'll pull through. Terrible thing.”

  “Terrible,” Chambers echoed. “Don't worry. We'll find the bastard. You can be rest assured of that. Now unless you want to help wash my dishes you can clear off!”

  Regan saw the smile tease at the officers face and felt he had the measure of the man and laughed at his sudden mock explosion of anger. Anger that could be easily misinterpreted or hinted at something deeper if he was drunk perhaps. Had Docherty not scrambled to pick him up off the floor when he did on Saturday night, Regan felt sure that Chambers was going to go for the man who had caused him to trip forward onto his knees in the bar.

  But smiling at the good humour Regan said goodbye and returned to his car. The first seeds of a plan had begun to germinate but his next move needed to be carefully orchestrated. If the bible through his window was meant to scare him off the trail, it didn’t. In some ways, it corroborated his investigation; that the clues he was collecting were beginning to form a coherent pattern, one that made him optimistic that soon he would find the end of the narrative. Although the rapid beat of his heart suggested there were more twists and turns in the tale to come.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Thomas Docherty Senior was around the same age as the priest, but the similarities ended there. Like many athletes of yesteryear, he still carried the same springy nervous energy, an energy once easily expended on the hurling pitch but in later years found course with DIY and gardening chores. From Regan's position, the man's frame still seemed fit for battle, on bended knee and face obscured by a rose bush. The T-Shirt was cut at the bicep which, while not exactly pumped, was slightly deflated due to age. It gave way to long, wiry forearms that rippled under the strain of digging into the soil with a hand shovel.

  The little semi-detached property was on one of the more upmarket estates in Ballygorm, with the houses decked in lush browns and creams, with little garages alongside that could just about fit one car. A curved dotted line of parked cars nestled neatly up on the kerb a door swing from the walled perimeter of the estate; second and third vehicles for the privileged few who had no space on their driveway. Some made the space of course, choosing to tear up their square lawns and replacing them with tarmac. Typically, they belonged to childless couples who commuted to the town and hadn't stroked the bark of a tree trunk in their young lives.

  Not the Docherty household though. Their garden was the pick of the estate, due to the diligence and attention paid by the amateur gardener of the house. Apart from a thatched head of grey hair, the only other indication that the man was, in fact, older than his own son came from an extended belly evident as a little paunch when he sat on his haunches and wiped the sweat off his head with a thick arm. Hearing a car door shut, he looked across the cut lawn and saw in the driveway a figure approach, casting a shadow in the falling sun.

  “Lovely day for it Thomas.”

  “'Tis father. It sure is,” the man said, and promptly hopped to his feet, removing the muddy latex gloves and took the priests hand.

  The sweaty shake carried the same signature grip as his son, falling just short of top spot on the leader board of finger bones audibly cracking. Regan had long since determined that country folk don’t do limp handshakes. When he had recovered his hand they started a conversation about the success of the Under 15 minor hurling team.

  Regan often attended matches on cold wintry evenings and could hold his own with most local experts. That being said, five minutes after Regan had raised the topic of hurling with Doc Senior, he found that he was soon completely lost, the man discussing players and performances that weren't on Regan's cheat sheet. Nodding dumbly, he laughed when Doc laughed, shook his head vehemently when Doc shook his, repeating or emphasising the man's laboured point with a choice adjective that seemed to summarise it succinctly.

  Like a musical box, Regan had wound it up and watched the figure perform pirouettes using animated gestures until the priest, through no fault of his own, decided that it no longer interested him and the figurine eventually slowed before stopping altogether.

  “Tommy around?”

  “No,” Doc Senior answered, breaking the sudden lull in the conversation. “Training tonight again.”

  “That's commitment for you.”

  “’Tis I tell ye. Fierce altogether.”

  “How's her good self?” Regan used the term when he had forgotten a spouse’s name.

  “Grand grand. Doting on wee Lambchop. Was Tommy telling ye?” The man's wide smile showed the front tooth to be a shade lighter than the rest. An implant to replace what was probably a casualty of war from decades earlier. “Come on, I'll introduce you.”

  Regan followed him around the front of the house and along the driveway until they reached the garage. The man twisted the handle in the middle of the door and with his other hand pushed the top part of the garage door back and away from his body. Stepping back, he pulled the raised bottom half up until the latch caught it and slid it smoothly above their heads and into the garage.

  “There,” he said and pointed. Docherty flicked a switch on the side wall and Regan could see a curious head pop up between two mesh fence posts and look at them sideways. “Isn't it the cutest wee creature?”

  The garage was barely twenty square feet. There was a side window but it was away from the natural path of the sun and it was only the open door that offered any real sunlight into the enclosure.

  “I know what you're thinking,” Docherty said, noticing the worried expression on the priest’s face. “We don't keep her here all the time. Paula and I take turns to take her out to the fields at the back and let her run around to her heart’s content.”

  “You're right. I was thinking that!”

  “Not easy to do though. Bloody thing hayny learnt its name yet and just sits, starin’ like a dope when we call it. Tell ye it's like a different lamb sometimes.”

  “How long have you had it now?”

  “Couple months. We feed it and look after it as best we can. Wee Tommy is like a mother to it. Did he tell you it follows him ‘round the house?”

  “Yeah, he mentioned that,” Regan said and smiled. “Listen, I'll have to get going Thomas. Lovely chatting.”

  “Nay bother father. Look after yourself. I'll tell Tommy you were around.”

  Regan was already across the lawn reaching for the little iron wrought gate. It swung easily in his hand creaking on a hinge that had seen better days and carefully made sure it had closed again. The face of the lamb had reminded him of the symbol in the barn, the narrow face which ended in a snout, two floppy ears which filled th
e side triangles of the pentagram. As he started the car, he guided it carefully down along the narrow corridor of stationary vehicles until there was one at the back which caught his eye.

  The man in the driver’s seat was in discussion with the passenger. The woman was smiling and tossed her hair as the man's hand reached up past her exposed neck and slid his fingers through her hair, tugging gently which made the woman’s smile flash wider. Her struggle seemed playful as if she was being coquettish in the circumstances which seemed to spur the man further.

  Regan's car had by this point crawled to a stop in the centre of the road and was staring at the familiar couple. As the pair continued to frolic in the front seats of their car, Regan watched the impossibly long smile of the man arc wider. His mind flashed back to the confessional box and the description from Doe. He pulled the car to the kerb and turned off the ignition. Taking a deep breath, he left its relative safety and approached Coroner Cleverley and Louise Tighe.

  FORTY-NINE

  Cleverley's smile marked his life in more ways than one. The pale slope that arced away from the corner of a small mouth had over the years faded in its intensity. Reflecting back at him, the daily reminder had at various stages of his life been a source of embarrassment, ridicule and in later years’ conversation starter which he could use in attracting the opposite sex.

  His childhood wasn't markedly different from the average. Exploring the vast fields that surrounded his village. Searching for secret hideaways where adults couldn't fit, whether it be high above in tree tops or dumping holes; the toxic sludge fumes leaked from the half hidden barrels and made his friends swoon like his parents after a few drinks. His voyage into uncharted territory continued into the summer months and final year at the primary school.

  He recruited classmates for company and soon his little band of adventurers had grown to four, bonded together by their odd shapes and sizes and reluctance to participate in the primary extra-curricular activity sport of hurling. Cleverley was smaller than most boys his age and was often chided for that fact by his peers. Lewis Tighe, for example, was a hop higher than he, not that the young boy did much jumping in those days, being almost as wide as he was tall.