Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  When they entered, Regan hit the light switch and they looked at the bed. The priest approached it and bent down to the slot which had punctured the sheet, pushing his finger through to the other side as if to confirm its authenticity. Pulling the white cover back, Chambers saw the long bundled shape of clothes and pillows that had hidden below it. A rumble like thunder suddenly picked his ears and became sharper as Regan pulled from underneath the pile a digital recorder and hit the stop button.

  “Well, suck me sideways,” said Chambers who was smiling at the priest in new-found admiration.

  ***

  They were back in the car again on route to Chambers home on the outskirts. Not taking no for an answer, the officer insisted that the priest stay with him for at least the night.

  Tomorrow would bring with it a sweep of the building but only after they had gotten some sleep. Chambers was still annoyed that they didn't get a look at the hooded figure and was even more disappointed that they couldn't catch him when they pulled into the car park.

  As the car banked around familiar bends and rolling hills towards the edge of the city, Regan spoke.

  “Quick toilet stop if that's OK?”

  “You were only in your house a few minutes ago! You think he planted a cobra in the shitter to bite off your wang?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, didn't think. Can you pull up here?”

  “Jeez. If you gotta go you gotta go, I guess.”

  The car pulled up alongside the edge of the country road, bobbing onto a grass bank. When it had stopped, the priest opened the door and walked back through the darkness in the direction they had come.

  “You gonna take a slash or not?” Chambers shouted out into the darkness through the opened car wing.

  “Stage Fright. Back in two,” he shouted back, making the officer curse and mumble expletives below his breath before he reached across and closed the door.

  His bad humour was softened when powering up the radio, he heard the tail end of the Love Zone. As the dulcet velvet tones of Marvin Gaye sighed from the speaker he had soon forgotten his own impatience cranking up the volume until even Regan, who at that moment was scaling a barbed wire fence and making a beeline to Joe Boyd's farm, could hear it above the whistling wind.

  As the priest ran to the small hill he could see a bright window appear on the horizon which quickened his step. He almost tripped in his own enthusiasm when he realised which building it belonged. Like a lighthouse that guided him across the stormy winds and open plain this was no beacon of safety and as his sea legs began to wilt under him, he pulled the remote device from his pocket and hit the switch.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Regan woke to find the curious moon face of a child standing over him, observing the strange man on the settee. Rumbled, the child quickly ran away and he heard her little feet slap on the carpet of the hallway. Her giggles stopped suddenly on entering the kitchen where the priest heard Chambers’ voice.

  The heavy curtains across the window hid the time, the room as dark as it was when he set his head down on the settee armrest. It was either really early or really late, Regan thought and picking his watch up from the floor beside him saw that is was really early. Emerging from covers which seemed intent to tie him in a knot, he rose and unkinked his back slowly. His spinal column seemed to pop along its entire length like a chain of firecrackers which sounded neither healthy or normal. Rising, a little painfully, he pulled the curtains open ever so slightly, allowing enough light to see the interior of the room but not so much to shock his eyes. Still dressed from the night before, he padded in his socks to the kitchen.

  “Fresh outta Ulster fry. Got you something much healthier for breakfast.”

  Regan reached out and took the ceramic bowl from Officer Chambers. The man was shirtless and wearing loosely fitting boxer underwear, entirely comfortable in the presence of guests. When he turned around and picked up the child who was hiding behind him staring at the priest, Regan almost dropped the bowl. The man had a hairy ginger chest that looked like it was on fire, but the back was even more densely packed, reaching right up and around his shoulders. Ripping his eyes from the man, who seemed like the magical missing link between human and ape, Regan looked down into the bowl searching for rogue hairs but found none. His sudden unease didn't quell his appetite and he picked up the spoon and feasted where he stood.

  “Is it obvious my wife does the cooking?” Chambers said picking his child up off the floor and holding her head close to his chest.

  The poor girl struggled against the sudden offensive crawl of hairs tickling against her face and tried to unstick herself. The officer was oblivious to this fact and confused the girl’s very real discomfort as a sudden shyness in front of the priest or unwillingness to accept a daddy’s hug, so he held her closer until her head stuck like Velcro to his forest of hair, nose buried deep.

  “What's the plan of action today Sherlock?”

  Regan smiled and offered him the empty bowl. Chambers took it and created an opening which his daughter took, suddenly sliding off his body before he had an opportunity to stabilise his grip.

  “Hey you!” he shouted after her, before turning to the priest and laughing. “Kids.”

  “A lift back home would be great.”

  “Sure. I'll pop around to your house later as well when I'm back on shift. We’ll do a sweep of the place. Sleep OK?”

  “Not bad,” Regan said.

  “I tell you. Those energy drinks father. Your bottled piss would be tastier. Probably healthier too. Anyway, let's go before the rest of the house wakes up. You don't want to be around when the other sprog wakes up. She's got a wail that could wake the dead.”

  ***

  Regan wasted little time. As soon as Chambers was out of sight, the priest got back in his car and drove out to Joe Boyd's farm. Pulling the car onto the gravel yard, he was surprised to see no sign of the farmer. Leaving the car, he walked to an open barnyard door where he was in no doubt that the man would be catering to the various animals’ breakfast needs. Instead, in the place of the stooped figure of the man he saw Evie Boyd who struggled to carry the big meal bag to each pen.

  From across the other side of the barn, she gave a wave to confirm that she'd seen him and would be finished soon. Regan felt guilty watching the thin woman carry the weight and paced over to her and offered help, which she gratefully accepted. Deceptively heavy in their hands, they managed to stagger and slide the bag along the straw surface of the floor, load lessening with each scoop of the oatmeal into the empty troughs of the pigs.

  “Thanks father,” she said when they had completed the feed. “Not easy is it!”

  “Not at all.”

  Regan was doused with sweat and coupled with the bone-breaking sleep felt nothing like his best self. On the contrary, Evie Boyd, despite having lumbered the best part of the weight and clearly in possession of more strength than her diminutive size suggested, appeared to glow with energy, the light film of sweat seeming to magnify a beauty that the priest hadn't recognised before.

  Dressed down in paint splattered clothes which she was willing to ruin for the farm chores, the woman suddenly unburdened had a delicate poise and grace, light-footed and soft in her movements with a form that reminded Regan of a theatre performer or a dancer.

  As these thoughts flitted through his mind she looked up at him and smiled. He had been watching her and as if his thoughts had been telecast, found himself blush like a schoolboy who had been caught looking down the teacher’s top, turning away with a shy awkwardness he hadn't felt in decades.

  She was not without her faults if they could be described as such. Regan pinned the woman's age at late forties, and while her body would shame women half her age, the visible signs of maturity showed in her hair, a few grey strands weaved through the tight helmet of black, scooped into a tight ponytail at the back. The hair was scraped back so tightly it seemed to vanish any wrinkles from her forehead, although God's scalpel might have helped in tha
t respect, he thought and decided whatever routine the woman used, it was certainly working.

  “You’re looking very well Evie,” Regan said.

  It was the woman’s turn to blush. The touch of rouge to her cheeks seemed to magnify her beauty further, a melting smile and twinkling eye that seemed to infect not only the priest but the animals around her. They were boisterous and the grunting contest was being won by a hungry boar on their right that was slamming its body against the iron gate. The woman bent down and scratched a shrub of hair on its forehead that instantly settled it.

  “Thanks,” she said and smiled. “You too. Look like you’ve lost weight.”

  Regan nodded, proud and traced a thumb along the circumference of his waist.

  “Thanks. Joe not around today?”

  “He's in the house father. Coming down with flu I think. At least the first stages.”

  “Nothing too serious I hope?”

  “Probably not. But can't take any chances. Can't very well run this place myself!” she said and smiled, flashing teeth that looked like they had been hired from a TV toothpaste commercial.

  “Anything I can pick up for him in the village?”

  “No. He's fine. I've been to the doctor's already to get something. Bedrest and feet up is what he probably needs more than anything. He's been working himself into a stew lately. It’ll harden him.”

  I wonder if she knows the half of it, Regan wondered and cast his mind back to their conversation in the pub. Not to mention, their discovery of the symbol etched on the ground that although it didn't seem to raise an alarm in Big Joe's head, it certainly raised more than a few for Regan.

  “No problem. Let me know if I can do anything. Give my best to himself.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, one last thing,” Regan said. “Joe said that he had something for me in the outhouse at the back that he wanted me to check. Do you mind if I pop over?”

  “You mean the star?” said the woman and smiled which caught the priest off guard.

  “He mentioned something like that, yeah.”

  “Of course father. Weird thing. Those kids would need to be doing something more productive with their time. Head on up. Doors open,” she said and began rolling up the empty feedbags and stuffing them into one open between her feet.

  Regan left and approached the door, turning around to ensure that he wasn't being watched either from the barn or the house itself. Sure that there were no prying eyes, he entered and slowly stepped onto the centre of the pentagram tattoo and pulled on the light bulb cord.

  It was exactly as he remembered it. He closed the door, swept his foot around the straw floor moving from the star to the outer edges of the room searching for any kind of clue or similar indentation. Listening for footsteps outside on the gravel, he heard none and promptly moved to the column of black buckets still standing in the same position like a Royal Guard defending the symbol, watching closely.

  Regan felt his heart beat as he lifted the top bucket off and peered inside and found the device face down where he had left it. Turning it over in his shaking hand, he saw from the single blinking LED from a line of four that its green glow meant that the power was low, which meant that it had been on all night. When he pressed the play button and held the circular tab that served as a speaker to his ear, the audible crackles that were picked up, quickly died. He looked down at the device in his hand and saw that the LED had expired. Despite that fact, it didn’t cause him too much distress. It had worked. Eight hours of recording and as he pocketed the device, his confidence soared that he was finally one step closer to solving the death of Lewis Tighe.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  On his way back home, patting the instruments on the passenger seat, part confirmation that they were in his possession, part gratitude at what they had captured, Regan glanced at the entrance to the housing estate as he passed. A car at the far end, its occupants scrambling out, a woman and two children, made him slow the car, hit the indicator and impulsively pull the motor into the path that split the small collection of houses in two.

  The woman didn’t notice his vehicle as it pulled tight to the kerb, stopping a few metres from their parked car. She was too busy, pulling grocery bags out of the boot, two young kids, complaining and hanging off her legs as she tried to skirt around them. The children saw him first, unhooked themselves from their mother and came running up to Regan. The heavily pregnant woman almost dropped her bags, watching them run carelessly down the footpath until they met him.

  “Matthew! Samantha! Come here this instant.”

  Regan held out his hands by his side. The boy, no older than four was more street smart than his younger sister and gave the priest a high-five. The little girl repeated the gesture before hiding behind her teddy, unsure if she did the right thing or not.

  “Come here you two!” shouted Louise Tighe, the anger in her voice growing. The children heeded the message this time and came running back to their mother.

  Regan followed, quickened his step when he saw the woman stoop to pick up an orange that had fallen from one of the bags. It was rolling toward the priest and he leaned over a little too enthusiastically, scooping it up with one hand off the floor but almost stumbling over in the easy gesture which was anything but.

  “Morning Louise,” he said and offered her the orange. She took it without looking at him and slid it into the open mouth of one of the loaded plastic bags that was looped around her wrist. “Let me take one of those.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she replied and made to turn but one of the bags slipped off her hand and dangled by one of the handles. The young boy made a dive for it, holding it up at its base until Regan reached and gently took it off her wrist along with a couple of others to lighten her load.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Don’t mention it. Come on kids, help your mammy with this bag will you?” Regan passed one of the lighter bags to the children who took one strap each. The boy made a show of strength lifting it high above his head which disorientated the girl who almost dropped it.

  “Quit your messing Matthew. Father, can you get the door?” Louise passed the key to the priest and moved to the open boot of the car and clapped it shut. When she made her way back, Regan had opened the door, allowing the two children to run inside with the bag.

  “Easy you two!” shouted Louise, but too late as they moved to the back of the house out of earshot. Regan held the door wide and allowed the woman to pass. She gave him a little glance, pausing at the doorway. “Well, are you coming in or what?”

  Ten minutes later when all the bags had been deposited in a corner of the kitchen floor, gifts for the children retrieved first, they unpacked the frozen items and gave them a new home. That’s as far as they got before Louise Tighe decided to suddenly seat herself down at the table, resting her swollen feet and blowing hard with the effort. She was shaking her head, hands underneath her pregnant bump and nodded when Regan suggested a coffee.

  After the kettle had boiled and Regan passed her the mug and sat opposite, they listened to the children, removed to another part of the house, playing and laughing.

  “That must be a nice feeling.”

  Regan looked up from the mug. The woman opposite had a haunting smile on her face and seemed ready to weep. Her voice was low and untroubled as if she was sending her children off to sleep. The cup hadn’t moved from the spot where he had placed it.

  “What must be a nice feeling?”

  Her smile creased before looking across at Regan, eyes wet with grief despite the smile.

  “They’ll probably not even remember their daddy. What on Earth do I tell them?” she said and shook her head. Her hand groped outward for the mug and finally found out. She took a small sip which seemed to clear some of the mist in her eyes.

  “Listen Louise,” Regan said and waited until he had her attention. “Don’t concern yourself with that now. I know these past three weeks have been tough. The hardest part is be
hind you.”

  As if subconsciously, she tapped her swollen belly which drew Regan’s eyes. The little action whether she meant it or not was a reminder that there was still a long road to recovery – a third child, and a birth without a father.

  “I understand that you,” Regan lowered his voice to a whisper, “might need someone. If not to replace Lewis, then to help you through the pain.”

  Regan watched carefully as the woman swallowed hard, pulling her hand away from the mug and cradling her belly again. She shook her head and smiled from the side of her face. A tear dropped from her cheek which she was quick to rub away and gave a little laugh, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Mr. Cleverley seems- “

  “Please, father,” she said and held out a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Regan looked toward the huddle of bags in the corner and saw a box of tissues through the transparent side of one. He walked over and reached in, tearing the cover and handed it to the woman, wiping her face dry.

  They sat in silence, Louise’s muffled cries abating until she had blotted all emotion. The priest’s thoughts began to return to the recording device in his car and found himself suddenly keen to leave and let the woman grieve in peace. Despite this, he remained with her, if not to console with words, but to comfort with his presence. The remaining coffee had become cold in his cup and he swirled it in his hand as if the action could breathe heat into it. Sinking it back in one slug, he parked it down and studied the woman. Her face seemed frozen by the tears, dead eyes staring ahead, light shallow breathing suggesting that she had entered some kind of meditative state or at least had disconnected herself from the scene.

  “He couldn’t have done it.”

  Regan sat up with a start, unsure if he was hearing things or if the words had in fact escaped the closed mouth of the woman. He looked at her, searching for a sign of movement until she repeated the words again.