Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  “Who couldn’t have done it?”

  “Lewis. He didn’t kill himself,” she said and took a deep breath which made her swollen bump extend to the edge of the table. “He was too chickenshit.”

  Regan, careful not to come on too strong, edged his seat closer to the table. The children seemed to have ceased their own games for the moment, a heaviness hanging in the air which seemed to bewitch the woman.

  “You don’t think he did it?” The woman shook her head softly, eyes still latched onto some distant memory or a vision which Regan was keen to explore. “Who did it?”

  Louise blinked. A tremor in her thoughts that gifted her back to reality. Not fully restored, her body remained locked in this trance state, but seemingly more aware of her surroundings – a woman with nothing left to lose.

  “They said they’d take my babies if I said. Lewis was only trying to stop them.”

  The excitement that leapt in Regan’s chest implored he extract the truth from the woman, eager to discover the murky secrets that Ballygorm had been hiding; the truth behind the suicide which until now, only he had questioned. On hearing the widow’s suspicions, it bolstered his own conviction, giving flight to his optimism that the murderers would soon be brought to justice.

  “Louise, if you know something, you need to speak up. You need to call the police.”

  What spell she was under was suddenly broken. She looked around the room, panic in her face before struggling off her seat, using the chair as a prop.

  “Matthew. Matthew! Where are you? Sam? Sam!”

  “It’s OK,” Regan said, rushing to her side and taking her by the arm. “They’re fine. They’re just playing.”

  Louise tore her arm out of the reach of the priest and moved to the hallway, shouting the children’s names again. Regan rushed out and saw the kids coming down the stairs, looking between their mother’s faces and his with a curious expression.

  “Down now,” she commanded. The children descended and moved to their mother’s outstretched hands. She held them both tight against her waist, running her hands through their hair, squeezing them close for comfort.

  “Louise, I- “

  “I think you should go father,” she said without looking at him.

  “I don’t think- “

  “Go!” she shouted. The little girl clasped her hands to her ears and looked up at Regan, frightened. The boy was eyeing him suspiciously, sharing a scared look but seemed ready to leap out if the priest went near them. Regan wasn’t willing to push the issue any further.

  “I’ll go. But,” he said and stopped in the doorway, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  The woman had her back turned to him, her eyes were the children’s. They seemed a little less fearful now that he was almost outside. The little girl raised her hand and waved goodbye. Regan hoped for their sake that the worst was over. Intuition told him otherwise.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  A private audience with the Pope wouldn't keep Regan captive in his home, and he bundled together a few fresh clothes and toiletries, throwing it into a sports gym bag which looked as new as the day he had bought it a year earlier. In a bedside drawer, he pulled out the charger for the remote device and planted it in a side pocket. Five minutes after he first entered, he was gone again speeding off in his little Godpod.

  Maggie Boyd's note was still lodged in his mind. Don’t Believe Them. Taking the precaution, he decided to check into a modest B&B in the town of Reamcastle, taking off his clerical collar lest there be any questions. It wasn't his Parish and he doubted that the owner would recognise him and that turned out to be the case. The small room was modest, the bed inviting him to soothe his crooked back but he resisted and plugged the device into the power socket. A call came through on his mobile phone. He was running late for the diocese meeting, one of the priests calling to see if everything was alright. He assured them he would be there shortly and quickly hung up. After several borrowed minutes of waiting, the LED’s of the device failed to flicker.

  Cursing it, his frustration not quite boiling over to a point where he would physically damage it, Regan let it sit and charge, offering a silent prayer that the battery would restore by the time he returned. Leaving the room, he locked it behind and slipped the key into his pocket, the oversized wooden tag in his pocket jostling for position against his mobile phone.

  “Leaving already?” said the owner, a tired looking man in his fifties who seemed put out by the appearance of a customer.

  His paintbrush moustache hid his upper lip giving the impression that a ventriloquist had mouthed the words.

  “Back in two hours,” Regan said, making his way to the door.

  “Front door closes at 10pm.”

  The man’s voice was stretched and soft as if the sounds leaked from his body. His reluctance to make eye contact made Regan question whether he was simply mumbling to himself or actually making conversation. Glancing at his watch, the priest saw that the time was now 10.45am.

  “I'll be back before 10pm, don't worry about that.”

  “10pm is the time that we close the door,” repeated the man. “No guests are allowed, no parties or alcohol allowed on the premises.”

  Were it not for the sober, serious expression on the man's face who seemed to be reading the sacred rules off the floor, Regan would have thought he was joking. His smile went unheeded and he agreed on the terms, leaving the man behind, standing in a pool of mumbles.

  Normally Regan welcomed the chance to meet other Parish priests, catch up and discuss various initiatives in their own community, sharing ideas on how to speak to the younger generation, consolidating their online presence. Regan was typically their go-to for tech-related ventures, not because he was one of the younger flock, other priests younger than he but green around the gills were unwilling to be burdened with the responsibility. Regan had created a Facebook page for Ballygorm Church, enabling a chat portal for members of the community to talk online from a comfortable, secure location in private with the priest.

  The other clergymen were amazed at the ingenuity and simplicity of an online confessional and held him in awe since he had mentioned the idea a year earlier. Little did they know that he had disabled the account soon after, drunken abusive messages had become par for the course, fake profiles created specifically to proffer filth, and sordid images had rendered it unusable until finally the priest took the site down completely.

  Sitting at the Diocesan meeting his peers joined in a debate about the idea of making videos to demystify and explain the mysteries of the Church, but Regan wouldn't bite, impatient with thoughts of what his recording device had collected and if it had sparked to life again in his absence.

  “Look around you Michael. On the TV you see vampires and wizards and all sorts of fantastical, magical, seductive and dare I say it, dark elements that we need to fight against. The younger generation seem to hoover it up. They don't understand the hidden meaning. In a few months’ time, you'll see them in the front row of your Church playing with the latest toy, a knife-carrying and bloodied doll from their latest favourite Horror movie.”

  “Kids will be kids, Sean,” responded the man softly before being shouted down by the other priests. He teased his fingers through his thin white hair before raising a hand to declare he hadn't finished. “In our day, we were still exposed to those dark influences and we turned out alright.”

  “Speak for yourself!” said one of the younger priests bringing a round of laughter. “I didn't know you could be offended by cave drawings back in those days Willie!”

  “Life was much simpler back then I assure you. You can have your Playbox and your Apple Pods!” replied the older priest and smiled. “What do you think Fr Regan?”

  Regan had been lost in his thoughts and looked at the expectant faces around the table. Mildly aware of the conversation topic, he remained diplomatic and weighed in on the side of the older priest whose experience indicated was usually right in his rationale.
/>   “I think Willie's right.”

  “You don't think there's a danger to the youth of today? Their Gods are the latest pop star superstar. Those old enough to work, worship money, or fame or sporting achievement and success. You can't say that their upbringing plays no part in how they turn out?”

  Regan thought this over, glad that he hadn't shown his cards yet and appreciated the priest’s short summary.

  “I believe in freedom of choice. When we're older we leave behind our dolls, and our Xboxes, well most of us anyway!” Regan said and directed the joke toward the youngest of the priests who took it in good jest. “Getting back to the point - reaching out to this younger audience, breaking through the layers of conditioning, how do we make it so that Catholicism is...”

  “Sexy?”

  “The new rock and roll?”

  The remarks brought more laughter until one of the priests, in all seriousness, looked into the air and plucked the answer.

  “… relevant.”

  “That's the million-dollar question but I think it starts with grassroots. Meeting them in the places they visit whether it be online or on the ground. Not shoving the message down their throats. You're right in some respects,” Regan said and looked into each of their faces. “We face a very real and present danger. I'm sure my Parish isn't the only one to have dropped in numbers and collection in the last year.”

  Each priest nodded gravely at this undisputed fact, smiles sloping off their faces with the sudden mood in the room becoming heavier with each word from Regan.

  “What do you suggest we do?” asked the older priest, deferring his own experience and wizened years to table the question in Regan's direction.

  “The same thing you'd do if a serpent had slithered its way into your safe and warm house. Chop off its head.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Regan was almost at the bungalow residence when the call came through. He flicked it to loudspeaker, quickly guzzled the remnants of an energy drink and replaced it in the cup holder with his phone, throwing another empty tin soldier to the silver cemetery on the passenger seat floor.

  “Can you hear me now father?”

  “Loud and clear Sheila. How is Bernie today?”

  “Improving. Flicking in and out of consciousness but getting stronger. Pulse is good and breathing on her own now.”

  “Excellent. I'll pop in later.”

  “No need. She needs her rest. I'll let you know when she wakes and can take in visitors.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  The driveway was short but made longer with the dazzling array of colours and shrubs that welcomed the driver to slow down and breathe in a lungful of the soft scented air. The car pulled to a stop outside the little brick house, parking beside the owner’s car. Regan had driven at a speed that was in equal measures uncomfortable yet exhilarating until the sudden rattling of a car body part prompted him to drop to a more modest speed.

  What the bed and breakfast lacked in size, it certainly made up for in colour, lacquered wooden doors and frames freshly waxed and reflecting the sun’s rays. The orange brick facade lined the lower part of the house, and a whitewashed wall shone bright, dotted with hanging flower baskets, a multitude of colours that suddenly made the priest think of the bag of jelly beans he once enjoyed as a child. The grey slate roof was flawless and free of lichen, moss or any stubborn plant infestation.

  “One other thing father,” the voice said. He had assumed the conversation was over.

  “Go on Sheila.”

  “Those pills? Who prescribed those to you?”

  “Dr. Woodhead in Ballygorm. Why?”

  “They've not been in circulation for years now.”

  “What do you mean?” Regan asked, sitting up in his seat and staring through the window screen at the picture-perfect postcard image of the building ahead.

  “Thorazamide was basically proven to have little positive effect. About as useful as a placebo in fact. I did some digging here and it was basically taken off the market. Did you get these in a pharmacy?”

  “No. He had some in the clinic. Didn’t write up a prescription for them,” Regan said. “Sheila, so let me see if I have this right. If it was a placebo, then it didn't cure any of the illnesses.”

  “That's right. Between you and me, a big portion of what you'll be prescribed isn't going to cure you, but your belief that it will is probably responsible for your cure. But that's not why it was taken off the market.”

  The owner of the B&B walked into view, appearing in the big open window that looked into the living room. He seemed to detect Regan's scent. The man spun around and saw the car, gluing his face tight to the window and peering out caught the priest’s eye, quickly shuffling out of view again. Regan remembered the smiling face of the doctor when he had visited him with the induced symptoms of the flu.

  “Go ahead Sheila. I'm listening.” He had lifted the phone from its holder and cradled it in his lap.

  “It causes....” The sound of a rustling sheet on the other end of the line.

  “You there?”

  “Just finding the spot. There. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Regan said. The woman's voice had an echo quality obviously from enabling loudspeaker mode.

  “It's been known to cause ... paranoia, depression, acute anxiety, tiredness, fatigue, mood swings ... the list goes on father.”

  “Good God.”

  “Are you sure it was Dr. Woodhead father? He doesn't strike me as incompetent. Maybe you found an old collection?”

  “Look at the date.” She did and was moved to silence.

  “Something needs to be done in that case. I'll inform...”

  “No. Please. Let me take care of it.”

  “But father...?”

  “Please Sheila. Give me a couple of days. I'll pop in with you tomorrow and we can talk about it.”

  Regan disconnected the call and stepped through the open doors of the B&B, unable to contain his excitement and burst into a jog. He headed straight to his bedroom door which he unlocked, entered and locked behind him. The relief was palpable as he saw the portable device. It had four green lights which meant it was fully charged. He unplugged the cord and lay on the bed in silence. A little dial indicated hour marks and he turned it to the very beginning, which would have been shortly after 1am, watching the little volume bar of the recorded audio blink yellow, just collecting the static background noise.

  Urging the colour to slide right to red, catching something more than the still silence of the room Regan scrolled the dial forward a millimetre, the same noise reverberated, filling his rented room with its shrill pitch. He rested it on his stomach and closed his eyes, wondering if he had missed the opportune moment to record the audio, arriving at the little knoll and dreading the possibility that the building with a lit window was simply a forgotten item on a long list of many items on the daily checklist of life on a farm.

  Suddenly he could hear a door open, and looked across his chest anticipating that it was his own but finding it still closed. Dampened footsteps were heard clearly now and Regan sat up so quickly the device nearly leapt from his chest.

  Voices that he strained to hear. Two men. The exchange was brief. One of them was shouting at the other and there was a commotion with the sudden clutter of equipment as if a scuffle had just occurred. Whatever had happened, it brought the noises closer to the microphone and as Regan listened, he could distinctly make out the familiar voices. Their words seemed to speak with finality and purpose before the door slammed behind them. Regan sat open mouthed as the static returned and considered the words he had just heard looking for any other meaning but finding none.

  Human Sacrifice. Tonight.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The dark thoughts plagued her evening shift. Had there been someone else there to share the night duty, she might very well have shared her confusion at the apparent medical malpractice of Dr. Woodhead.

  But she had to be conten
t with tossing the question around in her mind a little further at least until Fr Regan arrived the following day.

  The ward was full but quiet. Some of the patients bedding down for the night, taking the early, rare silence as a chance to drift off to sleep. The private room to her right and further down the hallway was occupied again. Freshly made sheets and a dusting down opened it up and the first taker was now relaxing soundly.

  Bernie Cameron was flanked that evening by her young daughter, who was up way beyond her bedtime on a school night and by her old, doting mother. The woman was quiet and smiled despite her obvious distress at her daughter’s condition, lucky to be alive. Life went on of course in the ward, and Sheila wondered if the patients had any idea of the history of the rooms that they had occupied, the final resting point where their soul left their bodies to go...well, she wasn't sure. The thought of hundreds of bodiless souls floating around the corridors of the ward at night suddenly gave her the jitters and she reached for the hot coffee to warm her chills.

  Suddenly, from the room, she heard a commotion. As she looked up, Bernie’s old mother slid around the door, panting and crying out her name.

  Sheila stood and saw the pained expression on the approaching woman's face and ran to close the distance between them should she cause herself an injury. The old woman practically fell into her outstretched arms, a bag of bones, and looked up into the young nurse's face and smiled.

  “She woke up. She's OK!”

  The grandmother was now dragging Sheila down the hallway, a bony hand fastened around her wrist. The grip tightened as they approached the door until they entered and both looked to the big sleeping woman on the bed, the eyes puffed over to show slits for eyes. The little girl dressed in school uniform, her little charcoal skirt and navy blue jumper, still stood by her mother’s side and watched them in the doorway silently.