Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

“She was awake,” protested the older woman. “She sat up. Opened her eyes and looked at us. Was talkin’. Like in trouble. Ain't that right Tanisha?”

  Tanisha Cameron for all her six years on this Earth appeared to be the calmest of them and wrinkled her nose, ignoring the question and continued holding her mother's hand which dwarfed her own.

  “I... I’m sure. I...”

  The old woman seemed to wilt against the door frame and Sheila moved to the little table which had a jug of water and poured a fresh cup for the woman which she accepted, letting it dangle from her hand where the strength had left her.

  “That's OK. Listen, it's already late. Maybe it's best that we call it a night.”

  The woman nodded her head slowly on its thin neck and creased her eyes shut adding a lone wrinkle to her already vast collection. It had been a long day, in fact, a long few days for them and Sheila had hoped for better news tomorrow to raise their spirits. She was about to leave the two alone to say their goodbyes to the sleeping patient when suddenly Tanisha spoke.

  “Who's Tommy Docherty?”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  “Not going to lie to you father, it's hard to believe.”

  Docherty looked at Regan. The two men were lying on their bellies in the tightly cropped field of farmer Joe Boyd. The little hill afforded an excellent view of the courtyard but the officer found that he needed to curl his back and prop his long, lean frame on elbows to prevent his ribcage from pressing against the hard ground.

  “I'm not asking you to believe every bit, but at least keep an open mind, Tommy.”

  “Sure,” he said and accepted the binoculars of the priest, plugging it to his face and aiming it at the door of the small dark building at the back. “So, Cleverley and Woodhead. Did they say when this would start?”

  “No.”

  “And you're sure it's them?”

  “Absolutely. Woodhead's been the one making people sick in this village. He's been the one feeding them illegal pills making them worse. Cleverley ... I don't know how he got wrapped up in this. But he seems to be complicit and Doe identified him.”

  “Doe? You can’t be serious? The same Doe that made the scene at the church?”

  Regan nodded his head and Docherty dropped the binoculars to the ground and laughed softly, bringing an embarrassing heat to the priest's face.

  “He's a drunk father. You can't take anything he says seriously.”

  Regan continued looking ahead, his resolution tested and considered the words of the officer. Casting his mind back, Doe did seem drunk when he entered the church and started the accusations. Also, the man stank of it during the confessional. Perhaps he had been slighted by Cleverley or Woodhead, concocting a story to land the pair in trouble. Retribution for refusing to see him in the clinic, or recipient of an easy curse in the man's direction. Maybe it was a jealousy at seeing Cleverley peacocking around town with a new lady on his arm, or the flashy motor that Woodhead drove.

  “Well we'll find out soon enough I hope. Thanks for doing this.”

  “No problem.”

  The night was a little warmer than his other two visits which he was thankful for. Steeling his determination, he had envisaged a long, cold lonely one ahead, and was grateful for the presence of the officer by his side.

  “So what's this got to do with Lewis Tighe?”

  “My bet is that Woodhead or Cleverley or both killed him, made it look like a suicide. They had plenty of expertise between them to fudge the medical report and the coroner's report. Who else was first on the scene that day?”

  “Let me think. Chambers and Sergeant Mooney,” Docherty said and suddenly sat up, staring at the priest. “You’re not saying they had anything to do with it?”

  “I don’t know Tommy. Maybe. Maybe not. All it takes is one of them to plant the evidence.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think they tortured him. The fingernails were pulled off, something any coroner with half a brain would have noticed.”

  “So, saying they did that. Why?” Docherty asked. Regan squinted as if he had a scratch just beyond reach and shook his head.

  “I don't know. Something to do with Louise. Maybe they wanted something from her. Some cult thing. Maybe Lewis was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe he wouldn’t do what he was told. Maybe he knew too much.”

  “Hmph,” Docherty grunted. “And you got too close, which is why they went after you, breaking your window?”

  “They did more than that. They came back and tried to kill me.”

  Docherty's eyes bulged into the back of his head as if he had misheard. The priest noticed his rigid stance and leaned on a forearm to speak across to him.

  “I was lucky. Broke through the same window again but they managed to get away.”

  “Jesus Christ! “Docherty said. “Sorry, but you should have come to me sooner.”

  The priest shrugged and was about to continue until suddenly he saw in his peripheral vision two dark silhouetted shapes walking across one of the fields. Regan narrowed his eyes on the walkers and Docherty followed the stare.

  Certain they weren't animals the shapes walked steadily and with purpose cutting a straight line to the Boyd farm. The figure in the back seemed to be carrying something and its silhouette seemed bigger than the one in front.

  Regan reached for the binoculars which were between them and zoomed to focus on them before they had reached the shelter of the buildings. It was too dark to make out clearly and they were dressed in black and he couldn't identify them at that distance but could see that the bundle was actually a third person, being carried in the raised arms of one of the walkers.

  “My God,” Regan mouthed and passed the binoculars back to Docherty who watched intently as the troupe reached the fence, climbed over and onto the grounds of the farm and walked to the outhouse that had attracted their attention all night. “It's happening.”

  “What should we do?” Docherty said, his own mouth open wide.

  “Do you have your gun and radio?” The man patted confirmation on his belt. “Then let's get closer. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Still mindful of being discovered, Regan considered the punishment of Joe Boyd threatening them with an empty shotgun worth the crime of trespassing. Keeping up with the easy gait of athlete Tommy Docherty was no easy feat as the man's elegant easy strides seemed to knife through the rushing air. Regan's own blustered efforts were weighed down by sloshing soft drink that picked a stitch in his abdomen, hamstringing his own stride.

  As they approached the end of the field, they could hear the occasional animal sound, the sudden squeal of a piglet as the heavy and pregnant sow accidentally rolled onto it; the frightened lamb seeing distorted shadows that bore no resemblance to an animal it knew. Barely detectable was the rumblings of conversation in the room, the light under the doorway broken by passing figures from within.

  “Easy Tommy!” Docherty was already over the fence and creeping toward the door, finger raised to his lips.

  Regan cursed the man's boldness and found himself panting heavily. Catching a quick breath and with every fibre of his being to tell him otherwise, he followed the man’s steps until he had reached the officer on the other side of the closed door, back glued to the cool grey wall of the building.

  “What now?” Regan mouthed across the doorway at Docherty.

  The man unbuckled his holster and lightly touched his weapon, nodding to the priest and pointing to a step behind him. Understanding the signal, Regan easily tucked in behind the standing officer shielded within his broad shoulder span. In his haste, he almost tripped the man up as he tentatively approached the door. Looking over his shoulder Docherty nodded his head and Regan returned the gesture to signal he was ready. The officer raised a hand that seemed to hang forever in the air in front of the door, his other hand twitching at the gun by his side.

  Regan watched almost through closed eyes as the hand which he expected to come crashing down on the d
oor, followed by a kick to send it off its hinges instead became a gentle knock. Three times. The door opened and the light bathed the officer with Regan in the shadow of the eclipse, confused with the sudden geniality.

  “Sorry we're late.” Docherty turned and in one swift move, threw the confused priest tumbling inside.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Regan landed hard on his knees which, despite the straw covering, still managed to find the hard floor below. His glasses spilled from his face, and he groped around in the straw in front, fumbling desperately, but failed to find them. A door closed behind and as he scrambled to his feet Regan was shouted back down. Through his blurred vision, a few steps ahead where the symbol had stamped the ground, he could make out the sleeping outstretched body of Louise Tighe. Her head rested on an outer star edge, shirt lifted over the swollen pregnancy bump with arms, legs all carefully stretched and pointed along the other four points of the pentagram.

  The contrast of the light was too bright considering he had spent the past couple of hours in a darkened field but as his eyes adjusted he looked up from his kneeling position around the room and found the black standing shapes, imposing and unhooded all staring down at him with cruel expressions.

  Tommy moved from behind the priest and formed a semi-circle around the pregnant woman, sharing in their mocking smiles. He was the only one not dressed in the long flowing robe, cinched at the waist with a thin black cord.

  The priest looked up and into their delighted faces, all the while groping in the straw hoping to find something that could resemble a weapon hidden there.

  “Welcome to the party father. You're just in time.”

  Regan looked at the speaker, watching the smile contort there into a sudden snarl. He stepped forward out from the line of men who looked at him now with mild amusement as if expecting a performance. A cat toying with a mouse in a trapped room, with all the time in the world.

  “Not talking now? That's a change.”

  “You killed Lewis!” Regan spat at the man, who continued to approach despite the accusation.

  “Well. Strictly speaking, that was Mr. Cleverley. Bev want to step forward and take a bow?”

  The man with the scarred cheek decided against it and covered his head with his hands and smiled broadly as if embarrassed with the name check.

  “He's a little shy. Though not with the ladies, I can tell you that much,” Woodhead said and generated a laugh from the others.

  Regan looked up and into the face of Tommy Docherty, not a flicker of humanity or shred of conscience seemingly found there. They enjoyed this masquerade and their eyes were devoid of emotion, glassy expressions appearing possessed.

  “Why?”

  Woodhead seemed to get off on this little power kick, tables turning in his favour. He reached a hand out and received a dagger from Cleverley.

  “Lewis Tighe didn't follow commands.”

  The doctor slowly walked up to the sleeping woman and crouched down on one knee. He took the blade and teased it over the tight drum of her belly. She continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the danger to her unborn child.

  “All we wanted was to make a sacrifice. A real blood sacrifice. Untainted with sin. Pure. When he didn’t want to offer up his unborn child willingly, we had to take matters into our own hands. Offer something to Guji.”

  “Guji?”

  “The enlightened one among us who we owe our gifts to.”

  “What gifts?”

  Woodhead stood and twisted around on his booted sole and approached the priest who was feeling smaller and more fearful as the man spoke.

  “Beverley, what did you ask for in return?”

  “Love.”

  “Bullshit. He asked for pussy, and he's getting more than he deserves the little bald headed freak. Including this little slut here,” Woodhead said and pointed the dagger at Louise Tighe.

  Cleverley took this jibe in good nature and shrugged his shoulders to suggest that the man was telling the truth.

  “Doc?”

  “Better on the pitch.”

  “Better on the pitch? You'll have to excuse Doc. He's a little modest. You didn't just get better on the pitch! You're a God out there. Guji did that for you. Always nice to have a bit of muscle in the team eh, Beverley? Certainly shut up that hermit, that nigger and you too Regan if you hadn't turned into a bed of pillows. Good work by the way!” Woodhead said and tipped his head in appreciation.

  “And what about you Woodhead? What was your gift?” Regan asked.

  Woodhead stood up straight and pointed the knife under his chin using it as a rest as if in mock contemplation. Regan could see he was enjoying the moment and the trace of a smile was visible.

  “How do you think I won the respect of the community, something you've failed to do? People look up to me. They adore me. I am their personal saviour. It’s brought me respect from peers, accolades from medical schools, all the recognition a physician could ever want. I’m revered in my profession. I cure more people than your Church ever could.”

  “You mean with placebo outdated drugs that make people delusional?”

  The man smirked and returned to his group, head shaking slowly as if pained that the priest couldn't see his logic.

  “Why do you think you're here father? You're here because we want you to be here. We found your little device and knew you'd be listening.” Woodhead's composure was suddenly slipping and Regan could see the grip tense around the dagger. “Guji is going to be most pleased when she sees what we have in store for her. Our days of sacrificing lambs are over Tommy, so you can give this iteration of Lambchop a proper home.”

  Suddenly from behind, Regan heard the door open and his heart leapt in his chest for hope. Seeing the smiles fade quickly off the men's faces only seemed to brighten his prospects until the men addressed the person in unison.

  Guji took a slow, careful step around the kneeling priest's legs and when the slim black figure presented itself under the lightbulb he looked up and the spark of hope was doused in his chest. The impossibly young and seductive smile of Evie Boyd stared down at him.

  SIXTY

  “Stand him up.”

  The muscle of the pack, Tommy Docherty stepped forward with an assured stride grabbing the lapel of the priest’s shirt and dragged him to his feet. Standing behind him suddenly, Regan felt the strong arms of the officer wrap under his own arms and hook around the back of his head. The grip was locked tight and forced Regan’s head forward, neck throbbing, upper body dangling helplessly pressed against the chest of Docherty.

  “No. You can't get away with this!” cried Regan, defenceless, hopping and dropping to the ground, trying to find a give in the officer’s solid grip but finding none.

  The two other men watched in silence, but their smiles showed that they were enjoying the struggle of the slippery fish in the firm grip of Docherty whose stranglehold seemed like it could last all night if needed. On a counter to one side of the room, Regan caught the glistening shine of a metal tool that winked back in the bright light. Woodhead noticed his stare and moved to the rack and flipped over the velvet cover that had obscured the instruments. Surgical tools were pocketed neatly against the navy surface, pointed shapes varying in size and function all serving a specific purpose but designed to slice, cut, dice and carve. Woodhead smiled at the sudden impression they made on the priest’s face.

  “Pius, do you want to tenderise the meat a little before we get started?”

  Woodhead looked at Evie Boyd, wide smile and hungry eyes excited at the prospect. He covered the tools again and stepping forward, rolled up his black sleeve robe to reveal a bare, thin forearm and clenched it a few times, fluttered his fingers as if playing an imaginary organ, warming up to the task. There was a crunch of glass under his foot as he approached.

  “Oops. Hope you weren’t needing those father?”

  Sweat poured down the priest’s temple and stung his eyes. He had long ago lost control of his breathing and hoped
that he might hyperventilate and pass out to avoid the final moments. His fading strength under the merciless full nelson position was barely enough to stand and he found himself barely scraping the straw floor with his feet. Docherty seemed content to hang him in the air for as long as it took.

  “Please. I don't know anything. I'm just-”

  He had been pleading through water teared eyes and with clouded vision hadn't seen the first fist that connected with his ribcage. The blow crumpled the priest forward barely an inch. He was unable to curl his body up into the natural defensive ball given Docherty's locked grip. The shock was all consuming, momentarily causing his entire diaphragm to contract, throat constricting until Regan had the very real sensation of drowning, unable to force the air into his lungs. Gagging and flopping on the arms of the officer, he was dimly aware of the laughter that accompanied his panic. Regan’s eyes bulged, staring at the ground in horror imploring his body to kick-start its breathing pattern again.

  The air that had left his body suddenly returned. Staggered, it was just enough to relieve his burning face which had quickly darkened in colour, the sweat chilling for a few seconds like a corpse had breathed life again.

  “Please. Tell me what you want!” Regan implored through deep uneven breaths, his stomach tightened but the torso was exposed and the doctor could pick any spot on the helpless, hanging body.

  The second blow was even harder. On the other side. Connecting on the kidney, under the ribcage. It fizzed an incredible rush of sparks through Regan's brain and under his closed eyelids. The pain threatened to completely override his consciousness, bombarded with nerve endings all screaming at once to short circuit. The spongy sweet spot had little protection or cover for the left hook. Regan's body buckled to one side, shying away from the aggressor and dangling on puppet strings. A sharp kick on his calf from Docherty made him stand feebly on his weakened legs.

  The pause for the next blow was even shorter. Regan suddenly found his body under attack from a series of vicious hooks, each pummelling the sides of his body. Unable to tense his stomach muscle for the sustained period and preserve the precious breath bottled in his chest, the priest's clenched jaw followed his body for as long as he could. It didn’t last long before he gave up the resistance, slumped desperately and waited until either the man got tired, or his own body did.