Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  He had seven models on speed dial. Now he had reached that stage, he wasn't entirely sure what to do with them.

  “Ian!”

  Minimising the browser and locking the computer, Stryker pulled his 200lb self off the swivel chair and waddled to the door. The t-shirt he was wearing had a few crumbs from last night’s pizza, which he brushed off with a big sweaty palm, and went downstairs where the thick aroma of grilled meat wafted.

  His parents and sister were already seated around the kitchen table. His father was leaning away from the table and glancing sideways at the TV set. He was a big, meaty stump of a man with no discernible neck as if he had been poured into his clothes, stretched tight around his bulk. When Stryker sat to his right, he was presented with a dinner plate the size of a battle shield, piled with pork chops, ripe sausages, smoked bacon and scrambled eggs.

  His sister, six years older and sitting opposite, apple of their parent’s eye, didn’t acknowledge him. Her focus was zeroed in on teasing the fat from the meat, partitioning pieces to a quadrant of the plate deemed unfit for her consumption.

  The TV was barely audible over the sizzle of the frying pan. When his mother had prepared her own meal and placed it on the table, she put the pans into the kitchen sink with a clatter which brought a sudden rebuke from her husband.

  They ate in silence, apart from the scratching of cutlery on their plates. After a few minutes, there was the sudden ping of a phone notification, with the group looking to Stryker.

  “Don’t look at me.”

  They turned to Sheila and watched her pull the mobile phone out of her jean pocket and look at the screen.

  “No phones at the dinner table,” her mother said. “Unless it’s work. They’re not asking you for the night shift again are they?”

  “No, thank God. They have a couple of interns covering tonight to help out. It’s Fr Regan.”

  “Fr Regan? What does he…”

  “Insufferable gobshite,” her husband said.

  The wife and spawn of Ricky Dowd stopped and looked at the man in surprise. He was looking away from them. He shook his head and pushed down on the remote volume button, sneering at the television. They looked from him to the news anchor on screen as the bars of the audio increased in volume.

  ‘…with the upcoming elections. Sinn Fein delegate Martin Austin continues to canvas for support in a campaign that some have already seen as a foregone conclusion.”

  “Not bad for an Austin,” his wife Lucy said, suddenly becoming aware of the target of her husband’s anger. “Struck it lucky.”

  “Must have found a golden ticket in that gypsy treasure of theirs. Either that or sold his soul. Wouldn’t put it past them. Bloody gypos.”

  “Least it puts us on the map,” Lucy replied.

  “Jesus. If Ballygorm’s claim to fame is that we reared that retard, then God help us all.”

  His wife gave a shrug and returned to her dinner plate. The bean sauce was trickling its way across to a runny golden egg, and she was quick to put up a blockade of mashed potato.

  ‘And local news now. A man in his twenties has been found dead in the village of Ballygorm. The unnamed man was thought to be a resident of the village and was discovered in a local barn around 5.30am this morning. Police are not treating the death as suspicious. And that's the news, now for the weather...’

  “My God,” Lucy said and shook her head softly. “Never would have thought it would have happened here.”

  “Very sad,” her husband grunted, before lifting up his plate and hoovering up the rest of his baked beans.

  “Do they know who it was?” Stryker asked.

  “The girls in the hospital said it was Lewis Tighe,” his sister said.

  “One of Martie's young ones,” his father added. “You probably don't know him. He was maybe ten years older than you, son.”

  “Tall fella, crewcut, always wore the red cap around?”

  “That's the one.”

  Stryker had gone quiet for a moment. He was busy processing it in his own mind. The TV was still flickering in the background, but his parents had turned away from it now and looked at their son, disturbed by his sudden silence.

  “What is it?” The words came out of his father like someone had popped him with a pin and released air.

  “I saw him from my bedroom window last night. It must have been just before midnight. I'm sure it was him. He was...” Stryker's voice hesitated.

  “What?” They all asked at once.

  “He was arguing.”

  “Arguing? With who?”

  “You're never going to believe me.”

  TEN

  A normal mid-week Mass would fill half the chapel. Even then, the occupied pews wouldn’t be crammed. Broad-shouldered men would sit with wider than natural leg spreads, fanning their crotch. Mothers with hyperactive children in tow would buy their silence with toys, spread out on the seats. Pensioners seated at the back, nearest the cool breeze wafting in with latecomers, warded off anyone from sitting beside them with big knuckled hands or fat handbags on guard alongside them. Today was different.

  Word had spread across the small community long before the TV news got wind of it. United in grief, mothers held their children, men folded their bodies like a clasp knife to accommodate the extra Mass-goers and pensioners cradled their handbags close to their chest like a life buoy.

  The choir opened the service with a rousing rendition of ‘Presence of the Lord’. Fr Regan, supported by a cast of altar servers robed in white and wearing solemn expressions, walked out onto the altar. The young boys and girls all slotted into their respective stools at opposite walls and stared at each other. Regan was in the crossfire, standing and looking up at the choir high in the gallery as they were finishing their hymn. The group was standing and even from his distance, Regan could see that some of the members seemed to struggle with the occasion, the grief on their faces contrasting markedly with the conviction of the chorus. They were short one person, his absence collectively felt by the choir in the raw emotion of their voices. Singing for their departed member.

  “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen,” answered the congregation.

  “Friends, you're all very welcome here today for our evening Mass. On a day where we learned of the tragic news of the loss of one of our sons.”

  In the silence of the packed church, Fr Regan looked around the room as if measuring the temperature from the upturned faces of the congregation. A few stifled sobs could be heard while some lowered their heads.

  “I want to start today’s Mass by declaring our faith in the Lord, that in spite of whatever difficulties we may face in our own lives, that his Almighty will guide us and protect us with his healing grace. We do this through Christ our Lord.”

  “Amen.”

  “Now together, we pray to Him that he may absolve us of our sins as we confess together in His name. I confess…”

  When the normal Mass routine had been observed and the Reading from a Letter of St Paul to the Romans was relayed to a flagging public, Regan stood back up at the lectern again. Following the departed reader, the priest adjusted the microphone, the muffling noise bringing some of those who were in their own dream back to the present. He quickly finished the passage from Mark’s Gospel, before placing the open bible on a shelf below the lectern box. In its place and on top of the angled surface lay a single page - Regan’s homily, a short paragraph indecipherable to anyone else but him. A sequence of keywords like bullet points to guide his narrative, lest he veer off track. He looked at it. They looked at him looking at it. A few moments passed as they tried to read his expression, some murmurings from the back of the room from the older generation, complaining that the microphone wasn’t working.

  “I had prepared today’s homily last night,” Regan said. “I was going to tell you how the teaching of the Parable of the Sower is God’s way of telling us to heed his advice, take it to
heart, spread the Good Word. I was going to explain to you how, rooting your life in the Church and following the teachings of the Lord will help with the fruits of your labour and provide shelter to those around you who have fallen by the wayside. But I won’t. Because that doesn’t matter.”

  The priest picked up the paper and tore it in two. There were a few rumblings between the parishioners, whispered words pushed from pursed lips to partners. Every face, including the children who seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, were fixed on Regan’s strained face.

  “We will never know why our loved ones do what they do. We can't even begin to imagine the pain that they feel before they are cruelly taken from us. Lewis Tighe was a good man.”

  Voicing the name brought some silent sobbing from the wings. Regan's voice was calm and controlled but there was a conviction in it which seemed to steel the parishioners, people perked up and backs became straighter. Regan’s eyes flicked to the source of the crying and seeing the widows pained expression, a tremor of emotion rolled across his chest.

  He quickly composed himself again. The silence grew heavy around them as if some ethereal presence had suddenly tuned in, hanging on his words. Even the squirming children who would normally wriggle around under their parent’s clutches were mute.

  “I was lucky to have considered Lewis a friend. Just as I consider all of you to be my friends. We are all brothers and sisters. We are but a small congregation. A small family. But our bonds will not be broken,” he said, emphasising the last word.

  Some of them nodded. Others stared blankly at him.

  “If you ever feel like things are getting too much, or that you need to speak with someone in confidence, my door is always open.” Regan paused for a moment. “We stand now to declare our faith in the Lord as together we say the Creed.”

  The shuffle of bodies rose to their feet and in union declared the short sentences learned from childhood, repeating their beliefs.

  The priest descended and was replaced by a young speaker. The girl seemed to enjoy the spotlight from above and smiled out at the room, mouth full of metal.

  “We’ll now hear the Prayers of the Faithful.”

  The girl was staring at Regan waiting for the prompt and, moistening her lips moved to the microphone which was several inches too close to her face. Her voice boomed around the walls of the church. Finishing her piece, she looked back to the priest, beaming.

  “Together we pray for the repose of the soul of Lewis Tighe. Taken from us far too soon. We hope that he has found happiness and peace. Lord hear us.”

  “Lord Graciously hear us,” the congregation replied in unison.

  When they had finished and the girl vaulted down the steps to her seat again, the church organist prefaced another hymn.

  As Regan stood to receive the Gifts of the Altar, he stared down the aisle at the two women approaching and could see over their shoulder a commotion at the back of the church. There was a murmur which started there, barely detectable above the organ. It slowly spread through the ranks like a Mexican voice wave until it reached the front.

  “Let me go!” cried a voice from the entrance.

  When the hymn was over and the final note rang out, the noise was obvious to everyone suddenly. Regan narrowed his eyes under the glare of the ceiling spotlight and saw a man being held back from entering. He was struggling against the others and appeared to be carrying something in his hand.

  “He wasn't taken, father. I seen it. I'm telling ye! I’m telling all of youse!”

  People shifted their position to stare back at the disturbance where the man was desperately trying to fight off the hands of the tightly packed group that were barring his way forward.

  The voice became muffled under the noise of scuttling feet as a group of three men ably assisted by Tommy Docherty, heaved open the heavy door and bundled him out quickly. It closed behind them, abruptly cutting the shouts of the unwelcome guest.

  Regan glanced around at those nearest and could read the pity on their faces. He caught fragments of dialogue as they shuffled in their seats, exchanging opinion and conjecture.

  “Poor man.”

  “Not right in the head.”

  “Drunk too.”

  “Embarrassing.”

  The whispers nearby confirmed the priest’s own suspicions about the identity of the intruder.

  As the three makeshift bouncers retook their place Regan waited for silence to fall on the room again. During that short time, only one thought crossed his mind.

  What does Larry Doe know?

  ELEVEN

  Doe dropped onto the small wheelchair ramp, slumped with his back against the thick oak doors. The force of his removal coupled with his inebriated state had propelled him well beyond the entrance of the building. The car park with their sharp gravel stones had taken his fall as he tumbled several times over. Thankful not to land on his good side, he smiled at his luck, dusted himself off and confirmed the durability of the can in his inside pocket with a gentle tap.

  He had staggered back up the ramp in a fit of rage, staring at the tall closed door ahead. Suddenly, a feeling of tiredness overwhelmed him. Pulling out the dented but full can, he sat down against the doors and popped it open, fizzing foam before pulling the ring off entirely to blow the suds into the gathering evening gloom.

  Admiring the hard hand which had cushioned his fall, he was amazed to see in the dim light that the skin there hadn't been dashed. Instead, an ornate design of tiny hollows, where the stones had pressed, trailed along his outer palm. Several of the sharper stones still clung to his hand like skin limpets which fascinated Doe before suddenly losing interest, he flicked them off into the distance.

  Night was closing around him and there was a slight chill in the air which made him curl the large coat tighter around his rakish frame. A thin yellow light crept underneath the door illuminating the first few feet of the grey ramp. It bent around Doe and he studied his silhouetted shadow against the path.

  Closing his eyes, he rested the back of his head against the hard surface and felt the whistling breeze wage a war with the soft voice of the priest behind. The noise from within redoubled with the response of the churchgoers. His only previous visits to the church had been on hot days when he had reason to visit. In his drunkenness, he sometimes fell asleep on those long, lazy days under the lens of the afternoon sun, drying him up quicker than crumbling peat. There was always a fresh supply of clean water up near the front of the church where he quenched his thirst and refilled his plastic bottles.

  He had never been a religious person. He had never really “gotten it”. From what little he gathered from the speeches, while using the outhouse shitter, the gospels spoke about looking after your fellow man. To treat others as you'd like to be treated. Or his personal favourite - this little gem - give to the needy. Doe snorted remembering that one and the fizzy brew rinsed out his nose, which he wiped clean with his open palm and dried on the door panel behind.

  Looking around the car park he noticed the neatly lined range of expensive looking cars, bouncing the beam from the street light off their polished bonnets. This drew a sneer across his face and he glugged another mouthful back. The sweet cider dripped down onto his pointed chin which he lathered up with a hungry tongue, before crunching the can in one hand and getting to his feet. Now he was standing, he felt a familiar gentle pressing on his bladder.

  He traced his way along the outer edge of the building and found the little outhouse a stone’s throw away. There was never any toilet paper but that wouldn't pose a problem on this occasion. Not only was the commode Doe's favourite shitter in the village, it being one of several that he frequented – he liked variety – but it also doubled as a stock room. There was a gents and ladies entrance, but he made sure that the ladies section was in a shocking state to prevent them entering. He had daubed shit on the walls and broken the plastic mirror beyond repair. The stench alone was enough to ward off even the most desperate of Churc
hgoer, no matter how badly she had to pinch one off. The wall of smell was putrid and had picked up an added layer of thickness in the warm summer months.

  The gents, on the other hand, was relatively clean. After all, he still had some principles.

  As he came closer to the small grey building he was pleased to see that the door hadn't been locked which would have slowed him down by a few seconds; maybe more considering he was already carrying the contents of ten cans in his stomach. He opened the women's toilets and at once the smell hit. Overcoming it, he burrowed deeper, head first into the foulness and took a moment to admire some of his artwork. Hanging on the wall his piece de resistance had taken on a life of its own. The chunkier pieces of excrement glued to the wall there were shiny and black from a mass of feasting bluebottles.

  Swallowing a big gulp of air, he continued, passing the small sink and coming to the two cubicles, only one of which was open. He entered and slithered underneath pulling his body along the floor until he was in the new cubicle. Doe fancied that the Queens' private chamber itself didn't look as clean as the one he was in, and he stood and looked down at his stockpile sitting on the closed toilet seat and began opening the stacked cardboard boxes to take inventory.

  “Milk – good. Biscuits – good. Chocolate. Fruit. Cereal. Might have some of that later.”

  He kept fishing through the bags of leftovers, stolen items, and unwanted food until he found what he wanted and fished out a six pack of cider, placed it on the ground and with his foot, slid it back into the other cubicle. Then he followed it.