Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  The little canteen was little more than a shipping container. Regan was surprised to see a door open as they drew closer with Hessel waving him inside. The foreman introduced him to the group and gave him a grand tour of the room which didn’t take more than a few seconds. Hessel pointed to the essentials, in case there was any doubt. A fridge, paint splattered kettle and six plastic chairs with spindly legs that bent at the knee. The foreman left abruptly and closed the door, putting a lid on the awkwardness the men all felt being in the presence of a stranger, not least a priest.

  Regan took the least intrusive seat, one in the corner, offered a smile and asked how they were feeling about their co-workers’ death.

  “Very sad. Can't believe it. He was grand on the Friday. We were going to head off on a lad’s holiday in a few weeks. Gutted.”

  “He was just one of the lads you know? Wouldn't hurt a fly.”

  “Sound fella. He'd act the maggot and that when he was out, like the rest of us. Liked the booze, birds and all dat but it was all harmless, ye know?”

  “What do you mean?” Regan had asked.

  The question was aimed at the last speaker, a young man who looked like he was there from school on work experience. The man-child had a tiny pea head much too small for the hard hat, and his was the only one Regan saw that came with a strap which the man fidgeted with.

  “You know,” he said, awkward under the gaze of the priest and the others in the room, eyes twitching under their sunken sockets searching for an outlet. “He was just one of the lads. One of the boys.”

  If the man could have crawled under his helmet at that point he probably would have, and might have stood a good chance given his slight frame.

  “Nah. Roger's right. He had a few problems at home and needed a release every now and again. Nothing bad.”

  “Did he ever talk about the problems with you at all? I didn't catch your name...”

  “John. John Rodgers. Not really. Just the usual crap. Bills. Stress. His missus is up the duff ye see and another mouth to feed was gonna be a worry. Nothing that would make him…ye know…top himself.” Rodgers fished out one bag after another from the fridge and tossed it on the table where, in turn, each man unwrapped their own individual gifts to reveal bulging lunchboxes.

  “Who wants tea? Father?”

  “No thanks.”

  Regan waited for the kettle to boil and for the men to get settled again, watching them wolf down their sandwiches in two bites. Experience taught him that the men might be a little more comfortable and chatty when food was in their bellies.

  “Earlier, when you say he needed a release, what did you mean?”

  The men each looked at one another blank-faced, some still with a wad of food bulging in their cheek. It was the apprentice that broke cover first, and his laughing set in motion the others which relieved the tension in the room. When they had regained their composure again, it was Rodgers who spoke.

  “Father. I'll be honest. I'm a lapsed prod and got no business with the religion anymore. I have a wife and a kid. We work hard,” he said and looked around at the others who were all listening to him, “we love our birds to bits and dote on our wains. I don't fear what's coming because we're all normal people. Trying to get along. All of us have our wee weaknesses.”

  The men all nodded in agreement with the sentiment of the man's rhetoric as if he was speaking some profound truth.

  “What's the ‘but’?” Regan asked.

  Rodgers’ face turned up into a smile. He looked away and smoothed a stubbly beard with a big club hand dislodging a few breadcrumbs as if weighing what to say next. The others remained silent and watched him turn to the priest who was on the edge of his wobbling seat.

  “We have a saying in this town. You don't shit where you eat.”

  “Which means?”

  “Lewis was a bit of a legend.”

  “Big time.”

  “Hero.”

  The others chipped in with their own verb and smiled. Some nodded heads and others stared off, wistful in a memory.

  “What you call it? Dr Hyde and...? Brains?”

  “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” answered man-child, delighted with his contribution and they all joined in a chorus of laughs.

  “Exactly! All I'm saying is, God rest his soul if there is a God though I ain't convinced, least not yet.”

  The other men had finished their lunches and were chasing their sandwiches down with coffee that was blacker than tar.

  “Anyways,” Rodgers continued, “who's to say it didn't come back to bite him? Karma and all that. Let's just say boys, there'll be a few prozzies crying in their gins this weekend!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “We may have a problem. Can you talk?”

  “Didn't I tell you not to call my landline except in emergencies?”

  “I know. Sorry. I thought you should know. I didn't want to wait until Mass. Are you free?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We have a stain asking too many questions.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “Talking about the dead. Poking around.” There was silence on the other end. “Are you still there?”

  “Do you think they suspect?”

  “Can't see how, but might be best to contain the spark in case it catches fire.”

  “Very well.”

  “Should I call...?”

  “No. I want you to take care of it this time. We're not above getting our hands dirty. Need to be leading by example. We can't have any more Lewis Tighe's ruining our mission. Use appropriate force.”

  “Thank you Guji. Flesh and Blood.”

  “Flesh and Blood.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The man’s hand punched the button on the clock timer at the side of the table. Regan frowned at the chessboard movement, looked at the clock face and noticed with impatience that he was up against it.

  “Check.”

  He was really up against it. Regan was stroking his chin into a point, brow furrowed and staring at the board. His concentration was fixed on the black king which was encircled by an army of white pieces. The attack had been sudden and unpredictable as one by one, his defenders were picked off and when his knight had fallen, the end was nigh, the outcome inevitable.

  “I give up,” he said, and toppled his king.

  The other man who would normally greet such a victory with a shrill of delight and furious hand rubbing, quelled his celebration as he watched the priest lean back in his chair and remove his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

  The sun was overhead and its rays found gaps in the canopy of trees overhead which swayed in the gentle breeze. A man in a wheelchair wheeled past, assisted by a woman in white overalls. They greeted the two chess players as they went, before continuing down the paved lane in silence.

  “You’re not yourself today Tom,” the man said. “You usually put up a better fight than that.”

  Regan put his glasses back on and stared back at his playing partner. He could read concern on the older man’s face.

  “Is everything alright in the parish?”

  “Fine,” Regan said although his face said differently.

  The priest shifted in his seat but found the panelled wood below him too stiff to get comfortable. He looked up and around, enjoying the view of the park and the cool shade that they had found. Others had come to recognise it as their spot and every week found the men engaged in battle.

  “You think that after fifty years of confessionals, you lose the ability to read people? Come on,” the man said. “Is it Lewis Tighe?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s always difficult to come to terms with the loss of a young man, especially to suicide. It can make you question a few things. It can test a man’s faith. All the more reason for you to be a pillar of strength for the community.”

  “It’s hard though father.”

  “Nothing worth fighting for is ever easy Tom. You’ve been through these things
before. You’ve got to be a trusted friend, confidante, marriage counsellor, preacher…”

  “Businessman, problem solver…”

  “Healer. The list goes on! That’s your calling.”

  “I know. Sometimes it doesn’t make it easier to deal with the relatives.”

  “Remember, with the death of a loved one, you never get over it. You get on with it. Time heals all, but marshalling together friends and family, especially in those first days and lonely weeks can help ease their pain.”

  Regan nodded. The other man continued to eye him to see if the words had their desired effect. Seeing that there was still a knot in Regan’s face he spoke again.

  “I heard about Doe interrupting the Mass.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. I still have my ear to the ground. I still have friends in active service. What? Do you think that as soon as you hit seventy, then you’re chucked out?”

  “No, not at all. I just … I don’t know.”

  “Don’t let that nonsense worry you. During the eighties, there wasn’t a service we did that wasn’t interrupted by someone. Especially in the city. Some loyalists making threats. Thugs. Larry Doe isn’t worth worrying about. Those travellers are all the same,” he trailed off, “… don’t do things by half. They like a grand entrance. He been seen since?”

  “Not at all,” Regan said. “But it’s not just Doe, father. It’s a few things.”

  Regan was looking over the other man’s shoulder. He could see the resident in the wheelchair from earlier being transported up a small ramp and taken inside the nursing home by the orderly. The grey building was small and had a few tiny windows that made it look like a submarine.

  “You’re thinking about Sierra Leone?”

  “How did you know?” Regan said and smiled.

  “Same way I know that you’ve thought about quitting the priesthood.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Save it, Tom. We’re friends. It’s not an easy life. Look around you.”

  Regan didn’t have to. He had already imagined life after priesthood in the last few months, further fuelled by their current surroundings, which revealed a hard reality that filled him with dread.

  “There’s very little to look forward to when you’re retired off at my age. Rent-a-priest for the odd weekends at some liturgies but those are few and far between. Most of us aren’t able to support ourselves financially, which is why you need to start planning now for that time. Assuming of course you’ll still be involved at that point. You’re not getting any younger.”

  Regan listened to the man speak and sighed heavily.

  “I don’t know Mark. Sometimes I feel like what I do and say is falling on deaf ears. I think back to my time in Africa where I felt like I was making a real difference, you know? You could see it on their faces. That wasn’t just religion. That was reaching out person to person. I think we lost that somewhere along the line. I don’t know when, but I miss it.”

  The older man nodded his head slowly. A light beam shone on his face, his age suddenly showing like an entombed mummy opening to fresh air after centuries.

  “Come on. What’s brought this on?”

  The sudden twitter of birds high above seemed to be disturbed by the priest’s thoughts. Regan looked skyward to get a glimpse, but they were out of sight. His mind flashed upon the image of the cock crowing three times with the renouncement of Jesus by John.

  “Ah, nothing. I don’t know.”

  “It gets lonely Tom. That’s the life we’ve chosen. It doesn’t mean you’re in it on your own. You’d be surprised how many other priests feel the same way. When do you have your Diocese meeting?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Well, have a word with the others there. Willie is very good, a bit dotty but he’s been through the wars. Have a quiet word.”

  The older man lifted the chessboard and slid the few pieces into a little box where the fallen soldiers were already tucked away. He closed it and reached down for the bag at his feet. Regan, seeing his distress, stepped forward to help but was shooed away. Finally, the man managed to pull it from the ground and put the game inside, fastening the draw string around its neck.

  “And if that fails, come back again. Same time as usual, where we can have a proper chat. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good father.”

  “Now! Be a good lad and wheel me back inside.”

  Regan was grateful to slide off the stiff chair and wheeled the priest away from the table and traced their way back to the small building. A few birds squawked their goodbyes from high above and the men moved slow, taking in the beauty of the nature around them. In the seven years that passed, since Regan had first made the trip, the body of the man had gradually faded in front of his eyes; the effort to push the wheelchair up the small ramp became less and less until it felt like he was only pushing against the breeze.

  “They’re noisy today?” the older man said, turning and smiling.

  Regan smiled back, pleased that his friend could still enjoy the small delights. An attendant held the door open for them and offered to take the older priest back to his room. They said goodbye and Regan could see the smile was still on the man’s lips. Perhaps the sound of the birds had extended it. Perhaps it was the resounding chess victory or even the pleasure and company from outside, which was its source. Whatever had caused it, it was Regan’s last memory of him and the last time they would ever see each other again.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Despite the hour and obvious tiredness that began to creep over the young nurse’s face, she still found the energy to greet the priest with a smile. He returned it and Regan could tell from Sheila’s handshake and steady eye that there was a strength there that suggested she wasn't afraid to give orders and didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  He was used to people changing their behaviour when he entered the room. Members of the choir, parishioners and locals alike. They seemed to quickly become the best possible version of themselves. Abusive husbands, drunkards, cheats and gamblers would exude a sudden calmness and suspend their deviant behaviour in an instant. Angry wives would glue tight lips shut mid-argument. Enraged men suddenly fell silent as if the priest’s face had become a mirror that reflected them in all their ugliness.

  It was a testing job. The longer he served the community, the more capable he became of understanding human behaviour, and even more so the people of Ballygorm whom, at the best of times, were a queer breed. But they were his breed. His type of people. Other parishes he had served in the past included much bigger towns that swallowed up what free time he had, being on call 24/7. He performed his duties diligently, but he had never had the same connection as he now had with Ballygorm.

  “How is he, Sheila?” Fr Regan asked the nurse.

  The young woman faced away from him and looked down the dark hallway of the hospital ward where a shard of light from one of the rooms streaked the floor. Her round face soured suddenly, which made Regan think for a flash about how unnatural it was for someone of her age to be surrounded by death and disease.

  “He’s not well, to be honest father. Things have gotten worse in the last couple of hours,” she said.

  The hands which had dangled by her sides now clasped together at her waist, and with her head lowered it seemed like she was in gentle prayer. Despite her youth, the edges of her eyes were brushed with fine wrinkles, premature aging or perhaps, Regan reasoned, the result of an eighteen-hour shift.

  “OK. His family is with him?”

  The nurse straightened as if an iron rod had been shunted down the length of her spine, and met his gentle brown eyes.

  “His two daughters. They're waiting for you.”

  “OK. Let's not waste any more time.”

  Nodding her agreement, she led the way down the hallway to the illuminated room.

  “Anything back about the blood?” Regan asked as they walked. Sheila nodded before they both came to a stop outside the door
.

  “Yeah, actually. It’s human alright. That’s all I could find out,” she said, pausing a tick to watch the priest’s face before knocking gently and easing the door open.

  Regan hovered behind her, using those few seconds to fish out a bible from his satchel, thumbing through it to ensure that the appropriate sections were bookmarked for administering Sacrament of the Sick. It wasn't his primary, a search for that earlier in the day had been unsuccessful and he had to use one of his many spares.

  The scene before him was familiar but no less difficult for that. The private ward was eerily still and the high bed that held the patient in the final stages of his life was flanked on either side by two middle-aged, grieving daughters. Their eyes were red-rimmed with tears but brightened on seeing the priest. They both embraced Regan fumbling with the words to express their gratitude or sense of despair.

  The nurse gave the group some time alone and offered assistance should they need it before leaving the room. When the door gently closed behind her, their attention turned to the silent witness in the centre. The man was thin and the sheets seemed to weigh on his slight figure, bony arms peeping out of a nightgown cut at the elbow and resting by his sides. The crook of one elbow was taped and wired to a saline solution that hung on a bag beside the bed.

  “He looks very peaceful; doesn't he father?” the eldest woman asked, not taking her eyes off the man.

  “Yes, he does,” Regan said, his thoughts distracted.

  He motioned to the women who fought fresh tears to each take their father's limp hand. They held it in their own, caressing it gently as if it were a precious butterfly, careful not to pressure it as if their motion coloured its wings and breathed new life.