Sigil

by Aidan J. Reid

  “Ian, are you free tomorrow afternoon by any chance?” Regan asked before he had left the scene. “Just need some help fixing something on my laptop.”

  “Yeah, no worries,” he replied, face down staring at his feet.

  “I’ll give you a call then?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Gotta go.”

  Like a spinning top, he spun off his axis and went in the opposite direction to the receptionist at the clinic. Regan stood for a few moments and watched him, hands trying to burrow deep into pockets on jeans that were a size too small. Ian soon gave up and the priest watched as he flattened the spikes of his hair down, cleaning the gel on his trouser legs. A strand of aftershave had snagged in the air and Regan caught its scent.

  “Best leave de little boy alone father. Come on in before ye get sunstroke.”

  Regan stepped inside, looked around the small restaurant and smiled on seeing that he was the only diner. Bernie Cameron was hanging over the counter top, leaning on arms as thick as the priest’s legs. She was smiling broadly, evidently pleased with what she had just seen, stifling a few final chuckles which vibrated the jowls under her chin.

  “Didn’t know you were working here now Bernie?”

  “First weekend. They din’t tell me I’d be needing popcorn for the show!”

  She burst into a fresh set of giggles that rocked her body. It was a few seconds before she managed to find composure again, fanning her face with a hand, fingers bloated like balloon figures.

  “Any idea what that was about?”

  “He bin texting yer wan, saying he was someone else. Probably sent images too. Lord knows that would explain her reaction.”

  “Ian has been doing that?”

  “Callin’ himself Stryker,” Bernie said and managed to hold another giggle at bay by a fit of hiccups. The smile left her face and Regan watched as she moved her hand to her chest and tap it gently.

  “You OK.”

  Bernie waited a few seconds before responding. When she felt that whatever danger had passed, she brushed it off and stood as tall as her five-foot frame would allow and smiled.

  “Some chest pains. I’ll go to de Doctor later in week. What can I get you father?”

  The priest let out a comforting breath, pleased to have finally gotten down to the reason of his visit.

  “Ulster Fry. Extra mushrooms.”

  “No problem.”

  Bernie turned and entered a door at the back. She returned a minute later, took the priest’s drink order and fetched the energy drink from the tall fridge in the corner and planted it on the table.

  “You goin’ to the Fort tonight?” he asked.

  Bernie nodded her head. “Saturday night father. I’d be going there even if der was no fundraising. The joys of being a single mother.”

  Regan watched the sad smile strum on her face briefly. He pictured them in the clinic again. A mother with health issues working two jobs. A daughter with no father figure, at least none that he was aware of.

  “Hey, you never know. You might find someone tonight,” Regan said, a little more exuberantly than he would have wished.

  “Unless the guitar player they gat comin’ from Dublin likes a bit of meat round his bones, I don’t think so,” she said and turned from the table not wanting the priest to see her face.

  Bernie wasn’t a church goer but was cordial and on good terms with the priest when they met on various occasions in the village. In fact, Regan hadn’t seen her behave negatively towards anyone which made him suddenly consider the strangeness of the earlier incident with Ian. The marked turn in her character and subsequent sadness made the priest think that perhaps this Stryker character had pounced before.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The conversation with Maggie Boyd earlier in the week still weighed on Regan's mind as he pulled his car into the small parking lot of The Fort pub. He was encouraged to see that there were very few free spaces, which suggested that the turnout for the fundraiser would be strong.

  He had played a small part, announcing the event during that evening’s Mass. He half expected to see the young, distressed woman appear again but the intervening period since they met had seen a degree of normality return to the village. Salacious rumours surrounding the life of Lewis Tighe had begun to surface, and the initial groundswell of sympathy for the bereaved widow gathered pace. Fresh concern spread for the woman from all quarters with the news. Those who before had remained passive now gushed with concern to friends far and wide, speaking of her with a newfound respect, becoming cheerleaders for the woman’s indomitable spirit. It struck a chord with many of the women unable to reconcile the unimaginable pain of living with an adulterer while in the throes of pregnancy.

  Whether the rumours were true or not, it seemed to win enough supporters who confessed to having harboured secret suspicions about the husband's fidelity all along. For her part, Louise Tighe shut herself away from the whispers and nervous glances. Since the funeral, Regan had only seen the woman twice, both times dropping her children off at school. He had visited the Tighe residence several times, finding the door locked even with the woman's car parked in the garage.

  It was with a sense of intrigue that the community speculated whether the recluse would appear at the fundraising event. It was also a sentiment shared by the priest who scanned the parked cars lit by his dimmed headlights but failing to find the people carrier Jeep. One of the cars had parked part way into a second bay, the only gap available on the row he crawled, standing out like a toothy gap in a steel row of teeth. The disadvantages of driving the Godpod were too numerous to catalogue, but one of the perks was an ability to squeeze into a tight parking spot, which he successfully managed.

  Slipping out the driver door, Regan was careful not to strike his door off the parked car by his side. Not out of fear of scratching the expensive looking car, but that his own door would crumble to a pillar of rusted metal in his hands.

  Looking toward the entrance of the pub, he could see the shapes of a couple of people lurking. As Regan approached he could see their faces illuminate under the light of their cigarette as they drew deep drags. The crunch on the stones turned their direction toward the priest who approached slowly, his clerical collar almost luminous in the darkness.

  “Gents.”

  “Father.”

  The men parted, allowing the priest to enter suddenly bathed in light as the heavy hinge creaked open.

  Regan wasn't a social drinker and although he wasn't averse to the odd rum, not to mention wine, he found it more to his liking to enjoy a tipple alone. Time spent savouring the flavours, indulging in the warm glow as the alcohol swam through his veins. He enjoyed the way it soothed his body and brain, unlocking the hard-to-reach areas that analytical thinking and serious thought could not. With the aid of alcohol, he became inspired and found greater clarity, neatly assembling a fractured sermon, or a deeper understanding of the Gospels and their, at times, contradictory messages.

  But, those moments were in the quietude of a living room where Detective Bourbon would keep him company into the small hours. A heaving pub was an altogether different beast and Regan found the contrast overwhelming.

  Half of the busy bar that looked his way smiled. Mostly couples, they were seated around little tables overflowing with empty glasses, some piled three high. Regan returned their various smiles and the drinkers switched their attention back to the musician occupying a little stage to his right.

  The other half didn’t notice his arrival, huddled around the bar, some seated on high stools with punters stretching over them with bundles of notes waving at the flustered young bar staff. It reminded Regan of the TV images of the floor of the old Stock Exchange, noisy and stressful, young men and women jostling for position to win an inch on their competitors.

  An examination around the bar revealed that neither the Tighe's or their relations appeared to be present, at least at that point in the night.

  Immediately, Regan knew he wo
uldn't be staying for too much longer and craved the comfort and solitude of his own chair. Several people who hadn't seen him enter, now caught his eye and smiled, some firing comments toward him but it was too noisy to hear above the music.

  There was a little stool in the back corner of the bar which he took. The heat moved to his face and the room was thick with the smell of beer and body odour. Sweat mopped his brow and he patted it down with a handkerchief in his pocket before taking deep breaths and allowing his body to acclimatise.

  “Here you go, father. You look a bit peaky there.”

  Although understaffed, the young attendant had seen the priest in discomfort and presented him with a tall glass of water, returning behind the bar to her duties before Regan even had a chance to thank her. The condensation on the glass was slick and cool and he held it in both hands in case it slipped from his grasp. Taking a deep swallow, the swimming ice clicked against his front teeth in his eagerness.

  Surveying the scene, there was a good crowd and the fundraiser would be very successful. That pleased him. The three booths along the left-hand side were all occupied. The one closest to him housed Tommy Docherty and another man whose gelled head was turned back to the priest. Docherty looked ill at ease in the man's company and hadn't yet noticed Regan's arrival even though the priest sat just a couple of yards from him. As the other man staggered to his feet, and to the bar, Regan couldn't identify him. The man draped himself over a seated punter at the bar counter to place an order, using the man as a prop. When the man shifted his seat, gelled-hair fell onto his knees and began cursing. Docherty shot out of his chair and hauled the man up by the armpits, depositing him in the booth again. Then Docherty returned and apologised profusely to the man, trying to catch the attention of one of the bar staff.

  In the second booth, Dr. Woodhead, head half turned had been watching the fracas and was laughing. Regan exchanged glances with him before the doctor leaned forward and resumed the conversation with his guest, a person he remembered from two weeks earlier – Coroner Cleverley. The second man, looked up briefly at the priest and away again when Regan met his eyes.

  In the third booth sat a solitary figure. A cloud seemed to hang over the man and Regan studied the pained expression on his face which was downturned and focussing on his big outstretched hands in front.

  Glass drained, Regan approached the bar and stretched his arm through a gap of people to deposit his empty glass. Half-turning and about to extract his arm from the wall, he felt a weight rest on his bicep and turned to find the heavy bosom of Bernie Cameron propped there.

  “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to,” Bernie smiled. She looked worse for wear in her yellow shirt with buttons bulging under the strain of her chest. Her deep, wobbly cleavage seemed free of support except for the arm of the priest. As Regan met her unsteady gaze he was reminded of his bobble headed Jesus. Arm freed, Regan smiled at the woman.

  “Thash OK Honey. You gat a strong arm, I bet dat come in handy. Whatcha do?”

  Her cleavage now pressed up tight against him and some of those at the bar sniggered and looked in his direction.

  “Bernie. It’s me. Father Regan. I think you should-”

  “Thash good. I betcha git lonelee tho. Need a good wemen ta look afta ye.”

  “Bernie, take a seat. Stop hassling father.”

  It was Tommy Docherty who intervened, peeling the woman off the priest and gave him a wink. She protested mildly and Docherty manoeuvred her away, meandering around tables, chairs and pockets of standing people treading carefully as if he was guiding a limo through a busy city centre.

  Regan turned his gaze to the third booth. As he approached, he could see on the table beside an empty beer glass, a handwritten page.

  “Can I buy you a beer, Joe?” Fr Regan asked.

  Boyd looked up through misty eyes at the priest. The tears still collected there and despite his best efforts to hide them with a big paw, they still fell freely. Regan had never seen him show emotion, let alone cry. Pinching his sniffling nose, Boyd snorted back the line of tears that trailed his throat and coughed as if the sound was a command barked at his senses to regroup and gain control. He motioned for the priest to sit.

  “I'm OK father. I'll be going soon anyway. How are you?”

  Regan deflected the question, smiled and when the man couldn't hold his stare, looked down at the page of paper that sat between them. Seeing the target of his gaze, Boyd quickly pocketed it and added the final dry touches to his face using a shirtsleeve.

  “Everything OK? Is there anything you want to discuss?”

  The man's face clouded again. Too much sun exposure and perhaps the toil of farm life had aged his face prematurely as deep wrinkles formed around the sunken eyes. The wide forehead had creased too often that the worry lines had permanently formed there as if they were scars. Weakened considerably since Regan visited his farm last week, the powerful man seemed to shrink in front of his eyes.

  “She's gone, father,” he sobbed. “My Maggie's gone for good.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The first thing that Fr Regan did when he returned to his little parochial home, after turning on the lights, was to fix a stiff drink. The second thing was to fix another drink.

  Had he been a younger man or a country and western fan, he probably would have stayed a lot longer, socialising and perhaps even enjoyed himself. Perhaps, but not likely. It wasn't quite his scene. On his list of places to visit outside his comfort zone, it was somewhere up there between visiting a mosque or going to a health spa. Nevertheless, sometimes the wishes of the village community came before his own. Even those who hadn't been to church in many years as in the case of Big Joe Boyd.

  Listening as Boyd read the letter from his daughter, it was clear to Regan that it must have been penned shortly after his encounter with her. In the letter, Maggie had apologised for her absence and absolved Joe of all blame. The letter was stained by tears which smudged the woman's neat handwriting. In it, Maggie said that she needed to be alone and that her own pain and grief were too great for her father to shoulder.

  Boyd had then let Regan read the letter for himself. While Boyd had been confused by Maggie’s words, Regan had other pieces of the jigsaw and saw what Maggie was saying clearly. It was simply a case of a lover's grief. She needed to exorcise the past and get as far away from any memory of Lewis as possible.

  ****

  Locating the remote control, Regan flicked off the lights of his living room and sat down in his comfortable seat, glass of wine on the windowsill at his side. He hit the resume button and Detective Bourbon sprang back to life.

  Regan had decided against confessing to Boyd that he had spoken to Maggie. He bit his tongue and let the man grope his own way for answers, some hidden clue within the text which would spell the reasons for her continued exile and perhaps a solution that he could find to bring her back.

  Regan's mind was beginning to relax as the wine took effect. Detective Bourbon was giving chase to a criminal on a train and, for once Bourbon, had lost the trail. Standing dejected on the platform as the camera panned away, he stared off into the horizon as a gust of wind flapped at the wings of his long overcoat.

  The priest knew the feeling. His own one-man investigation into Tighe had unearthed a few skeletons in the man’s closet but no concrete evidence of foul play. Fresh out of forensic labs in Ballygorm, he had no way of knowing if the blood spatter on the pliers could be attributed to Lewis Tighe.

  Had the pliers been used prior to the young man’s death to rip his fingernails out? If so, for what reason? Did someone have knowledge and disapprove of his extra-marital activities? Was it used as a torture tactic to extract some hidden truth?

  He had known Lewis to be a sound and decent man who had shown no evidence of suicidal thoughts. Then again, Regan may have gotten that wrong considering the affairs that the young man hid so well. Thrown into the mix was the fear from a clearly rattled Maggie Boyd, suggesting that ‘they’, whoev
er they were, were somehow involved in the events which led to Lewis’ death. Cui bono. Who in Ballygorm stood to profit from silencing Lewis Tighe?

  The strength of the wine crept up on him silently until not even Dt. Bourbon could stir him. The wine glass slipped from his outstretched hand and fell deftly to the carpeted floor below. Regan, suddenly aware of a weight shift jerked himself from the chair and looked down, fearing a large stain on the floor. In the glow of the television, it was hard to tell if there was any damage, although he was reassured to find the glass was still intact, which he scooped up and placed back on the windowsill.

  “Damn it!”

  His finger slid along the soft carpet to detect any wetness. There was a damp spot which he patted and with a finger traced around to measure the radius of the spill which he was pleased to find was small.

  Satisfied but cursing his carelessness, Regan hauled himself to his feet and moved to the little kitchen. In the darkened room, he could still see the pile of dirty dishes and let out a little groan.

  “Tomorrow boys.”

  Beneath the weight of crockery was the rinse cloth he was looking for, which he had to wring free of the build-up of grime and dirt that had taken up tenancy in his sink. Returning to the living room, he hit the light switch on the wall to inspect the stain and mop it up with the cloth.

  The moment he flicked the switch, there was a shattering crash that threw him involuntarily back through the open doorway of the kitchen. The sudden noise curled Regan into a defensive ball along the wall, shielding his ears and head fearing the ceiling would crash down. His senses were blown, uncertain what to do, where to go and doubting if he even had the energy to move at that point. Closing his eyes tightly, Regan surrendered and began to silently recite a decade of the rosary.