Sigil Read online

  SIGIL

  SIGIL

  Aidan J. Reid

  First Kindle Edition © 2016 Aidan J. Reid

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  www.aidanjreid.com

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  Cover Illustration and Design: Design for Writers

  Contents

  Free Book

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  Free bonus!

  About the author

  Other books by the author

  .

  For M.A.

  Thank you for inspiring me

  to chase my big bold dreams

  x

  ONE

  Big Joe Boyd was woken from his sleep by the sound of a dog barking in the distance.

  “Shut that thing up.”

  The voice came from over his shoulder, muffled by the cover which Evie Boyd suddenly pulled from her husband’s body leaving him exposed in the dawn’s cool air. The little chill on his naked skin brought back his senses again, just as sleep was whispering in his ear.

  He swung his legs off the bed and swivelled his body upright to sit facing the window. The bark was incessant, the metronomic beat puncturing the air and his thoughts. He listened, counting the seconds between each one, as if measuring the proximity of thunder from a lightning flash. He stood, knees stiff and complaining about their early employment, and straightened his back. Stepping closer to the window he pulled the blind to one side and fastened the window shut.

  “I can still hear it,” the voice from the bed groaned.

  “I’ll go check. Might be a fox.”

  Now fully awake, he scooped his clothes off the floor and dressed. By the time the bedroom door closed softly behind him, he could hear his wife snoring quietly in her sleep. Descending the stairs, he made for the kitchen. His old wellies were parked on the mat at the doorway, and he slipped them on over feet, which were cushioned with thick stockings that reached to his knee. Reaching for the windbreaker jacket hanging on the coat stand, he unlocked the door and stepped out into the thinnest light of early dawn.

  “Christ,” he said. “It might not be a bloody fox.”

  Boyd cut a path in a straight line that led from his front porch to the barn, his breath puffing a smoke that heated his face. It was colder than he expected. They had been blessed with mild winters in the past couple of years, a cycle that had to break at some point. They were due a tough one.

  The only sounds were the dog and the crunch of stones under his heavy wellies. He kicked a stone hard with the toe of his boot and sent it crashing against the barn door with a clang. The doors were locked tight, a chain wrapped through and around the handles. He pulled a big brass key from his pocket and fumbled with it until the stubborn lock clicked and he hauled the chain from the door handles. The big wide doors creaked as they opened and the stale odour hit him.

  Habit made him look toward the wall switch and he reached for it. His hand paused on it, looking around the large room still blanketed in darkness. Sandwiched between the barks, the sound of the animals shifting in their sleep, still dozing, the occasional squeak and slide of hoof. Sleep twitches.

  “It’s OK girl. I’m here now,” he whispered into the darkness.

  Thinking better of the bright main light, Boyd pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket, careful to cast the beam toward the ground. Fearing it was still too bright he cupped a hand over the light, turning the cracks of his fingers red. The glow warmed his palm as he walked the centre aisle which split the barn in two. On his left, he could see the pigs still in their pens all asleep. The new-born piglets were safely curled up, all folds of skin like little meat puddles on their mother’s side. He shone his luminous hand to the opposite side where the boars lay deep asleep on beds of hay.

  He carefully removed his hand and shone the cylinder of light around the barn. At eye level, he saw the pallet of meal bags stacked high and casting the beam around their foot, looking for a spill. Satisfied, he shot it to the upper decks, the bales of straw bunched tight together by cord. The dog ceased its bark suddenly and began whimpering as if in pain. Boyd made for her little enclosure. He could see immediately that the animal was in distress standing on hind legs, scratching against one of the grounded pillars that housed her.

  “Come on girl. What’s wrong?”

  The dog barked once again, tilting its head at something high in the darkness above. Boyd tracked her stare with the beam of the flashlight, sweeping it up and around at the ceiling. At first, he could see nothing, then, a little bit further along, the light caught it. There was something dangling from the roof, swinging gently to and fro.

  Boyd felt his legs buckle beneath him and staggered backward. He groped at his side and caught an iron gate, using it to steady himself. It rattled on its hinges startling the animals nearby, who began to voice their displeasure. The torch dropped from his hand onto the soft hay underneath falling at an odd angle which shot its solitary beam upward. He fought the urge not to vomit as, looking up, he watched the swirling dust particles dance in the glare of the light beam as beyond, the dangling legs of the hanging body swung gently in the cool dawn breeze.

  TWO

  Joe waited outside, pacing the edge of the barn. Despite the animated grunts of the animals, troubled by the presence of the three strangers – four if you counted the deceased - Boyd made no attempt to interfere in their investigation, refusing to step inside. He looked across the yard and saw a shadow pass across the streak of light from the doorway. His wife stepped out, still dressed in her nightgown. In one hand she raised a cup. He stopped and looked across at her, saw the steam rise from the mug and suddenly became conscious of the biting cold. A deathly touch that pierced the bone. He gave a little shudder before cutting across the gravel towards his wife.
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  “Christ Joe, you’re nearly blue!” she said and passed him the mug. His big hands reached for it, interlacing fingers around the mug almost in prayer. “Woodhead arrived yet?”

  “He’s inside,” Joe said and accepted Evie’s invitation to cross the threshold into their kitchen. He quietly slid a chair out from the table, careful not to make too much noise as if it would offend the dead.

  Evie seemed to share the sentiment, closing the door gently and joined him at the table. They sat in silence. Joe, body angled away from the table, back bent forward and curled over the cup which he hadn’t yet touched to his lips. He circled it around in his hands as if nurturing a little fire, careful to protect it. Evie watched him, two decades of marriage encrypting the wrinkles of his sad face that said he was in no mood for a conversation.

  There was a soft knock on the door. Her husband seemed not to hear it, eyes remained on the cup. Evie stood, slipped her feet back into the carpet slippers and shuffled across to the door. Tightening the gown around her slim frame, and stealing a quick glance in the mirror, she opened the door.

  “Morning Evie. Joe.”

  Joe sat up upon hearing his name and looked to the doorway. The man’s head peered in. Officer Mark Mooney was in his fifties, wispy hair devoid of colour, slits for eyes and a mouth that hung open, as if his face had frozen moments before a sneeze.

  “What’s the latest Mark?” Joe said, standing and moving beside his wife.

  Behind the officer in the yard, two other men were locked in conversation. They looked in the direction of the Boyd’s. A stout officer with red hair offered a wobbly smile to them both. The other man was tall and slim, dressed smartly in navy slacks and a cream shirt. The break in their chat prompted him to take the officers lead, and noticing the Boyd’s in the doorway offered a little wave, before turning back to the officer and picking up the thread of their conversation again.

  “We’ve just about wrapped up here,” Mooney said. “We’ve cut him down from the rafter. We’ll be gone soon enough. Just need to follow procedure with these things, you know?”

  “Of course. No problem. Take the time you need,” Joe said.

  “Any idea who, or what or…”

  “I can answer the who Evie. Looks like young Lewis Tighe.”

  “Jesus,” Evie said, and pulled her husband a little tighter. Joe wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. The officer nodded his head, waiting a beat for them to regain composure.

  “As to why? We’re all agreed that it’s a clear suicide. Doctor Woodhead says no sign of struggle. We’ll have to do our own investigation. Par for the course in these cases. Speak with relatives, friends and yourselves of course just to get a picture of what his state was leading up to this.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “But listen,” the officer said and straightened up an inch, “we’ll get back to it. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of hungry animals to feed so we won’t be much longer. I’ll pop round later this afternoon for a chat if that’s OK?”

  The Boyd’s nodded and said their goodbyes. When the door closed, Evie wrapped her arms around her husband and they stood rooted to the spot for a long time, the cries of the farm springing up around them.

  THREE

  Shortly before 6am and as most of Ballygorm’s community slept, Fr Regan sat in the darkness of his living room in the small parochial house. The duvet had been pulled from the bed and was tucked underneath and around him like a sleeping bag. The images from the TV screen flashed across his face, casting bars of light on his narrow spectacles which sat lopsided on his ears. Through the glasses, his heavy eyelids flitted open and shut.

  The image on the screen froze suddenly as the whirr of the DVD ceased. The freeze frame seemed to impart a sudden self-awareness and stretching himself out, he gave a long sleepy yawn.

  He could see from the thin curtain over the window that the day was beginning to brighten. Rising from the chair, his body feeling stiff, he walked to the TV set and switched it off.

  “See you later Detective Bourbon,” he said, before picking up the duvet and dragging it to the bedroom next door.

  Putting his glasses on the bedside table he lay down on the hard mattress and covered himself with the duvet. Just as he was sinking into sleep, his phone, which had somehow fallen to the carpeted floor by the bed, started to ring. Regan cursed. Snapping his glasses back on, he peered down at the phone’s illuminated screen. A familiar name flashed. He picked it up and mumbled a garbled greeting into it.

  “Sorry to disturb you, father. I didn't know whether to call you so early or not.”

  “That’s OK Tommy. I was just dozing anyway.”

  “Ah OK.”

  Regan sat up, back propped against the bed’s hardwood headboard.

  “In my experience,” Regan said, “there are three reasons why you could be calling me at this hour. Excluding, of course, the possibility you’re calling with good news. Something that you’re just bursting to tell me?” The voice on the other end remained silent. “Didn’t think so. One – that you want me to administer Sacrament of the Sick to some poor unfortunate who is standing at death’s door. But that’s unlikely. Wouldn’t explain why a superintendent would be calling me.”

  The man on the other end was still quiet. Regan could hear footsteps in the background, firm and slapping on tile or stone.

  “Two – You need me to intervene in a domestic dispute. Given that it’s a Wednesday morning and the bar was closed at 10am last night, we’ll dismiss that possibility too.”

  “Father, I…”

  “Let me finish Tommy! That brings us to what’s behind door number three.” Regan took a deep breath and winced. His legs were already off the bed and he looked to the wardrobe. “Who was it?”

  “Lewis Tighe. Suicide. Found hanging from a beam in Joe Boyd’s barn house.”

  “God help us.”

  “The other lads left an hour ago. Guess I drew short straw so they called me to deliver the news. I’m at the house now but his wife won't let me in. I can’t seem to get through to her. I could really use your help down here to calm her, father. I know it’s not great timing…”

  Regan had the phone tucked between his ear and a shoulder and moved to the wall to turn on the light. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a hanger laden with his clothes and dropped it onto the bed.

  “Father?” the voice came from the end of the phone.

  “I’m here. I’ll be right down.”

  “Thank you. I owe you one.”

  “Where’s the body now?”

  Regan had already filled the navy trousers and buckled the belt. On his upper half, he buttoned the black shirt which despite his best efforts still attracted orbs of white fluff which he brushed off. He approached the wardrobe again and sifted through the hangers. A bright range of coloured woollen tops passed between his fingers until his hand fixed on one and pulled it out.

  “It’s with the coroner already. They still have to confirm the cause of death. That needs to be worked out before we can let the family see him.”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks again father.”

  They hung up. Father Regan placed the phone gently on the bed and pulled the woollen top over his portly frame. The top crackled with sparks of static as it passed in front of his face.

  He struck the light and walked into the living room. On a small wooden desk in the corner was a standing caricature of Jesus, dressed in typical enough garb – long white tunic, cinched at the waist with a rope and sandals – but the grin on the bearded face was broad with perfect teeth, a hand outstretched by his side offered an oversized thumbs up. On his head was a straw sombrero, coloured red and green along the brim and fastened under the chin with an elastic string. It was a little bobble head, the kind that sits on car dashboards. A King James bible sat beside it.

  Switching on the desk lamp, Regan lifted the hat and pulled from its hollow a little key. He knelt down and unlo
cked a desk drawer. He pulled a document and placed it on the desk. The insignia on its top corner caught his initial interest before his eyes skimmed the remainder of the letter until they reached the bottom, a space above his printed name.

  Regan moved his hand to the cup of pens at one side and took one out, and leaned over to write in the space. His hand hovered, pen poised. He could sense something move in the room, watching him.

  Pulling his chair closer to the desk, he saw the bobble head vibrate. The winking Jesus continued to stare, the manic grin and beady eye following him a like a haunting portrait that looks directly into the observer from whatever angle of the room.

  Regan put the lid back on the pen and returned the document to the drawer. A framed picture inside caught his attention. He picked it up and studied it. A group photo. Priest in the centre, smiling, eyes squinted against the sun overhead. His long jet black hair and thick beard seemed ill-suited for the setting. Around him, young kids, long and lean limbs, their dark skin looking much cooler and contrasted with the priest’s pink and sweaty face. They were wearing clothes that hung from their skinny bodies, football jerseys, and dirty singlets but despite their attire they were smiling and joking, arms linked and pointing to the man in the centre.

  A smile played on Regan’s lips and he looked at the pencil mark scrawled in the corner.

  “1988. Is it that long?”

  Bobble-headed Jesus nodded, distracting Regan from the memory and robbed his smile. The priest stared at it before suddenly picking it up and throwing it against the wall where it smashed into pieces.

  FOUR

  Ten minutes after the call, Fr Regan was in his car. On the passenger seat was a plastic lunch box with a breakfast assembled from the few contents in his fridge.

  Regan turned the ignition and drove, his dimmed headlights paving the path ahead around the narrow country bends. The box beside him began to rattle so he moved it to the floor where it nestled in the middle of a bed of empty cans. The litre of protein shake he had blended with fruit the day before was still there, sloshing with each turn.