Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Under Corrigan's boots was a rough dropcloth. Another was tossed on the floor to his left and a third draped down the stairs. He retreated back into the hall and swept forward, swinging up a pantomime pistol. “He got off one round. Missed. He was shot through the stomach by one vigilante. Another gored his ribs with a pitchfork.”

Everyone ducked as he pointed the make-believe gun at them. Corrigan reached down and yanked away the dropcloth at his feet. Chalk lines drawn onto the wooden floorboards, sketched in the shape of a body.

“Then the mob went for the rest of the family. Mary was struck down running to her husband’s side. Bludgeoned with a shillelagh. Choking on a mouthful of shattered teeth, she begged for a moment to pray. ‘Pray in Hell’ the murderers told her, and then they broke her skull in.”

Emma winced at the thought. Some shuffled uncomfortably while others folded their arms in defiance, disbelieving the tale.

Corrigan pulled away the second dropcloth to reveal another chalk outline on the floor. He crossed to the stairs and swept up the third shroud. “Thomas was shot coming down the stairs. His ears were docked from his head and thrown into the fireplace. Michael was cudgelled in his bed. Young Bridgette, not yet sixteen, was chased to the loft where she was raped and cut open with a cleaver.”

Corrigan flung the sheets into a corner and waved at them to follow him through into the kitchen. “When all was quiet, the vigilantes collected the bodies and dragged them out the back.”

His voice trailed off. No one moved for a second and then Travis chased him down the hall. The crowd trooped through the kitchen and out the backdoor to the yard where Corrigan waited for them.

“This way.” He led them through the newly mowed path, up a rise and down to the willow trees. “The bodies were hauled out to the barn where the horses were stalled. Lamp oil was doused over the straw and the whole thing set to blaze. Bodies, horses, all.”

Ten paces from the willow trees to the graves. Six stones, no taller than a foot, arced in a wide circle. Each one with a chiselled name:

James. Mary. John. Thomas. Bridgette. Michael.

Corrigan stood in the middle of the ring of graves waiting for them to catch up. Behind him rose a spire seven feet into the air, hidden under yet another dropcloth. Berryhill was the first down the path and he stopped cold. Joe Keefe bumped against him and cursed, and then he too went silent when he saw the graves. The others tumbled in, the same reaction all round. A few genuflected but most stood gaping. Corrigan registered it all with a perverse grin.

“Even in death they were wronged. The parish priest, a known lecher and drunk, refused them burial in the churchyard at Saint Patrick’s cemetery. So they were lain to rest out here. What was left of them anyway.”

Corrigan stepped left and took up the end of the dropcloth. Some new horror waiting to be unveiled. “Yet it wasn’t all tragic. One of the family survived. Young Robert Corrigan, all of eight years old, hid under the floor and watched his entire family slaughtered. He fled barefoot through the snow to a neighbour’s house. They hid the boy, fearing for his life. Later, young Robert gave an eye-witness testimony to the local magistrate, naming each and every one of the murderous assassins.”

A breeze blew up, dipping the willow branches into the faces of the stunned onlookers.

Corrigan let the tension run its pace before going on. “But the magistrate was partisan to the Vigilance Peace Society and publicly dismissed the boy’s claims as delusions. The assassins, cowards and bastards to a man, walked away scot free.”

He flung back the dropcloth, sweeping it to the ground. A tall grave monument refracted the sunlight. Black granite, cleaned and polished. Thick at the base and narrowing to an elegant spire that towered four feet over their heads. A dark hub to the ring of small gravemarkers, the black spire repeated the names of the dead in gothic script. James and Mary Corrigan, the four dead children. Each name catalogued with the date and place of birth. The date of demise for all six was the same but here the elegant chiselled letters gave way to a bolder inscription hammered into the stone.

James Orin Corrigan - Born 1839 - MURDERED February 4, 1898

Mary Agnes Corrigan - Born 1846 - MURDERED February 4, 1898

John James Corrigan - Born 1872 - MURDERED February 4, 1898

Thomas Finn Corrigan - Born 1877 - MURDERED February 4, 1898

Bridgette Mary Corrigan - Born 1882 - MURDERED February 4, 1898

Michael Patrick Corrigan - Born 1883 - MURDERED February 4, 1898

No one moved, no one dared breathe. A full minute and it was Travis of all people who broke the spell. “So who did it?”

Emma shushed the boy but Travis played deaf and hollered again. “Who killed the Corrigans?”

“Look around you, son.” Corrigan levelled his eyes to the boy and chin-wagged at the people gathered before him. “They’re all here. All the upstanding, salt of the earth gentry of Pennyluck. Hitchens and Keefe. The Carrols and the O’Connors. Gallaghers, Farrells, McKinnons. The Connellys and the Berryhills. Those that committed the deed and those that covered it up.”

Bill Berryhill snapped to attention at the mention of his name. Like a sharp slap to the face it stung and stung until his mind clicked over to what the son of a bitch was saying. Berryhill’s response was immediate and predictable. “Fuck you, asshole!”

“The truth is ugly, isn’t it? Your great grandfathers murdered my family and everyone knew it. Those that kept silent were just as guilty as the ones that did the deed.” Corrigan stomped forward, his leering grin even wider. “Look at your hands,” he said. “All of you. Do you see the blood stained there? The blood of my kin. My blood.”

Berryhill pushed Kyle aside and stomped up face to face with his accuser. “That’s a fucking lie!”

Violence folded thick in the air but Corrigan didn’t turn away. “What’s your name, son?”

Berryhill shoved Corrigan hard into the monument. Someone in the crowd hollered at him. “Knock it off, Berryhill!”

“Berryhill?” Corrigan zeroed in on the big man’s eyes. “It was your scum ancestor that raped the girl.”

Big Bill Berryhill was strong but he wasn’t fast, the punch telegraphed a mile away. Still, the accusing party didn’t seem to care, too busy staring at the big man’s face. Corrigan took the punch and bounced off the gravemarker. Hit the ground.

“Hit him again!” Someone from behind, goading him on. Jim and Puddycombe jumped in and pulled Bill away. Others yelled at them to stop and a few ordered Bill to shut his mouth. Bill flung the two men off, spat at the bastard on the ground and stomped away.

Corrigan brushed the grit from his hands and rubbed his jaw. The grin was still there, as if everything was how it should be. “If you don’t believe me, look in your attics and your crawlspaces. You’ll find proof there.”

Joe Keefe told him to go to Hell but Corrigan shouted him down. “The morning after the massacre, the whole town came out and traipsed through the ashes. They took little souvenirs, like they were at the fair, snatching up little pieces of bone and pocketing them. Fingerbones and ribs, keepsakes of a lovely day’s outing. Look in your basements, people. Search your hidey-holes and your attics and you’ll find the bones there. I want them back. Bring them to me.”

The stranger was gnashing his teeth, nigh foaming at the mouth, and Emma pulled Travis away, hissing at Jim to follow. The Murdys and the Connellys turned and hurried back up the path, away from the leering man and his blasphemous sideshow. The others cursed and followed.