Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“Nothing grand.” She raised a hand in caution. “Not a trial, just a public inquiry into the Corrigan tragedy. And in return, you’ll end this ‘tour’ of yours.”

Corrigan raised his glass, waiting for his guests to raise theirs. “I’ll drink to that.”

Kate clinked her glass to his and Corrigan looked to Jim. Jim balked, reluctant to agree to anything with his new neighbour.

“Jim?” Kate prompted him out of his rudeness.

Clink.

THE TOWN COUNCIL sat Tuesday mornings in the old building it shared with the library and the municipal county office. A clock tower topped the limestone edifice but the clock had stopped working the summer of 1916. Local folklore held that the cessation of the timepiece was in mourning for the large number of local boys shipped to the battlefields of Europe and slaughtered wholesale at the Somme.

The restoration and repair of the old town clock was one of the items on the agenda for today’s council meeting. Kate had initiated the project with the help of Mrs. Cogburn, the librarian, and Ford Toohey of the Knights of Columbus. Fundraising plans withered and died when the estimate for restoration came in at $78,000.

Kate would bring it up in council this morning, if only to keep the idea alive. But her main focus was the Pennyluck Heritage Festival. There were still a million things to do and she needed to pry a little more money out of the council to ensure it all came about. She still couldn’t understand how the town fought her for every penny. Every small town from here to the coast had some celebration, a big weekend carnival that drove tourism and boosted local pride. These festivals cost money to put on but they paid huge dividends in the people who visited and spent their money in town. How the council failed to see that was beyond her.

There were seven members of the town council, including herself. The sitting six had held their seats for at least a dozen years. All men, all over the age of fifty. The old boys didn’t like change and didn’t cotton to terms like ‘innovation’ or ‘rebranding’. They liked their town as it was. Why fix what wasn’t broke?

The faces of the councilmen were already stones of puffy suffrage and Kate knew she was in for a tough morning. Councilman Gene Ripley, who ran the oldest funeral parlour in Pennyluck, shot down any mention of the clock restoration and Joe Keefe suggested they move on. Kate let it go, focusing on the need for further funding of the festival. Pat McGrath, of McGrath’s Lumber & Hardware, interrupted her pitch, pointing out that they had already allocated ten thousand over and above her written budget.

“Putting on a festival of this size isn’t an exact science, Pat.” Kate kept her tone pleasant, knowing the old boys could be easily ruffled. “This is our first heritage festival. Problems arise, challenges we didn’t foresee.”

“I thought you were the expert on this shindig.” McGrath pointed a stubby finger in her direction. “You sold us on this idea claiming you could handle it. And now you’re telling us you need more cash?”

“There’s a lot of people coming. We’ll need more staff for the events and I’m pretty sure we’ll need a second police officer for traffic and security.”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to pay a cop for his weekend?” Councilman Ripley sputtered. “It’s time and a half. I’m sorry, our pockets are empty.”

“That isn’t true,” Kate countered. “There’s a contingency fund at the bank that, according to Mr. Carswell, hasn’t been utilized in years.”

“That’s for contingencies.” Ripley’s condescension dripped all over his face. “Flash floods and acts of God. Emergencies.”

“Then it should have been folded into the existing emergency fund a long time ago. But it wasn’t, and this is a new contingency.”

Ripley clucked his teeth. The other five shook their heads, killing the idea with silent consensus.

Reeve Thompson tapped his gavel and grumbled. “Done. Any new order of business?”

Kate’s list of new business included a proposal for a skate park to be built on the empty lot in the old rail yards and obtaining fibre optic cable for the library computer system. These she set aside and cut to the last item on her list, scribbled down in pen as an addendum.

“I want to propose an inquest into the deaths of the Corrigan family in eighteen ninety-eight.”

It was like God had hit the pause button, the men frozen and the air still. The dropped faces soured and composed slowly with clearing throats and tisking teeth.

“Next.” Thompson banged the gavel, aborting the matter.

Kate’s brow arced. She’d never seen anything dismissed so quickly. “Hold on a minute. I’m sure you’ve heard this man’s claims. And the little sideshow he’s putting on at the old Corrigan property. I believe it should be looked into.”

“The man’s a fraud,” McGrath said, paging through the agenda. “We’ll not entertain his ridiculous claims.”

“We don’t know that. Which is why an inquest is in order. A proper search of the archives into the deaths of the Corrigan family.”

Thompson wouldn’t budge. “Absolutely not. And there’ll be no more mention of that name within these chambers.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s ancient history,” said McGrath. “You give in to this guy and you open the door to every other con-man with a grievance. Before you know it, we’ll have the Indians down here making claims about ancestral land rights. Forget it.”

The gavel rang again and the meeting adjourned.

“You sure you want to do this?”

Travis kicked a pebble into the ditch. “Yeah.”

Jim walked his son down the driveway to the Corrigan house. “You add this to your chores, you won’t have a lot of free time. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

Jim plucked a handful of thistle from the path, watching his boy amble along in that jangleybone way of his, like it would kill him to stand up straight. Or give more than one-word answers. Lately the boy had regressed to simple grunts and impatient sighs. Jim let it go.

Coming onto the yard, they saw more rotted timber piled onto the ashes of the bonfire. Splintered framing and chunks of desiccated plaster and lathe. Jim gauged the fire pit to be too close to the house, too close to that tinderbox veranda. If Corrigan wasn’t careful, he’d burn the place down. Which, on second thought, might not be such a terrible thing.

“There he is.” Travis pointed.

Corrigan came around the side of the house, dragging a splintered mess of cabinet through the raspberry bushes. He tossed the mess into the fire pit and waved, a warm smile beaming through the sweat of his brow. “Hello there, son. Ready to work?”

“Yes sir.”

Jim titled his head at the boy. Sir? Where did that come from?

“Thanks for coming.” Corrigan wiped his hand on his shirt before shaking Jim’s hand. Then to Travis. “Did you bring some gloves? Proper workboots?”

“Check.” Travis plucked the gloves from his back pocket and raised a foot. The steel toe of his boot shone through the worn out leather.

“Excellent.” He led Travis inside, a hand guiding the boy’s slender shoulder. “Come on then. I’ll show you where you can start smashing things.”

Jim followed them into the dark interior. More of the old plaster had been pulled down, revealing soot-stained beams and studs, the bones of the old house. Out to the kitchen where Corrigan handed the boy a crowbar and nodded at the 40’s era cabinetry.

“Hack away, Travis.” Corrigan opened one of the lower cupboards. A few dusty plates and an ancient spraycan of wasp-killer. “Anything that will burn, you can drag out to the firepit. Anything that won’t can be tossed into that trailer bin out back. And be sure to take a break if you get too hot. This old bastard kitchen gets right fucking toasty when the sun hits it.”