Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

The news crew had tongues buzzing. No one remembered news ever being reported from Pennyluck. It just didn’t happen. Kate made a few calls and learned that the report would play tonight on CKTV, the local news from the London affiliate of a national broadcaster. National news at six ‘o clock, then the feed went local at six-thirty.

The auditorium in the town hall building was small and filled up quickly. Voices grumbled and people barked at Kate about what she was going to do. She asked everyone to be patient and see what the news report was about. She scanned through the faces in the room and saw few allies. McGrath and Ripley were absent, as were any other members of the town council. That surprised her. She would have expected them to witness her public stoning.

The news piece was brief but it was damaging. The camera angling up at the decrepit old house and panning the faces of the gawkers assembled in the yard and then finally Corrigan himself. Orating to the onlookers, looking like some sinister carnival barker. His words drowned out by the nasally whine of the reporter’s voice-over report.

“The controversial claims of Mr. Corrigan have incensed the residents of Pennyluck who reject his version of history. Some have even called him an outright liar. Still that hasn’t stopped the curious from coming to his tour. Back to you, Tom—”

“Fucking con-man!”

Heads rubbernecked at the outburst. Then a soda can cartwheeled through the air, smacked the television screen. Carmel-coloured cola dribbled down the face of the news anchor.

“Chrissakes!” yelled Carswell, rushing for the paper towels. “We just replaced the damn TV.”

“Shove it, Carswell!” Hitchens unloaded, looking for something else to hurl.

Feeling a wall of rage burning from the crowd, Kate shot to her feet. “Please everyone, calm down.”

Puddycombe pointed a jagged finger at his mayor. “What are you going to do about that son of a bitch? He’s spreading his lies to the local news!”

“People over in Exford are laughing at us!” Berryhill, indignant and righteous as a nun. “Even those douchebags in Garrisontown are hooting it up.”

Kate held up her hands, as if that could stop the tsunami. “I’m working on it. Please…”

“How? What exactly are you doing to stop this guy?”

“I’ve ordered the Watchman to stop his ads immediately. And we’re drafting a new bylaw forbidding anyone from turning a residence into a tourist attraction.”

“Wonderful,” hollered Berryhill, riding the indignant posture for all it was worth. He was so rarely on the side of the righteous. “That ought to scare him off for sure.”

A few laughs and guffaws. Kate let it peter out before saying, “It’s a start.”

“It’s paperwork!”

“Well what do you suggest, Mister Hitchens? We tar and feather him?”

“That’s a start,” shouted Berryhill. “Then we run the fucker outta town.”

Here, here. Damn straight. Do it now.

Kate felt the anger sunburn her cheeks. She needed to shut this down. Now. “Thank you, Bill. Anyone have an idea outside of a Schwarzenegger movie?”

Puddy. “Can’t the police do anything?”

“He hasn’t broken any laws. There’s nothing they can do.”

“More uselessness!” Berryhill shot up. The collective rage was burning off too soon. “The only thing this bastard’s gonna understand is a fist!”

“Here, here!” Hitchens, echoed by Puddy, McKinnon, the Drakes and Rob Toohey. Even Combat Kyle could be seen moving his lips, although no one heard him utter any actual sounds.

Jim and Emma arrived late and were stuck standing on the sidelines. They watched the town’s rage burn and cool and fire again. Hell, if that little toad Kyle broke his silence, it had to be bad. Emma wanted to shout back but choked, frozen by that peculiarly Canadian aversion to stand out. Her eyes shot to Jim and then back to the men in the seats, hollering and thumping like cro-magnons around a campfire.

Jim squeezed his way to the front, towards the mayor, stranded and deserted on the floor of the town hall. “Knock it off!” he hollered back. “We got a real problem here. You’re not helping.”

Berryhill dissed him with a wave of his hand. “Here comes Jimmy to defend the prick! What is it with you, Hawkshaw? You bromancing that sonuvabitch?”

Jim fired back. “The man’s got an honest grievance.”

“So?” Hitchens bulged his eyes at him. “It’s not our problem.”

“Yes it is. He thinks our families killed his.”

“Prove it!” Someone, anyone said.

“That’s the problem.” Jim felt the heat swing his way. “He can’t prove it but we can’t disprove it either.”

“Go home, Jimmy! No one wants to hear your excuses. Fucking collaborator!”

“Go play outside, Bill. Let the grown-ups talk, huh.”

“You’re pretty chummy with this Corrigan creep.” Carswell piped up, squaring Jim in his sights. “Aren’t you?”

“His house is next to mine. That’s all.”

“But you’re leasing land from Corrigan,” Carswell said. “For next to nothing.”

Jim flinched, body-checked to the boards. How the hell did Carswell know that?

“What?” Hitchens jerked. “Izzat true?”

A tidal wave of hate rolling his way. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Siding with the enemy. A traitor to your own community.” Carswell said, pointing.

“That’s enough! Please!” Kate couldn’t believe the name-calling. Grown men.

“Fuck this.” Berryhill stomped for the exit, pushing Carswell out of the way. “I need a drink.” Combat Kyle at his heels, shooting death rays from his mousy little eyes.

Hitchens followed Berryhill. Others stayed and shouted each other down. Kate watched her town hall degenerate into schoolyard curses and name-calling. Any minute and it would become a bench clearing brawl, with herself trapped in the middle of it.

Then everything went dark, the lights killed. The shouting stopped. When the lights popped back on, Kate saw Jim at the switch. “Meeting’s over,” he hollered. Waving everyone to the door. “Thank you for coming!”

The Dublin House filled up quickly, temperatures running hot from the meeting. Jim and Emma made their way to the bar, nodding and saying hello to people. Phil and Pam Carroll nodded back, polite but cold. Pat Ryder ignored them and Hitchens outright scowled.

Gauging the hostility, Jim snuck a look to Emma. “Is it just me or are we not welcome here?”

“Everyone’s still wound up,” she said. “This business has touched a raw nerve with everyone.”

Winding through the tables, a gauntlet of dirty looks or faces turned away as they passed. One last stool left at the bar. Emma sat as Jim leaned over the cherrywood to flag the barkeep. Puddycombe must have sprinted back to work, already behind the bar to the relief of Audrey, who looked overwhelmed.

Puddy was short, none of the usual banter or ribbing. He’s busy is all, Jim told himself. He and Emma took up their drinks and looked around. No one said hello nor waved them over to join their table.

“They hate us,” Emma said.

“They’re just worked up, Emm. It’ll pass.”

“So.” She sipped her drink then fixed him with a look. “When were you going to tell me about leasing land from Mister Corrigan?”

“We talked about it, nothing more.”

“Then how did the bank manager know about it?”

“Damned if I know. Corrigan must have told him.”

“Those two chitchat? Carswell hates the man.”

Jim held up his hands, crying uncle. “I don’t have a clue, honey. I’m just guessing.”

“I don’t like this. You making these decisions without me.” She set her glass down. “That’s twice now.”