Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“I haven’t done anything. He offered to lease the land.”

“That’s not the point. These are big decisions. Do you have any idea how foolish I feel when I find out from someone else?”

She was blowing this way out of proportion. Emma could blow up into theatrics at times and it was best to just let her steam it off than react to it. He lifted his pint, mulling over what she was saying, trying to unravel it. It was a trust issue, plain and simple. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”

The hardness in her eyes eased up. She pushed her drink away. “I don’t want to be here. The mood’s ugly.”

“Something wrong with it?” Puddy lifted her unfinished drink. “I can make another.”

“It’s fine. I just want to go home.”

“How’re the ponies?” Puddycombe was all smiles and charm now. At least with Emma. Jim had always suspected the bar owner was sweet on her.

“Pony. We had to get rid of the one,” she said and immediately regretted it. Like an admission of failure.

“That’s a shame. They’re beautiful creatures but a ransom to keep.”

“True.” She chin-wagged the crowd. “Busy night.”

“Nothing like a neighbourhood feud to spike sales.” Puddy squared his eyes on Jim. “Jimmy, come into the backroom. The lads want a word with you.”

Jim’s brow creased up a notch. “What about?”

“Just come on back.”

Emma slid off the stool, stood. “We’re just on our way home.” She levelled her tone clear. A deaf idiot could have deciphered it.

“It’s okay.” Jim fished the truck keys from a pocket, dropped them into her hand. “Take the truck, go on home.”

Emma dangled the keyring off a finger, wary of some old boy’s club shenanigans. Seen it before, didn’t like the outcome. “I can wait,” she said.

“I’ll be right there,” Jim said. Puddy nodded and slipped away to the back room.

Emma’s face, unthrilled. “We just talked about this, didn’t we?”

“Something’s up. I want to hear what this is about. Go on. I’ll fill you in when I get home.” He kissed her cheek and elbowed through the laggards pressing around the bar.

Emma jangled the keys on her finger, watching her husband disappear past the dartboards. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t good. Any fool could see that. An arsehole on her left jostled into her and to her right, the crack of glass breaking as a pint hit the floor.

Time to go.

When Cifton Murdy returned home after one drink at the Dublin, his wife asked him how the town hall went. She was already dressed in her robe, a paperback novel tucked under her arm. He settled into a chair at the kitchen table and gave a brief summary of the meeting, omitting the angry shouting and near donnybrook that had soured it.

“What an awful man,” she said. “The sooner he’s gone, the better.” With that, she told her husband not to stay up too late and went up the stairs.

Clifton remained at the table, trying to decide if he wanted tea. He dreaded going to bed. The last three nights had been wasted staring at the fissures in the ceiling, praying for sleep. He grimaced at the thought of spending another night watching the hours burn away on the digital clock.

Deciding against tea, Clifton poured a tumbler of something stronger. He stared at it, knowing it wouldn’t help. Insomnia was foreign to Clifton and it was taking its toll. He’d always slept like a champ, dead to the world and sawing logs, until now. Until those awful things that that awful man had said.

Clifton pushed the scotch away. He knew what would cure his insomnia but didn’t want to face it. There wasn’t any choice now. Another sleepless night would kill him.

Taking the flashlight from the junk drawer, he went down into the cellar. Turned on all the lights and opened the door to the storage space and started moving boxes around. Digging through crates of old Christmas tinsel and furniture that hadn’t seen daylight since the seventies. And there, under a cardboard box of mildewed photographs, he found what he was looking for.

A rectangular box of cedar, just over a foot long. The distiller’s name branded into the wood. Clifton slid the lid back to reveal a greying patch of burlap. Once, as a kid, he had seen what was hidden inside the burlap. His father had shown it to him, whispering its mystery before hiding the cedar box away again. Clifton pushed the lid closed again. He had no desire to see the damned thing again, he just needed to know it was still there.

In the upstairs bedroom, Mrs. Murdy heard the car start and reverse down the driveway. She blinked at the clock and wondered where the bloody hell her husband was going this time of night.

Clifton Murdy didn’t see another vehicle once he’d turned onto Clapton Road. That was good. The box sat next to him in the passenger seat. The thing inside rattled against the cedar at a few turns in the road. An awful sound but he paid it no mind, already feeling better now that the damned thing was out of the house.

Slowing to a crawl as he turned onto the Roman Line, wheels crunching over the gravel as Clifton looked for the rutted path. He spotted the sign first and stopped the car, shut it down. A quick glance around to make sure no cars were coming, then he took the box and climbed out.

He had no intention of going near the house. The big sign close to the road, he’d leave it there. Clifton leaned the box against the footing of the signboard and crept back to his car. He’d be home inside of ten minutes, back in his bed where, thank Christ, he could finally get some sleep.

When the car’s taillights had disappeared down the road, the creaking of the rocking chair on the porch stopped. Corrigan set his glass onto the boards, picked up the flashlight and rose from the rocker. He marched quickly down the pathway to see what Santa had brought him.

The light beam picked out the little cedar box nestled at the base of his sign and he wondered for a moment if it was a bomb. Which was silly, he knew. None of these yokels would have the brains or the balls to put together a home-made incendiary. Kneeling in the damp grass, he slid the lid away and folded back the rotting burlap. It really did feel like Christmas, even though he already knew what was inside the box.

The bone was long, just over a foot, and thick at the ends. The surface mottled and grey, porous to the touch. If he had to guess, he’d say it was an arm bone. The humerus of an adult. Or perhaps the leg bone of a child.

He returned the bone to its nest of burlap, stuck the box under his arm and walked back to the house.

THE WHITE BALL banked off the rail and cracked the solid seven into a pocket. Berryhill straightened up, studied the table. Kyle leaned on his useless cue, muttering in some alien tongue. Hitchens watched Jim cross the threshold into the back billiards.

Jim nodded to the four men. “Boys.”

Berryhill stretched over the table, drawing his cue. “What do you know about this Corrigan asshole?”

“Not much.”

“That prick doesn’t belong here,” Hitchens said. He already looked stewed.

“Yeah,” Jim said. “And?”

“Somebody’s gotta shut him up,” said Berryhill. “Our mayor sure as hell ain’t gonna do it with her bullshit bylaws.”

Jim felt his ears burn. Like he was auditioning for a part, the four men staring him down. “She’s doing what she can.”

Puddycombe spoke up, playing the mediator to Bill’s bad cop. “We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

Kyle snickered and swept the balls into the corners. Bill laid something on the cleared table and rolled it across the felt surface to Jim.

A baseball bat.

Jim watched the Slugger bank and roll back to the center. He looked up at the men. Four wannabe Rambos.”You gotta be kidding me.”