Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Two rings then a voice. “Who the fuck is this?” No hello, no good morning.

“Hugo, it’s Kate.”

“Kate?”

A little disappointed he didn’t remember. “Kate Farrell. We—”

“Had you, didn’t I?” A laugh down the other end. “What can I do you for you, Kate? You still owe me a date, by the way.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Sounds classier than, you know, just a ‘fuckme’ session.”

She’d met Hugo in Toronto six years ago, when her company was being targeted by some anti-corporate activist group. Destroying their billboards, hacking their web servers. Fairly innocuous stuff until a pig carcass was found on their doorstep. The police had proved useless and someone at the company’s law firm suggested relating the matter to a trusted security firm. The security firm sent Hugo. Smooth as butter but short with manners. Brash towards everyone but flirtatious with Kate. Four days into the job, the harassment stopped cold. All Hugo disclosed was that he had located the activists and asked them to stop. He went so far as to request they apologize on their website. He gave no details and waved off any other questions but his knuckles were scraped raw and scabbed over. That afternoon, the activist’s website went dark save for a single screen that proclaimed an apology to the company. Hugo was very effective and extremely discreet and she had held on to his card.

She was surprised when he called the following week, asking her to join him for a drink. She asked if this was a follow up on services rendered. He laughed and said that he simply wanted to get her drunk and take advantage of her.

“You still out in pumpkin land?” he said over the line. Flirting long distance. He must have hit a dry spell, she thought. He went on. “You’ve had your fun out there, Katie girl. Come back to civilization already.”

“Tempting. When are you coming to visit?” Her smirk beamed down the line. “You’d be amazed, Hugo. You can park anywhere. All day.”

“And kill my lungs on all that fresh air?” The snap of a lighter and the sound of inhaling. “I’m on the clock, darling. What’s on your mind?”

“I need a background check on someone.”

“That’s what the police are for, love. Tick tock.”

“This needs more than that. Real digging.”

“Sounds serious.” His words muffled and she pictured him, cigarette in his teeth while he dug for pen and paper. “New boyfriend?”

“Nothing that dramatic. Just some local ne’er do well.”

“My specialty.” He sounded pleased. “What’s the prick’s name?”

“Corrigan, William.”

There were three of them, the louts, but by far, Brant Coogan was the worst. The leader, the instigator. The other two, Emmet and Wyatt, never made a move without him. Schoolyard bullies in the classic sense, all three destined for prison or a career in used car sales. And all thee of them hated Travis Hawkshaw.

Travis had been a passing target since the sixth grade. He got his fair share when the three stooges noticed him, which wasn’t that often. Travis just wasn’t a kid who stood out. That changed when the stranger showed up and cooked up something called a horrorshow, touring people around his creepy old house with tales of murder and revenge. Brant and the two mouth-breathers took notice of Travis then, sometimes going out of their way to find him in the faces flowing through the halls.

In school, you were assured a few jabs or a hard slam up against the lockers. Sometimes just taunting, loud and cruel enough to make every set of eyes turn and stare. Travis knew the latter to be the worst, all those eyes gawking at you. Bitch slaps and nut taps were nothing compared to that. But that was in school, where certain unstated boundaries of scorn and abuse were observed. Outside of school, well, the only principle that held was ‘ just fucking run’ .

Wednesday afternoons, Travis played basketball with his friend Joel instead of taking the bus home. They’d hang out for two hours then he’d meet his mom at the Farmer’s Co-Op. A regular blip in the schedule for both of them. Crossing Oak Street on the way to the Co-Op, he’d spotted Emmet zip by on his bike. Travis cut through the alley behind the butcher’s to stitch across Galway. A silhouette on a BMX appeared at the end of the alley, circling lazily. Brant, heading him off. Travis turned back.

Emmet and Wyatt pedalled up behind him, cutting off his escape.

The trio circled him on their bikes, called him faggot and loser and retard . Travis wasn’t listening, too busy looking for a breech in their line to make a run for it. There were no windows running either side of the alleyway, no chance anyone would see anything.

Brant skidded to a stop and said something about money but Travis ignored it. All three boys stopped and Travis spotted a gap in their line but then something hit him in the back. He sprawled to the ground, palms skinning the pavement. Travis ignored the heat of the pain and shot to his feet but was already surrounded. Yanked into a headlock and pulled down. His backpack stripped off, punches to the stomach. A nut tap for good measure. He felt his pants yanked down, the word faggot hollered over and over. Travis panicked.

What the hell were they doing? He struck out with fists, kicking blind. They stomped harder and Travis coiled up.

Faggot! Homo!

Travis peeked through his fingers and saw Brant wielding a grimy stick. Said he was gonna fuck his faggot ass with it. Travis’s eyes pieballed in disbelief.

This can’t be happening.

Stabbed. Sparks of pain. Tears, hot with shame. Every curse word he’d ever heard, flung out in a spew and repeated.

Then the pain stopped. Their voices, loud and belligerent. Fired at someone else.

“The fuck you want?”

Travis’s eyes swam in tears, the alley a blur. He saw Emmet or Wyatt slapped to the ground by a hulking fog. Brant was snatched next and shaken so hard his head flopped like a snapped chicken. The voice booming in rage. “You filthy little cocksucker! Is this the kind of faggotry you little shit-stains go for?”

Mr. Corrigan’s voice.

Loud as thunderclaps and wrathful as God. Now it was Brant’s turn to kiss the pavement and curl up. Mr. Corrigan raised his boot high and stomped the boy’s chest. Brant screamed and screamed until a boot to the guts shut him up.

Emmet and Wyatt were halfway down the alley, leaving Brant puking onto the pavement. Corrigan snatched the boy by the hair and hauled him clear to his knees. The boy blubbering and the man nigh snarling into his face. “You interfere with my friend again and I’ll send you back to your father in a fucking box, boyo.” He flung the boy away like something soiled and the boy limped bandylegged towards the sunlight of the street.

Travis clawed at his pants, hauling them back up. His hand went to the stinging pain in his behind. Fingers came up bloodied. Eyes rolled white.

All she wrote.

A few slaps to the cheek and Travis’s eyes swam open. Why was Mr. Corrigan leaning over him? It all rushed back with the pain searing through his backside, the thrumming ache in his brain.

“You all right, son?”

Shame followed hot on pain’s tail. He lowered his eyes, looking for some dark hole to crawl into. He couldn’t even sit up, the sting was so bad. Hot tears welled up again and he scolded them back.

Corrigan watched the boy stifle back his tears. Man up. “Who were those boys?”

Travis spat onto the grit. “Cocksuckers.”

“Without a doubt.” Corrigan tapped the boy’s knee. “Hold tight.” He plucked a handkerchief from a pocket and folded it into a tight square. “Take this. Stuff it down your skivvies before the blood seeps your jeans.”