Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Jim spat on the man’s floor. He thought of his father, spinning crazily in his grave. “Never gonna happen. I know these people, Corrigan. They’d never do that to me.”

“Money brings out the worst in people. Every time. And nothing stands in its way. Loyalty, friendship, blood.” The perverse grin was back, all bitters and sting. “I’ve already spoken to the bank. They were very receptive to the idea.”

The room was doing flip flops. Jim steered for the door before he fell over. “You’re out of your fucking mind. It’ll be a cold day in Hell before you take my land.”

His boots rang off the veranda, pounding down the brittle steps. Corrigan chased him out the door, stood on his porch and hollered after him. “Then put your mittens on Jimmy! Because it’s going to get mighty cold!”

Travis woke up with a plan boiling in his head. He also woke up tenting the sheets but that was neither unique nor noteworthy. Having gone to bed with a gutful of problems only to have a solution come to him by morning? Well, that was new. He eased out of bed stiffly and slipped a hand down the back of his pajamas. Peeled away the tissue paper he’d packed in. A little dried blood but that was all, the bleeding having finally stopped. It hurt to sit down or even walk. Anything beyond that, playing basketball or riding his bike, was not only out of the question but required artful lying to keep secret the awful truth.

The real problem was the other people who knew. Brant, Wyatt and Emmet knew the truth. Four people, if he counted Mr. Corrigan. Would Brant and his douchesticks brag about beating him up? That he could deal with but the other thing, being raped with a stick? That would scar for life, a mark that would never wash away in a place like this. He’d be branded a fag and that tag would never go away. Not here, not in this town.

The dilemma was whether or not Brant would say anything. He had done the deed. Wouldn’t Brant mark himself as a homo if he bragged about what he’d done? Emmet and Wyatt he didn’t have to worry about. Those dickless shits wouldn’t breathe without Brant’s say so. That left two outcomes. Brant would keep his trap shut out of fear of being labelled a fag too. But if he did try to humiliate him about being raped in the ass with a stick, he could simply turn the tables and publicly accuse Brant of being a fucking homo for doing such a thing in the first place. He could also double-up the scorn by revealing how Brant had gotten his ass kicked by Mr. Corrigan and ran home crying like a motherfucking baby.

Travis got dressed. Slowly, wincing as he bent to slip his pants on. Wadding up more toilet paper and stuffing it down there just in case. There was one other problem and it burned an ulcer into his guts.

Brenna.

If she found out what had happened, she’d never even look at him again much less speak to him. Even she’d think he was a homo.

The plan. The one that had come to him in that foggy space before waking up. A plan that would not only cut short the dilemma but put an end to Brant the ass-raping bastard forever.

He flipped the latches on the old footlocker at the foot of his bed. A scuffed and dented army surplus job his dad had given him for his tenth birthday. The lid threw back and he dug around the comic books and old action figures and stray firecrackers. His fingers wrapped around the prize and dug it loose from where he’d buried it.

The brass was dull and the sockets too big for his fingers but when he clenched his hand, the brass knuckles looked absolutely lethal on his fist.

Emma held her fingers under the tap, waiting for the water to run cold before filling the coffee carafe. The coffee was usually brewed when she got up but this morning she found the carafe still in the dishrack from last night’s washing.

Something wasn’t right. She’d woken from a dead sleep, alarmed by a noise. She checked the clock and heard someone retching into the toilet. Thinking it was Travis, she shot out of bed and pushed the bathroom door open to find Jim doubled over the john. She wanted to help but he waved her away. Said he’d eaten something bad and he’d be fine once it was out of his system. Go back to bed.

That in itself should have alarmed her but she was so damn exhausted. They were polar opposites when it came to being ill. Jim moaned and cursed and wanted to be taken care of when puking his guts up. Like a man. Emma was the other way. She hated being sick but worse than that was anyone fussing over when she was ill. Just leave me alone to dryheave in peace. Please.

Overtired from a disrupted sleep, she didn’t think anything of last night’s weirdness until she noticed the absent aroma of fresh brewed joe. Something wasn’t right.

Then the sound of boots clomping the boards outside the backdoor. Jim swung inside and crossed to the sink with barely a nod.

“Good God,” she said. His face as pale as a fish belly, slick with a film of sweat. “Are you all right?”

“Bad night’s sleep, that’s all.” He snatched up the cordless phone from the wall hook, glanced at her. “Sorry about the coffee.”

“You look like hell,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He dodged her attempt to feel his brow. “Just tired. Gotta make a call.” He waved the phone, like that would dispel anymore questions and spun through into the parlour. Banged off the doorframe like a drunk and tottered away.

She made coffee and heard Travis stomp down the steps. Heels slamming the boards like he was trying to smash them. “Good morning.”

“Yeah.” Travis scrounged up a bowl, the Cap’n Crunch, milk. Slid slowly into his chair like Frankenstein, all stiff-backed. Yet his knee bounced nonstop under the table and his face looked bright. Alert.

“What’s going on, T? You look like you got big news.”

He grunted. Unintelligible through the munching but clearly in the negative.

“You seeing that girl today?” Emma smiled slyly. “What’s her name again, Bree?”

Travis shrugged and munched. Knee still bouncing, keyed up over some damn thing or other.

She set a glass of orange juice next to his bowl. “Fine. Keep your damn secrets.”

Jim stood in the parlour window mashing his thumb into the keys, unable to dial. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t slept, stewing about Corrigan’s threats until he finally tossed it all up. He got the number pads to work and a woman’s voice answered after one ring. He asked to speak to Perry.

Perry Keller, barrister and solicitor, kept offices in Exford. He’d been Jim’s lawyer forever.

“Jim.” Perry’s voice ringing tinny down the line. “How are you, son?”

“Okay. I guess. You got a minute?”

“Always. What’s on your mind?”

Jim kept it brief, updating Perry about Corrigan and the stink he’d caused since appearing in their lives like a festering tumour. Perry had heard about Mr. Corrigan, even seen him on the news but was surprised to learn the extent of the man’s claims. The brief news report made him sound like a crank.

Jim told him everything, giving him a rapidfire confessional. About breeching the old fence and plowing Corrigan’s property, the handshake agreement he’d made with his new neighbour and now Corrigan’s about face and threatened lawsuits. He caught his breath after the spew. “Can he do that? Steal the farm out from under me?”

Perry sighed. “It’s possible. Do you think he’s serious or was it just bluster?”

“Hard to tell. The man’s unpredictable.”

“Jeez,” the lawyer hummed again. “Trespassing, theft, intent to injure. That’s serious stuff. A legal fight like this would get nasty.”

“And expensive,” Jim added.