Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“What’s gotten into you? You’re sneaking around, talking to the lawyer. Running to the bank. Everyone in town suddenly hates us. And you won’t say boo to me. What is going on?”

Jim took a breath. Steadied his footing and spilled his guts. “It’s Corrigan. He’s threatening to sue us. Take the farm.”

“That’s ridiculous. He can’t do that.”

“He is doing it, Emm.” He felt dizzy. Sat down on the step. “The man’s dangerous. Corrigan spent the last seven years in jail. For killing a man.”

Emma leaned back as if pricked by thorns. She held up a hand for him to slow down, then told him to start from the beginning.

“TO THE FIRST Pennyluck Heritage Festival!”

The cork popped and flew off into the grass. Flutes were filled and passed around. Kate sipped her glass and leaned back in her chair. Not champagne but a provincial equivalent thereof, a sparkling wine from the Niagara region. It went down like liquid sunshine and Kate told herself to savour the moment. Drink it in and roll it over the tongue for all its worth. By the fourth sip, she could have happily closed her eyes and dropped off to sleep in her patio chair.

She shook it off. There was a ways to go yet.

A little pre-festival shindig she had arranged for the council before the official kickoff to the Heritage Festival tomorrow. Larmet’s Chick’n and Rib House had provided the barbecue, Larmet himself holding court over a bank of coals in a steel drum. After the ribs and wings would come the steak and roast potatoes. The case of the sparkling wine finagled from Stonehouse Winery in Lincoln County. A bathtub of galvanized tin held beer smothered in ice chips. Best bitters from a microbrew in Perth alongside hoser safe bets like Blue and Canadian. The obligatory yet loathsome Bud.

The table and patio chairs were set up under a shade tree in the fair grounds. Kate wanted the council members to see the transformation of the bandstand and park. A way to say thanks and show the council that their decision to fund the festival was not a waste. A bit of an extravagance but it greased the wheels of the old boy’s club. Two guitar players and a fiddler were set up on the bandstand, strumming up a mix of Irish folk tunes and country weepers.

Reeve Thompson toasted the band while Keefe assaulted the rib platter. Gene Ripley salted corn on the cob. McGrath plucked a bottle of bitter from the ice and nodded to Kate. “You’ve outdone yourself, Kate. I’ve never seen the park look so good.”

Thompson, sucking rib sauce off his thumb. “Is this where the bagpipers end up?”

“The parade comes down Newcastle, then through the gates to here,” Kate said. “Then we have a short speech to start the festival.”

“When’s the fireworks?”

“About ten that night. Then again on Saturday night.”

“Mitch Connelly tells me his campground is booked solid,” McGrath said. “He’s even got people pitching tents in his backyard.”

“The motels are booked too.” Clifton Murdy licked his fingers. “From here to Exford.”

The councilmen grunted their approval through full mouths and slippery hands.

“You’ve done well, Kate.” McGrath raised his beer to her. “I know we took some convincing but well, we’re eating our words now.”

The men laughed. High praise, thought Kate. McGrath drove her crazy with his smug condescension, acting the wise old grandfather to everyone. He and the rest would be eating a lot more words when she tallied the revenue boom once the festival was over. For now she accepted it with a smile and helped herself to another flute of bubbly wine. Tonight she would sleep like a stone.

It was serene. The guitar picking from the bandstand and the smell of woodsmoke. The sun going down and a breeze riffling the crepe paper. Picture perfect, but perfection is illusory. Between the clatter of plates and board stomping on the bandstand, no one noticed the interloper come to crash the party. He strode down the path, following the sound of banter.

“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here.”

Corrigan seemed to materialize from thin air at the head of the table. Murdy would later claim that a tang of brimstone overpowered the aroma from the barbecue.

Forks clattered to plates. Mouths stopped chewing, hung open. The band, sensing something was amiss, stopped playing.

“You gotta be kidding me,” McGrath burst the silence. “You got about two seconds to get outta my sight before we run you out of this park, mister.”

“That I would like to see,” Corrigan helped himself to the ribs. “The councilmen wobbling through the grass at a dead run. Pass me a beer, would you, Mister Thompson.”

Thompson did no such thing. Aside from Kate, few of the council had seen Corrigan in person but his name went hissing round the table. Corrigan held a roll of paper under his arm, like a poster, and this he put down and helped himself to the beer tub. Biting into the ribs, he turned to the man at the grill. “Mr. Larmet, these are delicious.”

Larmet stood over the fire, heavy tongs at the ready like he was about to pummel the crasher. Kate got out of her chair. “This is a private party Mister Corrigan,” she said. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Mmm, I have some interesting developments I wanted to share with the group.” He wiped his hands, took a slug on the bottle. “Since you lied to me about the inquiry, I’ve had to do the digging myself.”

Joe Keefe looked around the park. “Where’s security?”

Corrigan unravelled the roll of paper. “This won’t take a minute. Have a look at this.” The map was old, brittle. Squinting, one could just make out the date in the corner. 1894. The town of Pennyluck, the main road and a few streets. Property drafted into a grid of narrow rectangles, names written inside each lot. “This is a map of our town, dated four years before the massacre of the Corrigan clan. Properties are clearly marked out and identified. If we look closely, we can see some familiar names.” He pointed to various plots within the grid. “Here’s McGrath’s family property. Over here are lots owned by the Keefes, the Thompson family. Ripley’s funeral parlour, still in existence today. Murdy, Berryhill and so on.”

Each man leaned forward upon hearing his name, squinting at the script inside those little rectangles. Rib sauce splattered one corner. Corrigan pointed to a larger patch of land outside of town, leading off the map.

“Over here is the Corrigan farm but down here in town, there are four lots owned in title and deed to the Corrigans.” His finger traced through two lots on Galway Road, another off Chestnut and a fourth on King Street. All smack dab in the center of town. “Now that’s some sweet real estate, eh boys? The Corrigans owned a saloon and a harness shop on Galway and boarding house on Chestnut. The last one was an empty lot at the time, the previous house having been burned down by some feckless bastards in the winter of eighty-eight.

“After the shoddy police investigation into my family’s murder, these properties were held in trust to the town. A year later, the lots were sold off for a pennies on the dollar to prominent families. The McGrath’s bought the tack shop, James Hitchens purchased the boarding house to expand his hotel next door. The saloon was snatched up by Roger Jamesons for a steal. The vacant lot sold two years later to the Murdy’s, purchase price unknown. Maybe a dirty handjob to the mayor.”

Pat McGrath leaned back, smelling a sting was coming after the set-up. He pushed back his chair. “I’m not listening to anymore of this horseshit.”

“It is appalling, isn’t it?” Corrigan chucked up a hearty laugh. “The brazenness of it all. The same men who slaughtered my family snatch up their land at a cut rate not a year after they’re in the ground. Proof of their bloodied hands, clear as day.”