Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Corrigan didn’t care about the new bylaw nor the hefty fines he would incur by going ahead with his tour. Maybe she could shut him down some other way, if only for this weekend. She scrolled through the names on her phone and called Joe Keefe. His crew was doing road work just south of town.

Keefe answered on the third ring. “Kate? What can I do you for?”

“Joe, where’s your crew working tomorrow?”

“The Orange Line. Just a half day, though. The boys are looking forward to the festival.”

“I see. Listen, how hard would it be to move your crew to another location? There’s another road that needs work immediately.”

“That’s news to me. What road?”

“The Roman Line,” she said. “Starting at Clapton Road, then moving west about two, three miles.”

“You mean right near what his name’s place?”

“That stretch of road is terrible, don’t you think?”

Keefe was silent for a moment, then he laughed. “I’d say you’re dead right. In fact, we might have to close off that whole stretch all weekend.”

“Better safe than sorry. You’ll get on that?”

“Right away.”

Driving west on the old Roman Line, the only streetlights are posted at the crossroads. A black pickup truck barrelled under the last one, leaving a mushroom cloud of dust under the amber glow. The unpaved surface turned to washboard in spots, hard-packed ripples that will shake a vehicle apart if taken too fast. The black pickup trundled slow over the ripples, picked up speed coming uphill from a low valley. Cresting the rise, the headlights winked out and the pickup ran sleek and invisible in the night.

The truck hewed to the shoulder and stopped. The interior dome light was switched off before opening the doors. Two figures slid out of the cab; one tall and thick, the other short and slight. A nocturnal Laurel and Hardy, up to no bloody good. The tall one reached into the box and came away with a red gas can. The lid was spun off, the spout fixed and reattached. The two figures climbed down the ditch and pitched drunkenly up the other bank.

Fifteen paces through the brittle stalks of mown hay to a wooden signboard hung on a frame of two-by-fours. The hated name painted in simple black against a white background. Further south, at the end of the rutted driveway, stood the haunted house.

The can tilted up and gasoline splashed over the wooden beams. The click-clack of a Zippo and a little flame. Laurel and Hardy giggled and shushed each other to be quiet. Fire leapt from the wick and chased around the base of the sign. The arsons howled and ran headlong back to the ditch, falling and clawing back up to the road.

The pickup spun back the way it came, tires skirting the opposite ditch. The engine gunned and the headlights popped back on. Red taillights fading away.

Inside of a heartbeat, the signboard was a bonfire, all Halloween orange against the black night. The paint blistered in the flames, warping and withering the neatly stencilled name.

The house at the end of the driveway remained dark, the windows reflecting the roiling bonfire in the distance. The only other light was a pinprick of orange glowing from the end of a cigar. Over the pop and snap of the fire, was a rhythmic tack of a rocking chair creaking the floorboards.

William Corrigan rocked slow on his veranda and watched the fire burn. No rush for the hose, no call to the firehouse. He puffed on his cigar and rocked and rocked.

“HAVE YOU LOST your mind?”

“Maybe.” Jim wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. The breeze from the window did little but blow the humid air around the kitchen.

Emma tilted against the counter, arms folded. Pure murder in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Recounting it from the start, putting the details in order, it sounded moronic. A blockheaded ploy to buy Corrigan off with money he didn’t have and Corrigan’s retaliation with a lawsuit. The bastard’s plan to steal their home out from under them. He wouldn’t blame her if she reached for the cast iron pan and brained him with it. Of course that implied that he actually had brains. His current conduct seemed to preclude that assumption.

“Why?” Sputtering, anger tripping up her words. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

Jim had no answer for her, nothing that seemed sensible. “I was looking for a solution. The guy needs to go.”

“Why is that your responsibility? Let Kate handle it. Or the police.”

“They can’t do anything, honey. He’s too crafty. But if he doesn’t go away, this is going to spin out of control and someone’s gonna get hurt.”

“People aren’t that stupid. Even in this town, they’re not that go after the guy.” Emma opened the fridge and scanned its interior. Closed it without taking anything. “Even if it did come to that, all the more reason to stay out of it. It’s not your responsibility to keep the peace.”

“Then who, Emm? If the cops and the town can’t do anything, who’s left?”

“It doesn’t have to be you!” Her fists tight at her sides. “Who do you think you are?”

Too hot to think straight anymore. Emma turned to the window and pushed the old pane up higher. All it did was let more humid air billow in. Her reflection stretched in the glass, distorting her face like a funhouse mirror.

An orange glow rippled between her funhouse eyes, like a flame burning up in her head. She pressed her hand against the glass to block the kitchen light and peered through the glass.

“Something’s on fire.”

Jim stood behind her and caught sight of the glow. Out the front door to the yard, where he could see better. Across the field was a bonfire waffling flames into the sky. Even from this distance, he could tell it was Corrigan’s sign that was burning.

Emma drew up next to him, barefoot in the grass. “What is it?”

“Reprisal,” he said.

A sullen fog settled over the drinkers. The eve of the festival, with its new faces and visitors, brought a crackle of life to the old pub but as the boozing got down to business, something changed and the revelry turned wistful. If asked what they were wistful for, few could have put a name to it. Most would be more than happy to cut the question short with a slurred exhortation to go fuck oneself.

Puddycombe was cajoled and harassed into plugging in the old jukebox. He demurred but the patrons were unrelenting and the pub owner regretted installing the old thing. It was meant for show. Restless, the natives held sway. Each song notching below the last in maudlin sentiment. By the time Jim came through the door, the whole damn bar was braying like sick dogs, singing along with Shane McGowan about a pair of brown eyes. The howling bristled the hair on Jim’s neck. No good would come of this, the whole effing town was in its cups.

He squeezed through the swaying bodies, ducking elbows and the raised pints sloshing along to the melody. Pushing through, he gripped the cherrywood trim like a floundering swimmer. Waved the bar owner down.

Puddy slung another pitcher under the tap, leaned in Jim’s direction. His tone cold. “What do you want?”

“Where’s that idiot Berryhill?”

“How should I know?” Puddy shrugged, still testy.

Someone stepped on Jim’s toe and he shouted above the yowling drinkers. “Do you know what that idiot did?”

Puddy leaned on the tap, cold. “Do you want a drink or no?”

“Yeah.” He nodded to what the pub owner was pouring. Puddy set it down and he paid and that was the end of it. Jim craned his neck to see over the crowd. No sign of Bill but he saw Pat Ryder in the press of bodies. Shouted and waved at him. Ryder turned his back to him.