Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Bill despised Kyle and when the little man returned to the table with four plastic cups, Bill looked at him with contempt. He took a sip and spat. “This piss has gone warm.”

Kyle swilled his back and nodded in agreement. Bill could have told Kyle that he was a weasel-faced motherfucking faggot and Kyle would have nodded sagely. Six more cups of the warm swill and Bill would do exactly that.

“Fucking insurance.” Bill gulped down half the cup. “Said they aren’t doing anything until they get the police report about the fire. You believe that shit? You know how long that’s gonna take?”

Kyle stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit up. He said nothing, staring at the birthday candle flame on the lighter.

Bill spit into the grass. “I can’t let that piece of shit get away with this. Fucking payback time, man.”

Kyle perked up at the prospect of something fun. Petty violence and mindless destruction, these were Combat Kyle’s two passions. His skill set.

“Thing is, it’s gotta be the appropriate response. The message has gotta be clear, the damage painful. This guy’s gotta learn not to fuck with me.”

Kyle sat up even straighter. If he had a tail, it would have wagged. Eyes alight, Kyle puckered his lips and spoke. “T-t-t-t-t…”

Bill cocked back his thumb and pointed a finger at him. “Bingo. Torch the fucker’s truck back. Exactly what I was thinking.” Bill downed half of his fresh cup and flung the dregs into the grass. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Kate sat on a pew bench in the lobby of the town hall, listening to the rain hit the sidewalk. She’d come back to pick up any messages and flipped through the pink memo paper. Most people had her cell number. These messages were from those who didn’t and there were thirty-two of the damn things.

Up before sunrise to oversee the start of the day, she’d gone gangbusters without a break. The pipers and the parade and the speeches and the hoe-downs. The 4-H club bake sale, the Knights of Columbus barbecue and vacation giveaway. The messages in her hand blurred into pink squares. Sixteen hours on her feet and the thought of getting up seemed impossible. Maybe she could just stretch out on the pew and sleep here.

The racket at the door forced her eyes open. The cadence of footfalls on the marble. Quick and urgent. Trouble. Expecting Charles or Melissa, she was surprised to see Jim. More surprised at the colour of his face. Pale, like he’d donated a few pints of blood.

“Kate.” His voice was agitated and winded, like he’d ran the whole way. “You have to see this.” He held something in his hand.

Nothing but a blur to her unfocused retinas. “Can you help me to my car?”

“You okay?” He stopped, looked her over.

“Whatever it is will have to wait till tomorrow. Sorry” She gripped the lip of the bench, tried to stand. “Forget my car. Just drive me home. I’m so tired I feel drunk.”

Kate faltered, he caught her arm. Settled her back onto the pew. “Easy.”

He sat next to her and Kate closed her eyes. Her arm wrapped around his elbow and held on, like they were at the movies. Something slapped onto her lap, exploding her peace. An old leather folio, its cover cracked and flaking. Yellowed paper slipping from the seams.

“Read it.”

Pushing it away. “Tomorrow.”

“Corrigan was right all along,” he said. “That’s the proof. Signed confessions from the men who committed the murders.”

“What are you talking about?” She blinked, trying to focus on the thing in her lap.

He opened the bundle, flipping through the loose pages. Stopping at one, he ran his finger down a list of names. “They did it. Our ancestors killed those people. Just like Corrigan said” His finger tapped the paper. “Yours too. Look.”

Her eyes took forever to F-stop the cursive script and decipher what it said. Patrick Ferguson Farrell. A heartbeat and then another and then it exploded in her brain.

“Where did you get this?”

He told her. About Gallagher and the hole in the wall. The secret hidden in the archives and the ugly thing that now sat in her lap. Kate pushed it away onto the bench.

“All this time.” He leaned back against the pew. “What are we going to do?”

Kate rubbed her eyes then shook her head.

He mistook it for a shrug. “We have to tell him. We have to tell everyone.”

“No.”

“We can’t keep this a secret anymore. You have to make it public.”

She straightened her back. “And tell people what? That their ancestors were murderers?”

“Jesus, Kate. You want to stay mum about this because someone’s feelings are gonna get hurt?”

“It’s more than that now.” Kate pointed at the door, as if Corrigan was right outside. “The man’s made claims against a dozen people in town. Their businesses, property.” Shaking her head again. “No. It was a different time back then, different world. You go back far enough, everyone has a guilty past. What good will this do now?”

It took a moment to register. “You have to make this public. People are ready to lynch this guy. Come clean with this and he’ll be satisfied. Yes, it will be a shock but everyone will deal with it. End this stupid feud now.” He tapped the folio between them. “Do the right thing.”

“Don’t get righteous with me, Jim,” she said. “It’s bigger than simply right or wrong, for God sakes. People’s livelihoods are at stake. This,” she nodded to the cracked folio, “this will tear the town apart. It’s a bomb.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“We have to think it through. That’s all I’m saying.” Her vision swam. “And I’m too tired to think anymore.”

“Do the right thing. Or I’ll do it for you.”

He turned and walked out the door, leaving the folio behind.

Kate pushed the thing further down the pew. It smelled awful.

ASSHOLE. LIAR.

The words gouged deep into the paint with something big. Bigger than a set of keys at least. A screwdriver maybe. The letters tall and fairly straight. Someone had taken their time to do it right, not some passerby scoring paint. They had smashed out the right tail light and driver’s side window too.

Corrigan had parked his truck well away from the fair ground parking lot for exactly this reason. Not far enough. Someone had spotted it hiding under the maple tree and came calling. The list of suspects was narrow and he was surprised the vandal could spell. Perhaps he had some help.

He loaded his treasures into the back. The shattered bone bundled into a gingham cloth and tied off, like some hobo’s lunch. Unlatching a side panel, he reached past the bungee cords and jumper cables and slipped out the black nightstick. A police truncheon, solid and lethal. A Paddy whacker, as they used to call it.

The party had thinned to all but the most earnest of drinkers but the humidity rolling out from under the beer tent hit like a sauna as Corrigan stepped out of the rain. He ducked under the drooping flap and surveyed the tables. Dripping from the rain, the nightstick slick in his hand. The truncheon was an equalizer, him being alone, and a warning to any resident Paddies looking for a fight. The volume dropped a decibel as eyeball after eyeball swung around to see what the fuss was.

Perfect, he thought, watching every face turn his way. The guilty paint-gouger would, upon seeing him, turn away quickly. No one did and big Bill Berryhill was nowhere among the picnic tables. The faces regarded him and his fuckstick and then drifted back to their conversations. Only one set of eyes lingered and when Corrigan hawked them out, the eyes turned away. Guilty. If not of trashing his truck then of something else.