Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Jim stared through the rain spackled windshield at the dark sky. That enormous abyss looked back at him, whispering things he didn’t want to hear. No better than your old man. Worse. A violent boozer. Hitter of women and children.

The neon sign in the pub window was still on. Puddycombe pushing last call. He swung out of the pickup and hopped over a puddle to the pub door. It was a bad night for peeling back unwanted truths. Drink it deep.

Joe Keefe knew smoke.

He had been with the Pennyluck Volunteer Fire Department for eleven years, the last four as Deputy Chief. His days were spent on job sites or in the cramped office of his construction company but his nights belonged to fire. There wasn’t a lot to do but when the alarm went and they bolted into gear, it was unlike anything else. Going to war, squaring up battle lines against the monster, the crew working together. Orders hollered out and shouted back, each man roasting inside the heavy gear.

Keefe stepped out of the pub and crossed Galway to where his truck was parked. The smell of the Dublin came out with him and it took a moment to discern the acrid tang of smoke in the air from the deep-fryer smell on his clothes.

A fire, real and alive.

Smoke had different tastes. A campfire of cord wood smelled different from a field of corn torched in a controlled burn. House fires were a noxious spew straight out of the pits of Hell. Shingles and plastics, resins and paint, all of it throwing up a poisonous cloud worse than mustard gas. It clung to your hair and hid inside your pores, taking days to scour off. The devil’s own stink. Joe Keefe stood sniffing the air, the smell of smoke sobering him quickly.

Foul and true, it was a fire. Close too.

He scanned up and down Galway for a trail of it or a light in a window but he couldn’t see it. No coiling vapour or orange twinkle in a shop window but the smell was getting stronger.

That meant the fire, wherever it was, was deep inside one of the buildings. Burning hot enough to stink but not show itself from the street. Bad business.

Keefe started running, digging through a pocket for his phone. Already calling it in when he spotted it. A flickering light inside a window, all Halloween orange.

The fire was inside the old town hall.

THE RAIN HAD stopped but the thunderclouds lingered, blocking out the stars. Emma took the flashlight, umbrella and started down the Roman Line. Stepping around the puddles, the bunchgrass soaking her shins. Heels squeaking inside her wet sneakers.

The Corrigan house was a dark husk against the darker trees. Whatever light she had seen from across the field was gone now. Maybe it was never really there, a phantom twinkle luring in the unwary like a siren to sailors. Old ghosts, hungry for revenge.

Get a grip on yourself.

She had seen headlights turn into Corrigan’s drive earlier but there was no vehicle in sight. Did he park around the back or drive off again?

Up close, the old house loomed over her like a midway spookshow. The door agape to swallow her up. Rolling the lightbeam over the bleached clapboard, the flashlight did nothing to diminish its power. It looked like the haunted house in every movie she’d ever seen. Every Hansel and Gretel tale read from a storybook. She climbed the rotting steps and banged on the door.

Calling out her son’s name, then Corrigan’s. Nothing, just the noise of crickets starting up after the rain. She knew the door would be unlocked. It swung open on a feather nudge. She stood just at the threshold and roamed the lightbeam over the room.

“Travis?”

The light crawled over the hard scrabble chairs and table under the window. The rolltop squatting in the corner. The smell of mildew and fungus was pungent after the clean smell of rain. Something else too, a rotting smell like a carcass trapped in the walls. The floorboards creaked and dipped under each foot, threatening to snap and swallow her leg to the thigh.

Noise, sharp and out of place. She held her breath to listen. It came again, a clang followed by a thump, coming from somewhere in the house. Was it upstairs or down below? Another clang sounded. It was definitely coming from upstairs. She tiptoed to the foot of the staircase and trawled the flashlight up. The beam bounced up each step until it dissipated in the darkness of the second story. No way in hell was she going up there. Again, the butterfly thought of ghosts waiting for her. Corkscrew teeth chittering in a sooty jawbone.

“Travis?”

Her voice high and shrill, grating her own eardrums. Maybe he wasn’t here after all.

“COCKSUCKINGSONOFAWHORE!”

Blue curses tumbled down the steps to her. Emma blew out her cheeks in relief. That could only be one person. The voice upstairs bellowed again. “Who’s there!”

Bootheels thudding on wood. Corrigan materialized at the landing, shielding his eyes from the lightbeam. “Turn that fucking thing away!” he barked. “Who is it?”

“Sorry.” Emma swung the beam away, then tilted it under her chin. “It’s me. Travis ran off. Has he been here?”

“Emma?” Thundering down the steps. He wiped a forearm across his brow, his face flushed and sweaty. A hammer gripped in the other hand. “What do you want?”

She stepped back, surprised at the harsh bark. “Have you seen Travis?”

“I chased him off.”

“Chased him off? Why?”

“He’s not welcome here.” Corrigan turned and marched down the hall. “Neither are you.”

Emma followed him into the kitchen. “Hold on. Did he do something?”

“Go home, Emma” he said, tossing the hammer onto the workbench where it clattered and rolled among the tools.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“My eyes have been opened. I finally see you people for what you are.” He ran the faucet and splashed cold water over his face.

Emma lingered in the doorway. She was used to the man’s ranting but something in his tone made her keep her distance. “How long ago was Travis here?”

“I don’t know.” Corrigan leaned over the sink, keeping his back to her. “Not long.”

“Did he seem upset to you?” Emma bit back the panic in her guts, wanting to scream at the man to pay attention. This was important. She took a breath and said; “Did he say where he was going?”

“I thought you were different, Emma, but no. You’re all the same. Expecting the world to just lie down at your feet.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Her tone was acid. “Don’t you get tired of acting all superior, Will? You should climb down from that high horse of yours. Join the rest of the world.”

“Go home, Mrs. Hawkshaw.” Corrigan turned around and looked at her.” Close the door behind you.”

The light in the kitchen was pale but she saw his face clearly. Two red claw marks scratched down his cheek, angry and livid. “What happened to your face?”

His face darkened but his eyes burned hot. Taking her length from crown to toe. “Tracks of my tears,” he said. “Better go find your boy.”

Emma didn’t move, rigid in the doorframe. She took a step closer. “I need something from you.”

“I can’t help you.”

She swept the damp hair out of her eyes and took another step. “Will, hear me out.”

Saying his name. Something inside him uncoiled, like severing a piano wire.

“Quit the lawsuit. Leave my family out of whatever it is you’re doing. Please.”

His teeth gritted. “I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Whichever one suits you.” He waved a hand, palm up. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me your sorry. You can end this whole thing right now.”

“It’s gone too far for that, Emma. It’s out of my hands.” He watched her eyes sharpen, anger rising fast.