Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

“You just have to have your revenge, don’t you? Or whatever game you’re playing.”

“It’s no game.”

Emma felt the knots loosen. Too much anger for one day, it burns hot for only so long. Other waves roll in to take its heat. Keep it together, just do that. “Be reasonable, Will. Please.”

Another stab at his name. A dog was howling somewhere, low and far away. “Reasonable?” he said. “All right. What would you do to save your family, Emma Hawkshaw?”

She looked at him. A spindle of hope, but wary. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll end this whole thing in return for something from you.”

Warier still. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

A blind woman could have seen what he wanted. But still, just bold like that. She couldn’t believe what he was asking. She scrambled to stall. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m utterly serious. It’s not so much to ask. One small favour and you save your home.”

Dizzy, Emma’s eyes darted around the room for something to anchor herself to. The front door, not ten paces away. She should storm out. Slap his face, like in the movies and march out. But this wasn’t the movies and she didn’t move, didn’t storm out the door like she knew she should.

The floor creaked behind her. Emma bunched her hands into fists, nails digging in but felt nothing. Going numb, disoriented. Removed, as if watching it happen to someone else.

She felt his hands grip her arms and hold her fast, as if she might bolt away. She should run. This is crazy. Run. The hands pulled her into him. Hot breath blowing down the back of her neck.

The Dublin had emptied out when Jim entered, patrons drifting away. Puddy stood behind the bar, speaking quietly to Berryhill. Combat Kyle listening in, flicking his Zippo open and shut. One other patron propped up at a table near the window, singing to himself.

Berryhill bristled as Jim came up. He said something to Puddy then slid off his stool, Kyle at his heels. He nodded to Jim as he crossed to the door.

“Thought you went home, Jimmy” Puddycombe said.

Jim chinned in the direction of Berryhill and his toadie. “What was that about?”

“Just talking.”

“The weather?”

“Discussing what needs to be done.”

“About Corrigan.”

“About protecting what’s ours.”

Jim hunkered down on the stool, propped his elbows on the bar. The man near the window sang on, warbling an incoherent mumble. Puddy folded his arms. “Go home, Jimmy. And take him with you,” he said, nodding to the singing drunk.

As if aware they were talking about him, the man shot up, knocking his chair to the floor. He listed badly, bumping tables as he faltered for the door, still clutching his pint glass. They heard it smash to the sidewalk a heartbeat later. Puddy cursed and fetched the broom.

A wailing cry filtered in from the open door and at first, Jim thought it was the singing drunk, hitting a high note, until he realized it was a siren. He and Puddy looked up just in time to see the fire engine streak past the windows, screaming on down the street.

“Jesus, something’s on fire.”

The shrill wailing kept on, not diminishing in volume with distance.

Jim slid off the stool. “It’s close.”

The Pennyluck Fire Department consisted of two trucks. The pumper was an antique from the eighties, a Pierce Arrow six-seater with a leaky tank. The Seagrave was twenty-three years old with an inoperable ladder. The crew were unspooling hose and checking oxygen tanks. Keefe front and center, jamming his legs into overalls and barking orders.

Miro Vukovic was nine years retired from the volunteer department but still came running when the sirens hit. He had swung his Durango crosswise across the street to block traffic coming up Galway Road. He waved back the people crowding up to see, herding them to the far sidewalk. Cursing them blue in Croatian when they didn’t move fast enough.

Jim and Puddycombe came running, lungs burning and knees popping. No fight left in them when Miro stopped both in their tracks.

“Far enough!” Miro’s hands sweeping them back. “Back up!”

Jim wheezed and Puddy bent over at the waist. Eyes like saucers at the blaze before them. Even from this distance the sting of heat burnt their cheeks, like leaning too close to a campfire.

“Is that…”

The town hall was burning up fast, flames wickering out the first floor windows. Greasy black smoke boiling up into the sky. The smell noxious in their nostrils and the heat searing their stubble.

Jim pushed Miro back, hollering at him to get out of the way.

A window on the second floor exploded with a pop and everyone ducked. Glass and embers fell around them.

EMMA PUSHED HER mind far away. Somewhere not here, not in this moment. Give the bastard what he wants so he’ll leave your family alone. A simple bargain. An exchange. Just get it over with.

She hadn’t moved, standing in the musty smelling front room. The oak door wide open before her. Just the tattered screendoor, no spring or latch. A simple push would fling it open and she’d be gone.

She could smell his liquor breath, feel him hard up against her. His hands everywhere, squeezing her breasts, twisting her nipples raw. Sliding down the waistline of her jeans. A callused hand pushing between her legs. She was wet and hated herself for it.

Nothing worked. She couldn’t make her mind go away or withdraw into herself or go numb. He was pulling her to the floor. Why did she have to do this? Why is she the one to make a sacrifice? Jim should have fixed this, instead of leaving it to her. She hated him for making her do this.

Her rage burned hot, all of it aimed at him. Her husband. And Travis. Where was he? What was she doing? The thought of it made her sick. A bucket of cold water against her face.

“Stop.”

Corrigan didn’t hear or didn’t care. Pulling at her clothes.

She twisted around, trying to slip free. “Stop. I can’t do this.”

He snatched a handful of hair and snapped her head back. “No more games, Emma.”

“Get off of me!”

She shoved him away. Punched and kicked him. He grabbed at her hair again and she bit his hand. Broke the skin, blood in her mouth. A tiny victory.

His backhand nearly took her head clean off. The floor hard and filthy as she sprawled across it. Pinpricks of light in her vision. Pain, sharp and hot. Was her jaw broken?

The door. Where was the goddamn door?

Emma scrambled for it, wet sneakers kicking out. Nails raking the floorboards it. It wasn’t that far, she could make it.

His bootheel slammed into her back, flattening her. Ribs crushed. An iron grip around her ankle and she was dragged away from the door.

Corrigan nudged his boot under her belly and flipped her onto her back. Planting his feet on both sides of her ribs, leering down at her. Popping the buckle from his belt.

“Chin up, Mrs. Hawkshaw,” he said. “We had a bargain.”

The smell of the fire was acrid enough to taste, bitter on the tongue. All Jim could do was watch from the sidewalk. Puddycombe next to him, equally useless. Miro was outnumbered, holding the gawkers back with Croatian oaths and curses. Assaulted with questions he couldn’t answer.

“What the hell happened?”

“How did it start?”

“Was anyone inside?”

“I don’t know!” Miro waved his hat at them, hazing them back like sloe-eyed cattle. “Now move the hell back!”

Jim looked up at the smouldering town hall. The fire crew aiming pressurized water into the windows. He grabbed Miro by the lapel. “Was there anyone inside?”