Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

He swung into bed trying to decipher the fingertips. Was there a chance of them getting friendly or was it just the slow burnoff of a few pints? No matter how tired he was, even the slightest hint of sex woke him wide. Especially spontaneous schoolnight shenanigans. Jim scolded himself for getting his hopes up and reached for the paperback on his nightstand. Flipping back a few pages, trying to remember the plot to this potboiler. A ‘Walking Tall’ actioner about a war vet who returns home to find his neighbourhood overrun by Russian dope dealers. Or were they terrorist sleepers masking as dope peddlers? He scanned the back copy blurb, trying to orient the plot when Emma came into the room and peeled off her clothes.

A nightly ritual, one he’d seen a thousand thousand times but he always lowered his book to watch. Didn’t matter how tired or how not in the mood he felt, he always looked. Emma was stunning stark naked, despite every self conscious guffaw she gave when he told her so. She wasn’t a kid anymore. Neither of them were. Gone was the flat stomach and unblemished skin. She had a little potbelly and a few lingering stretch marks. Having a baby would do that but it didn’t diminish her in any way. The opposite in fact. It suited her and she wore it well. Like all the little scars she had crisscrossed against her flesh. The little misadventures of everyday life, tiny hatch marks that ran against the grain of her curves, accentuating them all the more.

He watched her pull on a threadbare T-shirt with a faded logo that barely read Dinosaur Jr. She slipped under the covers and fumbled for the book on her night table. They read for a few minutes, their legs touching. She yawned and he realized he had misread her earlier touch, misgauged her temperature. They closed their books and switched off the lights.

She curled into him, her palm flat against his chest and now all he could think about was her. Sleep chased away by her warmth, her body pressed into his. He was hard and it wasn’t going away anytime soon. How long had it been anyway? A week?

His hand scooped down the small of her back and pulled her closer. Touching his lips to her brow. A long shot but she responded. Her leg curled tight into his and her breath steamed against the skin of his throat.

She was hungry too.

THE STRANGER ROLLED into town early that Wednesday morning. A tabby perched in a window watched the vehicle trundle past, the sole witness to his arrival. The sky was grey in the predawn light, the streets empty. Rumbling slow down Galway Road like a tourist, taking in the sights of the sleeping storefronts and eerie stillness. Newspaper tumbleweeds.

The vehicle, a boxy Toyota FJ cruiser with a roofrack of floodlights, hewed up before the granite steps of the town hall. Parked in the handicap space right out front. The stranger swung out and looked over the building. He took the steps two at a time to read the hours printed on the front door. Two hours to kill before the county office opened for business.

A small poster in the window advertised the upcoming Heritage Festival. He skimmed the bullet points detailing a marching band, memorial commemoration and a classic car show in the park. A midway and softball games. Family fun for all. “Perfect,” he said.

He went down the steps and crossed into the middle of the empty street. Every window was dark, no welcoming neon sign calling out to early risers. Even the cat had disappeared from the sill.

And then miraculously, a light went on. A diner, half a block away, coming to life. A neon sign flickering and warming until it glowed a single word beacon. COFFEE.

The stranger leaned and spit onto the sidewalk, then climbed back into his vehicle.

Martin Gallagher sat on a cracked leather stool, the only patron of the Oak Stem diner. Shoulders hunched over the counter, warming his big knuckled hands around the coffee cup. A morning ritual, one the starting cook knew and accepted. Old man Gallagher lingering outside the door at six, waiting to be let in like some errant tomcat. Whether the old man woke at an ungodly hour or hadn’t gone to bed at all was a matter of conjecture among the staff. His nights spent at the Dublin pub, closing out the place at last call and showing up at the diner when the cook started his shift at six. Some believed the man never slept at all, or slept sitting up on his stool. Little catnaps between conversations over a whiskey or cup of joe. Lack of sleep would explain the old fool’s habit of muttering to himself or, unprovoked, barking obscenities to the room.

This morning no different from any other. The cook prepping for the morning rush and the old man content to sit and watch the empty street. Mumbling into his cup, occasionally turning around to bellow at the empty booths. That’s more of what ye owe me, ye son-of-whoor!

So, when the bell over the door chimed, both the cook and the old man startled.

The stranger looked up at the bells dangling on the trim and smiled, charmed by it. He took a stool at the counter, nodded to Gallagher and then turned to the cook. “Coffee please.”

The cook grimaced, disliking the upset to his routine. He clattered a cup onto the counter, filled it and went back to cubing potatoes.

Gallagher scrutinized the newcomer, closing one eye to take a proper measure. His eyes mistrustful, bloodshot as they were. No, no one he recognized.

“You all right, grampa?” The stranger leaned close to return the stare. Clapped the pensioner on the back. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Do I know ye?” Gallagher shrugged, answering his own query. “I don’t know ye.”

“Aha. Awake and astute.”

“Ye passing through?”

“No. I’m here.”

Gallagher’s lips soured, deciding immediately the man was an idiot. “No, I mean are ye driving through? On your way somewhere? London, I’ll bet.”

“No. This is Pennyluck, isn’t it?” He swept a hand over the room, as if the diner encompassed the town. “But I am confused on one matter. Maybe you can help. Is this the asshole of the world or just the armpit?”

“Eh?”

“Either will do, I reckon.” He clinked his cup against the old man’s. “Refill?”

Gallagher’s eyes narrowed to rheumy slits. “Ye fucker. That’s more of what ye owe me.”

The cook stopped chopping, the blade hovering over the onions. He looked over his shoulder to see the stranger’s reaction. The man was grinning away, like he couldn’t be more pleased. The cook looked away when the man caught him peeking.

“Could you pour me one to go?” He stood, clapped the old man on the back again. “Think I’ll take in the sights.”

A takeout cup was poured. The stranger dropped a five on the counter and nodded at the old man. Said he was buying the round and left, laughing as the door chimes rang.

Gallagher wrinkled his gin-blossomed nose. “Jesus. Do you smell that? Like something burnt?”

The cook looked to his sizzling grill. “I’m not burning anything.”

“No. Him. That smell.” The old man tinkled his fingernails against the vermiculite countertop. “Sulphur or something. Can’t you smell it?”

The cook pointed the spatula at his nose. “I can’t smell anything.”

The old man rattled his fingers some more. “Not sulphur. What’s the word…”

The cook went back to his grill. Gallagher corkscrewed his lips, shaking his foggy memory until the word fell out. He snapped his fingers.

“Brimstone.”

Emma stood at the sink, looking sleepily out the window. The sun coming up over the trees, burning off the dew as the shadows receded. Jim already up and gone like every morning but not before brewing a fresh pot for when she woke. She was still at the sink when he came in and pressed up behind her. Hands wrapping under her ribs, kissing her tangled hair. She leaned back into him, her head notching into his shoulder.