Killing Down the Roman Line

by Tim McGregor

  Emma jangled the keys on her finger, watching her husband disappear past the dartboards. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t good. Any fool could see that. An arsehole on her left jostled into her and to her right, the crack of glass breaking as a pint hit the floor.

  Time to go.

  ~

  When Cifton Murdy returned home after one drink at the Dublin, his wife asked him how the town hall went. She was already dressed in her robe, a paperback novel tucked under her arm. He settled into a chair at the kitchen table and gave a brief summary of the meeting, omitting the angry shouting and near donnybrook that had soured it.

  “What an awful man,” she said. “The sooner he’s gone, the better.” With that, she told her husband not to stay up too late and went up the stairs.

  Clifton remained at the table, trying to decide if he wanted tea. He dreaded going to bed. The last three nights had been wasted staring at the fissures in the ceiling, praying for sleep. He grimaced at the thought of spending another night watching the hours burn away on the digital clock.

  Deciding against tea, Clifton poured a tumbler of something stronger. He stared at it, knowing it wouldn’t help. Insomnia was foreign to Clifton and it was taking its toll. He’d always slept like a champ, dead to the world and sawing logs, until now. Until those awful things that that awful man had said.

  Clifton pushed the scotch away. He knew what would cure his insomnia but didn’t want to face it. There wasn’t any choice now. Another sleepless night would kill him.

  Taking the flashlight from the junk drawer, he went down into the cellar. Turned on all the lights and opened the door to the storage space and started moving boxes around. Digging through crates of old Christmas tinsel and furniture that hadn’t seen daylight since the seventies. And there, under a cardboard box of mildewed photographs, he found what he was looking for.

  A rectangular box of cedar, just over a foot long. The distiller’s name branded into the wood. Clifton slid the lid back to reveal a greying patch of burlap. Once, as a kid, he had seen what was hidden inside the burlap. His father had shown it to him, whispering its mystery before hiding the cedar box away again. Clifton pushed the lid closed again. He had no desire to see the damned thing again, he just needed to know it was still there.

  In the upstairs bedroom, Mrs. Murdy heard the car start and reverse down the driveway. She blinked at the clock and wondered where the bloody hell her husband was going this time of night.

  Clifton Murdy didn’t see another vehicle once he’d turned onto Clapton Road. That was good. The box sat next to him in the passenger seat. The thing inside rattled against the cedar at a few turns in the road. An awful sound but he paid it no mind, already feeling better now that the damned thing was out of the house.

  Slowing to a crawl as he turned onto the Roman Line, wheels crunching over the gravel as Clifton looked for the rutted path. He spotted the sign first and stopped the car, shut it down. A quick glance around to make sure no cars were coming, then he took the box and climbed out.

  He had no intention of going near the house. The big sign close to the road, he’d leave it there. Clifton leaned the box against the footing of the signboard and crept back to his car. He’d be home inside of ten minutes, back in his bed where, thank Christ, he could finally get some sleep.

  When the car’s taillights had disappeared down the road, the creaking of the rocking chair on the porch stopped. Corrigan set his glass onto the boards, picked up the flashlight and rose from the rocker. He marched quickly down the pathway to see what Santa had brought him.

  The light beam picked out the little cedar box nestled at the base of his sign and he wondered for a moment if it was a bomb. Which was silly, he knew. None of these yokels would have the brains or the balls to put together a home-made incendiary. Kneeling in the damp grass, he slid the lid away and folded back the rotting burlap. It really did feel like Christmas, even though he already knew what was inside the box.

  The bone was long, just over a foot, and thick at the ends. The surface mottled and grey, porous to the touch. If he had to guess, he’d say it was an arm bone. The humerus of an adult. Or perhaps the leg bone of a child.

  He returned the bone to its nest of burlap, stuck the box under his arm and walked back to the house.

  14

  THE WHITE BALL banked off the rail and cracked the solid seven into a pocket. Berryhill straightened up, studied the table. Kyle leaned on his useless cue, muttering in some alien tongue. Hitchens watched Jim cross the threshold into the back billiards.

  Jim nodded to the four men. “Boys.”

  Berryhill stretched over the table, drawing his cue. “What do you know about this Corrigan asshole?”

  “Not much.”

  “That prick doesn’t belong here,” Hitchens said. He already looked stewed.

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “And?”

  “Somebody’s gotta shut him up,” said Berryhill. “Our mayor sure as hell ain’t gonna do it with her bullshit bylaws.”

  Jim felt his ears burn. Like he was auditioning for a part, the four men staring him down. “She’s doing what she can.”

  Puddycombe spoke up, playing the mediator to Bill’s bad cop. “We have to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  Kyle snickered and swept the balls into the corners. Bill laid something on the cleared table and rolled it across the felt surface to Jim.

  A baseball bat.

  Jim watched the Slugger bank and roll back to the center. He looked up at the men. Four wannabe Rambos.”You gotta be kidding me.”

  Berryhill, at least, played the part. “Only one thing this prick is gonna understand.”

  “So you’re gonna go all Dirty Harry on him?”

  “We send him a message,” Puddycombe said. “That’s all. Let him know he’s not wanted here and it’s time to move on.”

  Jim folded his arms. “So what do you want from me? My blessing?”

  “You have to be there.” Hitchens slurred the consonants but there was acid in there.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “You’re the only friend he’s got.” Berryhill took up the business end of the Louisville and held the grip end out to Jim. “You have to be there.”

  It was like a bad joke but no one was laughing. “Are you outta your mind? That isn’t gonna solve anything. Except land your dumb ass in the paddy.”

  Puddycombe tore a flyer stapled to a wall of notices and handed it to Jim. A handbill for the Heritage Festival. “This starts in two days. Do you want that prick spreading his bullshit lies then?”

  “Get off the fence, Jimbo.” Hitchens ladled on the venom. “Us or him.”

  Jim took the bat from Berryhill and gripped it with both hands. “Grow the fuck up,” he said and walked out the door.

  Stepping out into the parking lot, he pitched the lumber into Puddy’s dumpster and then scanned the lot for his truck but Emma had already gone.

  ~

  Kate could murder a drink right now but popping into the pub was out of the question. She’d be tarred and feathered. Locking the front doors with a bundle of work squeezed under her arm, she’d have to settle for Gator Bob’s, the only other bar on the strip. Neon flamingos and ersatz Cajun theme. School teachers and the ‘girls night out!’ crowd, but it was a two minute walk from the town hall. It would have to do. ‘Anything will fit a naked man’ her grandmother used to say.

  She’d just turned the lock when footfalls rang up the steps behind her.

  It was Jim. And not in a good mood either. “Did you forget something?” she said.

  “We have a problem.”

  Back inside, into Kate’s office. Jim had never stepped foot inside the mayor’s office before. Who has? An enormous desk and an even bigger fireplace (which worked, she assured him). Portraits hung on every wall, all stern faced men in robes and uniforms. The founders and heroes of Pennyluck township.

  Defying stereotypes, Kate did not have a bottle of the good stuf
f hidden in her desk but councilman Thompson did and she knew in which drawer to find it. Scotch, in clean mugs from the office kitchen. Jim briefed her on the encounter in the billiards room and concluded with: “This is about to get ugly.”

  “Sounds like schoolyard bravado to me,” Kate said. “Tomorrow it’ll be forgotten about.”

  “If it was just Bill talking, I’d agree. But Puddy and Hitch?”

  “They seriously want to run him out of town?”

  He nodded. “I understand their anger. It would be better if he just went away.”

  “You agree with them?”

  “Am I stringing up a noose?” He didn’t mean to snap so sharp. Too late now. “I dunno why he started up with his tour again. He seemed satisfied with the inquest.” He looked at her. “When does that start anyway?”

  Kate considered lying to him. Since becoming mayor, she had learned to tell half-truths and sins of omission. Came with the territory, hemmed in as she was by conflicting interests. As mayor, she couldn’t order a cup of coffee with being compromised somewhere. But this was Jim, so she fessed up. “There isn’t going to be any inquest. I was outvoted six to one.”

  “Shit. Does Corrigan know that?”

  “No one outside of council knows that.”

  “But he’ll find out eventually. And he’ll just amp it up some more.”

  More compromises. Kate set the mug down and scrounged up a pen. “What do you know about Corrigan? Any detail he told you.”

  He reiterated the few facts he knew. “He can fight,” he added. “Like a street brawler. Why?”

  “I know someone,” she jotted down the scant info, tossed the pad back onto the desk. “He’s good at background checks.”

  “Digging up dirt?”

  “I just want to know what we’re dealing with.”

  Jim looked around at the portraits staring down at him. “Can’t the town just pay him off?”

  “It would look like a settlement. An admission of guilt.”

  “What if the town bought his property outright? Offer him enough to go away and never come back?”

  “It would look the same as a settlement. Think appearances, Jim.”

  Okay. Appearances. How to get the result without the town appearing to be involved. “Then let me do it,” he said. “I’ll buy Corrigan out.”

  “You’re broke.”

  “The treasury has money. You told me yourself there’s a slush fund for emergencies and whatnot.” She was already shaking her head but Jim kept going. “Let me talk to Corrigan. I’ll make the offer to buy his land, over the asking price. How much over, we can dither about later. One time offer, on the condition he leave town for good. He agrees, you kick in the slush fund money.”

  Kate smelled a rat, surprised at his conniving. “Then you’ll own the land outright.”

  “In name only. When he’s gone, we put the title back to the county. I’ll lease the land from the town, with an option to buy.”

  “Jesus, Jim. That’s wrong in so many ways. Not to mention illegal.”

  “But it’s clever,” he said. “Bloodless even. And our friend Mister Corrigan goes away for good.”

  “I thought you liked him?”

  “I just want to keep the peace.” It was only a half-lie. He really did want to prevent something stupid from happening but there was something more now, a chance to improve his odds.

  “No. It’s too risky,” she said. “It could backfire on us so easily.”

  “Think about it. Okay?”

  Kate gathered up her things. “Okay, but I’m not going to change my mind. Let’s get out of here.”

  Jim set his cup on the desk. “Any chance you’re driving past the Roman Line?”

  ~

  6:00 AM the next business day, Kate’s car was the first into the parking lot. Not her usual routine, this early start, but the office would be deserted for the next two hours. The phones silent. A rare chance to clear the backlog of work killing her inbox.

  First order of business was finalizing the new bylaw forbidding anyone from turning a place of residence into a tourist attraction. A few tweaks of the wording and it was ready to go. Since the entire council had agreed to it, there was no need to wait until next session to pass it. She’d get Keith to drive it around to the member’s homes for them to sign. By end of business day, the bylaw would be passed and tomorrow, enforced. She’d deliver the writ to Corrigan herself. After that, Mr. Corrigan would have to fold up his snake-oil tent or pay the fine. Three large.

  All of the council members raised an eyebrow at the fine she’d proposed. Frugal men all, some dangerously close to being mistaken for Scots in their tight-fistedness. McGrath and Thompson had openly objected to the amount and Kate suspected both men had plans to build some future tourist trap on their property. She wouldn’t be swayed. Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em deep. Offenders would grumble and whine and then ultimately toe the line.

  With that accomplished, Kate got busy chipping at her to-do list with a murderous intensity until eight o’ clock when the staff rolled in with their obligatory cups of Timmy Ho’s. Keith arrived with a tray of them and brought Kate hers as he did every morning, God bless him.

  Kate popped the plastic lid and closed her door. Found the number in last year’s daytimer and dialled a Toronto prefix.

  Two rings then a voice. “Who the fuck is this?” No hello, no good morning.

  “Hugo, it’s Kate.”

  “Kate?”

  A little disappointed he didn’t remember. “Kate Farrell. We—”

  “Had you, didn’t I?” A laugh down the other end. “What can I do you for you, Kate? You still owe me a date, by the way.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Sounds classier than, you know, just a ‘fuckme’ session.”

  She’d met Hugo in Toronto six years ago, when her company was being targeted by some anti-corporate activist group. Destroying their billboards, hacking their web servers. Fairly innocuous stuff until a pig carcass was found on their doorstep. The police had proved useless and someone at the company’s law firm suggested relating the matter to a trusted security firm. The security firm sent Hugo. Smooth as butter but short with manners. Brash towards everyone but flirtatious with Kate. Four days into the job, the harassment stopped cold. All Hugo disclosed was that he had located the activists and asked them to stop. He went so far as to request they apologize on their website. He gave no details and waved off any other questions but his knuckles were scraped raw and scabbed over. That afternoon, the activist’s website went dark save for a single screen that proclaimed an apology to the company. Hugo was very effective and extremely discreet and she had held on to his card.

  She was surprised when he called the following week, asking her to join him for a drink. She asked if this was a follow up on services rendered. He laughed and said that he simply wanted to get her drunk and take advantage of her.

  “You still out in pumpkin land?” he said over the line. Flirting long distance. He must have hit a dry spell, she thought. He went on. “You’ve had your fun out there, Katie girl. Come back to civilization already.”

  “Tempting. When are you coming to visit?” Her smirk beamed down the line. “You’d be amazed, Hugo. You can park anywhere. All day.”

  “And kill my lungs on all that fresh air?” The snap of a lighter and the sound of inhaling. “I’m on the clock, darling. What’s on your mind?”

  “I need a background check on someone.”

  “That’s what the police are for, love. Tick tock.”

  “This needs more than that. Real digging.”

  “Sounds serious.” His words muffled and she pictured him, cigarette in his teeth while he dug for pen and paper. “New boyfriend?”

  “Nothing that dramatic. Just some local ne’er do well.”

  “My specialty.” He sounded pleased. “What’s the prick’s name?”

  “Corrigan, William.”

  ~

  There
were three of them, the louts, but by far, Brant Coogan was the worst. The leader, the instigator. The other two, Emmet and Wyatt, never made a move without him. Schoolyard bullies in the classic sense, all three destined for prison or a career in used car sales. And all thee of them hated Travis Hawkshaw.

  Travis had been a passing target since the sixth grade. He got his fair share when the three stooges noticed him, which wasn’t that often. Travis just wasn’t a kid who stood out. That changed when the stranger showed up and cooked up something called a horrorshow, touring people around his creepy old house with tales of murder and revenge. Brant and the two mouth-breathers took notice of Travis then, sometimes going out of their way to find him in the faces flowing through the halls.

  In school, you were assured a few jabs or a hard slam up against the lockers. Sometimes just taunting, loud and cruel enough to make every set of eyes turn and stare. Travis knew the latter to be the worst, all those eyes gawking at you. Bitch slaps and nut taps were nothing compared to that. But that was in school, where certain unstated boundaries of scorn and abuse were observed. Outside of school, well, the only principle that held was ‘just fucking run’.

  Wednesday afternoons, Travis played basketball with his friend Joel instead of taking the bus home. They’d hang out for two hours then he’d meet his mom at the Farmer’s Co-Op. A regular blip in the schedule for both of them. Crossing Oak Street on the way to the Co-Op, he’d spotted Emmet zip by on his bike. Travis cut through the alley behind the butcher’s to stitch across Galway. A silhouette on a BMX appeared at the end of the alley, circling lazily. Brant, heading him off. Travis turned back.

  Emmet and Wyatt pedalled up behind him, cutting off his escape.

  The trio circled him on their bikes, called him faggot and loser and retard. Travis wasn’t listening, too busy looking for a breech in their line to make a run for it. There were no windows running either side of the alleyway, no chance anyone would see anything.

  Brant skidded to a stop and said something about money but Travis ignored it. All three boys stopped and Travis spotted a gap in their line but then something hit him in the back. He sprawled to the ground, palms skinning the pavement. Travis ignored the heat of the pain and shot to his feet but was already surrounded. Yanked into a headlock and pulled down. His backpack stripped off, punches to the stomach. A nut tap for good measure. He felt his pants yanked down, the word faggot hollered over and over. Travis panicked.