by Tim McGregor
~
How do fix a whopper of a mistake like beating your own child? You don’t, and right enough.
Jim wheeled aimlessly through town, drifting up Bleeker Street, down Chestnut. Nowhere to go except home but not wanting to go. Unwilling to face his sins. He turned back onto Galway and drifted to the curb, killed the engine. Leaned back against the bench seat and watched the dark street.
He still couldn’t shake the look on his son’s face at being smacked. The image stung like a wasp trapped inside his ribcage, lashing out with its nettle.
Travis would never forget it, of that he was sure. Just as he had never forgotten the lashings and the fists doled out by his own father. It was a legacy, a birthrigh from his father, now given to his son. A vicious little gene passed down the bloodline like haemophilia. A reverse philosopher’s stone, taking something golden and turning it to shit.
The blow kept playing itself out in a never ending loop in his head. His hand against the boy’s face. Unable to shut it down, he forced his brain to focus on something else, anything, to cut the endless replay. Running numbers in his head, he calculated acres to yield for corn, then soy. No effect. He thought about sex. Emma peeling off her clothes before bed. Fucking in the grass one afternoon when Travis was at school. The way Emma looked on top of him, back straight and hips grinding. The saltiness of her neck.
It worked and then it didn’t. His erection withered when the reverie was broken by the flash image of another blow. A memory so old he had convinced himself it had never happened. He had hit Emma once too. Ages ago.
Drunk, fighting like cats over God knows what. He’d swung back and broke the flat of his hand across her mouth. She hit the floor like a dead weight and the fight was over. Tears and apologies. Jim vowing on his mother’s grave that he’d never do it again. After that night, they had never spoken of it.
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.
26
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 pani
c 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.
“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.
27
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, b
lood 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?”
Miro barked something he didn’t understand and ran to chasten two boys back under the yellow tape.
“Look.” Puddycombe pointed at two crewmen stalking towards the door. Oxygen tanks and axes in hand. “They’re going in.”
The firefighters disappeared into the smoke. Everyone around Jim held their breath and then two more crewmen followed the first two inside. Someone behind Jim incanted a prayer. Nothing happened. No heroes rushing back out with a survivor draped over their shoulder. Just the pop and snap of burning wood.
Puddycombe gripped Jim’s arm, pointed again. The firemen waded out through the smoke with a stretcher in hand. Cheers and applause went up from the crowd until the firefighters turned and everyone saw the gurney. Whatever lay on it didn’t look human. A smoking lump under black canvass. The cheering choked and died.