THE RIDING MOWER was an old John Deere with a chipped and battered front end. Travis sat the rumbling thing, straining to kick down the stubborn brake pedal. Even Jim had trouble with it sometime but he had promised the boy he would teach him how to run the little tractor.
Travis geared up and let off the pedal. The little tractor lurched forward, the mower spewing grass over Jim’s shins.
“Too fast!” Jim hollered. “Slow it down!”
Whether the boy couldn’t hear or simply ignored his old man was anyone’s guess but he took the turn too fast, crunching the guard against the chestnut tree. Bark splintered at Jim and a horrible clang deafened them both before the Deere shuddered and stalled.
“Goddamnit Travis. I said slow it down.”
Travis launched himself off the bastard thing, boiling with humiliation. “It’s not my fault! This old cocksucker is a piece of shit!”
Jim’s eyes went saucer wide. “What did you say?”
Travis shut up, knowing some line had been crossed. The frustration reddening his face sweated into a rage.
“Where the hell did you learn language like that? Answer me!”
Any response now would only make it worse. Repeat the swear words or remain silent. Travis said nothing. The screen door banged open and Emma came into the yard. “Jim?”
He looked at his wife. “Did you hear what your son just said?”
“What? No.” Emma registered the look on Travis’s face, recognizing trouble when she saw it but she dismissed it for the moment. “I thought you and Kate sorted things out with Corrigan.”
“We did.”
Emma nodded east. “Then why is he back at it?”
Jim strode up the yard to where a clearing in the trees allowed a view across the field. Travis followed, but kept a safe distance behind.
Three cars were parked down the rutted path of Corrigan’s driveway. More hunkered down along the roadside and people closing their doors and making their way up to the house. Another tour of the Corrigan Horrors was in progress.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Look,” said Travis. “There’s a news truck.”
A shiny Nissan Pathfinder rolled up the path and tucked in beside the house. Blue and white, a logo that read CKTV. The local TV news outfit. The driver unloaded a big video camera and hefted it onto his shoulder. A woman disembarked from the passenger side, her heels sinking into the crabgrass.
Travis watched the circus unfold, pointing out a few vehicles he recognized. Jim cocked his head to one side and spit into the weeds. “Damn it.”
News spread quickly. Corrigan was back open for business. By three that afternoon, the mayor’s office was flooded by thirty-seven complaints about the bastard and his little sideshow and by four-thirty, the phone lines were jammed and no one could get through. Kate learned about the news crew and felt a pit of ice roll up in her guts. She left her secretary to handle the calls and quickly emailed everyone in her contact list about an emergency town hall meeting tonight.
The news crew had tongues buzzing. No one remembered news ever being reported from Pennyluck. It just didn’t happen. Kate made a few calls and learned that the report would play tonight on CKTV, the local news from the London affiliate of a national broadcaster. National news at six ‘o clock, then the feed went local at six-thirty.
The auditorium in the town hall building was small and filled up quickly. Voices grumbled and people barked at Kate about what she was going to do. She asked everyone to be patient and see what the news report was about. She scanned through the faces in the room and saw few allies. McGrath and Ripley were absent, as were any other members of the town council. That surprised her. She would have expected them to witness her public stoning.
The news piece was brief but it was damaging. The camera angling up at the decrepit old house and panning the faces of the gawkers assembled in the yard and then finally Corrigan himself. Orating to the onlookers, looking like some sinister carnival barker. His words drowned out by the nasally whine of the reporter’s voice-over report.
“The controversial claims of Mr. Corrigan have incensed the residents of Pennyluck who reject his version of history. Some have even called him an outright liar. Still that hasn’t stopped the curious from coming to his tour. Back to you, Tom—”
“Fucking con-man!”
Heads rubbernecked at the outburst. Then a soda can cartwheeled through the air, smacked the television screen. Carmel-coloured cola dribbled down the face of the news anchor.
“Chrissakes!” yelled Carswell, rushing for the paper towels. “We just replaced the damn TV.”
“Shove it, Carswell!” Hitchens unloaded, looking for something else to hurl.
Feeling a wall of rage burning from the crowd, Kate shot to her feet. “Please everyone, calm down.”
Puddycombe pointed a jagged finger at his mayor. “What are you going to do about that son of a bitch? He’s spreading his lies to the local news!”
“People over in Exford are laughing at us!” Berryhill, indignant and righteous as a nun. “Even those douchebags in Garrisontown are hooting it up.”
Kate held up her hands, as if that could stop the tsunami. “I’m working on it. Please…”
“How? What exactly are you doing to stop this guy?”
“I’ve ordered the Watchman to stop his ads immediately. And we’re drafting a new bylaw forbidding anyone from turning a residence into a tourist attraction.”
“Wonderful,” hollered Berryhill, riding the indignant posture for all it was worth. He was so rarely on the side of the righteous. “That ought to scare him off for sure.”
A few laughs and guffaws. Kate let it peter out before saying, “It’s a start.”
“It’s paperwork!”
“Well what do you suggest, Mister Hitchens? We tar and feather him?”
“That’s a start,” shouted Berryhill. “Then we run the fucker outta town.”
Here, here. Damn straight. Do it now.
Kate felt the anger sunburn her cheeks. She needed to shut this down. Now. “Thank you, Bill. Anyone have an idea outside of a Schwarzenegger movie?”
Puddy. “Can’t the police do anything?”
“He hasn’t broken any laws. There’s nothing they can do.”
“More uselessness!” Berryhill shot up. The collective rage was burning off too soon. “The only thing this bastard’s gonna understand is a fist!”
“Here, here!” Hitchens, echoed by Puddy, McKinnon, the Drakes and Rob Toohey. Even Combat Kyle could be seen moving his lips, although no one heard him utter any actual sounds.
Jim and Emma arrived late and were stuck standing on the sidelines. They watched the town’s rage burn and cool and fire again. Hell, if that little toad Kyle broke his silence, it had to be bad. Emma wanted to shout back but choked, frozen by that peculiarly Canadian aversion to stand out. Her eyes shot to Jim and then back to the men in the seats, hollering and thumping like cro-magnons around a campfire.
Jim squeezed his way to the front, towards the mayor, stranded and deserted on the floor of the town hall. “Knock it off!” he hollered back. “We got a real problem here. You’re not helping.”
Berryhill dissed him with a wave of his hand. “Here comes Jimmy to defend the prick! What is it with you, Hawkshaw? You bromancing that sonuvabitch?”
Jim fired back. “The man’s got an honest grievance.”
“So?” Hitchens bulged his eyes at him. “It’s not our problem.”
“Yes it is. He thinks our families killed his.”
“Prove it!” Someone, anyone said.
“That’s the problem.” Jim felt the heat swing his way. “He can’t prove it but we can’t disprove it either.”
“Go home, Jimmy! No one wants to hear your excuses. Fucking collaborator!”
“Go play outside, Bill. Let the grown-ups talk, huh.”
“You’re pretty chummy with this Corrigan creep.” Carswell piped up, squaring Jim in his sights. “Aren’t you?”
“His house is next to mine. That’s all.”
“But you’re leasing land from Corrigan,” Carswell said. “For next to nothing.”
Jim flinched, body-checked to the boards. How the hell did Carswell know that?
“What?” Hitchens jerked. “Izzat true?”
A tidal wave of hate rolling his way. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Siding with the enemy. A traitor to your own community.” Carswell said, pointing.
“That’s enough! Please!” Kate couldn’t believe the name-calling. Grown men.
“Fuck this.” Berryhill stomped for the exit, pushing Carswell out of the way. “I need a drink.” Combat Kyle at his heels, shooting death rays from his mousy little eyes.
Hitchens followed Berryhill. Others stayed and shouted each other down. Kate watched her town hall degenerate into schoolyard curses and name-calling. Any minute and it would become a bench clearing brawl, with herself trapped in the middle of it.
Then everything went dark, the lights killed. The shouting stopped. When the lights popped back on, Kate saw Jim at the switch. “Meeting’s over,” he hollered. Waving everyone to the door. “Thank you for coming!”
The Dublin House filled up quickly, temperatures running hot from the meeting. Jim and Emma made their way to the bar, nodding and saying hello to people. Phil and Pam Carroll nodded back, polite but cold. Pat Ryder ignored them and Hitchens outright scowled.
Gauging the hostility, Jim snuck a look to Emma. “Is it just me or are we not welcome here?”
“Everyone’s still wound up,” she said. “This business has touched a raw nerve with everyone.”
Winding through the tables, a gauntlet of dirty looks or faces turned away as they passed. One last stool left at the bar. Emma sat as Jim leaned over the cherrywood to flag the barkeep. Puddycombe must have sprinted back to work, already behind the bar to the relief of Audrey, who looked overwhelmed.
Puddy was short, none of the usual banter or ribbing. He’s busy is all, Jim told himself. He and Emma took up their drinks and looked around. No one said hello nor waved them over to join their table.
“They hate us,” Emma said.
“They’re just worked up, Emm. It’ll pass.”
“So.” She sipped her drink then fixed him with a look. “When were you going to tell me about leasing land from Mister Corrigan?”
“We talked about it, nothing more.”
“Then how did the bank manager know about it?”
“Damned if I know. Corrigan must have told him.”
“Those two chitchat? Carswell hates the man.”
Jim held up his hands, crying uncle. “I don’t have a clue, honey. I’m just guessing.”
“I don’t like this. You making these decisions without me.” She set her glass down. “That’s twice now.”
“I haven’t done anything. He offered to lease the land.”
“That’s not the point. These are big decisions. Do you have any idea how foolish I feel when I find out from someone else?”
She was blowing this way out of proportion. Emma could blow up into theatrics at times and it was best to just let her steam it off than react to it. He lifted his pint, mulling over what she was saying, trying to unravel it. It was a trust issue, plain and simple. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”
The hardness in her eyes eased up. She pushed her drink away. “I don’t want to be here. The mood’s ugly.”
“Something wrong with it?” Puddy lifted her unfinished drink. “I can make another.”
“It’s fine. I just want to go home.”
“How’re the ponies?” Puddycombe was all smiles and charm now. At least with Emma. Jim had always suspected the bar owner was sweet on her.
“Pony. We had to get rid of the one,” she said and immediately regretted it. Like an admission of failure.
“That’s a shame. They’re beautiful creatures but a ransom to keep.”
“True.” She chin-wagged the crowd. “Busy night.”
“Nothing like a neighbourhood feud to spike sales.” Puddy squared his eyes on Jim. “Jimmy, come into the backroom. The lads want a word with you.”
Jim’s brow creased up a notch. “What about?”
“Just come on back.”
Emma slid off the stool, stood. “We’re just on our way home.” She levelled her tone clear. A deaf idiot could have deciphered it.
“It’s okay.” Jim fished the truck keys from a pocket, dropped them into her hand. “Take the truck, go on home.”
Emma dangled the keyring off a finger, wary of some old boy’s club shenanigans. Seen it before, didn’t like the outcome. “I can wait,” she said.
“I’ll be right there,” Jim said. Puddy nodded and slipped away to the back room.
Emma’s face, unthrilled. “We just talked about this, didn’t we?”
“Something’s up. I want to hear what this is about. Go on. I’ll fill you in when I get home.” He kissed her cheek and elbowed through the laggards pressing around the bar.
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.