Jim closed the book and piled it atop the others borrowed from the library. He drained his pint and set the glass back into its wet ring on the table. Sorting out the details from the four books before him, he was shocked at the violence that had plagued his little town. But every town had its bad blood, its dirty history. Why would their town be any different? Only one of the books had mentioned the Corrigans and it reinforced his own vague knowledge of the tragic demise of the family. Granted some of it looked suspect, like the alliance of families who banded together in a `Peace Society` to challenge the Corrigans. That could have gotten out of hand. But the book had reiterated what little of the tale Jim knew; that fugitive convicts had laid waste to the family.
So what was the truth? What was Corrigan up to? Did he have proof to back up his claims that the other families had conspired against his own? No. All he had was a derelict house and a good spook story. Grist for any charlatan’s mill.
“You going back to school, Jimmy?” Puddycombe collected Jim’s empty glass and set a fresh pint down in its place. He nodded to the books on the table.
“Catching up on my local history.”
Puddy picked up a book and tilted his head back to read the spine. “The History of Pennyluck and its People. Sounds gripping. This a comedy?”
“More like tragedy. Out of all these books, there’s only one mention of the Corrigan murders. A brief one too.”
“Christ on the cross!” That was Berryhill, leaning on his cue and eavesdropping. “If I hear that name again I’m gonna puke.”
“You don’t think that’s odd?”
Berryhill chalked his cue. “What? You believe that asshole’s story?”
“About as much as I believe the official one.”
“You’re a piece of work, Hawkshaw. Fucking turn on your own kind like that.”
Jim gritted his teeth. Berryhill the blowhard. “This town was a pretty wild place back then. All these books agree on that.”
“That’s true,” Puddycombe said. “They used to post four constables a night just to deal with all the brawling drunks at closing time. ‘Course the constables were drunk too but there you are.”
“Drunk men fight,” Berryhill scoffed. “Big news.”
Puddycombe collected glassware onto a tray. “Wasn’t just the donnybrooks outside the pub. There’s was practically war in the streets what with all the feuding that went on. And them Corrigans were a vicious lot. They’d knock your teeth in for speaking out against them. Then torch your barn for good measure.”
Hitchens had turned away from the TV to listen in. “Puddy,” he said, “you believe that guy’s story too?”
“All I’m saying is this used to be a very rough town. And the Corrigans were Catholics, like everyone else down the Roman Line. There’s been plenty of blood spilled between them and the Orangemen at the time, on top of all the family feuding.”
Hitchens dismissed the notion. “That’s bullshit. When a fight turns to bloodshed there’s only two reasons; women or money.”
Berryhill went back to his game. “You’re both fucking crazy.”
“You’re all wrong.” Old Gallagher swung around on his stool and piled onto the discussion.
“Now look what you done,” Berryhill said. “You woke the old man up.”
Gallagher ignored the loudmouth. “It was a dispute over land. Folks used to squat on unused land in those days. Half the acreage around town was fallow with absentee landlords and whatnot.” He winked at the men. “You threaten a man’s land, well, he will kill you for it.”
“Land, money,” said Hitchens. “Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Gallagher barked. “Not to those people. Land was everything. Safety, respectability, shelter. Roots. What’s money compared to that? Nothing. Just filthy paper.”
“So says the man without any,” Hitchens fired back. A few laughs around the tables.
Gallagher ignored the fool. “Jimmy’s right, this town was a wild place with little regard for the law. The only rule folks respected was that of reprisal. And everyone was guilty of it, not just those damn Corrigans.” The Guinness trembled in his hand and he wiped the foam from his lips. “Still, there was something odd about that family. There’s a whiff of brimstone lingering yet over the Corrigan homestead.”
Berryhill rolled his eyes heavenward. “Jesus. Here come the ghost stories…”
Combat Kyle racked up the balls as the conversation drifted to the fragile state of the old man’s brains and Gallagher cursed them all for being rotten bastards and turned back to his stout.
No one noticed the new patron who strode in and stood surveying the pub. One by one the voices dropped off and all eyes swung to the man in the doorway.
Will Corrigan watched the conversation die around him, then he crossed to the bar and took a stool.
10
“BUSHMILLS.” CORRIGAN LEANED against the polished bar and nodded to the proprietor. He could almost feel the heat on his back from all those eyes.
Puddycombe pulled glassware from the steaming dishwasher. Without looking up, he said “We don’t have that.”
“What do you have that passes for whiskey around here?”
“What you see there.” Puddycombe nodded to the liquor stand. Bottles of Jack and Johnny and the obligatory Canadian Club. The bottle of Crown Royal, which confirmed Corrigan’s worst suspicions of the place.
“The J.D. then. I’ll hold my nose.” Corrigan watched Puddy splash some into a glass. “Maybe a beer to chase it down with, yeah?”
Corrigan took up his drink and spun around, elbows on the bar. All the eyeballs that had singed him from behind now swung back to their drinks or somewhere else. Berryhill and his little toadie openly glared at him. Corrigan raised his glass in a silent hail to the big man but Berryhill sneered and cued up the next ball.
Corrigan’s eye clocked the table crowded with books. A neighbour. “Hello Jim,” he said.
Jim shrank. He nodded back politely, feeling the collective eyeballs of the bar swing his way. Jim disliked attention of any kind. He withered under it, wishing his new neighbour would just bugger off, thank you very much. Corrigan seemed the exact opposite, brazenly courting attention and basking in the eye-daggers shot his way. Was the man a simpleton? Did he not know the hornet’s nest he was prodding by walking in here?
“Awfully quiet in here tonight.” Corrigan’s voice was loud in the shushed din. He sipped his drink and soaked in all the dirty looks. He tilted forward and addressed Bill. “How do you do. Mr. Berryhill?”
Berryhill didn’t even look at him, sinking the striped 7 ball. “Don’t talk to me, asshole.”
“Friendly” Corrigan bellowed back, louder than necessary. “I thought this was one of those small towns where everything is all smiles and apple pie.” Then, over his shoulder to the pub owner. “Am I wrong, Mr. Puddycombe?”
Puddy turned his back to him and loaded the washer.
“You must be dumber than a bag of rocks, mister.” Berryhill leaned on his cue and killed his beer. “I were you, I’d walk on outta here before they have to carry you out on a stretcher.”
“Ah, violent threats.” Corrigan raised his glass as if he’d been toasted. “Quel surprise. Tell me Berryhill, does murder run in the family?”
The cue slammed onto the felt pool table and Berryhill stomped towards the stranger, his intent crystal and unequivocal. “That’s it.”
Jim sprang out of his seat and headed Bill off at the pass. “Bill, come on. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Berryhill’s palms punched Jim’s chest, hurtling him backwards. “Why are you always defending this prick? You in cahoots with this fucker?”
Blood rushed to Jim’s cheeks. Humiliated. He hated fighting, hating losing control but at this precise moment
