Rottenhouse (15 page)

He hadn’t heard the van go by, full of
whatever was left of Stevie Johnson, but that meant nothing; Simon
couldn’t remember how he had gotten to the front door let alone be
aware of the comings and goings of others. Mr Rowling had led him
into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed tea made his gut
twist and his throat fill with spit and he held out his hands and
shook them to announce to the world that he was getting out of here
and off upstairs so that he could give praise to the porcelain king
that ruled the avocado bathroom. Lucy had come up after him, her
face had been a pale shock but she didn’t ask what the matter was.
Simon had been grateful for that. He didn’t want to think about it
let alone describe what he saw. She had stood by him as he heaved
and heaved wishing something would come up and then regretting that
wish as the last load was coated in a thin skin of brownish
blood.

Not asking but sensing his needs, Lucy
led him into the bedroom and helped him onto the bed where he
passed out.

When he came too he was on his side and
through his blurred vision he could make out a small bucket on the
floor. In a routine carried out since he was a young man, he delved
down deep, grabbed hold of something in his belly and released a
rather bad smelling burp. It was always a risky move but one that
let you know which type of peanut butter your belly was going to
produce; chunky or smooth. Thankfully, the belch was smooth and his
stomach didn’t roll around like a wave caught in a bowl. Simon let
out a deep sigh and rubbed his belly trying to quell the rumbling
from inside.

So much had happened in so little
amount of time it was overwhelming as much as it was completely
unbelievable. It was like the summer rain showers Simon had played
through when he was a boy. Back then the days had seemed eternal
and amazingly hot. The afternoon clouds would build in the
distance, blotting out the sky far off on the horizon. Those fluffy
white clouds would get blacker and blacker until they dragged
themselves overhead; carried on the soft slow wind, and then would
release their wet cargo usually mixed with the odd flash of
lightening and rumble of thunder for good measure. The rainfall
would be quick and intense and fat rain would soak the ground
causing drains to overflow, roads to flood and gardeners to whine
about the state of their cabbage patch. But then, as quick as the
rains had come they would stop, and the clouds would lift and sun
would burn its way through and all would be as it was except for
the smell that hung in the air like a fog, the smell that no one
could describe but Simon always thought of it as what he thought
electricity smelt of if it were mixed with a bit of tree sap. The
only difference with what was happening now compared with the
showers of his youth was that they disappeared after a few hours,
his issues here ran much deeper than that, and he knew that some of
them would take years to drain away, if ever.

It seemed a massive issue yesterday
when Lucy had told him about her previous name and he remembered
how confused, angry, disillusioned perhaps, he had been by the
confession. What had happened since made that confession seem
piecemeal; a single rivet in Titanic’s steel hull. He should have
done more he supposed, could have done more to stop Stevie being
beaten and then butchered. He could do more to put that
cantankerous old coot downstairs in his place. But really, could
he? Did he have it in him? No, was the simple answer. It was alien
to him to confront, to be all up in someone’s space, and to tell
them how to go about their business and how best it was to live
their lives. How the hell was he supposed to bring any sort of
normality to a place that seems to thrive on ripping itself
apart?

2

Simon didn’t venture
downstairs for some time. He tried to go back to sleep but it was
no good. Each time he closed his eyes he could see the axe that
Lewis had been wielding; its shiny sharp end covered in all sorts
of fresh gore. Simon got out of bed, unable to relax, and ran
himself a fresh glass of water from the sink. Changing his clothes,
burying the ones he had taken off deep in his suitcase, Simon
headed downstairs. Just as he left the bedroom and headed down the
hallway the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. Pulling it out he
wasn’t surprised to see that it was Kyle calling him. The picture
that flashed up was of Kyle dressed as Princess Leia in her slave
garb from Return of the Jedi. It had been taken back in their
college days and it always made Simon smile; not only was it a man
dressed in a metallic bikini, it also reminded him of the fight
that Kyle and another man dressed in the same Slave Girl garb got
into over who had the best looking fake tits. That day, as well as
many others good or bad seemed so long ago. Simon could barely
remember what had happened a week ago let alone ten or fifteen
years ago. The phone continued to vibrate and Kyles face, all
smiles and skin and fake boobs jumping out of the bikini top,
continued to hover on the front screen of Simon’s phone. Today,
sadly, that photo didn’t bring a smile to Simons face and as much
as Simon wanted to answer the phone, he couldn’t bring himself to
slide his finger along the black bar at the bottom of the screen
saying
ANSWER
in
red writing. He just didn’t have the energy. The phone stopped
vibrating and Kyle disappeared. A missed call alert was all that
was left. Simon put the phone back into his pocket as he walked
down the stairs. Heading towards the kitchen the familiar voices
that had been floating around the house like ghosts had vanished
and it left the house quiet. Even the clocks ticking seemed muted
as if it feared to be any louder in case it broke the silence and
incurred the wrath of some yet unseen monster. Looking from the
bottom of the stairs into the kitchen he could see that the room
was empty and the rest of the doors leading from here were closed
all except one which led out of the house and into the garden. The
back door was ajar, a slit of light slicing through like the last
beads of light before a solar eclipse. Simon considered going back
upstairs; no one had seen or heard him coming so who would notice
if he went back upstairs and back to bed? For some reason he felt
scared, fearful of being near Mr Rowling, and didn’t to want face
him, though the thought of seeing Lucy made butterflies flutter in
his belly like they always did.

Standing on the last step of the stairs
Simon took a step back wanting to turn around, then second guessed
himself, and finally with heavy feet stepped down onto the hallway
carpet which was old and itchy; his heart was racing but not
knowing why.

Because you know he’s done stuff like
that himself, don’t ya! Old Bob Rowling the axe swinging maniac has
lumped off a few limbs in his time but now that he seems to be the
Chairman’s right hand man, like Tonto was to The Lone Ranger, or
Goofy is to Mickey Mouse, he doesn’t need to dirty his hands
anymore. He’s the orchestrator now, not the organ grinder and
that’s what’s scares you, isn’t it Simon? That guy out there, the
father of your future wife, has secrets. Loads of em. Like you have
photos, he has secrets, and like you have those special photos so
too does he have special secrets and they are both more disturbed
than you could possibly imagine

Simon jumped as the clock clanged its
brass bell and rang out five-o-clock with five long and drawn out
bangs.

See, even the clock
had you spooked, you great ninny!
That was
Kyle’s voice; Kyles low monotonous voice.

Simon reached the door
leading to the garden, went to pull it open when something made him
stop and he really didn’t want to go out there. What would he
say?
Oh, hey Mr Rowling, Lucy, you two
okay? Yeah, great. Well I’m not. No, Mr Rowling, that’s right, I’m
far from okay. You wanna know why? Good. Well I shall tell. Sitting
comfortably both of you? Good. Then where shall I begin…

Simon’s heart leaped out of his chest
and his hand fell to the door handle almost slamming it shut when
his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Vurrrt Vurrrt

Vurrrt Vurrrt

Vurrrt Vurrrt

Vurrrt Vurrrt

’
Piss off, Kyle.’
Simon said to his trouser leg pocket.

Simon opened the door, walked through a
hot, muggy conservatory; which was barren of any furniture, and out
into the rather small garden.

Mr Rowling’s garden was a sun trap at
this time of day and Simon got the sudden yearning for either a
cold can of lemonade or a pint of Cider with ice in it.

Mr Rowling’s garden was sparse and it
smelt of lavender. It wasn’t exactly massive, not what you would
expect surrounded by all this land, but then again, when compared
to city gardens what Mr Rowling had could be deemed as a luxury in
the realms of the green fingered folk. The lack of flower beds,
planting areas or anything that required attention showed that Mr
Rowling cared little for green fingered folk. There were two things
in his garden; the first was a table and a set of four chairs;
wooden but clean and tidy. The second was a shed that sat at the
end of the garden on a concrete base. It was of average size, again
made of wood, and again, was clean and tidy. Either these things
were well looked after or they were new.

Sat at the table were Lucy and her dad.
He wasn’t surprised to see Mr Rowling still wearing trousers but
was slightly put back to see that the jumper had been removed
revealing a beige polo shirt. They each had a glass of what looked
like lemonade next to them, which made Simons throat tighten.

‘
Oh, hey sleepy head.
Feeling better?’

‘
Yeah, thanks. Still a
bit groggy, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

Mr Rowling hadn’t looked up but he was
smiling. Lucy smiled too and lazily pointed to the large jug sat on
the table.

‘
Lemonade?

‘
Yes, please. My
throat feels as dry as a desert after all that heaving.’

Lucy went about pouring him a fresh
glass.

‘
Take a seat, Simon.
You look dead on feet.’ The old man pointed Simon to a chair
opposite Lucy so that Mr Rowling would be at the head of the table,
as it were.

Simon obliged and sat down feeling
better now that the weight was off of his feet. Lucy slid the glass
over to him and Simon drank half of it down in a single gulp. Mr
Rowling watched him intently, holding his own glass whilst his
other hand hung down and fiddled with a couple of blades of long
grass.

‘
Still okay to go out
tonight, Si?’

Yep,’ Simon stifled a burp then,
‘Excuse me. Yeah should be okay. Though I may only have a
couple.’

Somewhere close, small birds were
twittering a soft tune and Simon could hear the stream rushing by.
Images of the axe and the body tried to force their way into his
consciousness but he was quick on the draw and stopped them in
their tracks. Somewhere in the valley there was a large crack, like
a single gunshot. Simon sat bolt upright as something large hit the
ground in the woods beyond. It appeared that Mr Rowling either
hadn’t heard it or had ignored it.

‘
Don’t tell me old
Chopper John is still at it?’

‘
Aye.’ Mr Rowling
answered taking a sip of his lemonade. He seemed completely
disinterested.

‘
Living in hut then,
like he was before?’

‘
He’s the lumberjack
and that’s the lumberjacks hut. Where else would he live?’ Still
disinterested but he had it within him to try and show how grand
his intellect was. Lucy went to answer but quickly closed her mouth
when she realised the same thing that Simon did. She looked at
Simon and raised her eyebrows as she drained her glass.

The echo of the tree falling lifted and
the stream could be heard flowing over yonder. Mr Rowling must have
seen Simon notice this and said, ‘Shame you had tasee that, Simon.
Wouldarather you’d have gone back to house with Barbara like I
asked, but still.’

Simon was getting used to Mr Rowling’s
blank, expressionless face. You had to look in his eyes to see what
he was thinking, to understand what he was really saying. Simons
internal translator wasn’t the latest model, was a few years old,
and in need of some desperate maintenance, but it did the job none
the less and held up to some of the hardest scrutiny. It was having
trouble with old man Rowling though, but he could deduce what Mr
Rowling was really saying.

When Simon didn’t answer Lucy spoke up,
‘Can’t believe he’s dead. I used to hang around with his sister
when we were little. Sure; a few times we tried to dress him up as
a girl.’ Lucy fiddled with the bits of material that made up her
belt on her shorts, ‘Who would do such a thing?’

Simon shook his head.
Mr Rowling sighed heavily but didn’t say anything. He really
was
looking distant, as
if lost in thought, deep thinking about an ancient problem that
seemed to have no answer.

‘
Nice of Lewis and Mr
Pickering to help out. His poor mother.’

Simon choked and spat out his mouthful
of lemonade back into the glass. ‘Help out? Nice of Lewis and… You
even know what happened after you left?’

Lucy sat back in her chair. ‘They took
the body back to his mother. Didn’t they?’

‘
Only after
they…’

‘
Don’t think that’s
for ladies ears, Simon.’

‘
What?’ Simon blurted
out and turned his attention to the old fella. Mr Rowling sat
forward and placed his half empty glass onto the table. ‘Simon,
please. Barbara saw enough. What with the body and the knife and
all that. Best leave what happened alone.’