Rottenhouse (18 page)

The men around him thought about that
long and hard, brows furrowed and eyes narrow. All of their faces
were different though there was one common thread (apart from the
bulbous noses, big ears and small eyes) they all wore a sneer as if
Simon had just told them that he had had anal sex with each of
their daughters whist he got their wives to film it. Men on other
tables carried on talking, as too did the ladies in the corner, but
the men surrounding Simon were silent – pondering, taking it all in
and considering what to do. It reminded Simon of asking a child
prior to taking the snap what games they like playing or what their
favourite cartoon is. They just sit there, frozen, eyes darting
from left to right as their brains delve deep and calculate the
correct answer. These guys were doing the same now, in unison,
until finally a man with a tremendous nose that seemed to drip
clear drops of snot like a tap with a rotten washer spoke up. His
accent was deep and he spoke fast.

‘
So, whad yado fer
alivin then, Simon? Follow yer father?’

‘
Well, I’m a
photographer. That’s what I do. My dad worked on the railways but
I…’

‘
A railwayman,’ Snot
Man said and nodded to his fellows in acknowledgement of something
Simon wasn’t too sure of, ‘Good job thart. Properjob. What he do?
Lay track? Engineer was he?’

‘
No, he was
a...’

‘
Driver? Was he
driver, Simon?’ another chap asked who sat next to Snot Man whom
Simon had nicknamed
One Eye for obvious
reasons. There were more of those odd little nods which Simon
though strange considering he hadn’t even agreed with
them.

‘
No, he was an
electrician. Man and boy as they say.’

There was
collective
Ahhhhh
from all the men, including Mr Rowling, who seemed pleased
with what Simon was saying.

Snot Man said, ‘So you took after yaPa,
then?’

Simon went to put the drippy nose man
right, and all others by looks of their dumb faces, but Mr Rowling
interrupt.

No, Clive, he is a photographer. Not an
electrician, like his old man were. He chose not to follow his
father.’

There was a collective sigh and groan
from his ever growing audience. The faces turned to him swelling so
that he could now not make out the group of ladies sat in the
corner and had lost sight of his Lucy.

‘
Whysthat, Simon?’
Snot Man asked with a look of deep concern upon his
face.

‘
I, err, well I didn’t
want to I suppose.’

‘
Whys that,
then?’

‘
I suppose, Clive,’
there was a bit of a grumble then and Mr Rowling leaned over taking
hold of Simons shoulder.

‘
That’s Mr Sparks to
you Simon. Only few can call him Clive. I am one of em, you
int.’

Simon looked into Mr Rowling’s eyes
hoping to see a wee glimmer of jest but instead, and not
surprisingly, he saw nothing except truth.

‘
Sorry.’ Simon said
toward Mr Rowling and then to Clive.

Mr Sparks waved it away. ‘Now why dint
yafollow in fathers steps.’

‘
Never fancied the
life he had. It was hard. Long hours, weekends, poor money. He
didn’t see much of me or my mum and when he did he usually fell
asleep standing up he was so bone tired.’

‘
Aye, Simon, tough
life on rails but one tobe proud of. Mr Rowling’s father, Mr
Rowling, he were railwayman.’

All the men took a swig of their
respective ales and Simon felt obliged to do likewise. And then a
question came to him and as much as that inner voice screamed to
not do it he couldn’t stop himself. They had touched a nerve when
they had brought up his father, a nerve that Simon had fought long
and hard to cauterize.

‘
Why don’t you work on
the railway, then, Mr Rowling? If you don’t mind me
asking.’

The old man grimaced, licking his lips
before answering and when he did answer his voice took on that
condescending tone Simon was getting used to hearing.

‘
Closed railway down,
Simon, otherwise I’d be doing
exactly
the same as what my father
did and his father before him. Most men round here, Simon, all do
what their fathers did.’

An eerie quiet fell around the table,
the men that weren’t sat around returned to their own conversations
after hearing enough from the southern wanderer. Upon their faces
Simon saw the familiar look of disappointment mixed with the
knowledge that their assumptions had been correct and that the rest
of the world was not a world they wanted to live in.

‘
If not on railway,
then where do you work, Simon?’

‘
Gods teeth, Clive,
you is as thick as those pigs you keep. Christ, heint no
electrician. He be a pho-tog-ra-fer. Yaknow with camera and what
not.’

Clive was physically taken aback, not
at the fact that Mr Rowling had raised his voice but by the fact
that Simon wasn’t an electrician like Simons father had been. Simon
was sure he had said he was a photographer at the start of this
weird conversation.

‘
Sorry, Mr Rowling.
Don’t understand. So, Simon, you take photos for a job.’

‘
Yes. I have my own
studio.’

Mr Clive Sparks shook his head, ‘People
pay ferphotos, like of trees and stuff? Seems odd. I mean how much
could a bitapaper with a picture on it be worth?’

‘
Aye, Simon,’ Mr
Rowling said, ‘wondered that maself, I did. Since when can a
foe-tow
be worth the sort
amoney to keep a roof on top of yahead. Aint never heard of such a
thing.’

All eyes were on him again, judging
eyes, wanting a response that would either let him off or cast him
into the stream; a knife jutting from his eye socket. Again, like
the conversation he had had last night over the drink driving laws
of the United Kingdom, Simon couldn’t believe he was having to
break down every little aspect of his life, having to explain what
he did as if he were talking to children.

‘
There is plenty of
money in it. It’s a form of artwork, like Monet or Turner. A good
photo can fetch hundreds of thousands of pounds. If it weren’t for
photos then we would live in a very different world. Mine don’t
fetch that kind of money but people pay good money for a portrait
or a wedding.’

Eyebrows were raised and it seemed as
though Simon had quashed whatever other questions the group had
broiling inside of them.

All except one, and it was Snot Man who
asked it.

‘
But aint that woman’s
work?’

Simon took a breath,
stood, and excused himself to the toilet whilst the rest of the
table muttered to themselves and agreed amongst them that
yes
Simons work, the work
he had taken most of his life to master and still had some way to
go was
women’s work
and that he was foolish not to have followed in his dear dads
footsteps.

5

The night dragged on. The clock on the
wall ticked its way to 8 in slow agonising sweeps. The sun drifted
down until it went behind the valley and the soft pink hue that
filled the room was replaced with a vile yellow shroud from the
overhanging fluorescents.

Many drinks were imbued, laughter was
echoing around the bar like a storm. Ladies still drinking from
their wine glasses brimming with beer; chuckled and mumbled in
whispers.

Simon had tried to speak with Lucy when
he went to the toilet. He wanted to go back to the house, maybe
take some night shots on his way, anything to get out of this club
and these people. He had gotten to within 10 feet of her when she
looked at him and quickly shooed him away, back to where he had
come from. And then he realised something, something he hadn’t seen
but had seen; that none of the men went over there. The women were
left alone, distanced from the rest of the club. Only the barman
went into that corner, his tray full of glasses of beer. The women
neither had to ask nor offer payment. They simply sat, drank,
talked, muffled their laughter and got a top up when they had all
finished.

Simon sat back down in his spot next to
Mr Rowling and opposite Snot Man and One Eye; a fresh pint of ale
replacing his old empty glass. He wasn’t acknowledged by anyone
when he came back, their conversation remained unbroken by his
presence. Whilst watching the band begin to set up on the raised
stage Simon gave in, understanding that he was here for the night,
so decided to stop day dreaming and to listen to what Mr Rowling
and Snot Man were talking about.

He wished he never did.

6

‘
Any word on who it
were that put it in his eye?’ Snot Man asked.

‘
Nope. I have a couple
of thoughts, but I need to speak with Chairman first.’

‘
Lewis clear it
up?’

‘
Aye, though he made a
bit of a scene about it. Plus I learned something about that little
twat that troubled me. In such company as this I prefer to wait for
Chairman. But let’s just say I think Lewis is in for a
lesson.’

Snot Man wiped his nose with a brownish
hanky. ‘The young don’t seem to learn.’ Snot Man said shaking his
head.

Mr Rowling looked over to where his
daughter was sat. ‘No. They don’t. It troubles me, Clive, makes me
think we are losing touch with what’s right. Losing touch with the
past. Take the ladies over there. Look at em laughing and the like.
Never happened like that with the old Chairman. Place is getting
soft.’

‘
You talking of Mr
Johnson? What he were up to was wrong, the worst, like the old
lawman had been up to. You onbout how long it took?’

‘
Darn right, Clive.
What were it, three weeks before he were put to justice. Pathetic.
Crime like that should have had swift justice. People round here
should be ashamed. Times past that would have been done in a day.
Not that I’m blaming Chairman, no, it’s the people, Clive, they
don’t listen. All comes down to the young. They aint being brought
up right and the parents are to be put to blame for that. Look how
hard it was to keep the induction going? Since the club came to be,
to get in you have to do a stint behind bar. Learn ya place. Do ya
time, earn some respect before you take a drink with the other men.
Bloody blokes around here don’t understand and shouldn’t even be
here if yaask me.’

‘
Chairman will see it
put right, Mr Rowling. If not he will lose his place when voting
time comes at year end.’

‘
We’ll see, Clive. See
what he says about the killing before I truly judge.’

The door to the bar squealed and the
men turned to see who it was. The Chairman held a leash in his
right hand. The Chairman looked over to Mr Rowling and the two men
shared an understanding of the situation much like Simon and Lucy
shared things when the two of them looked at each other.

Simon’s hands began to shake and his
palms grew wet with sweat. What the hell was on the other end of
the leash? Whatever it was must be pretty big as the leash was
thick, like rope on a tug boat. He looked over to see if Lucy was
looking for him, hoping that she was so that he knew what he had to
do. Or hoping that she wasn’t there so that she didn’t have to see
this.

The Chairman reached
the worn area (
Beating
Zone
) and pulled hard on the leash so that
what was on the end of it came sprawling through the door way;
crying as it did. Simon still couldn’t see but there were cheers
and jeers and clanging glasses and shouts of
About time!
and
Bring him to justice
! from various
quarters of the room. Simon was sure he could here higher pitched
yells coming from the ladies table but couldn’t be sure.

All the other men were standing so
Simon got to his feet as the leash was pulled again and this time
there was a moan from the person, it was a person, only a human
could moan like that, and that moan turned into a cry as whatever
created it hit the floor hard. A third tug on the leash brought
another cheer, but still Simon couldn’t see who was on the end of
the rope.

C’mon Simon, you do
know
Mr Rowling’s voice said in his head
and Simon guessed he was right and with a fourth tug of the rope
and with a fresh bout of blood thirsty laughter coming from the
crowd, Lewis, the rope tied around his body and neck, landed face
first on the floor. Landed face first on what
he
called
The Chairman’s Court
and what Simon
called the
Beating Zone.

7

The Chairman gestured to his audience
to be quiet and to sit and with a scrapping of wooden chairs the
men, and women, of Rottenhouse obliged; quietly and orderly.

Looking over to the ladies corner Simon
was pleased, though a little worried as to her current whereabouts,
to see that Lucy was no longer there.

‘
Gentlemen. I ask for
your attention on this fine summers evening,’ the Chairman said,
his voice as big as he was tall and thick with accent. His eyes
burnt with a fiery green hue and they were as big as the spherical
lampshades that hung from the ceilings. ‘It saddens me, aye it
does, to find myself with another one of our young men at the end
of the leash. Yet another mark on The Chairman’s Court.’