Rottenhouse (34 page)

The line went dead and before getting
the options he knew like the back of his hand Simon pressed the red
symbol and locked the phone without looking at the screen. ‘Lying
little prick.’

Simon dialled
999
.

The call connected but then went dead.
Simon glanced at the phone and saw the call had disconnected but he
had a signal; 5 solid bars, whatever that really meant. He tried
again, and again the call connected, ‘Hello, I need the police,’ He
whispered, but then the line went dead.

‘
Fu-u-uck’ he said
pressing the 9 button 3 times much harder than he needed to and
then pressed the green call button with gritted teeth and tears
brimming in his eyes.

The call connected.

He held his breath.

And then it went dead.

‘
Fuck it! Bollocking
fuck. Answer the cunting phone you stupid fuck.’ He tried again,
now with tears running down his cheeks.

But again there was nothing but the
dull tone of a dead line.

Simon knelt on the floor and cried.
Didn’t care who or what heard him. He cried like only a man can cry
when everything around him is going to shit and he isn’t man enough
to sort it out. His father, the man who had sexually abused him and
that Simon was glad he had burnt to death in the house fire, had
always said that a man had responsibilities, had a duty to those
that were dependent upon them and should do everything in their
power to see them safe and Simon liked to believe he did that and
that he did it well. Better than his paedophile father anyway.
Simon thought about his responsibilities as the tears flowed. Five
minutes later, his sleeve wet thanks to the snot and the tears, he
was still holding onto his phone.

6

Simon put the phone back into his
pocket and grabbed the torch and the axe and all thoughts of
turning back were gone.

Simon placed the axe, which had a short
handle but a good sized head and blade, down by his arse between
his jeans and his boxer shorts. It wasn’t a snug fit but it would
have to do for now and slamming down the boot lid he clicked the
torch off and on so that it lit up the ground beneath the car. A
part of him was sad that the torch worked. That part wanted the
police to be involved, maybe a fully armed SWAT team too. And a
helicopter.

‘
A helicopter would be
great.’

But there wasn’t going to be a
helicopter. No SWAT team neither, not even a small fat balding
local Deputy to cover his back while he went in.

‘
It’s all on you buddy
boy.’ And with that it was time to leave.

Walking with an awkward rub against his
back, Simon reached the path that he had called the Batcave earlier
in the day and he looked back to the car not really knowing why or
what he would see, saw that whatever it was that he was looking for
wasn’t there, let out a sigh and headed in. Above him, the tall
trees were covered in shadow; their colour taken away by the
falling sun like a child selfishly chomping up all the sweets it
could get and they arched over him and they followed the path ahead
of him. Looking up, into the buttresses of the archway that were
made out of branches, orange lances of light tried to poke through
but the gloom was too great and so it was dark down here, but not
too dark. Simon didn’t need the torch, though he kept it by his
side, his thumb brushing against the button just in case. Walking
through the Batcave he had hoped that a plan would come to life in
his head. A great plan, perhaps with traps and decoys built in.
Maybe he had hoped for a plan to lead the brothers here and there
with sounds of the wild or a car fire or setting the pigs on fire,
but there was none of that. His thoughts were pretty much empty.
Much like the forest was empty around him. There were no bees like
earlier. No birds tweeting or dragonflies swooping. The fallen
leaves and twigs and dead bugs beneath his feet were his companions
now. Even the river, which had been a constant white noise for most
of the day, was quiet. It was there, he could smell it, but it was
silent; holding its breath whilst it waited for Simon to act.

‘
I don’t know what the
hell it is you all want me to do?

Silence answered back.

Up ahead, was the tree with the sign
post nailed to it. ‘Shit it.’ Simon said. ‘Least it aint made of
legs and belly.’ He had business down the dark path. The path to
rotten places and rotten people. He remembered that he had seen
himself earlier running down that path and now here he was; not
running, but just about to head down that way. Maybe he should
run.

‘
Would get there
quicker.’ He then pictured himself running along that gloomy path
only to impale himself on a low hanging branch; an odd smile on his
face as the blood trickled out his mouth and his heart still pumped
on the bit of the stick poking out of Simons back.

Flicking on the torch, which threw
harsh yellow light on everything, bleaching all colour and
substance from it, Simon took a couple of steps forward, tentative
steps, easy steps, trying not to make a sound but not doing a very
good job of it. The path beneath his feet was easy to follow as
trees lined it like a guard of honour. It got colder with each new
step and past the tree with the blood red X painted on it Simon
started to see his breath come out of his mouth like a soft mist
and that mist hung in front of him and felt wet upon his face as he
walked through it.

Simon was all alone in
this bit of the forest. His back prickled with cold sweat and
chills ran through him so he reached round and took out the axe and
held it ready for action by his side. The torch was bright but the
path wondered into a darker, thicker place and the light from the
torch was now but a shrinking slice of yellow. Everything outside
of its glare was nothing and nothing was bad and low skulking trees
were twisted together like a wild woman’s hair and roots broke free
of the ground and reached up trying to trip him and grab his feet
even though they remained static and didn’t reach up because that
was all in Simons mind. He knew that everything he was seeing, the
witch over there, the wolf beast, the tree of spikes and the
monster of claws were all
there
until the torch revealed them for what they were;
nothing.

Does a tree make a
sound when it falls and nobody is there to hear it?
Simon thought to himself and then to the gloom he
said, ‘Are you a witch or a beast come to get me until I shine a
light on you?’ and he did that and the witch became a crooked bush
and the beast was nothing but a fallen tree. Passing a rusty old
tractor that looked like a sleeping dragon before Simon’s torch
showed it for what it truly was, the trees thinned and the cold air
lifted and enough light began to filter through so that the torch
could be turned off and the path looked like it had done prior to
the sign post. The sky was visible now and the sun was setting and
it was making the most of it and the hills and flat lands of the
moors were engulfed in orange fire, which meant that within an hour
it would be dark, which also meant that within an hour Simon wanted
this to be over.

7

The forest stopped abruptly. Simon
stood in the shadow of the tall trees looking out at the undulating
grasslands that stretched out from right to left and all the way to
the tip of the horizon. The sun was now half vanished; a
semi-circle of orange erupting like a gargantuan volcano. The river
was near, Simon could hear it clearly now it was all around him and
sounded angry and fast. Ahead, no more than 30 meters away – though
it was hard to tell in this dusk light – a short wooden bridge
crossed the river and on the other side, a dirty muddy path led to
the house Simon had seen in his dream; The Rotten House.

It was a fitting name.

Simon gripped the handle of the axe
tighter as he gazed upon its wretchedness and then turned his
attention to the pig pens that were positioned to the left of the
building. There were pigs there, all bright pink and their snorts
and grunts drifted on the breeze as they foraged for scraps in the
mud and the shit. His throat was as dry as desert sand and his
bones felt weary, his energy drained, and his mind foggy. The
bridge looked as rundown as the house. It had four main wooden
posts at each corner with thick beams mortised into them so that
the walking boards could be placed across. It was a simple bridge
with a simple handrail. Time was wearing it down though, and soon
if not strengthened, the river would gobble it up.

Simon tried to move but his feet
wouldn’t let him.

Not yet.

Not so fast.

The main door to the house came
thundering open and a man came rushing out; arms waving above his
head and he was shouting something, a lot of something’s, but at
this distance Simon didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Wasn’t
sure if they were even words. The man ran down the small set of
steps and toward the bridge.

Dressed in blue jeans and a white vest,
he ran so awkwardly Simon thought he were apt to fall at any
moment. Simon walked toward the bridge and by the time he reached
it the man was on the other side, one hand holding onto one of the
wooden supports, the other against his chest. Simon stopped ahead
of the bridge and he made sure to hide the axe behind his back. The
man on the other side was old. Really old. He had a long grey beard
and was hunched over so much that most of his features were hidden.
His legs were bowed, which accounted for his awkward run and his
bare arms looked more bone than skin and from under his dirty vest
small tufts of wispy white hair poked through like summer weeds.
This must be the father.

‘
Yashouldn’t be here,
mister. Not safe right now. Best beoff with yaand fast.’ He waved a
hand toward the trees where Simon had come from, ‘Best tago back.
Don’t want to arouse the sons, they is out back helping mother with
duties, so they don’t know you is here.’ The old man coughed; a
deep cancerous cough that went on for some time. He tried to stifle
it with the hand that caressed his panting chest but it did no good
and he continued to wheeze and splutter like an old
tractor.

You’re apt to die old
man
Simon thought to himself, and a little
bit of the fear he was feeling got plucked away.

When the old man finished coughing
Simon said, ‘Don’t want no trouble. I just want her back. Plain and
simple.’

‘
Wanttoo
back?’

Simon drew the axe but the old man
seemed to pay it no attention. ‘Lucy…..no, Barbara Rowling. You
have here up there. You’ve taken her and I want her back.’ and then
remembering how those big brothers had been earlier with her father
he added, ‘Bob Rowling wants her back. It’s his daughter you’ve got
up there and he has the ear of the Chairman. So best you give her
back to me and let us go.’

The man laughed, but it was half
hearted and dirty and it seemed to Simon as if that old man knew
something that Simon didn’t. ‘Bob Rowling. Ear of Chairman.
Goandfuck yerself. We aints got no one up here so I suggest you
take troubles and go stick em up yers and that Rowling scums arse
befer I call on me sons to come and rip you a new one.’

Simon stepped onto the bridge and could
see the river speeding past underneath it. There were no
floorboards missing from the bridge, it was old but intact, but
Simon didn’t trust it, and wished he had a free hand to grab the
handrail.

‘
I aint going nowhere
until I have her back. Please, just give her back to me. I have
money, as much as you want.’ There was desperation in his voice and
he could feel his throat tighten and the tears well up behind his
eyes.

The old man looked up. Straightened up,
and Simon was sure that he grew a few inches and looked every bit
as mean as his sons had done earlier in the day. Nothing really
changed about the old man but everything had changed. The old man
was still old, but beneath that butter thin skin a brute still
lived. The setting sun reflected in his eyes and they were on fire
with it; he was on fire with it, and clothes that had seemed baggy
at first were now tight, wrapped around muscle, and Simon thought
about the transformation Dr Banner has to go through to become the
Hulk and thought that the old man had just been through something
very similar but without the screaming and the pain.

‘
We aint got her.’ And
then the man narrowed those big eyes and brought their full
attention onto Simon. He felt like he did when he was a child and
was being scorned and beaten by his father. ‘NowFuckOff.’ And to
add weight to it the pigs squealed, the wind picked up, the bridge
groaned and the river roared and behind him big black birds the
size of aeroplanes took flight as the trees they were in swayed and
cracked and even though Simon felt like the little boy he was
before the fire took his father, he mentally shook the images from
his head, straightened his own back, and raised the axe.

‘
I aint going old man,
I am taking back my Lucy. She’s up there, I know she is. I aint
called the cops and I aint going to neither. We can settle this.
You and me. There doesn’t have to be trouble. Like I said, I have
money, lots of it.’

Simon stepped onto the bridge and kept
on going. Beneath him the river tore through the earth and kept on
going like he kept on going. He tried to gather up the strength
from the river like a superhero in a childish comic but he felt no
stronger now than he did when he was back at the car. He hated the
river for not sharing its power and if he survived this he would
take a piss in it out of spite.