Rottenhouse (9 page)

But there was one thing that troubled
him and it only really occurred to him now when he had a moment to
get his thoughts back together. He turned to Mr Rowling and not
caring who he interrupted or what the conversation was actually
about he asked, ‘What the hell did Stevie do?’

‘
Broke rules.’ Mr
Rowling replied in that stone cold, flat tone, as he stared into
his pint and then taking a gulp he turned to Simon. ‘Break rules,
you pay the price round here. No time for trouble makers,
Simon.’

‘
So, what did he
do?’

The pint glass was placed on the table,
the other men that sat around were paying no attention to Simon nor
Mr Rowling; they were much to pre-occupied with a rather tall and
skinny man that had just walked into the club.

‘
Just the folly of
youth, is all, Simon. Now leave it be, you aint gonna understand,
not until you have spent some more time here.’

The tall and skinny man, wearing blue
jeans and a long wax jacket greeted each of the men around the
table with a handshake and a nod. When he reached Mr Rowling he
shook his hand with both of his, cupping them as if it was a goblet
of the finest red wine.

‘
Good tasee ya, Bob.
How’s it been?’ The skinny man’s voice was soft and he was well
spoken. It belied his age.

‘
Can’t complain, Phil.
Can’t complain. Its good tasee yatoo. Looking well.’

Their hands separated.

Phil continued, ‘Feeling good to. The
Mrs has me fed well and the Doc’s pills are doin the trick. Can’t
say that for Stevie Johnson though. Just saw him stumbling through
square. Needed another lesson, did he?’

‘
Aye.’

‘
What fer?’

‘
What it’s always fer
when they get too big fer their boots.’

Phil nodded and continued to pay Simon
no attention what so ever.

‘
Hopefully though,’ Mr
Rowling continued, ‘that’s the last time he forgets his place.
Anyways, tell barkeep to put beer on me tab; yours and his. I know
you aint had a good crop.’

‘
It’s not crop that’s
the problem, Bob, it me blinking cattle. Got some kind a scratching
bug, they have. Riddled weit they is. Vets gonna give em a jab
wisomink or other but none will be fit fer market. Not this
year.’

Mr Rowling offered a consoling shake of
his head. ‘Probably that bloody factory over in Brook. Since that
been there all sorts of folk been falling ill. And now yer
cattle.’

‘
Probably, Bob. But
what can we do?’

‘
Nowt. For now at
least. Anyway, go get yer drink and have a night.’

Phil headed off towards the bar.

‘
Now there’s a good
man, Simon. One of the best.’ Mr Rowling took up his pint and in
one large, world consuming gulp, drained it, leaving a white frothy
residue on the sides of the glass.

Simon nodded and for the rest of the
night, until he said his farewells to the men of the Rottenhouse
Working Man’s Club, he was as silent as the grave.

6

Mr Rowling was the better side of
drunk. He had consumed around six pints of the finest ale known to
the folks of Rottenhouse and he wobbled out of the club saying his
goodbyes as he went.

Simon was sober. Stone cold sober.
Since poor Stevie had been beaten half near to death he hadn’t felt
the urge to drink. The pint he had gotten himself just after the
episode was the last he had drunk and even though he could feel the
eyes of the men in the club upon him, judging him, wondering why
this bloke isn’t draining pint after pint as if there was no
tomorrow (and probably confirming what they all thought – that all
southerners are softies and can’t handle their beer) he made it
last the rest of the night.

Simon couldn’t get the image of Stevie
stood up, waiting for his punishment like a boy stood waiting in
the line for a penalty, his expressionless face red with tears but
nothing else, out of his head. That picture he had of Stevie, as
the night wore on, mixed together with the image of the garage and
the red oil blood that seeped from under the door

They leak. They bleed. They don’t stop
once they started.

swirled around in his head. He couldn’t
get rid of it and he wanted to go back to the house, back to Lucy,
and then lay down and go to sleep.

Memories of the nightmare that had
awoken him earlier were gone and he started to feel his body begin
to close down, preparing itself for a good night’s rest. It was as
if he was now a computer, put into shutdown mode at the end of a
long day, and his internal system was updating its files with the
day’s happenings and they were flashing before his eyes prior to
going black. Simon put on his light jacket as he walked through the
reception room and followed Mr Rowling out into the chilly night.
Clouds were obscuring the stars and the moon shone through them
leaving a pale cream gossamer painted over the sleepy village of
Rottenhouse. He had been through quite a series of events today.
Too many for one day. But maybe tomorrow would fare better. A fresh
day; a fresh start. Perhaps the weather would be fine and he could
take Lucy and his camera into the forest where they could be alone
for a few hours. He found he could always relax with his
camera.

As the two men walked down the steps
and into the square Simons shutdown mode was interrupted as he saw
that Mr Rowling had put his hands into left jacket pocket and had
removed his car keys. He rattled them as if to wake some unseen
dwelling creature.

‘
You’re not driving,
are you?’

Mr Rowling kept on
going and held out his keys and rattled them again. It was a motion
that said;
of course I am you silly
southern tit. Why else would I have gotten them out?

‘
But you’re over the
limit.’

‘
Limit? What you mean,
limit?’

‘
Err, the drink
driving limit?’ Simon’s voice raised an octave or two as he
finished.

The two men were now in the deep shadow
at the centre of the square. The only car left in the car park was
Mr Rowling’s and it loomed large in the distance; lit by the orange
street lamp.

‘
Nowt like that here,
Simon. Probably one of yer silly city
ways
?’

‘
No, Mr Rowling, it’s
the law.’ And then to try and make him understand that Rottenhouse
isn’t a law unto itself, Simon added, ‘Everywhere, yaknow, the
law.’

Mr Rowling reached his car, went round
to the driver’s side and placed his hands on the roof making sure
that the keys were well away from the paintwork. The glow of the
street lamp lit up his back as if it were on fire; the rest of him
was shrouded in a dark shadow. The shadow reminded Simon of the
stairs that led down into the basement in the Workings Mans Club.
Suddenly he wished he had never brought the subject up.

‘
Camon Simon, yer
talking silly now. There int no law that says a man can’t drink a
couple of drinks and drive home. What kind a world you think this
is, Nazi bloody Germany? And if there were a law like that,
I
would now about it,
don’t yathink?’

Simon smiled, at first
thinking this was a joke but then remembering that this was Mr
Rowling we were dealing with here and he didn’t tell jokes, well
ones that Simon understood anyhow, no, Mr Rowling was a straight
man, a factual man who saw things in black and white, not magenta
or navy blue or orange or sunburst yellow. Maybe it was his
tiredness, or that his own
String
was tightening, but Simon couldn’t let this one
go.

‘
Mr Rowling,
seriously, it’s the law. You aren’t allowed to drink and drive.
It’s serious, like lose your license serious. People
die.’

‘
From a few drinks?
Camon Simon, really? You tellin me that people have died just
because a few pints were had? Don’t believe it.’

‘
What’s there not to
believe? It’s like a fact or whatever. You drive drunk and your
judgment and all that is off and you end up rolled in a ditch
wondering how the hell you got there. Worse still, you end up
ploughing into someone, or someone’s. Surely, Mr Rowling, even
here, you know that it’s illegal. Please see some sense would
ya.’

Mr Rowling’s head jerked a little and
even though he was in shadow, Simon could tell that his face was
wrinkled into a snarl.

Quickly, as if to take back what he had
said, Simon whispered, ‘Not sense, Mr…’

‘
Sense?’ Mr Rowling
interrupted with, ‘Sense? Sense is you getting into the car and
keeping quiet. Against law. Ha! I’ll show ya Simon. There aint no
amount of beer that can hinder me at madriving.’

Since when did this become a
challenge?

‘
Let me drive.
Please.’

‘
Just get in car.’ Mr
Rowling put the key into the door lock and there was a clunk as all
the doors unlocked and he opened his driver’s door and calmly got
into the Cortina.

Simon took a deep breath, regretting
that he opened his stupid mouth, and got into the car making sure
he put on his seatbelt; checking that it was locked into place and
tight; three times over.

‘
Against the law.’ Mr
Rowling whispered and shook his head in utter disgust. ‘Wait till
the guys here that one, shit themselves with laughter they
will.’

7

So, on that chilly summer night, under
a creamy gossamer moonlit glow, Mr Rowling drove his car home with
a look of complete smugness etched upon his face as he guided the
car from bend to bend, crest to crest. He even dipped his lights as
he reached the junctions, like he had on the journey up to the
club, and each time he did this he turned to Simon, a wry grin on
his face and he rolled his eyes in a comical over the top
gesture.

‘
Drink driving, my
arse.’ He would mutter to himself.

Simon had expected a running commentary
from the old soak but he was quiet; apart from an odd chuckle here
and there. Only the roar of the engine and the wind blowing over
the car could be heard. Simon wished that he could lean forward and
rip that chuckle right out of Mr Rowling’s throat. Probably best
that he didn’t though.

8

With a bump over the curb and a squeal
from the brakes Mr Rowling brought the car to a complete stop in
exactly the same place it had been prior to them leaving. Simon
took off his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Mr Rowling
followed suit and locked the car checking each door was tightly
shut and locked before heading toward his stony cottage.

Before opening the front door he turned
to Simon. ‘Made it home safe and sound. Didn’t plough into anyone
or end up in a ditch.’

You mocking twat. Fuck you. And fuck
your stupid smug face.

Simon nodded but didn’t say anything; a
fake grin taints his features.

Mr Rowling stepped forward. Placed his
hands by his side and leant into Simon. He was close enough so that
Simon could smell the beer on his breath; see the whites of his
eyes as they bore into his own, down into his mind and then further
down into what felt like was his soul and they looked about there
for something. They tore away at his innards, tossing them aside
without care. Memories of Simons past, his loves, what he lost, his
faults and his dreams flew past his eyes in a second; each one
bringing a new set of emotions be they good or bad and Mr Rowling’s
eyes searched, hunted, wanted for something in Simon.

But they found nothing.

‘
Aye, thought so.’ Mr
Rowling said and shook his head, turned, opened the door and walked
into the glow of his hallway.

Like a Limp
Rag

1

Mr Rowling had hung his coat up and
headed off upstairs to bed leaving Simon alone in the kitchen.
Simon poured himself a cup of water and drank it. The water was
different up here, it tasted better than that bottled water stuff
and he poured another cup of it and drank deeply. The liquid was
cold; really cold, but good. He took in a few deep breaths leaning
heavily on the worktop.

Sleep called for him.
Begged for him to come and play. So Simon obliged. He placed his
jacket onto a hook, turned off the kitchen light and walked up the
creaky stairs. Luckily there was still a light on in the hallway
and after relieving himself in the toilet he crept along the
hallway and into the bedroom. The room was dark apart from a small
slither of light that crept out of the built in bathroom. It was
enough so that Simon could see the shapes of the objects in the
room and he carefully undressed, leaving on his pants and his plain
white t-shirt and got into bed. His side of the bed was cold though
he could feel the warmth coming from Lucy as she laid there asleep,
but he didn’t cuddle up next to her. He preferred just to lay there
in the dark and let sleep take him. Outside, now that his ears had
become accustomed to the quite, he could here twigs cracking and
leaves being brushed aside as something made its way along the
road. Some animal seeking food and water. Simon could hear the
splashing water of the stream as it rushed by and he believed it to
be one of the best things he had ever heard. It calmed him. There
was a
splosh
as
something went into the water and what sounded like hooves
splashing in the stream but he paid it little attention, instead he
just focused on sleep and he tried to let it all go so that the
dream fairies would come and take him away.