by Ian Dyer
Shaking his penis free of any drips he zipped up and went over to the sink. Strangely, there was no mirror above the three sinks. In its place, held in a thick dark wooden frame and clear glass was a recent photo of the outside of the Working Man’s Club. It was a good photo, Simon appreciated the composition, the lighting and the way whomever had taken the photo had managed to capture the essence of this old place. He washed his hands admiring the picture and hoped to capture something of the same with his own camera. Just as he turned the taps off Simone heard a commotion. The white noise had gone and it was replaced with just one voice and it was the voice of Mr Rowling. Simon quickly scrubbed his hands dry on the blue paper towels and rushed out of the toilet and into a scene he would never have imagined seeing.
3
On the floor, next to the table Simon had been sat at not 5 minutes before, was the drunk man. He was sat on his backside, his right hand cradling his jaw, his left hand held aloft in desperation. The man he was despairing too was Mr Rowling who was stood over him like a victorious boxer. The other men had remained in their seats, though they were all turned to see the fracas.
‘Who do yathink you are, Stevie Johnson? What do yathink yer up to?’
‘I’m s-s-sorry Mr Rowling. Forget maplace, is all. Drunk too much, that’s maproblem. Meant no disrespect.’
‘Camon Stevie, don’t try and pull wool over my eyes. Yaknow what yer uptah. You think that now you got the big farm you is the big man around here. You thought you’d come in here tonight…’
‘No, Mr Rowling, it’s not like that, it’s…’
Mr Rowling moved quickly and slapped the young man around the face. There was a soft groan of disapproval from the men in the club and Simon noticed the man who sat in the shadows shake his head.
‘Don’t interrupt me, Stevie Johnson,’ Mr Rowling said calmly, ‘Yajust don’t learn do ya? No matter what we try and teach you youngers, you just don’t learn. You never learn. Maybe you need another lesson.’
‘No, Mr Rowling. It won’t happen again.’
Simon caught movement from the corner of his eye. The man in the shadows had stood up and was appraising the scene. Simon moved a little closer to the bar but then decided it was probably best to stay where he was.
‘Just shut up, Stevie, for your mother’s sake, just shut up. Yagot the farm cos yer dad was as stupid as you. And he paid the price for what he did, didn’t he, eh? Strung him up from the sky and watched that poor old bastard swing for what he did. We thought yawoulda learnt from that, Stevie, but no. Smug bastards all of ya. If what we did to yer dad don’t take that smug look from yer eyes then I’m sure he can.’ Mr Rowling looked over to the shadow man and said, ‘If that’s okay with you, Mr Chairman?’
The drunk man moaned and tried to move away but stopped when he felt the boot of one of the other patrons against his back. His face was panicked, flowering red with stress, and by the looks of things; he had wet himself. The other men in the club all turned and looked to the shadow man. There was a silence now, a deep silence, one that sucked you in and took away your breath. Simon’s heart began to race and his chest heaved with each breath. The shadow man nodded and dropped his papers onto the table. There was another short moan from Stevie but no one paid it any attention. From under the counter the barman revealed a long wooden truncheon, its grip tied with cord so as to give a better hold. He passed this club to the Chairman who took hold of it easily even though it looked as if it weighed a considerable amount. Simon was finding it hard to swallow and his guts started to churn. He had never seen a beating before, most of the time they happened outside in the street or behind closed doors. He hoped, no prayed, that his guts would hold up if it went the way he knew it was going to go. The Chairman gave the truncheon a couple of swings as if in mockery of the man that was about to get his head smashed in by it and even though the Chairman was under the same lights as everyone else his features were still hidden in shadow and Simon, as much as he tried, couldn’t see the man that was hidden under there. But he guessed that he was smiling: everyone else was. Everyone else except him and poor Stevie Johnson.
Stevie now tried to get up but Mr Rowling put a solid left boot onto his chest and shook his head. The Chairman stopped swinging and pointed the truncheon to a cleared spot on the floor. The clutter free area wasn’t shiny like the rest of the wooden floor, this part of the floor looked dull, scrubbed clean of any shine. Simon was sure everyone in here could hear his breathing it was so hard and he almost screamed in sheer terror as he realised why that bit of the floor was so dull; why no one sat there.
Two men, Charlie and Edward, who had been sat with Simon got up and took hold of an arm each and dragged the poor whining soul across the floor. Simon had expected the young man to put up more of a struggle, to be shouting and screaming like most people would on their way to a beating, but Stevie, though clearly scared, had given up his futile resistance without much of a fight.
Mr Rowling then took to his seat. He wasn’t smiling; he wasn’t anything, just a blank canvas on which to paint whatever you wanted. The two men dropped Stevie onto the floor. There was a wet piss smear marking his small journey and then the two men returned to their seats and much like Mr Rowling, their faces were clean of any emotion.
This is normal to them Simon thought, this is a daily routine for them. Like taking a crap or putting on a shirt. This is just a matter of course and how they manage the village. No prisons or police, no lawful justice here.
Stevie looked up to the Chairman and the Chairman looked down to him and with his left hand signalled for Stevie to stand up. There were mutterings from the men in the audience; mutterings that seemed to give Stevie some of the respect he had lost back. He was taking his punishment and he would learn from it. If he didn’t learn from it then… Simon didn’t want to think about that.
Chairman looked down on Stevie; the truncheon swinging in his right hand.
Take it outside, take it outside, please. Just lead him away. I don’t want to see this.
With a quick swing the truncheon flew through the air and struck Stevie hard on his right side. It sent him flying to floor in a spray of spittle and flaying arms and legs. And then the rest is pretty much what you would have expected and needs no great oratory. Redacting the punishment, Chairman nigh on smashed the life from Stevie. The wooden truncheon thudded against his body and Stevie screamed in pain as a few rib bones cracked here and there but still the blows rained down. Blood began to seep from under his clothes such was the ferocity of the hits and the dull floor became a wash with it. But Simon noted, with grim surprise, that the Chairman never hit him in the face, just his arms, legs and body until there wasn’t an inch that was either bloodied, covered in bruises or broken.
4
It was all over in less than five minutes. The two men that had dragged Stevie over now took hold of him again and led him out of the main door and out into the night. Stevie wasn’t moaning, he wasn’t doing anything except bleeding.
The Chairman walked back to his table, handing back the truncheon to the barman as he did, and continued reading his paper. The barman wiped the weapon clean and placed it under the counter and the club came to life again as if for the last ten minutes they had been frozen in time.
‘Another round is it?’ A voice asked from another part of the universe.
‘Eh?’ Surprised that his voice even worked his throat was so parched. His stomach hurt as did his chest because he had been breathing so hard. He was amazed to see that Mr Rowling was not in the least bit preoccupied with what had just happened, no one was, they were all just carrying on like nothing had happened.
‘Another round is it?’ The voice said again, only this time a little louder, a little slower.
Simon turned toward the voice and saw that the barman was patiently waiting for him to order. Simon wanted to be sick but knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it.
‘Yes please.’ He managed and he lent against the counter; h
is head in his hands. He had sobered up in a matter of minutes and his head heaved and span as the hangover he was due to have in the morning suddenly started to kick in.
‘Not seen a beating before?’ The barman asked as he set to pouring the drinks.
‘Only on tele.’
The barman laughed. ‘Aye, get used to it after a while.’
‘Used to it? If things are that bad then why not call the police?’
‘No police round here, don’t need it. No, folks round here understand the way things are done and if anyone doesn’t do as they are told or follow the rules then they is punished. The Chairman sees to that.’
‘Another one for him, please.’
‘Already on it.’
I bet you are.
The barman passed the pint of Flogged Daughter over to Simon. ‘Go give it him, rest will be ready when you get back.’
‘Great.’
Simon took hold of the pint with a shaky right hand. He walked over to the Chairman under the shadows and placed the glass down onto the table. He didn’t doff his cap, fake or otherwise, he hadn’t the strength to do it. Behind, he could feel all eyes upon him, watching him, studying him, making sure he didn’t screw this up and then the truncheon had to come out to play again. He took a couple of steps back and admired the fact that the Chairman didn’t even seem to be out of breath after such a brutal exercise. Maybe admired was the wrong word, and Simon realised that not to be breathing hard or panting like a knackered old dog after dishing out such a hefty punishment was downright scary so Simon turned tail and headed back to the bar.
The Chairman took hold of the pint, nodded toward Mr Rowling, who then raised his own glass and the two men took a hearty swig in celebration of the justice that had just been served.
5
Taking two trips, Simon handed the drinks to the others and then sat back down into his chair. He felt like he had been away for days, all that he had learned and knew about these folks was now lost. He watched them talking about this and that but paid no attention to the words that they were saying. All he could think of was the beating that Stevie had taken. All he could think of was watching the truncheon go up and down, up and down and up and down again and again and again. That awful bone cracking, skin tearing thud it made with each strike. How the Chairman had managed not to hit his face or kill the poor bastard was a miracle – plain and simple – though he knew that Stevie, right now, probably wished for the sweet release of death to come and take him away.
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.
