Rottenhouse

by Ian Dyer

  But now Simon had more pressing matters to attend to and had known that sooner or later the question would come up by those that didn’t know or understand. Looking back from Lucy’s table, passed the Beating Zone he noticed that the eyes of the table were upon him; awaiting his answer like a pack of caged lions waited for their dinner.

  4

  ‘A photographer. I kind a specialise in landscapes, montages, nature shots, that kind of thing, but the studio that I own does a lot of portraits and business promo shots. Its basic work but it pays the bills and means I can spend more time on the part of my job I enjoy.’

  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 tra
y 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.’

  Hands tapped on the tables like cats on a tin roof.

  ‘I know I haven’t been quick off the mark. Times have changed since many of us were boys, the world around us grown sour and that sourness has tried to seep into our hearts and into our homes. The young think they now it all, they think they know better than us! Time to put them right, time to put them back into their place before we lose what we have fought so hard to make.

  ‘Bob Rowling brought one such misbegotten soul to my attention earlier today and I ask him to join me now and to lead Lewis down to the basement where his punishment awaits.’

  Lewis moaned again and Simon could see that he wanted to scream but the rag stuffed into his mouth was stopping anything but a bestial groan to come out. The Chairman gave the young man a kick in the side and Mr Rowling made his way over. He shook hands with the Chairman and took from him the looped end of the leash like a proud owner of a winner at Crufts.

  The men around Simon tapped the tables again only this time there was a rhythm to it, a slow drawn out rhythm that reminded Simon of the drums from an old King Kong movie. The two men left the main room, dragging their mewling dog behind them. Lewis was trying to stand as he was taken into the reception area but each time he managed to get to his feet Mr Rowling would tug on the rope forcing Lewis to crawl. It was a despicable, inhuman sight, and Simon looked away and closed his eyes hoping that the darkness would take him away.

  But it didn’t and the sounds of Lewis’ rag soaked moaning wafted through to him and it seemed to grow with intensity when mixed with the hand drumming until it became a ghastly song that Simon really didn’t want to listen to. Why were they doing this? What the hell had Lewis done to be treated like that? Simons mind filled with images of the shiny axe swinging down onto the dead body in the stream cleaving it into pieces. That axe had been swung by Lewis, he had done that rotten task without a care in the world, had even played with the body for crying out loud.

  It’s not right. It’s not right. Simon kept repeating until he became sick of it. Nothing here makes any sense and everything seems to happen without rhyme or reason and at the drop of a hat and I can’t deal with it. I don’t want to deal with it.

  Every part of him, down to his bones, wanted away from here. Away, not just from the Working Man’s Club or the village but the entire county too. He wanted to go home. He wanted Lucy to be by his side. He wished that when he opened his eyes that he would wake up in his own bed and find that the last few days had been a sick and twisted dream.

  ‘Been a while since they used gurney.’ Snot Man said with a slight chuckle in his voice.

  Simon started to feel sick. He opened his eyes but nothing had changed; he was still surrounded by the same men only now Mr Rowling was gone. The sick feeling kept growing and Simon didn’t trust himself to do a test burp for fear of throwing up all over the place.

  But where?

  C’mon, Simon, you know where. You know we’ve taken him down there, down to that dark place that I know you dream of. We’ve taken him down there, m
e and the Chairman, and we mean to teach him a lesson.

  Not wanting too but having no choice his throat was so dry he drank the rest of his beer and whispered to Snot Man, ‘Where have they taken him?’

  ‘Down basement, lad.’

  ‘There not…killing him, are they?

  ‘No,’ Snot Man shook his head, ‘Least I don’t think so. No,’ he concluded, ‘won’t kill him. What he did don’t warrant that.’

  Simon leaned in closer almost tipping over his empty glass, ‘What he do? I mean, what did he do?’

  ‘Fraid I can’t say, lad. Not for your head to know such things. If you were meant to know, you’d know.’

  Snot Man went back to speaking with One Eye, Fat Cheeks and the rest of the table. It was a conversation that Simon couldn’t give two shits over. Without excusing himself he got up and headed over to the toilets making sure to stay well away from the Beating Zone and to not make eye contact with anyone. There were a lot of sounds in the room coming from the men sat around the numerous tables. Simon heard the familiar crack of dominoes hitting other dominoes and wood. From the table nearest the windows opposite the raised platform were sat really old men and they were talking loudly about the drainage in some lower field. Below an old painting of the valley six men were sat around a larger table, upon it was a board and some odd shaped playing pieces. As Simon walked past this table he saw that they were playing a game of some sort on a board that looked a little like the board you used in Risk. Strange cries of Folly, Folly or Duffer plot would be shouted by over eager mouths. Walking past the bar he saw that Lucy was still not back in her chair. She must have been gone some 15 minutes or so.