by Ian Dyer
‘What are you getting at, Mr Rowling?’
‘Yacould do better, Simon. Camon, you must see it, especially when you had the pleasure of the other lady folk of the village in club tonight. Now there are some fine women, good women, with no filthy night time habits.’
‘Now I know you must be joking.’ Simon said, though he knew that Mr Rowling wasn’t and he could feel his own String starting to tighten. ‘Those trolls aint a patch on Lucy. No wonder she left if this is what she had to put up with.’
‘What do you mean, Simon?’
‘She’s a smart, sexy woman, with a mind to make something of herself, not just settle for a single toothed, flannel shirt wearing shit farmer. That woman up there is one of the very best, not only as a person, Mr Rowling, but as a shrewd money making machine too. Don’t get me wrong, she can be a total bitch sometimes, emotionless and hard much like I see yourself being, but ugly, like you think she is ugly, is complete and utter madness. And if that is what you think of her then we have a problem. A big problem. You want to mend bridges, you want to fix things with your daughter, then see her for what she is before it’s too late, because I tell you, she is a stubborn girl, and once she has made up her mind that’s it. Good luck trying to change it.
‘But to answer your question; yes I do want to marry your daughter. Nothing would make me happier and I thank you for your blessing. It makes me happy to know that you will walk her down the aisle and I know that she will be happy too.’
The trees outside creaked as the wind whipped around them. In the distance the stream continued to flow and bubble and splash over the rocks. Up in the valley there were occasional bleats from the sheep still crazing on the sweet summer grasses and twice Simon heard the cry of a wolf. Time past slowly, the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway slicing through the thick silence like a steam train rolling across the joins in the track.
Eventually Mr Rowling said, ‘I will try, Simon. You have my word.’
‘Thank you, Mr Rowling.’
And then Mr Rowling offered Simon his hand and Simon shook it.
‘Please, Simon, call me Bob.’
And that was that Simon thought. A few more truths let out of the bag though they were both better for it. He hadn’t the answers he wanted concerning the body in the river and the way in which they treated Lewis but he also knew that he shouldn’t really concern himself about it. Let them carry on just as long as it didn’t affect him or Lucy; he couldn’t really care less now what they did. If Mr Rowling, Bob, could try and change and be a better man then Simon was sure he could do the same and accept that weird and twisted world of Rottenhouse a little bit more openly no matter how much it grappled with his own set of morals.
They leak. They bleed. They don’t stop once they started.
But he still wanted to know about Billie.
He still wanted to know who she was, who had killed her for he was sure that she was real and sadly, dead, though he suspected he knew the answer to at least one of those questions.
12
‘What are the other two pictures of?’
‘To be honest, Simon, I don’t know why I brought them in with me. Before you go back south I shall show you, these and some other bits in study which I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
Simon had to stifle a laugh as he remembered the Hitler bust as well as the maddening face of Thrumpers cook book, but then his expression changed and he felt his face redden. They Leak, They Bleed, They don’t stop once they started. He was sure he would never forget those words for the rest of his days.
‘Do you fish, Simon?’
‘Nope… Well, I once went sea fishing on the back of my mate’s boat in the Solent down south around Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. We got a little sauced up on cheap beer and the fishing kind of got forgotten. Think I caught a crab and a milk bottle.’
‘So no then?’
‘No.’
‘So you have been fishing.’
‘Wait, no, no I haven’t been fishing.’
Bob scratched his head, ‘I’m confused.’
‘Me too. Let’s start over.’
‘Simon, have you ever river fished?’
‘No, Bob, I haven’t.’
‘Tomorrow I shall take you over to the Deep and Quick and we shall have a little fish. All day mind you, from dawn till dusk.’
Simon accepted.
Bob stood, slid the chair under the table and as he walked around the table whilst saying his goodnight he placed a hand upon Simons shoulder. ‘Good talk, Simon. We shall speak more tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, it was. Look forward to tomorrow.’ Simon said and surprisingly; he wasn’t lying.
Pink Meat (The Fishing Scene)
1
Simon didn’t dream that night. He slept the kind of sleep he believed soldiers did when they came back from war. Lucy had been asleep when he had finally gone to bed. He did consider waking her to see if she was okay, but just as he was about to give her a shake he thought better of it. Why wake a sleeping bear even if that bear might give you a comforting hug and words of encouragement? No, best to leave her to sleep, to dream, as the chances of that bear tearing your face off were way too high.
Instead he had slept right through from when his head hit the pillow till there was a little knock that came from behind the bedroom door. As he walked over to the door in just his pants he glanced at his watch, 05:58, the digital numbers stated in that bold yeah and what ya gonna do about it way. Yawning deep and rubbing the yellowing dust the fairies leave whilst you sleep from his eyes Simon slowly opened the door.
Bob was stood on the other side; fully dressed in his fishing garb, plastic waders included, and a look of sinful pleasure was upon his face.
‘Good morning,’ Bob said, ‘you’ve got 15 minutes until we leave. Dress for the weather but take a jumper just in case.’
‘Okay.’ And with that Bob headed off along the hallway and down the creaky stairs walking like a robot.
2
16 minutes later, Simon was sat in the back seat of Bob’s car; his breath fogging the windows as he waited for the old man to finish placing his fishing gear into the boot. Simon had offered to help, which of course, was turned down, and so he sat waiting for his father-in-law like a good boy should. Simon wasn’t the best judge of character but was now starting to understand Bob, though he knew that his understanding was much like the understanding the very best scientist have of our universe in so much as we know a little, enough to get us by but every now and then the universe throws us a curveball that makes us sit up and take notice.
3
They drove for about 30 minutes in silence. Outside the world whizzed by one field at a time. Rottenhouse stood in a part of England that was renowned for its natural beauty but the drive to wherever it was they were going lost some of that charm as all Simon saw was farm land and fencing. An occasional cow here and there and a random flock of sheep grazed on the land but apart from that it was just endless bland countryside. That was until they reached their destination. The car was parked in a small clearing which was at the end of a muddy track cut deep into the forest. The trees draped low, swooping arches and clumps of bush and flowers dotted the path. It reminded Simon of the entrance to the Batcave from one of the movies made in the 90’s. Simon and Bob carried the fishing gear down to the river in single file, Bob leading the way. Crickets played their crooked banjo tunes whilst birds sang along aimlessly, seemingly not knowing the words. Midges and fat honey bees flew around on their own mini adventures and Simon, both hands full, blew at them if they came close. The trees here were as tall as any tree Simon had ever seen, their branches reaching out far and wide and there green leaves casting deep shadows upon the forest floor. In between the shadows were sharp swords of light slicing through the gloom and at their tips random clumps of flowers grew. Some Simon recognised, others he didn’t, and he made sure not to tread on any one of them. There was a heavenly feel to this place. The air
was soft and easy to breathe and it filled him with energy.
Ten minutes later, with Simons shoulders starting to burn such was the burden he carried, the familiar sound of flowing water began to overpower the tweeting birds and the crushing of forest detritus under his boots. The midges and honey bees thinned and were replaced with long, thin dragon flies. Simon wouldn’t have been surprised if a little fat white rabbit wearing a top hat and carrying a timepiece was to have run past him, a flummoxed Alice in hot pursuit, such was the majesty and oddity of this place.
Simon, not really paying attention to the road ahead, came face to face with a tree blocking his path, his nose inches away from being smashed to bits. For a moment he thought that Mr Rowling had simply walked into it, through it, perhaps. But then his mind settled. Two wooden signs, with arrows pointing left and right was nailed to that tree and two paths followed those arrows. The path to the left was labelled; The Quick and Deep, the one to the right was labelled; Old Brew House, but Brew had had a line scratched through it and over the top had been written in a rough hand, Rotten.
Simon looked to his left and saw Bob walking through the rays of sunshine, his fishing rod and net laid across his shoulder and his fishing box swinging gracefully in his right hand. Before he followed, Simon looked down the right hand path. The forest wasn’t as pretty down there and a cold wind whipped about his feet like dancing pixies. It was darker, though the sun shone through in the same sword like beams of light, it was darker. The trees overhung the track and their branches reached out as if to snag you and pull you into their twisted grip. Nothing was visually different down there; it felt different and because it felt different Simon knew that it was different. On one of the trees there was a faded marking, what was once red was now a brownish colour. Simon was unsure, but to him the marking looked like an X.
A strange feeling came over him then. A childlike yearning to know what was down there even though every fibre in his body told him to do otherwise. There was something else too, not Deja vu, it wasn’t that clear, but it wasn’t too far short of that. Simon could see himself, a shadowy version of himself, perhaps bathed in moonlight, walking, no running, down that path. He looked agitated, on edge, and he was carrying an axe. A big rusty axe. His own head moved from left to right as he ran down that path, Simon was looking for something – someone…
‘Hurry up, lad, day’s wasting!’
The feeling evaporated and Simon was back in the heat and the beauty of the forest.
‘Coming.’ Simon replied as he turned to his left and followed the old fisherman; he too with his rod and net over his left shoulder and his fishing box in his right swinging like a pendulum. Looking back over his shoulder Simon asked, ‘What’s down there?’
‘Down where?’
‘That other path.’
‘What other path?’
‘Christ,’ Simon said under his breath and shook his head though it hurt his shoulder to do so, ‘The one on the right, just back there. Sign says Old Brew House.’
‘No it doesn’t. Sign says Old Rotten House, and that’s what yafind down there, hidden in trees like a skulking child. Best not go down there, dangerous ground, soft underfoot and full of pot holes that go all the way down to the big red guy, if ya know what I mean.’
‘Why’s the name changed and what’s with the red X on the tree?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Now come and take a look at this and tell me you have anything as beautiful down south as what we have up here.’
Simon stood next to Bob. Their combined sweat left a bitter aftertaste in his throat. The path faded as the green grass of the river bank took over. The river flowed from right to left, following the contours of the ground. Where it crossed in front of Simon and Bob was the place they called The Quick and Deep. The river swelled here and became circular in shape, like a giant bowl dug out of the earth and filled with a clear liquid. On the other side the ground rose up abruptly and trees dotted the peak like sentinels on some ancient rampart. The water was flat, even the soft breeze didn’t ripple its surface. About five meters out from Simon and bobbling on the surface was a red buoy, its tip slightly faded from exposure. To his right, where the water flowed from, the water came in quick but slowed the moment it touched the small lake, seemed almost to go under itself only to bubble and foam at the far left of the lake where it exited and continued on its journey.
‘Never used to be here. There are mines under this village and in the valley. Old mines. One of em collapsed after days of heavy rain, killed a few folk that were making good to rotten timbers. Before that the water used to run through here at a rate, I can tellya, not like yer rapids you’d find in Grand Canyon or some such place but enough to pucker up the old arsehole. No fishing here either. We used to call it The Quick for obvious reasons. Once the mine collapsed and the water filled up we added the Deep part. Don’t go past that red buoy over there or you’ll find out how deep the river really is.’
Simon pointed to where the water entered the lake and disappeared on itself. ‘Why does the water do that, like its folding in on itself?’
Bob didn’t look. He didn’t need to. ‘Weird, intit? There’s a big old bit a rock on river bed and when mine collapsed it made a hole just before rock. Now most of the water flows under that rock, into hole, and down into the mine shafts that were exposed when it collapsed. It pops back up on other side, as clear as baby tears.’
Surrounding the lake were many fat bushes covered in tiny red berries. Red berries that only birds could eat. The path that Simon stood on followed the lake all the way around and looked well worn. A dog’s bark in the distance confirmed what Simon had been thinking. Dragonflies and other water loving bugs flew lazily in the summer heat. Occasionally there were splashes and ripples from the water’s surface as either a fish came up for breakfast or a bug landed for rest. Bob was right; this was nothing like Simon had ever seen. A hidden wonder and as if to put the proverbial cherry on the cake a kingfisher darted from an overhanging branch into the crystal clear water and within a heartbeat it was back out again, its electric blue and orange feathers glistening in the summer sun and a fat silver fish hanging from its lance like beak.
‘My God.’ Simon said not really knowing what to say. ‘This place is amazing. Like a dream only better.’
‘Aye, son.’ Bob said sighing, ‘A hidden paradise made better by the wriggly little blighters that swim beneath it. Now close yadumb founded mouth, you look like a fish caught on a hook and put the gear down over there.’
3
They placed their fishing gear on the bank. Simon put on the rubber waders that Bob had lent him. They were a tight fit, tighter than he would have liked and his balls scrunched up into his belly and the straps dug into his shoulders. He was hot before he put them on and was getting even hotter now that the wind had dropped and the shade had been taken away. Bob, on the other hand, looked relatively at ease and not a bead of sweat ran down his brow. On top of a couple of wooden pallets that were now fashioned into a makeshift table, Bob opened up the two orange and white fishing boxes and scanned the water. He sniffed the air like a dog searching for its treat and then poked out his tongue; tasting the air. Bob smiled.
‘Looking like a good day, Simon.’
And Bob walked over to the still waters and poked it with his chubby thumb. ‘Waters good. Fish are gonna bite today.’
For the next 30 minutes, with the sun beating down on their heads and the dragonflies swooping and the water flowing, Bob showed Simon the best way to tie this and knot that and twirl this and tweak that. He showed him how to set his tracer, how to weight it perfectly and what best hook (pronounced it oook not hook) to use. Bob droned on with the bait they were using; a mixture of fish guts, meal worm and some other fishy substance that had a name he didn’t catch and that a good fisherman watches the water, not the line, always the water, Simon, Bob had said, Not line. Not until fish bites and pulls you off, and Simon had laughed. Bob questioned him and Simon thought
he would tell him. And why not? They were friends now. At least that’s what Simon thought. But when he saw Bob’s curious look he didn’t bother and waved it off. Once both rods were prepped and ready to go, Simon holding his like the first time a boy holds his cock; not really knowing what to do with it but knowing that if used right it will bring a wry smile to your face, Bob wiped his forehead with his bright white hanky and said, ‘You got all that. You ready?’
Simon looked to the river, then to the rod and then to the man in front of him. ‘Ready? Yes. Got all that? In all honesty Bob, I didn’t have a clue what you were talking about. Not a sodding clue.’
4
The two men waded out into the river. The water felt cool through his waders. The air was cooler out here as well. It was quiet too, except for the splashes they made and the sound of the soft wind whistling through the tall tree tops. The two men were surrounded by a graceful silence.
‘Remember what I said, Simon? Slow and steady, like whipping a rope. Don’t be too hard, soft: supple hands. And don’t go yanking that rod till the little fish bites or it’s time to move on.’
‘Alright.’ Simon said, the water now up to his knees and not wanting to go any further as that buoy loomed closer with every step taken he stopped.
‘Watch me, then you.’ And Bob slowly raised the rod so that it was horizontal with the lake and then with a smooth motion flicked the rod so that the line cast out some 15 meters into the depths of the lake. It made a satisfying plop into the water.
Simon steadied himself, dug the wellies into the stones and weeds beneath his feet and did the same as Bob. Though not as graceful, a little bit quicker and jerkier, Simon managed to cast off, his own line a meter or so away from Bobs.
