Rottenhouse

by Ian Dyer

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘They probably would, given half a chance.’

  And the two men shared their first laugh together.

  When their laughter ended, Bob snorting and Simon sighing, they both looked at their lines.

  ‘Try over in that shaded bit, Simon, under that willow tree. This time a day the fish like a bitashade.’

  Simon did as he was instructed.

  Plop went the hook, the bait and the weight. Yes, Simon could get used to this. Where was his nearest lake or stream? He scanned his mind of the area he lived in and was sure that the River Wey wasn’t too far from him and he had seen men fishing there from time to time. From memory, and from a conversation he had had with someone, he believed he needed a license to fish, but surely that had to be easy to come by. Probably just a matter of handing over some money and some ID and ticking the right boxes about catch and release or whatever it is they call it. He was sure Lucy wouldn’t mind. After all, he didn’t have any other weekend obsessions, only his photography, which she was pleased to be a part of as that usually meant going out for walks and weekends away. This could be his one manly vice. She could have a womanly vice, maybe swimming, keep fit, Zumba or some such shit like that with her girly mates, and Simon could have his fishing.

  Simon glanced over at the man he was now allowed to call Bob and saw himself in a decade or two. Stood in some river or some lake, knowing what the hell was going on and understanding the subtle intricacies that fishing has. He could try and master it, like he had tried to master photography. Perhaps, if all went well, he would have a son or daughter to pass down his fishing knowledge too. Perhaps Bob, Grandfather Rowling, would teach the grandkids how to fish, though he would have to watch the language and the stories and the way he always seemed to say the wrong thing.

  A little plop brought him round and he looked over to where the sound came from but there were only ripples left. Ripples that weren’t far from where his line vanished just ahead of the reeds under the shade of the willow tree.

  He and Lucy had once made love under a willow tree. He thought about maybe bringing Lucy here, showing her the willow tree and then making love under that one so as to add to their sordid collection. But then he remembered what lay beyond the valley wall behind the trees that stand atop it like sentinels. The Rotten House. The house of pig fuckers and daughter molesters and dog killers and Christ knows what else.

  Simon unconsciously hummed the theme from Deliverance but somehow it made the thought of him making love to Lucy under that picturesque willow tree seem so carnal it bordered on criminal. That he was the one molesting a poor defenceless animal whilst those cracked toothed morons watched, fiddling with their own pricks and fannies.

  The day went on and the minutes ticked by and with each passing minute both men became accustomed to one and other. They were bonding and Simon, even though he couldn’t forget about the beatings and the killings and the dreams and the way Mr Rowling thought that Lucy was fat and ugly, was starting to understand, starting to like this odd ball and hoped that their friendship could continue to grow. After all, he was just going with the flow like he always did.

  10

  We are all guilty of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. To say the right thing at the right time seemed nigh on impossible to Simon, as one usually thought of what would have been the right thing to say about two hours after the right time had passed. But even he, a genius of the wrong words at the wrong time (once he asked an elderly woman of 86 if she had had a nice day at her own sister’s funeral) couldn’t top the master that was Mr Bob Rowling.

  ‘You ever thought about having sex with an animal, Simon?’

  Water splashed up at his face and he turned his head abruptly. Then realising why water was going everywhere he quickly bent down, the water pouring into his waders, to rescue the rod that he had dropped.

  ‘Eh…..Sorry…hang on…did you just say what I thought you said?’ Simon said as he scrambled for the rod.

  ‘Careful, lad. Quick, get rod outta water…. That’s it.’

  Simon had retrieved the rod though he didn’t think about the state of the line, the bait or the God damned oook.

  ‘Did you just ask me if I ever thought about having sex with a pig?’ Simon let out an anxious snort of a laugh and his eyes looked all around because he didn’t really know where to look and he hated looking at Mr Rowling because he didn’t even seem perplexed by the outrageousness of it all.

  ‘Well I said animals, but aye, Simon. Have you ever thought about it?’ Bob leaned in even though the two men were separated by a good five meters. ‘You know, really thought about it. The angles, the struggle, the mess and the noise. How does it work for crying out loud?’

  ‘Thought about it? Crap on a stick, Bob, you got to be screwing with me. Thought about it. Why the hell would I think about fucking a pig or anything else apart from a girl? And not a girl pig or a girl goat before you go there coz I can see it in your eyes, Bob, I can see you were gonna come back with that werenchya?’

  ‘Natural int it? For a man to think such things. I aint saying that I want to have my way with a farm animal, Simon, I’m only asking if you’ve ever thought about how you would go about it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now take my Margaret for instance. I toldya how she were crazed for it, how I resisted her dirty ways no matter what she said or did or wore or put up there. But there were times Simon, oh my there were times when I couldn’t resist. She beat me down till all I had was just all instinct and lust and I had to have her. You know what I mean, Simon. You understand when I say you have to do what men were made for?’

  ‘Not one fucking clue, Bob.’

  As he went on an on Bob never took his eyes off of Simon and his face turned red and sweaty and there was a satisfied grimace on his face as he spoke.

  ‘Now you have yer usual position, Simon, missionary it’s called and I have to say I prefer that as it’s almost the way God intended us to have coitus with the loved one. Fer the most part that’s how I did the night time duty. But when she beat me down and that darker urge came over me, I’d turn her around and bend her over,’ Bob carried out this act using his free right hand to imitate him turning an imaginary woman around and then with his hand outstretched, his palm facing away from him he continued, ‘I would then ease her over so that her fat arse were pushed right out and her chest were right up hard against the kitchen worktop.’ Bob slowly eased his hand forward so that the imaginary woman would have been bent over like he described. At the same time Bob pushed his groin forward a little as if he were about to enter this imaginary woman he had bent over the kitchen sodding worktop. ‘Now, at first, when I had Margaret like that, I would grab her hair and twist it round my hand and wrist like this,’ Bob took hold and twisted the imaginary woman’s hair and with an odd, slow circular motion of his wrist, he coiled that hair around his hand and Simon wasn’t surprised to see him pull back on it like he would have done to his wife. ‘Now, I would yank that hair back and I would go at her from behind till I were done,’ Bob thrust himself forward and back a few times, each thrust more disturbing than the last until he was done. He uncoiled the hair and took in a deep breath. Simon took in a deep breath too, held it as if the two men had just shared that climax between themselves and then sighed with a great heave of relief.

  But that relief was premature.

  ‘She got used to that though, Simon. She cut her hair short so I couldn’t grab hold of it. Canny woman she was.’ Bob shook his head and Simon was sure he could see a wry smile appear. Bob then placed his right hand on the imaginary woman’s buttocks, stroked them for what it was worth and then raised his hand and spanked the air that was acting as the imaginary woman and that was in fact an imaginary version of his dead wife and the mother of Simons future wife. ‘She started asking for a spanking, Simon. Saying she’d been a naughty girl and needed to be taught a lesson by her Chairman. So I did just that. I spanked her fat arse
, Simon, until it were red raw and almost bleeding. Bright red, pink meat. Like a freshly carved bit a Bream.’ Once again Bob raised his hand and lowered it imitating the spanking that he gave his dead wife. Bob kept on thrusting his groin forward and back forward and back which was starting to make Simon feel sick. Not uncomfortable, that feeling had long since passed. Maybe if Bob got his cock out that would be uncomfortable, Simon quickly dispelled that thought for fear of it coming true.

  As fun as it was for Simon to be watching this, he wished he could have poked his eyes out as Bob kept on thrusting his plastic wader covered groin back and forward, he thought what kind of a weird couple they must have been and then wondered if Lucy knew and then wondered if he should tell her and if he were to tell how the hell would he go about it and how she would react? He had to put an end to it.

  ‘As interesting as all that is, Bob, what the fuck has that got to do with them rednecks up there banging animals?’

  Bob stopped his thrusting and took his free hand away from the imaginary woman. He stood up straight and adjusted the grip on his fishing rod. His little fat cheeks were flushed with the effort and he looked a bit flustered. Perhaps, Simon thought, all those memories of having sex with his old lady were coming back and he was beginning to have a bit of a moment. A soggy moment.

  ‘From behind, Simon, that’s what I’m getting at. You’d have to haveem from behind where you’re in control. Might need a bita-rope I spose.’

  ‘Bit a rope! Fuck me, Bob, you are one odd fella. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but come on. Really? Now I’m an open minded guy, but you are off the friggin map. I have never thought about how you go about screwing a pig or a goat or a rabbit. You say from behind and with rope and it seems to me you have thought about it more than I have so I take your word on the matter and let’s close it. Please. Let’s close it and move on. Watching you thrust about like that has put me off my lunch.’

  Bob pouted and seemed to be on the verge of a tantrum and Simon partly regretted what he had said as on reflection he thought that maybe he was saying that Bob had actually made love to an animal. But like a child’s face lights up when its mother or father gives in and lets the little spoiled bastard have that sweetie treat or that expensive toy, Bobs face lit up like Time Square on New Year’s Eve.

  ‘Speaking of lunch, Simon, guess what we got.’

  Simon slapped his knuckles against his forehead. ‘If you say pork I’m going to scream, and maybe throw up.’

  Bob chuckled and Simon opened his eyes and didn’t like what he could see.

  ‘It’s pork.’

  Simon screamed and stamped his feet so that water splashed all over the place scaring away any fish that had come their way looking for a tasty bite to eat and he wasn’t sick as promised but he was soaking wet and Bob was looking at him and smiling.

  The two men sat on the soft green verge and ate their lunch in silence which Simon didn’t mind one little bit.

  11

  Looking at his watch Simon saw that it was just after 1 in the afternoon. He had eaten his lunch, plus drained two bottles of water. Now that the midday sun was beating down upon him his eyes watered and they became heavy. Much too heavy. Looking bleary eyed over to Bob, Simon wasn’t surprised to see that the old man had fallen asleep and was softly snoring.

  As Simon fell asleep he wondered to himself why Bob thought that his wife and daughter were ugly. He wondered why Bob, a man he thought was straight laced, had spoken in such away about how he went about seeing too his wife when the night before he had explained in great detail how appalled he was when his wife got the urge upon her. He also pondered the old Brew House over there, behind the trees and hidden in the deep of the forest and what it meant in his life for he knew that at some point over the coming few days he was going to find himself there.

  Simon fell asleep…

  12

  …and he started to dream.

  Simon stood at the lakes edge, the water lapping against his bare feet. The water was cold, the air was cold and the sky was grey, not with clouds, the sky had been bleached of all colours and was now a shade of nothing.

  It wasn’t summer anymore.

  Everything was a monochrome miasma.

  The lake stood there like a sheet of glass. Smooth and flat. Perfect reflections of the sky, the trees, even himself were upon it.

  Across from the lake, beyond the bright red buoy that marked the spot where the lakes water turned black and went down all the way to hell, the ground rose up as a sheer sheet of rock. There were dark holes bored into this rock face. Holes that led somewhere that Simon didn’t want to go to. Atop it, there were trees that now looked like ancient men; their branches contorted in such a way to look like arms and legs. In the branches that were shaped into hands the tree sentinels held what looked like axes. Falling leaves from those shapes looked like blood dripping from sharp blades.

  A breeze wrapped about him sending chills across his naked body.

  ‘It’s not summer anymore.’ Lucy told him. But she wasn’t there.

  ‘I know,’ Simon said, ‘It’s cold and I’m naked. Where are my clothes? I’d like my clothes back please, or the Chairman might see my willy.’

  Simon blinked and it seemed to take longer for his eyelids to open, close and open.

  ‘The pigs have them. Over there.’ Lucy said. But she still wasn’t with him, here.

  Simon looked to his right. He blinked, close and open, and the lake was gone and he was no longer in the pretty place anymore.

  ‘I’m not in Oz anymore, Auntie Em.’

  The world was still many shades of grey. Simon was stood outside a great house, a house that looked a bit like a church. It had many windows which were like square lifeless eyes. Its front door, a bright white against the draining grey of the rest of the world, was open like a gaping mouth. The house was made of wood and was in a bad way. The house looked sick and groaned with pain. Or was it pleasure?

  ‘It is sick. Been sick for a long time. I bet fire can cure it.’ Simon said.

  Simon looked lazily to his right. There was a sign hammered into the ground next to him and it stood about waist high. It was pointing to the house over there. But the sign wasn’t made of wood; it was made out of meat. Human meat. The post was a leg which had been cut off halfway down the thigh. It was held straight by a metal bar screwed into it much like you would see on someone who had a severely broken leg and it was now being held in place by rods and bars and bolts. The signboard was a huge flap of fatty browned skin, in its middle there was a hairy belly button and this was all held to the leg-post by bits of bone and metal and twisted wire. On the belly-sign the words Rotten House were burnt into the pink meat, seared like a piece of prime pork belly. Attached to the belly-sign was a woman’s hand; Simon knew this because the nails were painted a bright red, like the buoy in the lake. Its first finger was pointed toward the great house that stood on a mound surrounded by nothing but grey sky and swirling clouds.

  ‘That’s a pretty neat sign. Why do the pigs have my clothes?’ Simon asked turning his attention back to the house on the hill.

  ‘So they look pretty on their date.’ Lucy said.

  ‘Date with who?’

  ‘With them. Those guys over there by the pens. They want to meet you. You should go to them one day.’

  The meat sign twitched, as if it were coming to life. And it did come to life. Well the woman’s hand did that was strapped to it like a wretched montage of filth. The fingers wiggled and then pointed over, left of the house. The writing on the meat sign changed. It now read, O’Hagan, and blood dripped from the bottom of the g.

  Simon looked over, following the finger with his eyes. Next to the house were five pig pens and outside of those pig pens were many pigs snorting around the dirt and the scraps that lay at their trotters covered in mud and muck. Next to the pig pens, leant on the corrugated metal that housed the little piggies were three big men. They wore big boots and dungarees that looke
d ten sizes too big. The men wore matching flannel shirts and all three wore similar baseball caps; their peaks curved at each end. None of the men had faces. It was black where their heads should have been. But there was shape to those cloud faces, there was form. Simon knew they weren’t looking at him, they weren’t looking at the pigs.

  Pigs that were wearing his clothes.

  ‘They are ready for their dates. But I need my clothes back.’ Simon said lazily.

  A crack of thunder that could have been a gunshot ripped above him and Simon looked up to the sky. Rain that was thick and heavy dripped onto his face and splatted to the ground. It fell with no sound and it landed with no sound. The earth beneath his feet sucked up the fat rain like a thirsty dog lapping up a bowl of water.

  The rain wasn’t cool and it wasn’t cold like the air. It was warm. Warm like…

  ‘Like blood.’ Simon said and as he spoke some of it went into his mouth and it tasted metallic, like licking a battery.

  ‘It is blood.’ Someone said. A girl he thought he knew but was unsure.

  He closed his eyes. He knew it wasn’t rain falling on his naked body and dripping into his mouth.

  Another crack of thunder boomed overhead and the pigs squealed behind his closed eyes and Simon didn’t want to open them. He kind of hoped that he could go somewhere else now. Back to the pretty place but this time he would like it to be green and blue and red and yellow and for there to be bees and bugs and birds and fish and rods and nets and bait and ripples and Bob. Good old Bob.

  But then the squeals stopped.

  The rain that Simon knew wasn’t rain but was something else kept on falling and Simon was drenched.

  He wished with all his might to go back to the colourful pretty place.

  With his eyes shut tight it now felt as if he were on his back. Laying down on a cold metal something that was taking his weight.