Rottenhouse (7 page)

Mr Rowling’s glass bounced hard off of
the pump and some of it spilled to the floor. How the glass didn’t
shatter was a miracle unto God himself and both the barman’s and Mr
Rowling’s eyes were upon him, wide, like a deer’s caught in the
headlights of an oncoming car that was just about to send it into
the next life. Their faces were a mix of utter bewilderment and
utter disgust. It was as if Simons head had just exploded and what
was left in the gaping hole of his face was a tiny alien man sat in
a control room of blinking lights and handles. The bar however
hadn’t fallen silent, not like in the movies, and there was still a
throng of chatter and clunking pint glasses in the world of the
Working Man’s Club, but here, at the counter, the air became thick
with their own silence and tension.

‘
What do you mean,
Simon, Proni? We don’t have none of that foreign muck here. Just
proper stuff, man’s stuff, if yaknow what I mean.’

‘
Err…’ Simon stumbled,
regretting the choice immediately.

‘
Well? What do you
want, Simon?’

The barman finished pouring Mr
Rowling’s pint and placed the heavy glass onto the counter top. Its
froth poured down the side and soaked into the overly clean bar
towel. For a couple of seconds, though they felt like hours to
Simon, he stared at the green sign that told him he could buy
tickets for the upcoming meat raffle. Mr Rowling was waiting
patiently for Simon to answer.

‘
Perhaps a Heineken,
Simon. That might suit ya better.

‘
Best ya get that for
him, barkeep, before the bell is rung, if ya know what I mean.’ Mr
Rowling said, a glint in his eye, which Simon had never seen before
and he was doubly shocked when the old man turned to the barman,
winked and they both shared a joke; laughing under their breaths
and Simon guessed (he had a University education you know) that the
joke was on him, well and truly on him.

‘
Alright, Heineken it
is then.’ And the barman wore the grin of a man who knew something
you didn’t; like your wife was sleeping around with the stable boy,
that your business was about to go belly up or that you had just
ordered the wrong drink.

Simon merely nodded, a glum grin upon
his face. This situation reminded him of being a boy in the sweet
shop that had been on the corner of his road where he grew up. He
had so many containers of sweets to choose from – Cola Cubes, Army
and Navy, Bon Bon’s of all flavours, Rhubarb and Custard, American
Hard Gums, Sherbet Millions, Midget Gems and Wine Gums and the list
could go on and on - some days he had stood there, like he was
stood in front of the drinks on offer here, and not had a clue what
to order for the fear of missing out on something good – something
sweeter but only now, the choice wasn’t for something sweeter; I
mean how sweet can a pint of Flogged Daughter be? No, this choice
was like choosing what poison you wanted to end your life with and
to top it off, you were being judged on that choice. Judged by one
of the harshest, strangest critics Simon had ever met and sadly, by
the looks of things, Simon had gotten it wrong.

7

The barman grabbed a can of Heineken
from the fridge, pulled the tab so that it opened with a fizzy
click and put it on the counter. Mr Rowling didn’t sneer at the
beer but Simon could see he was put off by it; like it was garlic
held out to a vampire.

‘
Glass?’ The barman
asked.

‘
Yes,
thanks.’

The barman reached up and grabbed a
glass – his belly sticking out for all the world to see – and
placed it next to the can of beer.

Simon looked at the
glass and then to the barman who returned his gaze with a blank
stare;
and what can I do for you, you
stupid southern prick
? Simon looked back
down to the glass and then over to Mr Rowling who returned the gaze
with a similar blank look, but those eyebrows of his were
raised;
that’s right, Simon,
those raised eyebrows said,
that’s right, that’s the right glass for you, ya soft
southern pussy.

‘
Problem,
Simon?’

Go with the flow Simon. Go with the
F.L.O.W. probably just a village joke. That’s right, that’s all
this is. A joke that they play on all the blokes that come in here
that haven’t got a clue what the hell they are doing. Just go with
it. It’s okay that they think you are a total arse and that you
haven’t got a manly bone in your entire body. That’s okay, it’s for
FUN. All in the name of FUN.

Simon knew this was no
joke and so Simon picked up the can and poured all of it into the
glass. ‘No problem, Mr Rowling. Just never been served a beer with
a
wine
glass,
that’s all.’

Mr Rowling inhaled
through his teeth like a plumber just about to give you some rather
bad news. ‘Well, what can I tell ya, Simon? Drink like that there
is only for the ladies on a Sunday night. None of the
men
drink it. Tastes
like
shiiiite,
if
yaknow what I mean?’

‘
But it’s in a wine
glass.’

‘
Aye, Simon, that is a
wine glass your right there, lad. Ladies like a wine glass. Now
yacant get a pint of this stuff in a wine glass.’ Mr Rowling
pointed to his own drink and took a large gulp; a bit of the froth
stuck to his top lip and he licked it off greedily. Simon looked to
his own sorry state of affairs and realised that the beer from the
can hadn’t even filled the wine glass up. There was less than half
a pint in that small little dumpy can and he tipped it fully over
to make sure he had extracted every drop from its metal
core.

‘
A pint of this won’t
fit in that glass, Simon, because that there glaaaass isn’t made to
fit a pint.’

No shit Sherlock.

‘
But you can still
drink your ale from this glass. It just wouldn’t be a pint. I mean,
yeah, you’d have to have about four or five of these to get a pint,
but you could still do it.’

‘
Why would I do that?
Why would I put proper stuff in a ladies glass, Simon? I don’t
think you understand. I thought you went to university?’

‘
Well, yeah, I did,
but what I’m saying is that I know a pint is a pint, but this wine
glass isn’t meant for beer, it’s meant to have wine in
it.’

‘
No, Simon. No. That
kind of thinking might be alright down south, where you have all
that fancy beer and sparkly wine, but up here lad, where the ground
is hard and the days are long we have ale in pints and lady drinks
in ladies glasses.’

This could go on all night and Simon
could see no victory here. Even if there was a victory it would
have to be a hard fought fight, plus he didn’t really know what he
was fighting for anymore. ‘I guess you’re right, Mr Rowling.’

The old man smiled a
smile that said;
yes, that’s right, little
man, I am right and I am always right. I’m never wrong even when I
am wrong. I am so single minded, little man, that I can see no
other points, no other aspects to anything that I say or do because
I don’t need to. I don’t need to. What I say goes around here,
everyone knows it and its time you learned it too, YA KNOW WHAT I
MEAN?

‘
Let’s go sit down,
Simon. They are keen to meet a southerner like yerself. But none of
that Proni talk, Simon, not with mamates, if yaknow what I mean,
and make sure to order a proper drink next time, not a ladies
drink, Simon.’ And then those eyebrows dipped, ‘But not Flogged
Daughter, for Christ sake don’t order that.’

‘
Will do, Mr Rowling.
But what’s wrong with having a Flogged Daughter?’ Even saying it
made Simon feel sick.

‘
Nowt wrong weeit,
Simon. But it aint for us to drink. It’s for the Chairman. Only the
Chairman drinks the Daughter, know what I mean.’

And then Simon remembered his dream. He
remembered the blood coming from the garage; he could see it as
clear as he could see old Mr Rowling drink his pint and the glint
in his eye as he did it. The image of that oil blood pouring from
under the garage door and the attendant – Bobbie that was called
Lewis wearing clothes that were far too small for him – stood in
front of Simon made him remember, forced him to remember what he
had heard, and it sent cold shivers running down his spine:

They leak.

They bleed.

They don’t stop once they started.

Strung Him Up From the
Sky

1

Two hours went by in that vague fugue
of being new to a group of people that know each other like
brothers – blood brothers. You are sat there, lost in conversations
you know very little of and barely understand. They speak the same
language as you but their words seem foreign. Those words float
towards you and you struggle to gather them up whilst the
conversation continues on and on and the more you struggle the more
you loose of it and the tighter the rope gets around your neck
until, eventually, it all breaks down and you are swept away; lost
in an oceanic maze of words and confusion.

Mr Rowling’s
friends,
associates, Simon,
associates
, that’s what Mr Rowling called
them of which there were many, came to visit the southerner that
had entered their village. It was as if Simon were in fact some
travelling alien that had crash landed on this planet and he was a
marvel to behold. They all asked the same generic questions: Do ya
come from London? How do you put up with the noise? How can you
drink that filth? Is it always too hot down there? What do grow?
How can dogs run? And he answered them with respect but as he did
something about the way they looked troubled him. Now, Simon would
freely admit (as these country folk waddled to and fro and talked
of farms, quarries, the weather, the burnt out house and the like)
that he was no catalogue model and that he was really lucky,
blessed if you will, to have such a beautiful girlfriend as Lucy,
but the men around here weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. The
average age in the club must have be around 40, the youngest just
out of his teens, whilst the oldest was some wizened old fella in
the corner who sucked on a wooden pipe and blew brown fetid smoke
into the air from the side of his twisted mouth. Each one of the
men he saw had some sort of affliction, be it a large nose, or
massive ears or a wonky set of eyes, perhaps there was a wart on
the tip of a nose, or a limp from a knackered leg. You name it, one
of these blokes probably had it. Mr Rowling, however, looked like
an ancient King, sat upon his grand throne, overlooking his
misguided and rotten plebs. Mr Rowling was in fine shape, whilst
the rest of the men were broken, spoiled

Simon could see why Lucy had left this
place if this was all there was too offer. It was a harsh thing to
say, but hey, when the devil shits in your face you have shit on
your face. It’s simple.

Simon was patient with the questions
being thrown at him and answered them politely, simply as if
speaking with children (which he could tell was one of the key ways
to communicate with each other around here) and always with
respect, as Mr Rowling had asked. The old man seemed pleased and
after he had drank his wine glass of beer (that still grated Simon,
but hey, go with the flow and all that) he had gotten him a pint of
Grumpy Farmer. To Simons surprise the taste hadn’t been too bad:
like eating dirty carrots with a touch of sugar sprinkled on
top.

He was four pints into Grumpy Farmer
and was starting to feel better about the whole situation when he
started thinking about what had transpired earlier in the day. So
what if Lucy had once been called Barbara. It made sense, when you
thought about it. This place was like finding the lost cities of
gold hidden deep inside a forest that never gave up its secrets; it
was untouched by most of the modern world in which we all live and
for an outgoing girl like Lucy it must have felt like a prison. As
for Mr Rowling, well he was old, set in his ways. He had been alone
for some years with only the company of the valley and the odd
folks of Rottenhouse. He was strange, yes, outdated; definitely,
but would he hurt or try and stop him from marrying Lucy: probably
not. He was just one of those guys you had to get used to and try
to get on with. And Simon was good at that. Really good at that.
Maybe that’s why his friends always knew to go to him for money
when they needed, or a helping hand when they requested it. Or
maybe it was because they knew he was a push over, easy to
persuade; always seeing the good in people and not the
self-absorbed shits they could be. Maybe. Maybe not. Simon was
happy and Lucy was happy and that’s all that mattered to Simon in
the long run.

2

It was about ten o-clock when Simon
decided it was time to break the seal. He guessed where the toilets
were by the volume of men that went in and out of the room to the
left of the bar. He also decided that now would be a good time to
offer these fine folks a beer. The club was relatively busy, though
Simon had no real way to judge but there were a good 50 to 60
people in here. Sat around his particular table were 5 others whom
he believed were Mr Rowling’s closest friends, not associates, and
it was to them that he would offer a drink to.

But there was one other that he
believed he needed to buy a drink for. A chap sat on his own,
garbed in a dark blue shirt and brown trousers, in the far corner
of the club, where the lights were dim and where it appeared that
only men armed with a pint for the offering would dare go. They
would warily walk up to the man, the pint held out to him as if to
appease some all-seeing powerful God and then without a word, just
a tip of the cap (even if they weren’t wearing one) they would
leave their offering and walk away. There was never any eye
contact. The man in the shadows would continue to read his papers,
licking his lips occasionally before turning the pages. The beer
would be drank rhythmically, a couple of minutes between each gulp
until it was reaching empty and then another would be placed there
by another willing chap. If Simon judged this right then by the
time he had gone for a piss the shadow man’s pint would be nigh on
empty and he could be the one to offer up the next sacrifice. After
all, Simon likes to keep people sweet, he wants what’s best for him
and Lucy, and getting on Mr Rowling’s good side was his key
objective this fortnight.