Rottenhouse (33 page)

He looked up; saw Rowling stumbling
toward him still rubbing his head. Simon moved his eyes to the back
of his car and saw that something was written on the back window.
How he didn’t know; it wasn’t dirty, but it looked as if it had
been dirty and the words had been smudged into the grime. Simon
released his breath, held onto the words that wanted to flow forth
like a breaking dam and slowly moved to the back of the car.

Reading what had been painted on his
rear window in what looked like blood made him pull his fingers
through his hair tightly enough so that his eyebrow and eyelids
pulled up and he tightened his mouth into a toothy grimace. This
time, when he took in a large gulp of air, instead of holding it
and counting to 10 or thinking nice thoughts or going to his happy
place where frogs leapt from lily pad to lily pad he let it all out
with a great sigh.

‘
Have you seen what
those bastards have fucking done to my car. Fucking pricks! It’s
those lanky cocks up in that house, I know it, it has to be them.
Look at that on the window. LOOK AT IT!’ Simon pointed to it with a
shaking finger on the end of a shaking hand. ‘They’ve written
Southern Nonce in blood on my fucking car. They can’t even spell
Southern right neither. It aint got a V in it Bob, I can tell
yathatfornothing! What do they want with her? What are they going
to do with her?’

He took another breath, realised what
this meant, and leant against the boot of his car breathing in
short sharp bursts that stung his throat. The metal of the car was
hot but he didn’t care. He muttered, ‘How am I going to find her
now?’ and then cried.

3

Bob surveyed the car rubbing the back
of his head and wiping his bloody nose on to his clean
handkerchief. He seemed not to notice Simon’s outburst or the fact
that he was crying which both angered and appeased Simon because
his sobs were pathetic, but it still didn’t stop him from carrying
on. Still lent over his car Simon wiped his snotty nose with his
sleeve and did the same with his eyes. With his head hung in the
middle of his crossed arms and his nose touching the cars hot
bodywork he peered through a small gap and watched Bob. From behind
his little peephole Simon could tell that Bob was eager to say
something but was holding it back; which was very unlike him.

Sucking up the clear liquid that was
still trying to leak from his nose and without raising his head so
that his voice sounded as if he were in a cave, Simon said, ‘I need
to borrow your car.’

‘
Why?’

‘
You know why, Bob.
Your daughter has been abducted by those pig shaggers up there and
I have got to go and get her. I don’t want to think about what they
might be doing to her or why they have taken her I just want to get
in your car and drive up to that house and bring her back.’ Simon
lifted his head and his eyes were red and wet and a fresh trickle
of snot seeped from his nose. He sucked it back in and wiped his
face with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Please, Bob.
Please.’

Bob kicked the right front tyre and the
car wobbled slightly. Whatever had been used to slash the tyres
fell out and clanged on the driveway.

‘
Why do you want to
use my car?’

‘
Well isn’t it
obvious.’ Simon pointed to the tyre next to him, lent down and
pulled out the old fashioned razor blade that had been used to cut
the rubber and then held it out to Bob; the words etched into the
metal Wilkinson Original were brown and rusty. ‘My tyres are flat
and I have only got one spare, so I need your car.’

Bob shook his head.
‘It’s like I said, Simon, these foreign cars, you can never trust
em. Always something goes wrong weeem. It either engine exploding
or the gears sticking or the lectrics failing.’ He pointed to the
flat tyres on Simons car, ‘That too. Look at em, Simon, they got no
aiiiir
inem and they need aiiiir inem so
that they can hold up the car and it can move. It’s just another
reason why I won’t ever by foreign, Simon. It’s UK built or nothing
for me.’

‘
Are you telling me
that you think this is a mechanical issue, Bob?’ Simon asked as he
strutted toward Bob and stood next to him his hand on the roof of
his car. ‘Is that what you are telling me? Because if you are then
you are as mentally retarded as I always thought. For Christ sake,
Bob, can’t you see that the tyres have been slashed? Slashed by
these razors. That’s why the aiiiir has come out. It aint
mechanical Bob, this has been done to them. You do see that right?
Please tell me that you see that?’

‘
Mine are okay.’ Bob
muttered as he turned and looked at his own car glistening in the
orange glow of the dying light.

‘
Yours are okay……
yours…..yaknow what, Bob. Forget it. Slashed or not slashed,
mechanical or act of God, I don’t give a shit right now. You gonna
let me borrow your car or not?’

Bob considered this. Behind those dull
blank eyes Simon could see those cogs ticking and gears whirring
and knew even before he said it what the answer was going to be and
it struck Simon then, struck him like a bolt of lightning from the
clear blue sky that sent shivers down his spine and turned his skin
to gooseflesh, that this man stood in front of him, that had lost
his wife and just lost his daughter and that had beat and murdered
others and that had re-enacted his sexual exploits to anyone that
had the time to stop and watch, didn’t actually care what anyone
else thought and didn’t care about what they thought about him. He
was his own man, he had his own beliefs, and he wouldn’t budge from
them.

‘
I can’t let you go,
Simon.’

Simon swung for him. A mean right hook
from deep down inside of himself; a place he didn’t know even
existed, but at that very moment was glad that it did. He connected
well; four knuckles smacking hard against Bobs temple, which sent
the old man down to one knee and then flopping to one side so that
his head hit the car door, leaving a little dent, a smear of
grease, and then he was flat out on his back and Simons hand hurt
as he stood there looking at his reddening knuckles and a small
lump appeared on the side of Bob’s head that Simon had connected
with. Simon stood over him like a conquering hero. Should he feel
proud? Perhaps. But he didn’t. Simon didn’t feel anything just an
odd numbness that started at the tips of his toes and ran all the
way up to the tip of his snotty nose which was dripping so he wiped
with the sleeve of his jacket.

4

Simon ran into the house, fetched Bob’s
car keys from the small side table in the hallway and then ran
towards the vintage car looking down at the sleeping man lying
prone on the floor. Simon opened the car door and turned on the
engine. Driving away, the dying sunlight pouring through his
windscreen masking the road ahead with flashes of bright red and
yellow and orange and white, Simon looked in the rear view mirror
and wasn’t surprised to see Bob sat up, rubbing the side of his
face which was still sore from the wallop it had just received. And
as Simon pulled out of the driveway and steered the car down the
road he glanced to his right, shrugged his shoulders as if to imply
an apology and then drove away ignoring Bob’s shouts for him to
stop.

5

The old car had a stiff clutch and
mightily sticky brakes. It was a world away from the Electric Blue
Wonder he drove now. Going into third was a nightmare, fourth
almost impossible and now on the open road and away from the
village getting into fifth and staying there was such a relief that
he used the engine brake as a means to slow down leaving the brakes
and the gears well alone.

The old car lumbered from corner to
corner. Steering the beige beast was almost as hard as changing its
gears. It was like driving an oil tanker through a sea of jelly.
The world outside flew past in a blur, but he cared not for the
trees and the bushes and the farms and the beasts and the people
that he past. Simon didn’t know where he was, only that if he
stayed on this road long enough he would see the small dirt track
on the right hand side and down that track was a rough car park of
shingle and bark and in the car park, that now would be empty, the
path would lead to the Batcave and that path would go through the
forest until it reached the tree with the signpost nailed to it and
instead of turning left and going to The Quick and The Deep he
would turn right and go down to The Rotten House where the forest
looked dirtier, nastier and the people were twisted and evil and
kidnappers of women. One woman. The only woman

But first he had to save her. He
couldn’t remember if he told her that he loved her today and then
thought what a stupid thing that was to think. He could tell her
that when he got her out of that place; when he saved her.

He chuckled then. ‘How
do I do that? How the fuck am
I
going to do that?’

His hands weren’t
shaking but that was all a sham. His hands were gripped tight to
the steering wheel. As soon as they were off they would start to
shake and he wouldn’t be able to control them. Simon flashed past a
sign that indicated the speed limit here was 40 and looking down to
the speedo he saw that he was almost doubling that, but he didn’t
ease off the throttle, just kept it there; slightly hovering above
the floor. More fields and fences. A tractor all green and yellow
whizzed by on the right making the car heave and wobble like a toy.
In the distance and growing fainter by the second the tractors horn
blasted. Simon flicked his middle finger up and pushed it against
the driver’s window. Completely futile, the tractor was now but a
spec in the rear view mirror but Simon felt a little better for
doing it. Ahead, the road narrowed to single file. He didn’t have
the right of way but that didn’t stop him from looking ahead,
seeing the road was clear and flooring it. The needle on the speedo
drifted till it was just touching 90,
‘
88 miles per
hour!
’
and as the
car tickled 100 Simon went into the other lane and all four wheels
left the tarmac as it took off from the humpback bridge
‘
Yeee-haa
!’
and landed hard; all suspension squeaks and rubber tyre
screams. The car jolted but nothing to write home about and he
controlled the lumbering beast.

Breathing hard and wiping the sweat
from his forehead and the white clotted spittle from the sides of
his mouth he slowed the car, crunching the gears because up ahead
and getting close real quick was the turning that he needed to
take. The engine roared thanks to some poor gear changes on Simon’s
behalf and driving into the car park he slammed on the brakes
skidding hard and stalling the engine sending pebbles and rocks and
dust all over the show. The car came to a halt across three spaces;
four deep grooves in the dirt marked his path. Leaving the car he
tapped the bonnet of Bob’s car, ‘Nice one fella,’ and walked around
to the boot where he hoped he would find a few helpful items.

‘
A rocket launcher and
a machine gun would be pretty handy.’

The boot was empty except for a small
plastic tub and he knew it would have been that way because he had
been the one that emptied it. But back then Lucy hadn’t been taken,
Simon hadn’t attacked his future father in law, and he hadn’t
committed grand theft auto.

The light wasn’t all gone from the car
park, the sun seeming to hang around not, wanting to miss what was
going to happen tonight, Simon could see a torch and an axe sat in
the plastic tub. There was some other bits and bobs, though nothing
that would aid him on his rescue. He pictured himself then, up at
the Rotten House, on his hands and knees, his trousers wrapped
about his ankles and surrounded by three big men and somewhere
behind him there stood another man ready to do what they did to
piggies but this time they were going to do it to him. Next to him
was Lucy and she was dead; cut up like reaping day, and he was
covered in her blood and most of the ground was too.

‘
What the fuck am I
doing?’ He said looking down at the axe and torch that were shaking
in his unsteady grip. He threw them both back into the boot of the
car with disgust and wiped his hands on his jeans. He wasn’t the
right man for this. He was no hero. He looked at the axe and
wondered what the hell it was he would have done with it anyway.
Simon took out his phone, unlocked it and stood there contemplating
his next move but knowing what it was. The light of the phone
burned into his eyes and his thumb hovered over the green telephone
symbol. Looking closer he noticed that there was a little red
circle with the number two inside of it.

He had two missed calls, but for the
life of him he couldn’t remember hearing it ring. Perhaps during
his escapades in the car? Or maybe when he was back in the
driveway? It didn’t matter. It could be Lucy, it could be them with
demands.

He pressed the telephone symbol and the
next screen showed that he had missed a call from an Unknown
Number, ‘Typical.’ and then another missed call from his
Voicemail.

He frowned, pressed and held his thumb
on the number one on his keypad, which was the speed dial for his
voicemail, and after a second or two a robot girl answered and he
followed the instruction to the new message.

It was Kyle.

What the fuck, Simon.
Been gone a couple of days and already you aint texting me back and
answering your phone to me. Trying to cut me out or sumpfing?
Listen, I know work aint been great and that you is looking to
settle down with old red dress, but come on man, things can’t be
that bad that you decide to move without even telling your old mate
Kyle. I know what you is thinking, that I am being a funny prick.
But seriously man, I aint, not when it comes to this. There is a
For Sale sign up outside your house. Went up his morning. Even the
studio is up for the taking. What the fuck? You could have told me.
I have spoken with the agents. Hopkins and Bridge, down Kent
Avenue. Had to make an appointment to view just to be sure. I’ve
had Lee and that twat Marcus on the phone as well. They saw your
studio up for grabs in Friday’s papers and I’m just checking
now…
(There is a rustle of
newspaper)
Well I’ll be; it’s here.
Friday’s papers. Your house. For Sale. Three bedroomed blah blah
blah and then a couple of photos.
(Kyle
falls silent for a couple of seconds though Simon can still hear
him breathing. Kyle then slams a hand down onto the desk.)
250 thousand O-N-O. Is that it? Christ. I might
buy the place for that just to sell it on and make a tidy profit.
Come on man. Let’s talk. Call me, yeah. This aint right. Again, no
joke, pal. No joke.