Rottenhouse (6 page)

I’m going to snap. I don’t have a
String, don’t need one – go with the flow and all that – but I’m
going to go off here. I know what you are going to say Bob, don’t
do it, please, don’t do it…

‘
Barbara wouldn’t have
warned yer if she didn’t think it necessary, Simon.’

Go with the flow Simon. Come on, go
with the flow. Wanker or not, this guy is your future father in
law.

‘
Look, Mr Rowling,’
Simon said leaning forward; looking at the reflection of the old
boy in the windscreen, ‘I’m not some wet behind the ears, knee high
to a grass hopper baby. I’m thirty-five years old. I have a
mortgage. My own business and my own car for heaven’s sake. Not
many
men
can say
that now can they? I know I don’t fit what might make for a man
here – whatever that is for crying out loud - but as sure as muck
is muck, I am a man, and I would appreciated it if you treated me
as such.’ And Simon sat back hard against the velour and the car
bounced a little.

‘
We shall see, Simon.’
And with that the car door opened and Mr Rowling stepped out into
the cool night air.

4

The two men walked across the poorly
lit car.

‘
Is this the only
place for a drink in the village, Mr Rowling?’

‘
Yup. Always has and
always will. Folks have tried, but they don’t understand how places
like this work. They come here wahope, seeing money where there
aint none, seeing a bunch of men working hard, dirt on their hands
and in their hair and they think that a few low priced beers and
cheap fried grub will get the wallet taopen. But they don’t
understand, Simon, they don’t understand and they aint
welcome.’

They walked through the orange glow of
an overhead street light and their shadows shrunk and then
stretched out.

‘
I’m surprised a big
supermarket chain hasn’t opened up here. Especially now that they
seem to cramp all the stuff into those little stores.’

‘
Like I said, Simon,
folks have tried, but they don’t understand. Like that car yagot.
Folks from other parts don’t like it up here, they don’t like
the
air
, they
can’t get used to it, Simon, and they don’t understand the village
and the history of this place and how,’ he paused then; scratching
his chin and pulling his hands through his hair. Finally the words
came to him as he splashed through a puddle, ‘how we don’t need
them. We don’t need them and we certainly don’t need all their bits
and pieces that can go wrong, that can break and then nothing
works, Simon. Nothing works and the village dies. We can’t let that
happen.’

They were about halfway across the car
park which had no cars in it except Mr Rowling’s when he noticed
that one of the buildings was a burnt out hulk.

Simon said, ‘Sad to see old buildings
go like that. All that history just lost.’

Mr Rowling didn’t break stride, nor
look over to where Simon was looking and Simon was sure he could
hear a sense of glee as the old man spoke about the fire damaged
building.

‘
Fire got that one. Mr
Grayson, the old boy that live there, died in the fire; burnt to
akrisp he were. You see, Simon, the fire got him, that’s why he
died. Fire does that, ya know, it
burns
ya, especially if you is unable
to get away from it.’

What is this some public safety
announcement? Does he think I don’t know what fire is? Go with the
flow, Simon. Go with the F.L.O.W. don’t rock the boat, don’t
further spoil what has already been a crappy day. He’s been alone
for a long time, never had the chance to tell people about the
dangers of fire. Never had the chance to pass on his deep and
all-knowing snippets of insanity.

Simon found it hard
not to chuckle, not to burst out laughing. The dangers of fire!
This guy couldn’t be for real, could he? Already Simon knew he had
a few good tales to tell his mates when he got home. They would
love this guy, not in person, but as a butt of a joke, or as
a;
your father in law aint a patch on
mine
tale of woe, this Mr Rowling was
untouchable. And as much as Simon wanted to stop him
there,

right there if it pleases ya, Mr
Rowling, do you think I am some sort of mentally retarded fucktard
that doesn’t understand that fire can kill or that understands that
cars from 1972 aint as reliable as cars made now and that time does
move – its linear – not paused whenever and wherever you fancy?
Well do ya?

and no matter how much he wanted to say
that he guessed it best just to let it wash over him. Wash over him
and not leave a trace as it dripped off of his conscious and onto
the floor.

Go with the flow, Simon, Go. With. The.
F.L.O.W.

5

In the far corner of the car park,
which was in fact the old village square, there was an old brick
building that stood taller and wider than any other in Rottenhouse.
It was three stories high, and there were five windows on each
floor, large windows with great sheets of glass reflecting back the
moon and the stars. The ground floor windows were alight, whilst
the upper windows were dark. The front of this Victorian era
building was lit up by two bright bulbous lights on the end of long
cast iron poles. In between the lamps were a set of sandstone steps
that led up to a monstrous painted door; its glossy green surface a
blaze of colour in the dark night.

Simon headed up the stairs, cautiously,
as they were still slick from the earlier rain shower.

On the right hand side of the door,
screwed into the old brick wall was a brass sign (freshly shined by
the looks of it) that read:

Rottenhouse

Working Man’s Club

Est. 1875

This was an old building, but it didn’t
look it. Even under the glow of the two lamps and the soft sheen of
the street lamps, the Working Man’s Club looked untouched by time;
the opposite of the buildings that surrounded it, which were a
chequerboard of old and new brickwork and green with moss and
decay. This old building had seen many things and probably held
many secrets, Simon thought as the door opened and he followed Mr
Rowling through into the main reception area. There was an
atmosphere that surrounded this club, both inside and out, a smell
encased it; like the smell of flints as they sparked together –
burning – but not on fire. It was a hot atmosphere, thick like
toffee but not sweet, actually it was the opposite of sweet, and it
left a tang on the tongue which was foul and not pleasant.

The reception area was large with brown
and beige wallpapered walls and the walls were adorned with all
sorts of old decorations and fixtures and fittings: antlers, cups
and trophies, guns, hunting paintings, paintings of men with guns,
paintings of men with trophies, heads of animals, a brass canon, a
painting of a woman with her breasts and arse showing, paintings of
animals both dead and alive, stuffed pheasants and photos of men
playing cricket and golf and football. From the high ceiling there
hung a great chandelier with light bulbs that tried to trick you
into thinking they were candles. There were many doors leading to
many secret places and there was a small wooden desk much like you
would find in an old hotel in the middle of the reception area,
unmanned at the moment, but only recently as a cigarette released a
grey wisp of smoke into the air. The stairway leading both
downstairs and upstairs was at the far end of the reception room
and it spiralled its way up and up to poorly lit hallways. The part
of the stairway that led down into the basement looked newer, not
the marble and wood and cast iron of its forebear, more like
concrete and wood, and it was dark, really dark, and looking down
there Simon had the same gut wrenching feeling he had when he
looked at the gaping metallic mouth of the garage back at the edge
of the village and on the walls that led down into that dark place
there hung just two paintings, bigger than the others that ordained
the reception, but they were shrouded in the darkness – the urge to
look upon them, to know what they were was great, but so to was the
urge to run away from this place. Run away screaming.

Simon realised, when he heard the not
so dulcet tones of Mr Rowling, that he had been stood in the
doorway, mouth open like a teenagers first glimpse of a titty, for
some time and that the old man was stood next to the reception desk
waiting patiently by a closed door.

‘
Come on, Simon. Don’t
be scared. I thought you were man?’

Was that a joke? Who knew? Simon most
certainly did not. There was a soft clatter of balls, as if a game
of snooker was being played from behind the closed door to his left
as he quickly moved from the front door to where Mr Rowling was
standing.

Mr Rowling put his hand on the brass
door handle and before turning it he looked at Simon dead straight
in the eye and as he spoke his voice was low, a whisper almost.
‘You’re in my world, Simon. This is Working Man’s Club and the men
here demand respect. So before I open door, best you leave whatever
type you is out here and try not to make a fool outta me in there,
yaknow what I mean. If you is a man like ya say you are, then now
would be a good time to show it.’

Simon blinked as
spittle splashed his face such was the over pronunciation of the
word
it
. He slid
off his coat and surreptitiously wiped his face clean of any phlegm
that may have been there. Before he could say anything, though he
didn’t really know what to say because once again what could you
say for crying out loud, Mr Rowling had opened the door and the old
brass hinges creaked and screamed bringing the conversations that
were being had in the bar on the other side of the door to a
complete stop.

6

A room filled heavy with smoke, the
stale smell of beer stung Simon’s eyes and clung to his clothes
like brambles. Many were the men that laboured over their drinks
but on the sound of the creaking door turned to face Simon. Eyes
from many men looked at Simon; they burrowed deep into him like a
curious rabbit seeking a carrot in a mine field. They scanned him,
appraised Simon as if he were a trinket found in the attic of a
long dead relative. His throat became dry, a barren wasteland full
of needles that stabbed him when he swallowed. He was stood there
for what seemed like hours, looking from his left to his right, his
body swimming weightless in a sea full of human sharks. Mr Rowling
entered his field of vision he stepped forward and headed toward
the bar all the eyes followed him as he went.

Conversation’s started up again, though
he guessed some were about him, and pint glasses clattered and
thudded upon the wooden tables. It was a fairly large room, squared
off with numerous chairs and tables laid out in a random pattern.
The bar was at the end of the room, a stairway led off somewhere to
the right whilst three doors were on the left. The decoration
matched the reception room though there were many more paintings
upon the walls. There were occasional posters or square plaques
denoting the various beers and snacks that were on offer. They
looked old and hung stagnant like dead fish on a fisherman’s catch
pole. The room was a crescendo of conversations (and eyes; eyes
looking at him) as he reached the counter of the bar – surprised to
see it empty – and placed his light coat on the barstool next to
where he stood.

The barman said, ‘Evening, Mr Rowling.
Usual eit?’ as he grabbed a pint glass from the overhanging rack
above the counter. As he did his white shirt lifted up revealing a
fat, hairy belly covered in moles and fuzzy hair

‘
Aye, thattabe grand,’
and as an afterthought, ‘what you having, Simon?’

Simon scanned the available beers.
First looking at the counter and then behind so as to see what
bottles were available in the fridge. There wasn’t much to choose
from; three pumps were on the counter top, each one an ale of some
description, whilst behind the bar there were cans of Heineken, or
again, bottles of ales that he had never heard of. The ales had
names that were brutal, somewhat comical though disturbing: Grumpy
Farmer, Long Tree Froth, Rottenhouse Puddle, Sticky Thatch,
Stonemasons Folly and finally, Flogged Daughter. Surely this
couldn’t be it? Surely the other big names had managed to break
through?

The barman was already halfway through
pouring Mr Rowling’s Stonemasons Folly, the golden juice frothing
lightly and so Simon looked again behind the bar a little bit
agitated. He hated Heineken, he just didn’t have the taste for it
and as for ales, they just tasted of sour dirt and leaves. Simon
knew he was a fussy arsehole when it came to beer, he couldn’t
stand the taste of spirits either, but he could always find
something. Something. A cold sweat leaked from his pores and his
gusset felt wet and he knew that even though Mr Rowling wasn’t
looking at him, he was thinking about him, hoping against hope that
he would say the right thing, order the right drink – a man’s
drink. Well here he was, a man, looking for a drink that would
account for his delicate taste buds in a world full of various
shades of acid that only a real man can drink. A real man of
Rottenhouse and Simon considered asking for a lemonade, then
thought better of it and it started to weigh heavy on him, like he
was about to choose whether men should go to war poverty, and he
felt as if the sweat were pouring out of him. Without really
thinking, the panic of decision getting the better of him, he
blurted out the first thing he could think of, ‘Err, I know it’s a
long shot, but any chance you have Peroni?’