by Ian Dyer
Bobbie took the money and shoved it deep into his oh so very small trouser pocket. He didn’t say thank you, or use the till or offer Simon any change for that matter; he only stood there, arms folded around his chest, his eyes burning a hole in Simon’s head.
‘You said 35 pounds 80. I gave you 40.’
‘Nope. I said 40. Pretty sure of that.’ Bobbie, his eyes still locked on Simon like a lioness who has spotted her latest kill, leant over and pressed a button that was near the till point. From outside, mixed in with the sound of the wind and the rain Simon heard a soft click.
‘Pretty sure, Bobbie, that you said 35-80.’
The fat man shook his head and inhaled through his reddening lips. ‘Look mate, I said 40, that’s why you gave me two 20’s. If ya want tamakea scene then I shall call the boys over and we shall see what they say. Yerchoice, buddy.’
The two men looked at each other. Simon could hear a wheeze coming from Bobbies chest. Slowly the fat man eased his hand down to the phone and as he did this one of eyebrows raised a little.
Simon shook his head, waved a hand at the man stood on the other side of the till as if to waft away whatever bullshit Bobbie was throwing at him, and walked out; the door slamming hard, causing the entire building to shake.
As he walked back to the car and though he wanted to, really wanted to, Simon didn’t turn to see if the pool of
Blood, its blood!
oil was still there, pouring out from beneath the garage door. He could see Lucy was watching him, noting his every step. Before he got into the car Simon took a few breaths; in and out, in and out, in and out and then opened the door. Without a word he started the car and drove to the exit knowing that Bobbie was watching him from inside the petrol station; he could feel himself being watched, and it felt like he was back in college or university and the teacher is standing over you, watching your every move; your every click of the camera, making sure you didn’t screw it up – or hoping that you did screw it up so that they can then show you up infront of the baying class.
‘Everything okay, Sausage?’
‘Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Let’s just get to your dads place before I lose the will to live.’ The car reached the exit of the station and it sat their idling whilst Simon waited for Lucy to update him on which way he had to go.
‘Oh sorry,’ Lucy said, ‘it’s left, up the road for about two miles, and then were pretty much there. You sure you’re okay? You look pale.’
Simon could sense her String was stretching because she had no patience when anyone apart from her was troubled or nervous. ‘Yeah, I’m good. Just still a bit messed up from the whole Barbara thing, that’s all.’
The rain was heavier now and big blobs smashed against the windscreen. The wipers moved quicker, left-right, left-right, left-right… they were now a squeaking blur.
She didn’t turn to him, instead she kept her eyes on the world as it whizzed by. ‘I’ve thought about that. Look, when we get there I shall tell dad about the whole Lucy business, I’m sure he will fuss and groan but he will get it. And that will be that. He can like it or lump it. Look, once you have spent a couple of days here you will get why I left, why I wanted to leave this place, I’m sure of it. Is that okay?’
No it’s not oflippingkay. Far sodding from it.
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ And that was all Simon said on the matter and within ten minutes they passed a sign:
Welcome to Rottenhouse – Please Drive Carefully – Area of Natural Beauty
Turning right, entering Hot Lane, the road followed a bubbling stream that ebbed and flowed, and because of the recent rain it was fat and nudging the steep embankment that kept it in place. The rain eased as Lucy pointed to a beautiful grey stone cottage set back from the lane and ushered him to park in the cobbled driveway next to her dads old car. The tyres screamed as they struggled for purchase on the slippery cobbles and inside the car another one of those flashy red lights blinked until the car stopped and Simon turned the key and the engine went silent. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as the engine ticked over to nothing.
Simon had arrived in Rottenhouse. But as Simon would quickly learn, Rottenhouse didn’t take to kindly to visitors.
Foreign Metal
1
Simon took a quick look at his watch and saw that it was only four o-clock. Outside, with the mist rising and the fat grey clouds blocking out the sun, it looked more like eight o-clock on a winters evening. The rain had pretty much stopped as he and Lucy – for he was damned if he was going to call her Barbara – got out of the car.
Arching his back to release the tension he had no choice but to admire the house of which Mr Bob Rowling called home; it was utterly stunning – a picture postcard if ever there was one. It had two floors, though Simon could see a loft conversion had been carried out at some time, and two large chimney stacks at each end of the grey slate roof. The cobbled path led up to the dark wood front door and on either side were large windows reflecting the sky and woods behind him. The image was mirrored on the first floor above, except that the door had been replaced with a small window, frosted so that no one can peep a look at you whilst you performed your duties.
‘You grew up here, in this house?’
‘Aye. Forgot how beautiful it was.’
Aye? Since when do you say Aye?
Simon noticed a slight twitch in one of the ground floor window net curtains. A crow overhead cried out and in the forest, on the other side of the stream that bubbled and splashed, a tree cracked and fell and the sound rumbled around the valley that the village of Rottenhouse sat in like the hungry belly roar of a giant.
Something behind the front door clicked and then it opened.
Well, here goes nothing.
‘Dad!’ Lucy yelled and went running off. Mr Rowling managed only two steps before he was engulfed by her and he wrapped his own hands around Lucy’s shoulders squeezing her tight.
They embraced for only a couple of minutes, but as we all know, those minutes when you aren’t a member of the cuddling squad can last a lifetime. Simon took it upon himself to check out the old motor that was next to his modern marvel. Mr Rowling’s car was old, Simon guessing from the digits on the number plate that it hailed from the 70,s. It was beige, as bright as the day it had come off of the courtyard, and he couldn’t make out a scratch or a dent. The interior was caramel coloured velour; he recognised that from the hours upon hours spent in his father’s car. Simon walked around to the back and looked at the markings: Ford Cortina 1.6 litre. There was a sticker in the rear window but at this angle he couldn’t make it out.
‘Simon, this is my dad. Dad, this is Simon. Simon Clarke.’
He hadn’t noticed that the two of them had ended their well over due embrace and made it all the way over to him so Simon quickly wiped his wet hand on his jeans and offered it to Mr Rowling. Mr Rowling reached out and took hold and the two men shook hands. Both grips were firm, but Mr Rowling’s was firmer. He was a bit smaller that Simon, maybe had been taller in his prime, but looked as though he never reached the grand six foot that men liked to reach for. He was pot-bellied, but strong, Simon could sense that. His face was round; clean shaven, his features larger than most, and Mr Rowling’s hair was brown and cut short; not styled in any way shape or form. Looking into his eyes was like looking into his daughters eyes. They were big and brown and deep and full of light and Simon guessed that he too may have a String and his eyes were a reflection of that String. He wore boots, dark green trousers and a slighter lighter shade of dark green jumper. All he needed was a flat cap on his head and stood before you would have been the stereotypical Yorkshire man.
‘Pleased to meet you Mr Rowling.’
‘Aye, lad, welcome to Rottenhouse.’ Mr Rowling pulled his hand away, ‘Barbara, go in takitchen and put kettle on wouldya. There’s a good girl. I shall help Simon here with the bags.’
‘Okay, dad.’ And with that Lucy went into the house leaving Simon alone with
Mr Rowling.
Simon clicked the small button on his key fob and the boot of the car popped open. Mr Rowling, looking at the car with auctioneer eyes, walked around the electric blue marvel; eyebrows raised. ‘You have a beautiful house, Mr Rowling.’ Simon said trying to break the silence with small talk.
‘What sort acar is this, Simon?’
‘Err, it’s a Golf. The new model. Hybrid and all that.’
Mr Rowling looked up at him with a puzzled look upon us face. ‘Highbrid? What’s a Highbrid, Simon?’
Be good Simon, be good. Different places different faces and all that.
‘Well, err, it can run off electricity as well as petrol.’
‘Oh. Really? Don’t get much call for the like a that roundear. How do ya get the electricity in anyways, Simon?’
Sweet mercy.
Simon raised the boot and lent in. ‘Well, you can charge it like a battery from home or when you brake there is a system that harvests the unused power as electricity. Quite clever.’ He stood up, holding his small backpack which housed his travelling camera gear, and Mr Rowling was stood right next to him, hands in his pockets; the puzzled look still etched on his face like an ancient stone carving.
‘Seems a bit much, just for driving round in, lots to go wrong there I’d say, Simon, yaknow what I mean? All those bits and pieces, butoom I taargue. But I do have to say, these modern cars, these Highbrids and what have ya, they aint patch on cars from mahday. Take Cortina over there, 1.6, nothing flash, but gets outtatrouble if needs be. Now she has been rolling along nigh on 40 years weout anything going wrong with her. Aye, she’s had to be in service from time to time like all cars, but nowt major, Simon, know what I mean. No bits and pieces, Simon, you know; bits and pieces.’
Simon didn’t know but he nodded all the same even though he kept being asked if he knew what Mr Rowling meant.
‘These new cars,’ Mr Rowling continued as if he hadn’t made his point before, ‘foreign metal don’t like our air, Simon (the word air was stretched out, like Simon wouldn’t know what it was). They don’t like the air, they don’t like being used, Simon, yaknow what I mean? Tom from garage says so and he knows about motors, he knows. He’s kept Cortina on road. Good man is Tom.’
Simon stood there, the camera bag beginning to get heavy, his mouth agape seemingly not sure whether to answer or not. ‘This one has done us all…’
‘What fuel do ya put in it, Simon?’
The puzzled look transferred from Mr Rowling’s face across to Simons. ‘Hey?’
The old man leant in, scrunched his forehead and lowered his voice like you would do to a questioning child. ‘Fuel, Simon. You know; the stuff that makes it go.’
Of course I know what you are going on about. I was just answering your other question you prick, the one about how unreliable modern cars are compared against ancient rust buckets. Why does he want to know what fuel it runs on, what has that have to do with the price of sausages?
Simon was tempted to say fairy dust, but knew that such a joke would be lost on this guy.
‘Petrol, un-leaded.’
A look of utter dismay crept across the old man’s face. ‘Un-leaded, Simon? Not diesel or leaded? Seems odd.’
Seems odd? Seems, odd?
Simon was about to say something he would have later regretted when he heard Lucy bellow from across the other side of the world, informing them that the tea was brewed – there was a twang in her voice, he was sure he heard a twang in her voice - and he welcomed the release from this madness and wondered how much more of this he could take, though all the while knowing that he would have to take two weeks of it; two shitting weeks of it.
‘Okay, Barbara, be rythere. Give us two minutes.’ Mr Rowling picked up one of the suitcases that Simon had heaved out of the back of the car and before setting off said, ‘I’ll introduce ya to Tom tonight at the club if yalike?’
Simon threw his camera bag over his shoulder, closed the boot, locked it by pressing the little button on his key fob and lifted the remaining suitcase. Following Mr Rowling into his beautiful cottage – the wooden sign next to the front door read The Tall Stacks, Simon sighed and said, ‘Sounds great, Mr Rowling.’
2
Simon followed the old man into the house and made sure to wipe his shoes on the welcome mat before entering. The house was laid out much like their own was in Guilford; the main hallway ran through the centre of the ground floor, the stairs rising up at its end. At equal intervals along the well-lit hallway there were two doors on either side leading to as yet places unknown. At the end of the hallway, next to the stairs on both the left and the right were two doors – one was locked with a padlock – odd - the other looked as if it served as the back door and the way out into the garden.
The house on the outside was gorgeous; and could be sold in heartbeat, but sadly location, location, location stood for nothing because no one would buy a house that was decorated as if it was still in 1972. The hallway was ordained with garishly flocked wallpaper of differing shades of orange and brown and white. Geometric shapes broke up the monotony of it, but it did little to attract the eye.
Simon closed the door behind him and placed his bags down next to the one Mr Rowling had already left. There were paintings on either side of him but he paid them no regard and followed the old man as he led the way into the first room on the right – the kitchen. There was a small table in the centre of the room and on it were three cups of freshly made tea. The rest of the kitchen, apart from a kettle and toaster and the bread bin, was bare. The units and worktop were wooden and it all looked much like any other typical cottage kitchen. Lucy was stood over by the window, her hands gripped the ceramic butler sink, admiring the two of them as they walked in. She looked positively radiant and the light which poured through the window engulfed her.
‘It’s not changed a bit, dad. Just like when I left.’ Lucy said as Simon walked over to her leaving Mr Rowling by the table watching them.
‘Nothing needed changing, Barbara. It does for me, yaknow what I mean?’
‘Aye.’
There it was again. That twang that only ever popped its ugly head up when the String broke. And aye, she never said that even when she was full tilt bat shit crazy. Simon had a Scottish friend, Kyle. He had been born in Saltcoats, just north of Glasgow, and had moved down to London when he was about ten or so; something to do with family and work and money. By the time Simon had met him and become friends he was working as a film editor and had no hint of a Scottish accent left. It was only when he was drunk, angry, or speaking with a fellow Jock that the Glasgow grunt – as they all called it – would come, so he could kind of see why Lucy was retreating back to that way of talking. But so soon? So soon after pretty much sodding this place off like a bad headache? It just didn’t seem right. But then what in the last two hours had seemed right? The fact that she was now Barbara? The fact that he had been ripped off by a guy that wore child’s clothes? The fact that the man he had to ask for his daughters hand in marriage seemed to be a complete nut job? None of it seemed right. But maybe it was him? He was tired, had been working hard these last few months to try and get the money together so that he could pay for the wedding and get the new gear he wanted for the studio. He sighed deeply and lent over taking the mug of tea and he drank it slowly.
Mr Rowling, whilst sipping his tea said, ‘You’ll be sleeping in yer old room, Barbara? As you said, not much has changed round here. The village is still as was, people come and people go, but the heart still stays. As long as we have the mine and the quarry then not much can go wrong, if ya know what I mean.’
Lucy nodded and took a gulp of her dark tea, ‘you off to club tonight?’
‘Aye. Taking Simon, too. Show his face yaknow, they’ve all been asking.’
Lucy smiled and tapped the sink with her fingers and the ring on her left hand clattered brightly against the ceramic.
Simon had a sudden thought. It made his stomach churn and his arse
hole pucker up. ‘You’re not coming then?’
‘No, Simon. Not if rules are the same.’
Mr Rowling nodded; whatever that meant; it was like there was some sort of secret code between them which shouldn’t exist. Simon couldn’t think of anything to say to get out of it. It would seem too obvious now. He had no choice but to go. There was a tension growing in the room and he knew he was the only one that could feel it. Why weren’t they talking to each other, why weren’t they hugging and laughing and talking of old times and what they have been up to and how they missed each other and how they regretted what they had done. Why weren’t they doing anything?
Simon placed his mug back onto the table, sure in the knowledge that the old man was laughing at him from deep behind those big eyes and then he saw it and was shocked that he hadn’t noticed it when he had walked into the kitchen. ‘Why are you wearing a apron? You never wear a apron?’
Lucy shook her head in an almost whimsical fashion. ‘I always wear one, Simon. Always.’ He didn’t know whether this was a joke or not. But then he looked into those brown eyes and saw her String tighten and knew that she was serious. He was sure as hell that she never wore one. Why the hell would she for heaven’s sake? She was a modern woman living in the modern world, not some eighteenth century housemaid doting on some rich family that treated her like a paid slave.
‘Lucy, you’ve never worn a apron, not since I met you anyway.’
‘Who is Lucy?’ Mr Rowling asked roused from the delight of his brew.
‘Fuck it.’ Simon said.
‘No need for that kind a talk, Simon. Now I ask again, who is this Lucy?’
‘Yeah, Simon, who is Lucy?’
3
Simon’s mouth opened and shut like a fish bobbing for air. Had she really just said that? Had he heard correctly? Surely not. He looked around the room in case someone else had walked in and he hadn’t seen them, but there was no else there, just him, Mr Rowling and Lucy. The air grew hotter still, though the other two seemed not to notice. Their eyes were upon him like a jury waiting for you to give your reasons behind killing a hundred innocent people. His throat became dry; a sack of nails in a skin suit.