by Ian Dyer
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?’
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 extrac
ted 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 on
e 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.
Simon stood, his chair scrapping on the wooden floor. He was light headed, but not drunk. ‘Just off to the toilet. Another round?’
The men that were sat around the table nodded, almost in unison, and then returned to their conversations about the need for a better road along the valley floor between the dry well and silos. Simon turned to Mr Rowling, who was sat next to him and leaned over. Keeping his voice low he asked ‘What do I order?’
‘Just point over to our table when yaorder. Barkeep will know.’
‘And what about that guy over there. Do I get him one?’
‘Aye, Simon. Pint of Flogged for him. But don’t say anything. He already knows who yaare and why yahere.’
Simon nodded, straightened himself up and headed off toward the toilet. As he walked past the bar another man was heading toward him. He was young, about the same age as Simon. He had short dark hair and a fat overly featured face. The guy was short and wore dirty jeans and big boots. He bore a resemblance to Bobbie/Lewis in the garage and he pondered, if but for a fleeting moment, that they may be brothers. Simon could see by the way the man walked that he was drunk, really drunk, and he stumbled and swayed with each unsteady footfall. Simon offered a smile and a nod but the gesture was not returned; the drunk man’s eyes were wide and firmly fixed ahead, they moved for nothing. Simon turned to see what the guy was walking toward and could see that his target was Mr Rowling and Mr Rowling had spotted him. Simon got the urgent feeling that something was wrong. It was the same feeling you get when there is going to be a fight in the pub or when your partner was about to fly off the handle at you for no apparent reason. As much as he wanted to stay around and watch was about to happen Simon really needed to piss, the seal was breaking of its own accord and he opened the toilet door just as the drunk man reached the table where he had been sat not two minutes before. He heard the drunk man slur a hello to Mr Rowling but then the door was closed and the conversation disappeared and was replaced with the fuzzy white noise that all pub toilets are graced with. He made his way to one of the three urinals and taking out his pink weapon, he relieved himself against the rather clean white porcelain. It was a sweet, welcomed release, and he exhaled as the hot urine splashed against the yellow disinfectant block. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly overhead and he heard a fan kick in from somewhere behind one of the stalls.