by Ian Dyer
Lucy moved over to Simon but he mirrored that move in reverse and held out his hands to stop here.
‘Just go back to the house. NOW!’
Lucy, her mouth an O of shock, almost dropped the backpack. She looked at her dad, hoping that he would help her, perhaps persuade Simon to see sense and leave it alone. But Mr Rowling did no such thing and Simon saw a wry grin on the face of the old man. It was as if he appreciated the fact that Simon had raised his voice to a woman.
Been a man about it, Simon, aye – a MAN about it
‘Do as he says, Barbara. Don’t argue wihim. Now off yago.’
With a dejected look, but a somewhat relieved one too, she walked toward home ignoring the two men that she crossed paths with on the way back.
Mr Rowling took a hand out from his pocket and rubbed his furrowed brow.
‘Always wanted argument, did Barbara. Like her mother. She took bit a training did Margaret, yaknow what I mean?’
‘Training?’
‘Aye lad, training. They need to know their place in things. You’ll understand soon enough. Once you have been under cosh for a few months.’
‘But Mr Rowing, I have been with your daughter for over three years. We have lived together for two. She has a temper, a wicked one granted, but I don’t mind it. It makes her different. Not a robot. Are you not interested in what’s floating in the stream?’
That blank angry look came upon Mr Rowling. ‘Southerners.’ He proclaimed as he looked about his feet and then, as if he were some great detective from an old novel, he busied himself looking at the ground, seeking out clues whilst he waited for his two friends to arrive.
13
It seemed as though many hours had passed since Simon was atop the valley, taking happy snappy shots of Rottenhouse and the surrounding areas. Relativity, he supposed. That odd rule of science that states that we, that, them, everything, is governed by not only speed, but large heavy objects too, and the gravity they emit. It was all very complicated, this relativity business, and it hurt Simon’s head just thinking about small portions of it, but not as much as it would pummel the heads of the two hulking, broad shouldered and thick necked man-gorillas walking towards him.
One he had met before, in the Club last night, a tall skinny chap in brown overalls and a white shirt, his name was Pickering. The other man he also knew, but was unsure of his name; it was either Lewis or it was Bobbie. He was no longer wearing those ridiculously undersized garments; they had been replaced with a simple pair of blue jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. Though they fitted well, his fat belly still protruded like a giant tumour.
Both men were sweating heavily and they looked concerned, especially Lewis, in fact Lewis looked sick with it. There was muffled talk between the two of them which came to a halt as soon as they reached Mr Rowling. The two men walked passed him, Simon gave a Hey remember me from the station yesterday, you fat pig, remember how you ripped me off? look, but Lewis just walked on by, didn’t even give him a cursory glance.
‘Thanks for coming. Where’s plastic?’ Mr Rowling said shaking both men’s hands one after the other.
‘In van.’ Pickering answered and then wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. ‘Hot one,’ he continued and then looked at Simon. ‘Whats he doing here?’
‘Neveryou mind that, you just think about getting him outta water.’
The four men walked over to the edge of the stream though Simon didn’t make it the full distance, he had seen enough of the bobbing and nodding body to last a lifetime plus you have the photos to look at you sick shit! Splashes of water could be seen rising and through the rushes and the tall grass the body of Stevie peeked through like a gruesome game of a peek-a-boo.
Mr Rowling and his cohorts stood in the same place Simon had been in and they each looked down into the water; the sun sparkled off of the water and reflected on their faces and in their hair.
None of them gave the impression of being shocked. There was no expletive gasps or loss of bodily functions be it in the pants or up from the throat. It was all so normal. Like the beating last night, or the way in which Mr Rowling had driven home the night before drunk; it was all so run of the mill bordering on the boring for these people.
‘Been stabbed in eye. That’s what’s probably done it.’ Lewis said.
‘No shit.’ Pickering replied and nudged Lewis on the back as if to push him into the water.
‘Piss off, Joe.’
‘Err, that be Mr Pickering, to you. Don’t ferget yaplace.’ The tall one said as he looked back at the body.
The painting he had seen in his nightmare flashed before Simon’s eyes. The girl on the gurney. Handcuffed to the gurney, body mutilated.
They leak. They bleed. They don’t stop once they started.
‘Shut it. Pair aya.’ And then Mr Rowling continued rubbing his chin, ‘Fine mess this be. Apart from him being a total arse sometimes; young Stevie had uses. I hoped that lasts night warning would have put this youngen back on track. We’ll never know now. But Chairman will have to be told. This aint right. Not without permission, ya know what I mean. Aint right.’
‘Aye.’ The pair of them said.
Simon could see the body begin to move again and he guessed that it wouldn’t be too long before the water took Stevie further downstream, passed the old hut and on into the village. Simon deduced from what Mr Rowling was saying that if the murder had taken place with the Chairman’s permission then all would be okay. What kind of sick place is this Simon thought to himself and then remembered what Stevie had gone through last night.
‘What are you going to do with the body?’ Simon asked sheepishly not really wanting to know the answer, not really wanting to be here but hey, he had had the chance to turn tail and run back to the house like his good woman but no, Simon decided that he wanted to stay. And now he had to deal with it.
When none of the three men answered him he asked again but still there was no reply. Was he even there, Simon looked to the floor, saw his shadow, his feet smothering the grass, and knew for certain that he existed.
‘Drag him out. Then put him in van.’
Simon had his answer.
‘Where we taking him, Mr Rowling?’ Pickering asked.
‘Back to his mother. Send her my regards and tell her that we will find him.’
‘Find him?’ That was Lewis, ‘Whatcha mean?’
Mr Rowling shook his head. ‘You really are a prick, Lewis. Whoever did it! Just get him out before the water takes him to God knows where.’
With a few huffs and puffs and a shriek from Pickering that the water was too cold, both men hopped into the water, which came up to their knees, and began to lift out the dead weight.
Mr Rowling moved away from the water and back toward Simon, though he made an effort to keep some distance between them both. The redness on his cheeks was gone as too was the heavy breathing. There was a concerned look on his face but nothing to what the emotions of a man back in the city would have been like if they had come across a body floating in a stream, a great big knife sticking out of its eye socket. Simon watched as the two men struggled to get the body out of the water. The bank wasn’t steep but now that it was wet with their splashing and the high water line from yesterday’s rains they slipped and could find no purchase on the mud. Plus the lifeless body wasn’t helping much. It was hard enough lifting a grown man when they were drunk, at least they helped a little, but lifting a body, one full of water too, must be nigh on impossible.
Simon thought they had cracked it; Stevie’s body was half in and half out of the water only for Lewis to slip and go tumbling into the cool water taking the body with him. Pickering let out a guffaw of laughter and grabbed hold of the body before it floated away.
‘Lewis, ya great fat sow, stop buggering about and get him outtawater.’
Lewis, not Bobbie. Simon had to know the truth.
‘What’s his full name?’
‘Who?’
Simon
pointed over to Lewis and tried not to laugh as he slipped on the bottom of the stream and went tumbling into the water. It was like watching an old Laurel and Hardy movie; Sons of the Desert, The Music Box or Great Guns – Pickering was obviously Laurel, Lewis the funnier and fatter Hardy. No matter what they did, one of them, or both now that Pickering slipped and almost fell in, they managed to make total arses of themselves.
‘Lewis. What’s his full name?’
‘Lewis Coleman. Same name as his father. He’s now ten feet under behind Club. He was a grand man, aye. Not like his brain dead son. Look at him for heaven’s sake. Old Lewis would turn in his grave if he knew. Surprised you didn’t go back, Simon. Normal folks woulda up chucked and ran for hills when seeing a sight such as that. I take it yasaw the knife. Yeah. Sticking out like a tent peg. Yasee that’s what did the boy in, if yadidn’t know; knives do that especially when stuck in the head and into the brain. Kills nigh on everything straight away does that, a knife to the brain, if yaknow what I mean?’
No way! No, really! I had no idea, Mr Rowling, that you were such a keen Detective with knowledge of the inner workings of the mind
The same smile that Simon was getting used to using sprang up again, though this time it was raised up one side as he was unable to hide what his brain was feeding to his muscles such was the ferociousness of the sheer shock that someone could be so…so…Simon didn’t know what, but whatever it was, Mr Rowling was really good at it.
‘Nothing else. No middle name?’ Simon said trying to get some order back to this chaotic madness.
Mr Rowling turned to him now his brow scrunched up so much it was like watching two hairy caterpillars scurry across a pink branch. ‘Camon Simon, what’s all this about?’
‘Yesterday, on the way up, we stopped at the petrol station to get some fuel. Lewis was there. Don’t know if he works in the garage but he served us. Only his overalls, which I don’t think were his, had Bobbie written on the name badge. It just seems odd to me, that’s all.’
‘Odd to you?’
‘Well yeah, Mr Rowling. The clothes weren’t his. They were’s whoever this Bobbie girl is. I’m sure of it.’
‘And how do you know this Bobbie is a girl? For all I know old man Coleman might’ve given him a second name.’
There was a deep groan as the two men lifted the body fully out of the water. Simon paid the body little attention.
‘Because of the spelling. Anyway, look, it’s just odd, that’s all, don’t you think? Wearing girl’s clothes?’
That got Mr Rowling’s attention. Got it good. Mr Rowling’s eyes lit up and his cheeks reddened again like two fat radishes. Simon noticed a familiar look in Mr Rowling that he and his daughter shared. It wasn’t My String is about to snap so I suggest you stop what it is you are doing look, no, this was the egg timer behind the eyes look. Even though it was only a handful of seconds before Mr Rowling answered it appeared to Simon as though he had been waiting since the Big Bang to hear it.
‘Aye, odd, Simon. But this Bobbie fellow I wouldn’t trouble yerself with. People come and gooh Simon and I can’t be expected to knowem all now, can I?’ He turned toward Laurel and Hardy, ‘Good job. About bloody time though. Now drag him up to van and let’s be done with this.’ Mr Rowling rubbed his hands as if he had done the work himself and added to no one in particular though Simon guessed it was directed at him, ‘Right, I’m going home for a cuppa tea and biscuit. See you lads at Club tonight.’
As unbelievable as Simon had found the last few minutes they had been predictable in a strange kind of way. Strange in the same way that a wonky door is or someone wearing odd socks is or a car running on a flat is or a field of grass with a bald spot is; they all have perfectly reasonable explanations. But that doesn’t stop you from thinking that behind the explanations, that behind the facts and the chaotic series of events that led to the socks being odd, that led to the field being bald or the tyre being flat or the door being put on wonky, that there was something else; some hidden, more menacing reason that if discovered would turn your hair white and make the gusset of your pants brown.
‘You coming, Simon?’
‘Err, yeah.’ Simon said and he turned away from Pickering and Lewis and the body of Stevie and headed back up to the house.
He and Mr Rowling reached the wooden bridge, the scene almost picture perfect if Simon didn’t know about the body a few meters behind him. He was about to cross, following behind the old man, when he heard raised laughter and cries of enjoyment. Turning around, Simon paid no attention to the beautiful valley walls rising up, the skies glorious azure blue with small white puffy clouds floating about it like carefree sheep, as what he was supposed to do. No, what caught his attention and sent his own String into some kind of overdrive was Lewis, and what he was doing to the corpse.
14
Lewis had rolled the dead body onto his belly and had taken off his own trousers. Simon couldn’t tell from this angle, and for the love of all things Holy he hoped that he wasn’t, if Lewis was actually fucking the corpse. There was also a lot of arm waving, as if Lewis was riding a bucking bronco in a rodeo, and next to him Pickering was bent over, hands flat on his knees laughing like a hyena on LSD.
‘What the hell. Jesus. Stop them wouldya Mr Rowling, please. Are they retarded or something?’
Mr Rowling was on the other side of the small wooden bridge, turning, he shaded his eyes so that he could see what all the fuss was about. Upon seeing it he smiled. Actually smiled and said, ‘Just a bit of fun, Simon. C’mon son, yadon’t think he’s doing him do ya?’
Lewis took of his cap and swung it around his head in massive circular motions. Pickering, upon seeing such a funny thing, rolled onto the floor and sounded as if the laughter would be the death of him.
‘Bit of fun. No. NO! I can’t have this. I mean, okay, you didn’t call the cops, whatever man,’ Simon raised his hands to the sky and then let them fall the palms outstretched. He then pointed to the debauchery, ‘But that; what he’s doing to a man that has been murdered aint right, it aint right, and if you don’t do something about it then I will.’
Mr Rowling had that annoying blank look again but Simon saw past it. Yeah he did. He could see that Mr Rowling was a little bit flustered, a little bit agitated, like a woman that peeps from behind a curtain only this time she has been caught peeping and doesn’t know what to do.
‘Well?’ Simon blurted forgetting that this man had had someone beaten half to death last night and then that same man has been found stabbed to death not 18 hours later.
‘Okay, Simon. Made ya point.’ And then raising his voice, ‘LEWIS, PICKERING. ENOUGH OF THAT. DON’T DESERVE IT. NOW DO AS TOLD AND FINISH UP.’
Mr Rowling looked at Simon; his expression asking if that was satisfactory. Simon didn’t answer straight away; he kept his eyes on Pickering and Lewis making sure that whatever it was that they were doing was well and truly over.
He watched Lewis get off, wave a hand of apology in their direction, and then help Pickering to his feet.
Pickering and Lewis appraised the body, moving it further away from the stream and into the open space Simon’s camera bag had been in. They positioned the body in an odd way, not as if they were going to carry it back to the van. Simon wondered…
‘Camon Simon. Time fer tea. Barbara will be waiting.’
‘One minute, please. I just wanna know…’
He was curious why they had made it look as though Stevie was about to do snow angels, such was the position of his arms and legs all splayed out to the four corners of the globe. Then his mouth dropped open and Simon lifted his hands so that they were upon his head as Lewis lifted his axe up and brought it down hard, removing the right arm of Stevie with the sound of snapping bone and ripping flesh. Pickering stood by and laughed.
15
‘Easier talift, Simon. Easier talift when in smaller bits. Not so heavy yasee. Same thing like when in quarry. Now yacant carry heavy rocks so yabreakem u
p to littler bits so it’s easy to carry. That’s what Lewis is doing there.’
Simon threw up. He tried to stop the flow of hot sour liquid and was doing okay until the sound of another snapping bone mixed with tearing skin and muscle filled the serene summer’s day.
Still a Bit Groggy
1
Simon had been led back to the house by Mr Rowling, dry heaving all the way, stopping only once for a few moments as the dry heave turned wet and sour, chunky liquid coming up and splattering wildly over randomly sprouting daffodils on the side of the road.
He hadn’t heard the van go by, full of whatever was left of Stevie Johnson, but that meant nothing; Simon couldn’t remember how he had gotten to the front door let alone be aware of the comings and goings of others. Mr Rowling had led him into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed tea made his gut twist and his throat fill with spit and he held out his hands and shook them to announce to the world that he was getting out of here and off upstairs so that he could give praise to the porcelain king that ruled the avocado bathroom. Lucy had come up after him, her face had been a pale shock but she didn’t ask what the matter was. Simon had been grateful for that. He didn’t want to think about it let alone describe what he saw. She had stood by him as he heaved and heaved wishing something would come up and then regretting that wish as the last load was coated in a thin skin of brownish blood.
Not asking but sensing his needs, Lucy led him into the bedroom and helped him onto the bed where he passed out.
When he came too he was on his side and through his blurred vision he could make out a small bucket on the floor. In a routine carried out since he was a young man, he delved down deep, grabbed hold of something in his belly and released a rather bad smelling burp. It was always a risky move but one that let you know which type of peanut butter your belly was going to produce; chunky or smooth. Thankfully, the belch was smooth and his stomach didn’t roll around like a wave caught in a bowl. Simon let out a deep sigh and rubbed his belly trying to quell the rumbling from inside.