Rottenhouse

by Ian Dyer

  ‘Went to toilets just before Chairman came in.’

  Simon hadn’t even noticed the barman who was on his side of the room, a tray full of empty pint glasses in his hands.

  ‘Oh good.’

  Entering the toilets Simon was relieved to find them empty.

  8

  The smell of freshly squeezed bleach and lemon urinal soap filled the air as Simon made his way into the only cubical and closed the door behind him. He didn’t need the toilet though the feeling of wanting to throw up hadn’t gone, so he just lowered the lid and sat on that. The voices from outside were muffled, like voices through a pair of headphones, though he was sure he could hear a guitar being tuned and a set of drums being hit.

  He stared blankly at the base of the wooden door watching the light from under the door jamb leak through. Simon rubbed his fingers against his forehead hard enough for the dead skin to peel off in little grey, rolled up lines and he brushed them onto the floor. By looking up he saw that there was a crumpled flyer pinned to the door. His face scrunched up like he had eaten a very tart lemon as he read it:

  THE STRANGLED PIGS

  PLAYING SUNDAY NIGHT

  Set List Will Include (requests welcome)

  Back o’Barn, Up The Coal Shaft

  Red On The Floor, The Natural Lubricant

  Skin You, Fresh Hole

  Mad Girls and Long Nights, Black and Blue

  OINK! OINK! SQUEEL! OINK! OINK!

  ‘How very quaint. Jeez.’

  One of the song titles in particular - Skin You - caught Simon’s eye but he couldn’t think why. Each time he looked away he was drawn back to it much like he had just seen a ghost in the corner of the room and was checking to make sure it either had floated away or was still there. Granted, they were all pretty grim song titles and he tried hard not to think what such whimsical ditties as Fresh Hole or The Natural Lubricant were about. But that one song was familiar, as if he had heard the name before somewhere long ago in a memory that should not see the light of day again.

  The toilet door swung open and his brief silence was destroyed.

  ‘…had it coming for long time. You seen how’s he been since he became member. Didn’t like what he had to do though, when yahear him talking about it, he don’t hide the fact that he got his dick wet.’

  ‘So what was it that he did? I heard he tried it on with old Burt’s daughter and she plain fucked him off.’

  Whoever the two voices belonged to had now made it to the urinals and there was an unzipping of flies as they took to their business. Simon, in the narrow cubical, had unknowingly sunk back against the far wall and was breathing heavily. For some reason his eyes couldn’t stop looking at the flyer.

  ‘Nowt like that. No…ohh that’s better, I heard he mucked up with Bobbie. Run his mouth like he always does. Somehow that new guy, yaknow Barbara’s southern nonce, knows a little too much.’

  ‘He’s a pale streakapiss if I ever saw one. Old man Rowling aint gonna have none of him.’

  Simon’s heart began to race as the two men continued to make water. All of a sudden his body had become nervous, twitchy and it itched all over. It was like being back at first school all over again; hiding from the bullies in the third year toilets, drenched in sweat and occasionally piss too, waiting for them to find you. Waiting with your jumper in your mouth so that if you screamed no sound would come out. Waiting with your feet up against the cubical door in a worthless attempt to stop it from being kicked in knowing all the time that your legs would buckle like a softly baked cookie if they tried.

  ‘I don’t know. Couldn’t give a rat’s turd anyway. That old carpet muncher aint gonna find no better. You seen the state of it?’

  For a brief moment Simon thought he had gotten it all wrong; maybe they weren’t talking about him but still talking about Lewis, and he was just hearing fragments of a much deeper conversation. Simon didn’t care what anybody thought, Lucy was a stunner pure and simple, especially in this place surrounded by the orkish women of Rottenhouse.

  ‘You still bruised from when she kicked yer balls off back in school, is all.’ There was a shuffling then; two sets of shoes squeaking and clothes rubbing and Simon imagined the two men having a play fight, their little pink sticks flopping here and their spraying droplets of fresh urine all over the show.

  ‘Probably, but I got myself a goodun now, aint I, and thanks to the Chairman she don’t ever want to be saying no to me if she knows what good for her.’

  Both men zipped up.

  ‘Lucky bastid, you are Cook. I got lumbered with that fat retard who just lays there and takes it like a dead pig. Give anything for a good toothy suck. She can cook a mean stew on Sunday mind you.’

  The two men laughed and left the toilets without washing their hands leaving Simon alone and wanting to be back at home. If he could click his heels together three times and say there’s no place like home as he did, then he would, as long as it worked.

  He leant forward and glanced at the black and white tiled floor; the lights reflection burning his eyes but he didn’t remove his gaze. A little pain was kind of nice,

  Skin You

  made him realise that this wasn’t a dream, this place was for real, and the people were for real. Whatever was happening wasn’t a stage play and he knew that sooner rather than later he was going to be even more caught up in it. And those two blokes, whoever they had been, were enough to make Simon understand that Rottenhouse wasn’t a place made for him, it didn’t suit him and he didn’t suit it. So best to leave with or without Mr God Damn High and Mighty’s blessing or not.

  Skin You

  Simon didn’t want to think about what the old man would do when he asked for Lucy’s hand in marriage. He pictured Mr Rowling slowly walking away after the question had been asked and then from behind his coat rack producing a gargantuan axe and swinging wildly in the air decapitating him in one fell swoop. He would speak with Lucy, either here or at her father’s place and they would both decide on the best course of action. All of their decisions in the past; be they small or large, had always been discussed. Nothing was ever off the table. This would be no different. Simon would lay it all out, including how Lewis had gone chop happy and what pissing guy 1 and 2 had said, and what will be will be. Is it the end of the world if they don’t get a blessing?

  Skin You… I’m gonna…

  Skin You…I’m gonna…

  And then it all came flooding back.

  And then it all came flooding up.

  Pushing himself off Simon lifted the lid on the toilet and for the second time that day vomited until his eyes bulged from their sockets.

  This time it wasn’t a dead body being hacked apart that made him throw up, it was the song title Skin You, and the memory that it had dug up from the deepest part of his brain.

  Come here Simon. Don’t run away from me Simon. I’m gonna skin you like a dog you little shit!

  The more he thought about what his drunk father had been screaming at him that night when Simon was just a boy; a boy who had just spilt a can of beer on the new carpet, brought up more vomit until retching was all he had left. And like he had been after his father had set to him with his worn leather belt, Simon found himself lying on a cold toilet floor crying, wondering what he had done to deserve such a punishment.

  As a boy he hadn’t understood and as a man he still didn’t understand and so he guessed he never would.

  Stink

  1

  The band hadn’t started playing but in Simons head it felt as if Iron Maiden had turned it all the way to 11. He was numb from the forehead down and with each breath came a staggered wheeze from deep within his chest. He left the toilets, was relieved to see Lucy sat back with her lady friends and so angled toward her.

  He could see the barman watching him, eagle eyed, his brow furrowed, as his wiped clean glasses. Simon knew there were other eyes on him, especially from the tables he had come from, he could feel them burrowing into his
weak body.

  He reached Lucy though she hadn’t noticed he was there. It took one of her new friends (or old friend for that matter) who Simon had nicknamed Pudding - due to her small stature and huge round frame – to nudge Lucy and point over to where Simon stood. As she turned Simon noticed that Lucy went from sheer delight; all smiles and wide eyes and happiness like Christmas morning in human form, to one of deep worry; all grey and flat.

  ‘Christ, you alright? You look terrible.’ Her tone matched her look and there was a hint of accent.

  ‘Not really. Look can we go? Do you mind? I need to go lay down or something.’

  ‘You sure? What about just sitting down outside for ten minutes and having a glass of water. That might help.’

  Of course I am sure. Have you not heard what happened?

  ‘You know what happened right? You saw it, or heard it? I need to get out of here before that band starts playing and my head explodes. Please, can we just go?’

  The ladies continued on with their conversations as if Simon wasn’t there. This close to them, to their faces and their scent, made him suddenly aware of the fact that Lucy was so overwhelming more attractive than the other women it was like looking at a bright red rose against a field of freshly laid cow shit. They all looked alike. Not as sisters may have the same traits or mother and daughter may share the same features, it was more when you know that a group of people are all family. Maybe not all blood related but they shared the same look as it were. They had the same deep set eyes, though the colours may be different. Their faces were round and fatty with amazing jowls on which small narrow bitty lips hung like washed out old copies of originals long lost to the sands of time.

  ‘Why don’t you go and I’ll stay and get a lift back with dad? Fresh air might do yasome good.’ Lucy said with a concerned look. But it wasn’t concern for him. It was for her. With a bleak realisation Simon knew the concern wasn’t for him it was for the rest of her evening and what these folks would chat about if they were to leave before the night had even started. A rage built up in him and he clenched his hands into fists and buried them deep into his jean pockets. Lucy must have seen this and she slid back ever so slightly in her chair. And then her eyes mirrored that look her dad was so fond of giving and he knew he was on his own. There was another thing he was made aware of too, in that brief passage of time; his beautiful fiancé looked like a not so bright red rose in a field of freshly laid cow shit. She looked plain, not unattractive, but certainly not sexy. That was it, Simon thought, not sexy is the right way to put it. She wasn’t Lucy anymore.

  ‘So that’s that then? You’re staying here?’ Simon said a little louder than he had anticipated.

  ‘Well yeah.’ And then in her father’s condescending voice, ‘You’ve had hard day, Simon. Go get some sleep and I shall see you when I get home.’

  Disgruntled but not wanting to argue (Simon didn’t really know how to argue with Lucy, they didn’t argue, they had crossed words but it was never what you would call an argument) he took his hands out of his pockets and held one out.

  ‘Camera bag, please.’ Lucy handed him his brown satchel.

  And that was that. No kiss goodbye, no fond farewell, nothing. He just turned and left and she turned and carried on talking as if what had just happened never really happened at all. Simon skirted the Beating Zone, kept his head down and left the club. He was drawn to the painting that was hung just above the basement stairs that led down to the eternal darkness from his dreams but he resisted it. He didn’t need that in his life right now. What he wanted was to be out of here and into the fresh night air. It seemed to Simon as he walked down the stairs and into the car park that all he had been doing over the last couple of days was trying to get away from somewhere and the weight of all that had gone on, especially what had just happened to Lewis, pulled him down physically and mentally till his arse felt as if it were scrapping the floor.

  2

  The air was warm and sweet and Simon gulped it down in harsh deep breaths. The sky wasn’t clear tonight which made the air humid and thick. Stars were obscured by fat clouds that were being lit up by far off flashes of lightning. If there was rain in the air Simon hoped that the valley walls would keep it at bay. Grumbles of thunder echoed but they were toothless threats.

  His head had cleared but the humidity hadn’t done much for his knotted stomach and it still hurt. He was pleased to be out of that place and he looked back at the old building disgusted at what atrocities he had seen in there. From this angle and with the lightening casting harsh shadows across its bricked front, the club looked like it had a demonic face. Simon stopped and took out his camera. The windows that were lit on the third floor were its eyes and between them the rough brickwork, aglow from the streetlights, looked like a crooked nose. Of course the main door was the mouth and the stairs that led down were its tongue, all hanging out, licking its brick lips so as to taste whatever was walking up or down it. As Simon breathed heavily, so too did the building, and Simon could feel himself being pulled back in and he took a step back even though there was nothing to those thoughts.

  He adjusted his camera settings, stopping the flash and extending the exposure time and with the aid of a wall so that the shot wasn’t blurred, framed the building and clicked a handful of times adjusting settings here and there as he did. He prayed that he had captured what he could see though he knew through experience that wasn’t always the case. A photo doesn’t capture what the mind sees, only what the camera sees. Emotion comes from the image not from the taker. Simple words but ones that Simon knew were true and one of the finest lessons he had learnt. He also learnt not to look at the pictures straight after taking them; you were always disappointed, and so he put the lens cap back on and walked across the car park.

  Though he never looked back to see, he knew that the building behind was still breathing, still looking at him; watching him with that open mouth and long tongue poking out and those all seeing eyes that could see through walls and metal watching him and maybe winking as if to say see ya later, alligator. See you soon, stinky baboon! Cut you up, buttercup!

  It sent a shiver running down Simon’s back and he walked a little faster.

  3

  A soft wind brushed the hair away from Simon’s brow and it cooled his skin. On the other side of the car park stood the burnt out shell of the old Johnson place. It wouldn’t be long, he guessed, that what remains of that house would be knocked down and replaced. But then again, there was something about Rottenhouse and the people that lived here that no matter what happened, be that death or fire, that all endured and that nothing was ever truly gone.

  He walked across the car park eyes fixed on the house, curious as to what had gone on in there. As much as the basement in the club had wanted to lure Simon down into its dark clutches, the burnt out home that Mr Rowling had parked opposite grabbed hold of Simon and hauled him in as forked lightening gashed white lines in the sky overhead.

  4

  You’re told not to press big red buttons, not to touch hot ovens, not to play with fire, not be a dirty liar, not to play in traffic and most definitely not to touch Aunt Fanny (the old rhyme he had been told by his mother, though he hated the last part because it didn’t rhyme and as a child he didn’t have an Aunt Fanny but now in his later years he knew what its true meanings were). Simon was never told not to play in old burnt out houses, he wasn’t a war baby and so houses that were in such a state didn’t exist when he was a boy, but common sense says stay away, for in such wrecks death awaits you with open arms. This didn’t stop Simon walking aimlessly into the ruined house that was once owned, and lived in until a few weeks ago, by the Johnson family, and its blackened core engulfed Simon like a black hole in the centre of a galaxy.

  From the outside Simon believed that all he would find inside would be a ruination; an empty shell with nothing to denote shape, layout or that a family had once lived here, loved here, died here. Nothing would have survived such was
the seemingly high intensity of the fire that overtook this house. He was wrong.

  Inside was burnt out, there was no denying that, but the house had remained solid so much so that Simon could walk through the front door and into the hallway as if he were visiting when the house was new. The street light lit the hallway, Simons shadow stretched out before him until it melted into the nothingness that was the back of the house. It smelt bad; stale water, charred plastic and rotted meat. Old paintings hung from the charcoaled walls in odd angles. Floorboards moaned in sharp squeals as Simon walked softly across them. Doors were open, inviting you in, and Simon peered through and the windows were blackened with soot and so he could see nothing except his own shadow which like the paintings that hung on the walls arched across the floor in odd shapes.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Simon said and he reached down into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

  He thumbed at the screen, the light from the phone barely covering his face and leaving no shadow, until he came across what until now had been the most useless app he had ever bought. As he pressed the big red button, don’t press big red buttons, don’t touch hot ovens, and a torch like light shone from the back of the phone engulfing the bare wooden floor in white, he sniggered as the useless app suddenly became useful.

  Maybe it was the humid air mixed with the sourness of the house that made Simon feel like he wasn’t alone in there, that there was a presence, heavy and wet, surrounding him, following him, wanting him, or maybe it was just the heebie jeebies that quite rightly would take over any right minded individual as they walked through a burnt out home which was pitch black and only lit by occasional lightning. Simon didn’t believe in ghosts. Though that’s not to say that he still wouldn’t if he ever saw one. He panned the phone around the hallway not sure what he was looking for but knowing that he was looking for something. The darkness became thicker the further Simon journeyed inside and even though the phones torch light was impressive; it only lit up an area a meter in diameter until it met the wall of darkness. Wallpaper, or what was left of it, hung in strands like dead leaves and Simons coat brushed against them causing some to fall to the broken floor.