by Ian Dyer
He turned to his tutor, a ravenous grin on his face. ‘How was that, eh? Pretty good for a first timer.’
Bob wound his reel and the line came hurtling in. Once it was fully back, the hook inches away from the surface of the water he turned to Simon, his face as blank as a roof slate, the sun glistened in his eyes.
‘That were my bit of water, Simon. Yamust know that you never piss on another man’s rhubarb, son, and you most certainly don’t cast yaline in another man’s drop.’
‘So no good, then?’
‘No, Simon. Let’s hope when you cast off into my daughter you do a better job.’
‘What?’
‘I hope, Simon, that when you have ree-lay-tions with my dear Barbara, that you do a proper job. She deserves that at least.’
Simon watched Bob carry on with his fishing, easing the rod back and then casting off without a care in the world unaware of what he had said.
With the rod dangling down by his side Simon said, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you can sometimes be a bit… I don’t know, inappropriate?’
‘What daya mean, Simon? Don’t let yer rod dangle.’
Simon lifted it up.
‘Things like that, rods dangling or being pulled off and then asking about how I go about having sex with your daughter. Last night for instance, you are telling me about what your wife wanted to do to you. It’s all a bit weird and a little off putting.’
‘Don’t know what you are getting at.’
Simon scratched the back of his neck and began to reel in his line. ‘Do you really want me to tell you how I go about having sex with your daughter?’
Ignoring the question and using his eyes to direct Simon Bob Said, ‘Cast off, Simon. But mind yakeep it away from me rhubarb.’
Simon did just that, flicking his rod so that the line flew out past the red buoy and into the middle of the lake. Once again there was one of those satisfying plops as the line and all its finery went into the water roughly where he had aimed. This was becoming an enjoyable activity, one that he could see himself taking up when he got back home, and although the company could be improved, there was something about fishing that was like being a child again. That sense of anticipation you have. That way in which everything, even mundane tasks, take on an exciting twist, not only because they are new but because there is a chance that there could be a prize at the end of it.
The morning moved on and so did the clear blue sky. A few clouds puffed up all bright white and glowing. They would occasionally cover the sun, some would burn away, others, the more stubborn, bigger ones, stayed true to their form and carried on moving across the huge blue vastness. Those clouds cast giant shadows across the valley and rolled across threatening not a drop of rain but cooled the air instead if but only for a fleeting moment. A few of those clouds passed over the lake and they brought a well needed relief from the sun that beat down on the two chaps as they cast off, reeled in, cast off, reeled in, cast off and reeled in until eventually one of them got a bite.
‘Oh shit!’
‘Let him take a bitaline, Simon. Don’t force it.’ Bob instructed with a firm but calming voice. He was now spinning up his own reel so that the lake was clear of any obstacles.
Not only was it a surprise to Simon that he caught a fish before Bob, it was also a surprise to him as to how strong the fish on the end of his line was. He didn’t really have a choice to let the little bugger take some line as he wasn’t quick enough on the draw to lock the reel and stop the line from spinning out. Simon held the rod with two hands, like a warrior holds a sword, as the fish swerved right to left then farther out only to turn back the way it had come. It whizzed about like a fly that had just been sprayed with bug killer. His hands were sweaty and he could feel himself tensing up, the exact opposite of what Bob had told him whilst he was preparing the rods and presently Simon could remember sweet fuck all of those vital guideline’s he had been given.
Under his breath Simon prayed to whatever God controlled the realms of fishing to net this fish please, oh scaly One, let me net this FISH!
Bob took a couple of steps sideways so that he was next to Simon and placed a rough, wet hand upon Simons shoulder.
Whispering, talking slowly as if he were talking to a young boy, Bob said, ‘Now…slowly, Simon…reel him in. If you feel him pull, let him go a bit. But not too far… don’t let him think he’s gonna win……
‘That’s it, Simon, good lad… Let him out…… Bit more……Now pull back on rod, dig that oook in further.’
The rod came back easy, Simon was sure he felt the hook go in a bit more. The fish felt easier to control It must be tiring he thought to himself and much like a fly that had been caught by the bug spray: it must be dying too. A sense of premature accomplishment came over him then and he tried to get rid of it. But it didn’t go away and butterflies fluttered in his stomach.
‘Must be getting tired. Reel him in, Simon……Slowly mind you, don’t go at it like its yamissus on a Saturday night. Treat it like a laydee, Simon…… Keep going……that’s it……now keep doing that whilst I go and get net.’
Hands shaking and not really knowing what he was doing Simon did as he was told. The reel clicked with every turn and the wet line soaked his hands. The wriggling fish swerved violently but nothing like it had been when it first bit.
A fin splashed from the water.
‘Looks like a good size. Perhaps 3 pound, maybe 5, if yalucky.’ Bob said from somewhere behind him.
A few seconds went by, Simon sweating like a cornered pick pocket. He could see the tracer coming to the surface and the fluorescent orange tubes that marked the knots glistened beneath the clear bubbling water.
‘Bob, it’s coming. Where that net!’ Panicking, Simon took some steps back, almost lost his footing on the wet stones. Steadied himself.
‘Calm down yasouthern tart. I’m here, I’m here.’
Bob was next to him now and he had replaced his rod with the long metal pole that held the green fishing net.
‘Like I said, keep on bringing him in……That’s it……Now stop when tracer hits the tip of yarod… Good lad… Bugger me it’s a biggun. Can yasee it, son?’
‘Yeah I can see it. Bloody hell this is great. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna catch my first fish.’
‘Now lift the rod up out of the water and turn it toward the net. Let the fish flop in. Don’t force it or you’ll lose it.’
Simon pulled back the rod raising it and the fish, ‘Stay on, stay on, stay on,’ he prayed out loud but he didn’t need to pray so hard. Bob was already on it and had the net under the flopping and struggling fish. Together they walked out of the lake and onto the grassy bank. The water splashed high and wide casting little rainbows as it caught the sun.
When Simon reached the bank he clenched his left fist tight and smiled through gritted teeth. Breathless with both excitement and exhaustion Simon placed the rod down and helped Bob land the fish. It flapped about in the net furious to be out of the water. Its mouth opened wide as it gasped for water to breath. Bob took hold of it with a steady and confident hand, placed it on a smooth rock, withdrew his knife from a pocket sown into the waders and quickly stabbed the fish once, square in the middle of its shiny head. The fish flopped about, it’s wet scales slapping the rock sounding like, well, sounding like a wet fish slapping against rock. He then retrieved the hook using the special little tool he retrieved from inside the grip of the knife.
The fish stopped wriggling, opened its mouth wide one final time and then the lake grew quiet. The rainbows faded into memory and the ripples sunk beneath the deep waters.
Simon and Bob stared at the fish and their reflections bounced back from its cold black eyes. Both men wore smiles as wide as canyons whilst water dripped from their hands and faces onto the soft earth beneath their feet. Both men basked in each other’s glory but remained silent, knowing that speaking aloud would break the spell.
And the fish just stared back at them.
There is not much else a dead fish can do.
5
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a fish, Simon.’
‘Yeah, I know that. But what sort of fish is it?’
‘It’s a Bream. You can tell a Bream from its black tail and fins. Chubby bitch, I guess about 4 pound, maybe just under.’
Bob leaned in, stroked the dead fish and stood back up. He turned to Simon and held out his hand.
‘Yadid well there, lad.’
Simon shook his hand. ‘Thank you. That was good. Harder than I thought. They really struggle.’
‘So would you if yahad an oook in yer gob.’ Bob said as he withdrew his hand and picked up the two rods. Once again he busied himself on the wooden pallets readying the rods for another go around.
Another dog, different to the one he had heard earlier barked in the distance. A couple of small birds took flight from a nearby tree screaming their agitation as they flew away and out of sight. The dog continued to bark, on and on. It wasn’t a yap, the dog sounded big, the bark dangerously deep. And it wasn’t a playful bark neither. It was a bark that told you to back up or face its massive mouth full of teeth.
Bob looked up only briefly and then returned his attention to the two rods and the mesmerising knots and weights that were held in the two orange and white stripped boxes.
On and on went the dog, Bark, Bark… Bark, Bark… Bark, Bark…Bark, Bark… and then someone yelled at it, their voice carrying on the soft breeze and echoing in this little canyon where they stood. The voice was a little muffled, but it was a man’s voice, though the dog paid it little attention. The animal and the man continued to argue though neither of the two could understand what the other was saying.
‘Is that coming from the house?’
‘Maybe.’ Bob said placing a completed rod and line of the floor. ‘Dog needs to be careful.’ And like some all-seeing know it all there was one final bark and then a gunshot. Simon took a step back and he slipped on the wet grass. He fell on his arse hard and let out a little oomph as he did. The canyon fell silent. Bob turned to see what had happened to Simon. He looked down and Simon saw that behind those squinting eyes the old man was laughing at him, though his face retained that dead fish look.
‘What yadoing down there?’
‘What do you think? I slipped.’
‘Oh, why dya do that for?’
‘It wasn’t on purpose, Bob. I didn’t just think I’d fall on my arse for shits and giggles. I did it because I was surprised to hear that… that gun… that was a gunshot, right? It came from that house, didn’t it?’
Simon stood up, rubbing his backside through his slippery waders. On the wind he was sure he could hear someone crying but it could just be the sound of an animal in the woods. The old man sighed before he answered. ‘Aye. Dog probably went mad. They have some big ones up there, protecting whatever shite they own. A pack from what I been told, and a pack has to have a leader. You have to show the rest whose boss once in a while. If one steps out a line you have to put it back in or give it a beating. If yadon’t do that, Simon, what you have will ruin itself and those around it will suffer.
‘You understand?’
Simon knew exactly what he was talking about, what he was referring too and he understood perfectly what Bob was saying.
‘Yeah, Bob, I understand.’ And that was that. They moved on like the world moved on and the clouds overhead moved on and the water in the lake moved and maybe the fish did too, but there was only one way to find that out.
6
Simon put the Bream into the large catch net that Bob had set up on the edge of the river. It floated on the surface, and then slowly sunk to the bottom. Simon watched it whilst Bob readied the rods.
Once the rods were baited, they waded out into the lake and cast off, Simon to the right, Bob to the left much like they had been prior to the catch. Both men were stood in similar poses, their backs slightly arched, knees apart, left hand holding the rod gunslinger style and their right hand perched neatly on their waist, eyes narrowed; focused on the line, and their mouths a slit of concentration.
Keeping his voice low like instructed to by the ancient fisherman Simon said, ‘So, I guess I am one nil up then.’
Bob chuckled. ‘Aye, but don’t get cocky.’
Simon laughed. Realised quickly that it was too louder a laugh and slapped his free hand across his mouth stifling whatever sound tried to come out.
‘What’s so funny?’ Bob said.
‘You just quoted Star Wars.’
‘What’s Star, Wars, Simon?’ He said Star Wars like they had about 20 R’s in them.
‘What’s Star Wars?’ Simon parroted and turned to Bob with his eyebrows raised. Bob shrugged his shoulders but didn’t take his eyes off the line.
‘One of the most popular movies of all… you know what, never mind. Just ignore me.’ So Bob did.
7
Both men continued to fish, each reeling in and casting off a few times more. Bob asked Simon to hold his rod so that he could throw a few crushed up balls of bait into the water. ‘That should attract some more. Waters going dead and we need to liven it up.’ But since then, almost an hour ago, there had been nothing.
8
A terrific scream out of nowhere broke the quaint soft sounds of the forest. It was harsh, bestial, and cut right to Simon’s core. Simons gut dropped about 16 floors and his heartbeat pumped erratically, reddening his face and making his hands and feet feel fat as the blood rushed from them into his head and chest. Quickly, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see who had produced that scream, he looked over toward where it had come from. The scream went on for what seemed like minutes but was only seconds. No birds flew from the trees and no dog barked in return. When the scream faded a soft breeze blew across the lake and made the overhanging trees whistle and creak.
Simon heard Bob tsk under his breath, sigh heavily, and then mutter something about noisy bloody freaks go back to fucking yapigs or something like that.
That scream and the previous dog bark, which was silenced by the gunshot, could only have been a mile away, which meant that the building once called the Brew House but now called the Rotten House was really close, perhaps just over the valley in front of him where the trees stood atop it like sentinels guarding a hidden treasure. Sentinels protecting him maybe?
‘What is that place over there, Bob? What are they doing in there?’
Bob rubbed his unshaven chin and throat and puffed out his top lip so that his bottom one curled underneath it. He looked like a man in great thought. Painful thought. Whatever he was thinking about saying, or thinking about not saying, seemed to be weighing heavily on his mind. A water-boatman skirted past Simon and carried on across the water caring not a jot what dangers lay beneath it. A blood red dragonfly with wafer thin wings flew past him: dipping here and there whilst a fat bumble bee, defying all the laws that physics put before it, wheezed past his shoulder.
Simon started to believe that Bob wasn’t going to answer and was about to ask again when the old man finally spoke his voice had changed, it was low, not a whisper, but low enough for his voice to alter in pitch and to deepen like an old seadog washed ashore on a distant golden beach. To Simon he sounded like an old man that had smoked way too many cigars and drank way too much whiskey and though Bob had never seen it, Simons mind had no choice but to link this monologue with the monologue from the opening scene of the Godfather.
So Bob spoke and Simon listened and the clouds continued to blow by and the trees kept on swaying in the warm summer breeze and the bees kept a buzzing and the dragonflies kept a sweeping and the fish went on swimming but none of those fish came a biting.
9
Simon, his throat dry and looking over toward where the house stood beyond the abruptly raised ground and past the trees standing as sentinels, reeled in his line and said, ‘So what you are telling me, Bob, if I heard you right, is that over there, out the way of the
rest of the us, either to keep us safe from them or them safe from you lot, is a house filled with single toothed Yorkshire bred rednecks?’
‘Spose. Aye, I guess you got it right. Though I don’t know how many teeth they have, never been that close.’
Simon cast off plop and was pleased that he had only missed his target by about a foot. ‘Well yeah, okay I get that, nobody sees them much and when they do its usually the mother or father that ventures down and they, for what it’s worth, are almost…normal?’
‘Getting good, Simon, just try not and be so twitchy when flicking forward. And yeah, the mother and father are so-so but as for them kids…’
Simon and Bob looked at each other, both with raised eyebrows, both holding their rods gunslinger style and both with their right hand upon their hips.
Simon completed the sentence for the old fella, ‘They aint quite so-so. By the sounds of it they aint nowhere near so-so. Especially what they do with the pigs and any other animal that has the poor misfortune to find themselves up there.’
Both fell quite. A bird sang in the trees somewhere and far off a truck honked its deep throated horn.
‘Do they really do that, Bob, yaknow, that? With animals?’
Bob coughed, releasing some phlegm from his throat, which he had no choice but to swallow with a grimace on his face. He pulled back on his line and then reeled it in quick. He looked at the bait on the end of the hook, saw that it was intact, shook his head and then cast off near some reeds plop.
Silence, except for all the usual noises and so Simon had to ask again.
‘Bob?’
‘Eh?’
‘Do they really get up to that stuff, with the animals? Or are you having me on?’
‘If by stuff you mean they fuck animals, Simon, then yes they do. And no, I aint havin you on.’