Rottenhouse

by Ian Dyer

  Bob kicked the right front tyre and the car wobbled slightly. Whatever had been used to slash the tyres fell out and clanged on the driveway.

  ‘Why do you want to use my car?’

  ‘Well isn’t it obvious.’ Simon pointed to the tyre next to him, lent down and pulled out the old fashioned razor blade that had been used to cut the rubber and then held it out to Bob; the words etched into the metal Wilkinson Original were brown and rusty. ‘My tyres are flat and I have only got one spare, so I need your car.’

  Bob shook his head. ‘It’s like I said, Simon, these foreign cars, you can never trust em. Always something goes wrong weeem. It either engine exploding or the gears sticking or the lectrics failing.’ He pointed to the flat tyres on Simons car, ‘That too. Look at em, Simon, they got no aiiiir inem and they need aiiiir inem so that they can hold up the car and it can move. It’s just another reason why I won’t ever by foreign, Simon. It’s UK built or nothing for me.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you think this is a mechanical issue, Bob?’ Simon asked as he strutted toward Bob and stood next to him his hand on the roof of his car. ‘Is that what you are telling me? Because if you are then you are as mentally retarded as I always thought. For Christ sake, Bob, can’t you see that the tyres have been slashed? Slashed by these razors. That’s why the aiiiir has come out. It aint mechanical Bob, this has been done to them. You do see that right? Please tell me that you see that?’

  ‘Mine are okay.’ Bob muttered as he turned and looked at his own car glistening in the orange glow of the dying light.

  ‘Yours are okay…… yours…..yaknow what, Bob. Forget it. Slashed or not slashed, mechanical or act of God, I don’t give a shit right now. You gonna let me borrow your car or not?’

  Bob considered this. Behind those dull blank eyes Simon could see those cogs ticking and gears whirring and knew even before he said it what the answer was going to be and it struck Simon then, struck him like a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky that sent shivers down his spine and turned his skin to gooseflesh, that this man stood in front of him, that had lost his wife and just lost his daughter and that had beat and murdered others and that had re-enacted his sexual exploits to anyone that had the time to stop and watch, didn’t actually care what anyone else thought and didn’t care about what they thought about him. He was his own man, he had his own beliefs, and he wouldn’t budge from them.

  ‘I can’t let you go, Simon.’

  Simon swung for him. A mean right hook from deep down inside of himself; a place he didn’t know even existed, but at that very moment was glad that it did. He connected well; four knuckles smacking hard against Bobs temple, which sent the old man down to one knee and then flopping to one side so that his head hit the car door, leaving a little dent, a smear of grease, and then he was flat out on his back and Simons hand hurt as he stood there looking at his reddening knuckles and a small lump appeared on the side of Bob’s head that Simon had connected with. Simon stood over him like a conquering hero. Should he feel proud? Perhaps. But he didn’t. Simon didn’t feel anything just an odd numbness that started at the tips of his toes and ran all the way up to the tip of his snotty nose which was dripping so he wiped with the sleeve of his jacket.

  4

  Simon ran into the house, fetched Bob’s car keys from the small side table in the hallway and then ran towards the vintage car looking down at the sleeping man lying prone on the floor. Simon opened the car door and turned on the engine. Driving away, the dying sunlight pouring through his windscreen masking the road ahead with flashes of bright red and yellow and orange and white, Simon looked in the rear view mirror and wasn’t surprised to see Bob sat up, rubbing the side of his face which was still sore from the wallop it had just received. And as Simon pulled out of the driveway and steered the car down the road he glanced to his right, shrugged his shoulders as if to imply an apology and then drove away ignoring Bob’s shouts for him to stop.

  5

  The old car had a stiff clutch and mightily sticky brakes. It was a world away from the Electric Blue Wonder he drove now. Going into third was a nightmare, fourth almost impossible and now on the open road and away from the village getting into fifth and staying there was such a relief that he used the engine brake as a means to slow down leaving the brakes and the gears well alone.

  The old car lumbered from corner to corner. Steering the beige beast was almost as hard as changing its gears. It was like driving an oil tanker through a sea of jelly. The world outside flew past in a blur, but he cared not for the trees and the bushes and the farms and the beasts and the people that he past. Simon didn’t know where he was, only that if he stayed on this road long enough he would see the small dirt track on the right hand side and down that track was a rough car park of shingle and bark and in the car park, that now would be empty, the path would lead to the Batcave and that path would go through the forest until it reached the tree with the signpost nailed to it and instead of turning left and going to The Quick and The Deep he would turn right and go down to The Rotten House where the forest looked dirtier, nastier and the people were twisted and evil and kidnappers of women. One woman. The only woman

  But first he had to save her. He couldn’t remember if he told her that he loved her today and then thought what a stupid thing that was to think. He could tell her that when he got her out of that place; when he saved her.

  He chuckled then. ‘How do I do that? How the fuck am I going to do that?’

  His hands weren’t shaking but that was all a sham. His hands were gripped tight to the steering wheel. As soon as they were off they would start to shake and he wouldn’t be able to control them. Simon flashed past a sign that indicated the speed limit here was 40 and looking down to the speedo he saw that he was almost doubling that, but he didn’t ease off the throttle, just kept it there; slightly hovering above the floor. More fields and fences. A tractor all green and yellow whizzed by on the right making the car heave and wobble like a toy. In the distance and growing fainter by the second the tractors horn blasted. Simon flicked his middle finger up and pushed it against the driver’s window. Completely futile, the tractor was now but a spec in the rear view mirror but Simon felt a little better for doing it. Ahead, the road narrowed to single file. He didn’t have the right of way but that didn’t stop him from looking ahead, seeing the road was clear and flooring it. The needle on the speedo drifted till it was just touching 90, ‘88 miles per hour!’ and as the car tickled 100 Simon went into the other lane and all four wheels left the tarmac as it took off from the humpback bridge ‘Yeee-haa!’ and landed hard; all suspension squeaks and rubber tyre screams. The car jolted but nothing to write home about and he controlled the lumbering beast.

  Breathing hard and wiping the sweat from his forehead and the white clotted spittle from the sides of his mouth he slowed the car, crunching the gears because up ahead and getting close real quick was the turning that he needed to take. The engine roared thanks to some poor gear changes on Simon’s behalf and driving into the car park he slammed on the brakes skidding hard and stalling the engine sending pebbles and rocks and dust all over the show. The car came to a halt across three spaces; four deep grooves in the dirt marked his path. Leaving the car he tapped the bonnet of Bob’s car, ‘Nice one fella,’ and walked around to the boot where he hoped he would find a few helpful items.

  ‘A rocket launcher and a machine gun would be pretty handy.’

  The boot was empty except for a small plastic tub and he knew it would have been that way because he had been the one that emptied it. But back then Lucy hadn’t been taken, Simon hadn’t attacked his future father in law, and he hadn’t committed grand theft auto.

  The light wasn’t all gone from the car park, the sun seeming to hang around not, wanting to miss what was going to happen tonight, Simon could see a torch and an axe sat in the plastic tub. There was some other bits and bobs, though nothing that would aid him on his rescue. He pictured himself then, up at t
he Rotten House, on his hands and knees, his trousers wrapped about his ankles and surrounded by three big men and somewhere behind him there stood another man ready to do what they did to piggies but this time they were going to do it to him. Next to him was Lucy and she was dead; cut up like reaping day, and he was covered in her blood and most of the ground was too.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ He said looking down at the axe and torch that were shaking in his unsteady grip. He threw them both back into the boot of the car with disgust and wiped his hands on his jeans. He wasn’t the right man for this. He was no hero. He looked at the axe and wondered what the hell it was he would have done with it anyway. Simon took out his phone, unlocked it and stood there contemplating his next move but knowing what it was. The light of the phone burned into his eyes and his thumb hovered over the green telephone symbol. Looking closer he noticed that there was a little red circle with the number two inside of it.

  He had two missed calls, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember hearing it ring. Perhaps during his escapades in the car? Or maybe when he was back in the driveway? It didn’t matter. It could be Lucy, it could be them with demands.

  He pressed the telephone symbol and the next screen showed that he had missed a call from an Unknown Number, ‘Typical.’ and then another missed call from his Voicemail.

  He frowned, pressed and held his thumb on the number one on his keypad, which was the speed dial for his voicemail, and after a second or two a robot girl answered and he followed the instruction to the new message.

  It was Kyle.

  What the fuck, Simon. Been gone a couple of days and already you aint texting me back and answering your phone to me. Trying to cut me out or sumpfing? Listen, I know work aint been great and that you is looking to settle down with old red dress, but come on man, things can’t be that bad that you decide to move without even telling your old mate Kyle. I know what you is thinking, that I am being a funny prick. But seriously man, I aint, not when it comes to this. There is a For Sale sign up outside your house. Went up his morning. Even the studio is up for the taking. What the fuck? You could have told me. I have spoken with the agents. Hopkins and Bridge, down Kent Avenue. Had to make an appointment to view just to be sure. I’ve had Lee and that twat Marcus on the phone as well. They saw your studio up for grabs in Friday’s papers and I’m just checking now… (There is a rustle of newspaper) Well I’ll be; it’s here. Friday’s papers. Your house. For Sale. Three bedroomed blah blah blah and then a couple of photos. (Kyle falls silent for a couple of seconds though Simon can still hear him breathing. Kyle then slams a hand down onto the desk.) 250 thousand O-N-O. Is that it? Christ. I might buy the place for that just to sell it on and make a tidy profit. Come on man. Let’s talk. Call me, yeah. This aint right. Again, no joke, pal. No joke.

  The line went dead and before getting the options he knew like the back of his hand Simon pressed the red symbol and locked the phone without looking at the screen. ‘Lying little prick.’

  Simon dialled 999.

  The call connected but then went dead. Simon glanced at the phone and saw the call had disconnected but he had a signal; 5 solid bars, whatever that really meant. He tried again, and again the call connected, ‘Hello, I need the police,’ He whispered, but then the line went dead.

  ‘Fu-u-uck’ he said pressing the 9 button 3 times much harder than he needed to and then pressed the green call button with gritted teeth and tears brimming in his eyes.

  The call connected.

  He held his breath.

  And then it went dead.

  ‘Fuck it! Bollocking fuck. Answer the cunting phone you stupid fuck.’ He tried again, now with tears running down his cheeks.

  But again there was nothing but the dull tone of a dead line.

  Simon knelt on the floor and cried. Didn’t care who or what heard him. He cried like only a man can cry when everything around him is going to shit and he isn’t man enough to sort it out. His father, the man who had sexually abused him and that Simon was glad he had burnt to death in the house fire, had always said that a man had responsibilities, had a duty to those that were dependent upon them and should do everything in their power to see them safe and Simon liked to believe he did that and that he did it well. Better than his paedophile father anyway. Simon thought about his responsibilities as the tears flowed. Five minutes later, his sleeve wet thanks to the snot and the tears, he was still holding onto his phone.

  6

  Simon put the phone back into his pocket and grabbed the torch and the axe and all thoughts of turning back were gone.

  Simon placed the axe, which had a short handle but a good sized head and blade, down by his arse between his jeans and his boxer shorts. It wasn’t a snug fit but it would have to do for now and slamming down the boot lid he clicked the torch off and on so that it lit up the ground beneath the car. A part of him was sad that the torch worked. That part wanted the police to be involved, maybe a fully armed SWAT team too. And a helicopter.

  ‘A helicopter would be great.’

  But there wasn’t going to be a helicopter. No SWAT team neither, not even a small fat balding local Deputy to cover his back while he went in.

  ‘It’s all on you buddy boy.’ And with that it was time to leave.

  Walking with an awkward rub against his back, Simon reached the path that he had called the Batcave earlier in the day and he looked back to the car not really knowing why or what he would see, saw that whatever it was that he was looking for wasn’t there, let out a sigh and headed in. Above him, the tall trees were covered in shadow; their colour taken away by the falling sun like a child selfishly chomping up all the sweets it could get and they arched over him and they followed the path ahead of him. Looking up, into the buttresses of the archway that were made out of branches, orange lances of light tried to poke through but the gloom was too great and so it was dark down here, but not too dark. Simon didn’t need the torch, though he kept it by his side, his thumb brushing against the button just in case. Walking through the Batcave he had hoped that a plan would come to life in his head. A great plan, perhaps with traps and decoys built in. Maybe he had hoped for a plan to lead the brothers here and there with sounds of the wild or a car fire or setting the pigs on fire, but there was none of that. His thoughts were pretty much empty. Much like the forest was empty around him. There were no bees like earlier. No birds tweeting or dragonflies swooping. The fallen leaves and twigs and dead bugs beneath his feet were his companions now. Even the river, which had been a constant white noise for most of the day, was quiet. It was there, he could smell it, but it was silent; holding its breath whilst it waited for Simon to act.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell it is you all want me to do?

  Silence answered back.

  Up ahead, was the tree with the sign post nailed to it. ‘Shit it.’ Simon said. ‘Least it aint made of legs and belly.’ He had business down the dark path. The path to rotten places and rotten people. He remembered that he had seen himself earlier running down that path and now here he was; not running, but just about to head down that way. Maybe he should run.

  ‘Would get there quicker.’ He then pictured himself running along that gloomy path only to impale himself on a low hanging branch; an odd smile on his face as the blood trickled out his mouth and his heart still pumped on the bit of the stick poking out of Simons back.

  Flicking on the torch, which threw harsh yellow light on everything, bleaching all colour and substance from it, Simon took a couple of steps forward, tentative steps, easy steps, trying not to make a sound but not doing a very good job of it. The path beneath his feet was easy to follow as trees lined it like a guard of honour. It got colder with each new step and past the tree with the blood red X painted on it Simon started to see his breath come out of his mouth like a soft mist and that mist hung in front of him and felt wet upon his face as he walked through it.

  Simon was all alone in this bit of the forest. His back prickled with
cold sweat and chills ran through him so he reached round and took out the axe and held it ready for action by his side. The torch was bright but the path wondered into a darker, thicker place and the light from the torch was now but a shrinking slice of yellow. Everything outside of its glare was nothing and nothing was bad and low skulking trees were twisted together like a wild woman’s hair and roots broke free of the ground and reached up trying to trip him and grab his feet even though they remained static and didn’t reach up because that was all in Simons mind. He knew that everything he was seeing, the witch over there, the wolf beast, the tree of spikes and the monster of claws were all there until the torch revealed them for what they were; nothing.

  Does a tree make a sound when it falls and nobody is there to hear it? Simon thought to himself and then to the gloom he said, ‘Are you a witch or a beast come to get me until I shine a light on you?’ and he did that and the witch became a crooked bush and the beast was nothing but a fallen tree. Passing a rusty old tractor that looked like a sleeping dragon before Simon’s torch showed it for what it truly was, the trees thinned and the cold air lifted and enough light began to filter through so that the torch could be turned off and the path looked like it had done prior to the sign post. The sky was visible now and the sun was setting and it was making the most of it and the hills and flat lands of the moors were engulfed in orange fire, which meant that within an hour it would be dark, which also meant that within an hour Simon wanted this to be over.

  7

  The forest stopped abruptly. Simon stood in the shadow of the tall trees looking out at the undulating grasslands that stretched out from right to left and all the way to the tip of the horizon. The sun was now half vanished; a semi-circle of orange erupting like a gargantuan volcano. The river was near, Simon could hear it clearly now it was all around him and sounded angry and fast. Ahead, no more than 30 meters away – though it was hard to tell in this dusk light – a short wooden bridge crossed the river and on the other side, a dirty muddy path led to the house Simon had seen in his dream; The Rotten House.