by Ian Dyer
It was a fitting name.
Simon gripped the handle of the axe tighter as he gazed upon its wretchedness and then turned his attention to the pig pens that were positioned to the left of the building. There were pigs there, all bright pink and their snorts and grunts drifted on the breeze as they foraged for scraps in the mud and the shit. His throat was as dry as desert sand and his bones felt weary, his energy drained, and his mind foggy. The bridge looked as rundown as the house. It had four main wooden posts at each corner with thick beams mortised into them so that the walking boards could be placed across. It was a simple bridge with a simple handrail. Time was wearing it down though, and soon if not strengthened, the river would gobble it up.
Simon tried to move but his feet wouldn’t let him.
Not yet.
Not so fast.
The main door to the house came thundering open and a man came rushing out; arms waving above his head and he was shouting something, a lot of something’s, but at this distance Simon didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Wasn’t sure if they were even words. The man ran down the small set of steps and toward the bridge.
Dressed in blue jeans and a white vest, he ran so awkwardly Simon thought he were apt to fall at any moment. Simon walked toward the bridge and by the time he reached it the man was on the other side, one hand holding onto one of the wooden supports, the other against his chest. Simon stopped ahead of the bridge and he made sure to hide the axe behind his back. The man on the other side was old. Really old. He had a long grey beard and was hunched over so much that most of his features were hidden. His legs were bowed, which accounted for his awkward run and his bare arms looked more bone than skin and from under his dirty vest small tufts of wispy white hair poked through like summer weeds. This must be the father.
‘Yashouldn’t be here, mister. Not safe right now. Best beoff with yaand fast.’ He waved a hand toward the trees where Simon had come from, ‘Best tago back. Don’t want to arouse the sons, they is out back helping mother with duties, so they don’t know you is here.’ The old man coughed; a deep cancerous cough that went on for some time. He tried to stifle it with the hand that caressed his panting chest but it did no good and he continued to wheeze and splutter like an old tractor.
You’re apt to die old man Simon thought to himself, and a little bit of the fear he was feeling got plucked away.
When the old man finished coughing Simon said, ‘Don’t want no trouble. I just want her back. Plain and simple.’
‘Wanttoo back?’
Simon drew the axe but the old man seemed to pay it no attention. ‘Lucy…..no, Barbara Rowling. You have here up there. You’ve taken her and I want her back.’ and then remembering how those big brothers had been earlier with her father he added, ‘Bob Rowling wants her back. It’s his daughter you’ve got up there and he has the ear of the Chairman. So best you give her back to me and let us go.’
The man laughed, but it was half hearted and dirty and it seemed to Simon as if that old man knew something that Simon didn’t. ‘Bob Rowling. Ear of Chairman. Goandfuck yerself. We aints got no one up here so I suggest you take troubles and go stick em up yers and that Rowling scums arse befer I call on me sons to come and rip you a new one.’
Simon stepped onto the bridge and could see the river speeding past underneath it. There were no floorboards missing from the bridge, it was old but intact, but Simon didn’t trust it, and wished he had a free hand to grab the handrail.
‘I aint going nowhere until I have her back. Please, just give her back to me. I have money, as much as you want.’ There was desperation in his voice and he could feel his throat tighten and the tears well up behind his eyes.
The old man looked up. Straightened up, and Simon was sure that he grew a few inches and looked every bit as mean as his sons had done earlier in the day. Nothing really changed about the old man but everything had changed. The old man was still old, but beneath that butter thin skin a brute still lived. The setting sun reflected in his eyes and they were on fire with it; he was on fire with it, and clothes that had seemed baggy at first were now tight, wrapped around muscle, and Simon thought about the transformation Dr Banner has to go through to become the Hulk and thought that the old man had just been through something very similar but without the screaming and the pain.
‘We aint got her.’ And then the man narrowed those big eyes and brought their full attention onto Simon. He felt like he did when he was a child and was being scorned and beaten by his father. ‘NowFuckOff.’ And to add weight to it the pigs squealed, the wind picked up, the bridge groaned and the river roared and behind him big black birds the size of aeroplanes took flight as the trees they were in swayed and cracked and even though Simon felt like the little boy he was before the fire took his father, he mentally shook the images from his head, straightened his own back, and raised the axe.
‘I aint going old man, I am taking back my Lucy. She’s up there, I know she is. I aint called the cops and I aint going to neither. We can settle this. You and me. There doesn’t have to be trouble. Like I said, I have money, lots of it.’
Simon stepped onto the bridge and kept on going. Beneath him the river tore through the earth and kept on going like he kept on going. He tried to gather up the strength from the river like a superhero in a childish comic but he felt no stronger now than he did when he was back at the car. He hated the river for not sharing its power and if he survived this he would take a piss in it out of spite.
The old man shook his head. ‘You really don’t get it, doya, Simon. Go back to Rowling’s, take a breath, and think about it. We aint got her.’
Halfway across Simon stopped. But the river didn’t.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I know everything that goes on here.’ And with a crooked grin that looked like Bob on a really bad day he added, ‘Everything, Simon. From the lake to the village, I see and hear all, Simon. Even what goes on down in that shitty little Working Man’s Club they all like to go to and talk about and drink and fiddle with their pricks.’
‘I don’t care.’ Simon said but he did care and what the old man said stayed with him.
‘Best you do start caring, Simon. Now mark my words, one more step and you’ll be sorry.’
This old man wasn’t going to budge.
‘We haven’t got her, son. They have.’
‘Whose they?’ But he knew who they were.
And just as Simon started to believe the old man was right, that perhaps Lucy wasn’t here and that maybe they hadn’t taken her at all and he was being deceived, a woman’s scream, long and hard and coarse, ripped through the air, and it came from somewhere in the house and it made Simon take more than one step forward, he took many running steps straight at the old man with his axe raised and his heart full of rage matching the river that growled beneath his feet.
But even rivers have to yield sometimes.
8
Simon leapt forward, hell bent on putting the axe into what ever happened to be in its way as it sliced through the air. His screams faded into nothing. The old man on the other side of the bridge looked surprised but then that surprise faded and he leapt forward too, quicker than you would have thought for such a man of his age, and his baggy jeans flapped in the breeze his speed created and his grey beard floated effortlessly like a woman’s radiant hair. The two men matched strides, getting closer with every second. Left foot then right foot. Boards beneath their feet creaked and groaned and moaned and the river roared and the wind roared in both their ears. Finally Simon believed he was in cutting distance and he swung the axe bearing all his strength behind it. The axe missed by a good 2 feet and as the old man came to a sudden stop the momentum of the axe twisted Simon full circle and he spun like a dumb ballerina and when he had finished his dance the momentum made him fall to the floor and he sat there like a toddler; legs out straight, back against the handrail. He still held the axe though.
The old man drew a small knife and t
hat knife looked nasty. He leaned over, still out of reach of the axe but close enough so that Simon could see the glint in his eye and the blackheads dug deep in his old pores. He stunk like shit. But it was the little knife that got Simons full attention. It had a handle of dirty ivory and the metal blade, only 5 inches long, was serrated and dull. There was a little bit of red ribbon tied around the hilt.
‘Fell on yer arse did ya! Ha! Now I’m gonna cut yathroat, just a nick so that yableed out slow and then I’m gonna toss yainto that river below and watch you float away.’
Simon pushed himself back but he had nowhere to go. This was where it was going to end he supposed, here on this dirty old bridge in a place he didn’t know surrounded by nobody that loved him. He looked to the house and cried out Lucy’s name just so that she knew he was there and he had tried.
The old man laughed and shook his head. ‘She aint there, son. But don’t matter no more.’
‘What’s your name?’ Simon asked sighing.
‘Lud.’ And the knife flicked out and Simon closed his eyes waiting for the pain. He winced sure that he felt something on his neck and at the same time there was a cracking sound; a braking sound much like when you snap a piece of wood with your foot when its propped up against the wall and a second or two passed, maybe more and whatever Lud had planned to do hadn’t happened and so Simon opened his eyes, slowly, very slowly, and saw that the old man was down on his right knee, kneeling but not kneeling as Simon saw that the lower half of his leg had broken through one of the boards and was pinned there. Lud gave a cry and dropped the knife as he tried to free his leg. With every tug it seemed as though a large wooden splinter dug deeper just below Luds kneecap. The blue jeans around the area blossomed a deep red colour. Simon scrambled to his feet and old Lud looked up to him with eyes that were wet and a face full of pain and hate and helplessness and the big man that he had changed into was gone and he was a little old man again with a wispy beard and thin skin over rotten bones. Even the knife didn’t look so terrifying; lying on the old wood looking more like a child’s plaything compared to the device of torture it had appeared to be not seconds earlier.
‘Ah, fuck it.’ Lud spat and once again tried to retrieve his leg from the damaged board. But it was no good and that little bit of splintered wood dug in deeper.
‘Now there’s my first bit of good luck in a long time.’ Simon picked up the knife taking care not to get too close to old man Lud for he could still be dangerous.
Simon had two weapons but still not a clue on what to do with such things. Life wasn’t a video game, not a Hollywood movie. He had no script to go with or a director to push him from scene to scene. This was all off the cuff.
‘Give me a hand, would yameboy? Help out old Lud.’
Simon felt the need to help him. So he dug the knife into the handrail and was surprised to see it go further into the wood than he had thought. He kept hold of the axe though, after all, he wasn’t stupid. He reached down with his hand. ‘Now this is probably gonna, hurt, that bit of wood looks good and stuck in.’
Lud took hold of Simon’s outstretched hand with his own shaking maw. ‘Aye, son, its gonna hurt.’ And Lud was back and with great strength Lud heaved Simon toward him, keeping hold of his hand and then reaching out for Simon’s neck with the other. Simon tried to pull away but it was doing no good. It hadn’t occurred to him that he had another hand and in that other hand was an axe, so he kept on being pulled toward the spitting and drooling Lud and soon Luds hand was around his shoulder and then up to his neck and there it stopped and dug in, really dug in, and Simon screamed in pain, but that scream did no good either, it seemed to spur on Lud even further and now that he was close enough Lud let go of Simons hand and Simon had two hands clasped round his neck and both were squeezing. Simon couldn’t breathe. He tried to grab a breath but even opening his mouth was a struggle he couldn’t win. His throat started to burn and ache and then his legs started to buckle and his vision began to darken as death loomed. Lud was panting. Lips pursed together and his cheeks puffing in and out, in and out, in and out. Simons left knee finally gave way; the blood and muscle starved of oxygen, and he was now level with the old feller and Luds hands were unrelenting and Simon closed his eyes for what he believed was going to be last time. And as his eyes closed he could see Lucy, stood on the other side of the bridge, and she was wearing that tight red dress and she looked at him as she looked at him that night all those years ago and he tried to say her name but it was no good and she shook her head but he didn’t know why and then the world went black.
9
You have an axe, you idiot, Lucy told him.
She was right. He did have an axe. But it was useless now that he was dead. Though he could still feel its wooden handle, its weight in his hand was real, but that must be some residue of his life that was now over that still swam in his mind that wasn’t quiet dead.
Swing it ya bloody fool! Bob said.
And why not? Simon pondered as the blackness got blacker and his mind started to drift. His neck hurt and he could feel the weight of the axe and so he swung it, with all his might because it took it all such was his distance from the living now that he was in the land of the dead.
The first swing felt good, so he swung it again and again and with each swing the weight of the axe got greater and the blackness got brighter and his neck didn’t hurt as much so he kept on going and going, breathing in and swing, breathing out, breathing in and swing and breathing out, and then brighter and less painful. Breathe in and swing. Breathe in and swing until his eyes opened and the pain in Simon’s neck was nothing but a memory and a yellowing bruise.
10
Simon felt numb, like he had just awoken from a deep sleep.
Blood dripped from the axe in thick gloopy wads and Simons hands were covered in it, so too were his arms and his legs and his chest and his face, and by the taste of it; so to his mouth. Simon took a great gulp of air and it hurt to do so. He reached up and gently touched his throat and when he touched the skin it stung and felt swollen. And then Simon looked down to the very quiet old man that was slumped on the damp wooden boards. Damp because they were drenched in blood, Luds blood, blood that had poured out of his neck, a neck that was free of a head and Simon could see white bone and flappy pipes hanging from that hole that had been hacked by Simons axe.
Simon stood, his legs no longer fragile. ‘JesusKrist. What the fuck have I done?’
There was another scream then and Simon turned his attention from Lud to the house. It was a short muted scream that sounded more like a roar that was being stifled than the earlier shriek and now it really didn’t sound like Lucy. But that didn’t seem important now. If Lucy were here then he would save her, if she wasn’t, and Lud had been right, then he would move on and he knew exactly where to go.
Simon hurdled the body and ran toward the house leaving small bloody footprints in the dirt. In one hand he carried the axe, in the other he carried the small knife. Behind him was a headless body and underneath that headless body was a river which carried on flowing much like Simon would carry on killing until he found what he was looking for.
Honey
1
The house was built on a small hill. The hill was a plateau of sorts with a few farm buildings scattered about, but the main focal point was the house. The house was made of wood, though Simon could see at its base a few layers of bricks which acted as a foundation of sorts. There was a walkway going all the way around the house which, when it was new, would have looked splendid but now looked pathetic. It was a tall house, three stories for the most part except for the right hand side which was a single floor. The roof was tiled but half of it was missing and had been repaired with sheets of tin that clung to it like plasters on a deep cut. Simon guessed it had once been a barn then converted into a house many years ago. It was once painted white but now was the colour of old wet wood covered in moss and fungi. The Rotten House was an apt description. There was no othe
r way to describe it and if Lud was anything to go by then the owners and occupiers of this tragic place would be just as rotten.
He had been walking quickly but as he approached the pig pens he slowed. The pigs paid him little attention, like Lud had done when Simon had raised the axe in anger; they snorted and grunted like they had been doing when Simon had been on the bridge. The smell was strong; pig shit and spoiled food. The pens themselves were simple objects; sheets of corrugated iron dug into the earth and kept in place by wooden spikes hammered through the corners. There must be thirty pigs milling around and they were all fat and hairy and pink with splotches of brown.
The area seemed calm, though tingles in his gut told him that a storm was coming. If the brothers and the mother were around the back then he could sneak into the house and try and find Lucy. From the size and layout of the house it wouldn’t take long. There were a couple of barns dotted about but they had no sides to them and Simon could see the horizon uninterrupted. Inside these barns there were carcases of cars and trucks and tractors and bits of metal and farm equipment.
Walking toward the house, dodging not only the milling pigs but pig shit and rotten apples and other bits of food, Simon saw that on the porch, leant against a rickety old rocking chair, his second good piece of fortune; a gun.