 
Rottenhouse

Ian Dyer

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are all from the authors mind. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Ian Dyer.

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

For Cheryl and Isabella, who I could not be without.

And also for Martin, he who understands the struggles.

Table of Contents

Oil

Foreign Metal

The Peroni Incident

Strung Him Up From The Sky

Like a Limp Rag

The Big Boy Is Coming Out

Still A Bit Groggy

Skin You

Stink

The Study

Pink Meat (The Fishing Scene)

Clean Yourself Up, Piggy

Honey

The Working Man's Club

Epilogue - Home Sweet Home
Oil

1

Lucy had been silent all the way up here, distracted by something she wouldn't tell Simon, and he didn't like that because they shared everything together; meals, drinks, a bed, a house, their thoughts, even their dreams, and as the miles floated by so his patience thinned to the point of breaking. But now she was alert and talking so fast Simon could hardly keep up with what she was saying. Lucy pointed or voiced her directions: over that roundabout, left here, right at that tree, passed the crooked bridge and take the next left as you go past the Slaughtered Lamb and make sure you stay left as the road narrows, then over the cattle grid, under the bridge, around the weird house that overhangs the road and past the field of yellow I played in as a child and then past the pig pens and cattle fields. Keep on going, Simon, straight ahead, passed the tree that looks like the entrance to hell itself, where mum took me to scare me and look there, in that field, can you see it? That hole? That's where the ground fell away one year and it left that giant hole, black as night and deep, really deep; a doorway to the world that goes on underground...

'Stop the car!' Lucy shouted as they turned a tight right hander.

Simon slammed on the brakes, the little red light flashing to show that the car was completing some sort of witch craft to keep itself in control. He threw the car right to avoid an animal, or walker perhaps, that he was sure was stood there in the middle of the road. Not really knowing either way, he eased the car to the left side of the road, making sure not to roll down the verge, and stopped the car beneath an old twisted tree.

'What the hell, Lucy! What did I hit?'

Calmly, Lucy said, 'Nothing. It's just before we get there I have something to tell you, something to tell you about me.'

Simon was sure he was about to pass out. He was breathing hard, the shock of it was still coursing through his veins and for a moment he didn't really take in what Lucy was talking about. His hands were stuck to the steering wheel; pushing it away from him, trying to keep whatever it was or could have been in the road out of his path and away from his windscreen. As the adrenaline wore off he looked in his rear view mirror; there was nothing there. No destroyed rabbit or blown apart deer, no walker cut in two by his car or clinging onto a broken leg screaming for help.

'Thank Christ. I thought we'd hit something. Jesus, I'm having a heart attack here.'

I have something to tell you. Something about me

Simon turned to face his girlfriend. She was still looking forward, as if nothing had happened, and Simon supposed that that was perfectly reasonable – nothing had happened. 'Are you okay?

'Lucy?'

She slowly turned to face him, her eyes red; brimming with tears, and her complexion, which not five minutes ago was practically glowing was now dull, a pale reflection replaced it and it was a look Simon hadn't seen in her for years.

'That's not my name.' she said.

'What? What are you talking about?' He wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to take a swig of water from his plastic bottle but his shaking hands made it hard and he tightened his grip on the bottle until he was sure he wouldn't spill it down himself.

'Lucy. It's not my name. It's Barbara.' It was like she was telling him that the sky was blue or the sea was wet.

'What? Piss off. Come on; is this a trick or something? Some weird type of initiation or something? I mean, what, so you are telling me that the girl I have been seeing for years, the girl I want to marry isn't called Lucy? It's Barbara? Barbara? Like Last of the Summer Wine or something?' Simon laughed, but it was an uncomfortable laugh like knew the truth and was in denial. 'Barbara, really, are you for real? Come on Lucy, please.'

'No, Simon. I'm not Lucy, well... I am her, but not her. It's not a joke. It's not anything like that. I'm not Lucy, not in this place. Here I was someone else, before I ran away and became; Lucy. Before I found you.'

Simon reached over and grabbed her hand. It was shaking; her palm moist and it matched his. He held it tight, admiring her wicked witch green nail polish (a colour he had chosen and she lovingly decided to wear because she knew how much he liked it) and then looked into her blood shot eyes.

'I don't understand, Lucy, I...'

'Barbara,' she insisted, 'Barbara Lucy Rowling. Daughter of quarry worker Bob Rowling, who lives at The Tall Stack, 24 Hot Lane, Rottenhouse, North Yorkshire.'

He let go of Lucy's hand and it slumped into her lap. She sighed and sobbed like he had never seen her do before. Simon expected her to cry but the tears didn't come. He had a lump in his throat but he didn't know whether it was a lump that came before you cried or a lump that came before you chucked up all over the God damned place.

Above the car, roosting in the old tree, some unknown breed of bird released a deathly cry as the wind picked up. A light rain began to fall from low grey clouds which were spread about the sky like they were put there by some mad painters brush.

'I don't understand.' Simon said softly as he looked out through the smeared windscreen, and watched the rain fall; pitter-pattering on the glass. He wanted to laugh, as odd as that sounded; he couldn't get over the way in which she had told him, he couldn't believe that for all this time she had been hiding such a secret. Wasn't this trip supposed to be mending old bridges not smashing down current ones? It wasn't right.

'Why didn't you tell me before?'

'I wanted to. It was looming over me like a storm. The longer I left it the bigger it seemed to get and then it seemed too big, too much of an issue for me to bring up. I meant to tell you, just after we moved in together. Just after our first big fight when we were telling each other everything. Remember that? Remember that night?'

'Yeah, I remember.'

'It was on the tip of my tongue, honestly, I was going to tell you. I needed to tell you. I could feel it boiling up inside me over the weeks leading up to that day. But when it came to it, when the shit got real, Simon, I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. And then the next thing I knew we were ripping each other's clothes off and... well you know the rest.'

'Yeah I know the rest.'

The engine ticked over quietly and the rain continued to fall. The wipers came on automatically and wiped away the rain only for it to be replaced, wiped away and then replaced, wiped away and then replaced. Simon wished that he could put one of those wipers to work on the last few minutes of his life.

Simon sighed through an open mouth and he scratched his forehead. He was unsure of what to say, what to think, what to do. This was, by far and away (and that included the day his best mate had tried to seduce him) the weirdest thing ever to have happened to him. He put his hands on the steering wheel and tapped out some odd beat that meant nothing, he did it just to remove the silence.

Barbara? Barbara? He didn't understand, but knew there must be a reason. Just then the red light signalling that the fuel was almost out blinked into life.

'What are you thinking, Sausage?'

Simon looked at the warning light blinking madly. 'That if we don't get moving then we won't be moving anywhere. Is there a petrol station near here?'

'Yep. At the end of this road, I think.'

'Cool.'

Simon put the car into gear and then headed off into the rain.

'So?'

'So?' Simon replied.

'Well I was expecting some sort of rant, Simon. I mean, I have just told you that the girl you love, the girl that you want to be your wife, isn't who you thought she was. Don't you want to know why?'

'Of course I do, Luc... Barbara.' Simon shook his head trying to get out the million bees that had made their home in there. 'Look, whatever your name is I just wished you hadn't waited till we were ten seconds from your dads house and I was about to go in and ask him for your hand in marriage. I mean come on. We are up here to mend bridges or whatever and you have just put super-hot TNT under one of ours for Christ's sake! What the hell am I supposed to do now? Keep calling you Lucy, or switch to Barbara? Barbara for fucks sake!'

'Alright, alright. I don't know. Maybe just try not to call me anything until you get used to him calling me it.'

What the hell is going on? Is this woman for real?

The car leaned left then right as Simon careened around the country lane. Up ahead he could make out a junction and to its left, under the glow of the orange street lights that had flicked on, was the petrol station.

'Christ, I mean I know you must've had your reasons, reasons I really want to know, but, but, Christ... I don't know. I don't know. This is mental.'

2

Simon eased the car to a stop and pulled back on the handbrake as he turned the engine off and removed the keys. The pitter patter of rain had stopped thanks to the high metal roof that covered the petrol station but the wind still whipped around the wheels of the car and rocked it from side to side with every gust. He looked to his fiancé, went to say something, maybe kiss her, he didn't really know so just didn't do any of them and his mouth flapped open and then closed. It was starting to get hot in the car and the windows were steaming up. From the corner of his eye he could see that Lucy was about to say something and so before Lucy could even open her mouth Simon had already opened the car door and slammed it shut.

Outside it was dank and grey and the wind was strong and the clouds hung low, almost touching the tops of the trees. The petrol station was small and old. Opening the small flap and then undoing the cap he gathered his coat around him and did his best to block out the harsh cold wind.

Its summer, for crying out loud, not the bleak mid-winter

And then he pictured the sign back on the M1.

'The North.' He said to the wind and rain. But it paid him no attention. He tried to focus on the now, brushing away the incident in the car and the whole Barbara thing. It wasn't as if Barbara was a bad name, but when you have been used to Lucy for so long Barbara seems old fashioned, so northern, which sounded odd when he thought it. He pictured an old lady with thick stockings working wet clothes over some archaic washboard and then drying them through a squeaky mangle. That was the sort of woman he pictured with the name Barbara, not Lucy, for crying out loud.

Simon grabbed hold of the old un-leaded pump and placed the nozzle into the cars filler hole. Pulling the trigger he felt the pump kick in as the liquid began to flow through and into his tank. He looked up and his eyes scanned the station. The main building was a run-down shack, wooden in construction and as old as the earth on which it stood. Inside it housed a small till point, a fridge, and a couple of shelves with some food and car bits on them. The light coming from inside was dull and yellow and he could make out the silhouette of the man inside but that was it. Outside there was the usual charcoal bags and saltgrit sacks that all good petrol stations carry no matter what time of year it was. Alongside the shop, between the piles of old car parts and Christ knows what, was a garage large enough for about two cars. It was made out of dark red-brown bricks with a shoddy tin roof which clanged as the wind tried to tear it to bits. The garage door was padlocked shut, the ground beneath it wet with rain and oil. Simon narrowed his eyes, trying to bring the oil slick into focus because there was something wrong with it; it was too dark, much too dark for oil, if that was possible, and as he focused harder he saw that the slick of whatever it was hadn't been caused by the rain, the rain had merely distributed it further; diluting it until it coursed through the station like a river.

Much too dark for oil. It looks like

It had come from inside the garage, from whatever was in there, and that whatever was leaking.

Much too dark. It looks just like blo...

The pump clicked loudly as the fuel brimmed; millimetres from cascading over the lip. Simon blinked, pulled the dripping nozzle away and placed it back into the cracked plastic holder. As he walked around the back of his car and over to the shop he looked once more at the puddle of liquid over by the garage.

Blood. It looks just like blood.

During his last year at college, Simon had visited a morgue. Himself and two other students had been allowed access to all areas – and when they were told all areas it literally meant all areas and so they had watched autopsies, took photos of said autopsies and displayed them in Guildford's School of Art. They had been well received due to their gritty reality. But it was the blood he could see in those images now, as they flashed in front him, and that gore soaked blood was the same (minus a few bits of muscle and bone) as what he could see now, flowing from behind the garage door.

Surely not. Must just be an oil spill, dirty oil, old dirty oil...

'Yagunna come in and pay or what, mister?'

Simon snapped his head around.

Stood there, holding the wooden door open with a chunky hand was the silhouette which had been inside the station. He was a large man, fat bellied and red faced. He had very little hair and a head that was as round as a beach ball. He was stocky, the same height as Simon, but absurdly fat and he wore a blue workers coat that was far too small for him. It was held together awkwardly, just above his belly, with just one button. Under his coat he wore a tatty white vest which was covered in black oil and all sorts of other stains. His trousers were the same blue as his overalls and also way too small; they were a good two inches higher than the top of his ankle boots. They clearly weren't his clothes, or if they were then he had been wearing them since he was about 12. On his coat Simon noticed that he wore a name badge. Written on its white plastic background was the name: Bobbie.

'Well?' said Bobbie, his voice deep, throaty and drenched in phlegm. He needed a good cough.

'Sorry. Looks like you got a leak? Simon pointed to the garage but kept his eyes on Bobbie.

Bobbie didn't look over to where Simon was pointing. 'Aye, oil from an old Ford Zephyr.'

Simon's hand dropped to his side. 'That's a lot of oil.'

'Yep. Once they started they don't stop.'

Above Simon the lights flickered briefly. The wind picked up and the tin roof clanged. As the wind howled he was sure he heard a moan; a moan that came from inside the garage. He turned his head to try and capture more sound but whatever that noise had been faded away and the howl of the wind replaced it.

Inside the shop, the phone that was sat by the till started to ring. It was an old ring, like the retro ring Simon had on his mobile phone. Bobbie let go of the door and it swung so violently that Simon had to leap forward and grab it before it shut and he felt his fingers mash against the jam. He pulled them out and twiddled them a few times making sure that none of them were broken. He walked into the shop, the smell of oil and sweat was fierce, and the phone kept ringing until Bobbie reached it – sucking in his belly so that he fit behind the till – and lifted the receiver. Simon could only hear one portion of the conversation as he moved toward the till.

'Rottenhouse Fuel. This is Lewis.'

Lewis? He was sure the badge had said Bobbie and come to think of it wasn't Bobbie spelt that way a girl's way of spelling it? As he walked further into the shop the smell of oil and sweat became sweeter and he was sure he could smell perfume now.

'Aye, said he would be here in about half an hour.'

It does say Bobbie. Maybe that's his surname or something?

'Aye, got messy but no bother. I always forget how much they got in em, if yaknow what I mean?

'Yeah, yeah, I always leave some in bucket for him but I can't speak now, got customer.'

'Aye, see you at Club tonight.'

Bobbie put the phone back on the receiver and turned his attention to Simon. 'That'll be 35-80.'

Bobbie. They belong to whoever Bobbie is. To whoever sprayed that God awful perfume.

'That'll be 35-80.'

'Eh.' Simon murmured.

'35 pounds and 80 pence. You slow or sumpfing?'

'No. No, sorry, just distracted.' Simon fiddled about in his jacket pocket and eventually revealed two twenty pound notes. He handed them over and started to feel hot. It was getting hotter in here and maybe it was getting hotter because there was a tension building up and Simon started to get the distinct feeling that he wasn't welcome here.

Bobbie took the money and shoved it deep into his oh so very small trouser pocket. He didn't say thank you, or use the till or offer Simon any change for that matter; he only stood there, arms folded around his chest, his eyes burning a hole in Simon's head.

'You said 35 pounds 80. I gave you 40.'

'Nope. I said 40. Pretty sure of that.' Bobbie, his eyes still locked on Simon like a lioness who has spotted her latest kill, leant over and pressed a button that was near the till point. From outside, mixed in with the sound of the wind and the rain Simon heard a soft click.

'Pretty sure, Bobbie, that you said 35-80.'

The fat man shook his head and inhaled through his reddening lips. 'Look mate, I said 40, that's why you gave me two 20's. If ya want tamakea scene then I shall call the boys over and we shall see what they say. Yerchoice, buddy.'

The two men looked at each other. Simon could hear a wheeze coming from Bobbies chest. Slowly the fat man eased his hand down to the phone and as he did this one of eyebrows raised a little.

Simon shook his head, waved a hand at the man stood on the other side of the till as if to waft away whatever bullshit Bobbie was throwing at him, and walked out; the door slamming hard, causing the entire building to shake.

As he walked back to the car and though he wanted to, really wanted to, Simon didn't turn to see if the pool of

Blood, its blood!

oil was still there, pouring out from beneath the garage door. He could see Lucy was watching him, noting his every step. Before he got into the car Simon took a few breaths; in and out, in and out, in and out and then opened the door. Without a word he started the car and drove to the exit knowing that Bobbie was watching him from inside the petrol station; he could feel himself being watched, and it felt like he was back in college or university and the teacher is standing over you, watching your every move; your every click of the camera, making sure you didn't screw it up – or hoping that you did screw it up so that they can then show you up infront of the baying class.

'Everything okay, Sausage?'

'Yeah, yeah, everything's fine. Let's just get to your dads place before I lose the will to live.' The car reached the exit of the station and it sat their idling whilst Simon waited for Lucy to update him on which way he had to go.

'Oh sorry,' Lucy said, 'it's left, up the road for about two miles, and then were pretty much there. You sure you're okay? You look pale.'

Simon could sense her String was stretching because she had no patience when anyone apart from her was troubled or nervous. 'Yeah, I'm good. Just still a bit messed up from the whole Barbara thing, that's all.'

The rain was heavier now and big blobs smashed against the windscreen. The wipers moved quicker, left-right, left-right, left-right... they were now a squeaking blur.

She didn't turn to him, instead she kept her eyes on the world as it whizzed by. 'I've thought about that. Look, when we get there I shall tell dad about the whole Lucy business, I'm sure he will fuss and groan but he will get it. And that will be that. He can like it or lump it. Look, once you have spent a couple of days here you will get why I left, why I wanted to leave this place, I'm sure of it. Is that okay?'

No it's not oflippingkay. Far sodding from it.

'Yeah, I'm okay.' And that was all Simon said on the matter and within ten minutes they passed a sign:

Welcome to Rottenhouse – Please Drive Carefully – Area of Natural Beauty

Turning right, entering Hot Lane, the road followed a bubbling stream that ebbed and flowed, and because of the recent rain it was fat and nudging the steep embankment that kept it in place. The rain eased as Lucy pointed to a beautiful grey stone cottage set back from the lane and ushered him to park in the cobbled driveway next to her dads old car. The tyres screamed as they struggled for purchase on the slippery cobbles and inside the car another one of those flashy red lights blinked until the car stopped and Simon turned the key and the engine went silent. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as the engine ticked over to nothing.

Simon had arrived in Rottenhouse. But as Simon would quickly learn, Rottenhouse didn't take to kindly to visitors.

Foreign Metal

1

Simon took a quick look at his watch and saw that it was only four o-clock. Outside, with the mist rising and the fat grey clouds blocking out the sun, it looked more like eight o-clock on a winters evening. The rain had pretty much stopped as he and Lucy – for he was damned if he was going to call her Barbara – got out of the car.

Arching his back to release the tension he had no choice but to admire the house of which Mr Bob Rowling called home; it was utterly stunning – a picture postcard if ever there was one. It had two floors, though Simon could see a loft conversion had been carried out at some time, and two large chimney stacks at each end of the grey slate roof. The cobbled path led up to the dark wood front door and on either side were large windows reflecting the sky and woods behind him. The image was mirrored on the first floor above, except that the door had been replaced with a small window, frosted so that no one can peep a look at you whilst you performed your duties.

'You grew up here, in this house?'

'Aye. Forgot how beautiful it was.'

Aye? Since when do you say Aye?

Simon noticed a slight twitch in one of the ground floor window net curtains. A crow overhead cried out and in the forest, on the other side of the stream that bubbled and splashed, a tree cracked and fell and the sound rumbled around the valley that the village of Rottenhouse sat in like the hungry belly roar of a giant.

Something behind the front door clicked and then it opened.

Well, here goes nothing.

'Dad!' Lucy yelled and went running off. Mr Rowling managed only two steps before he was engulfed by her and he wrapped his own hands around Lucy's shoulders squeezing her tight.

They embraced for only a couple of minutes, but as we all know, those minutes when you aren't a member of the cuddling squad can last a lifetime. Simon took it upon himself to check out the old motor that was next to his modern marvel. Mr Rowling's car was old, Simon guessing from the digits on the number plate that it hailed from the 70,s. It was beige, as bright as the day it had come off of the courtyard, and he couldn't make out a scratch or a dent. The interior was caramel coloured velour; he recognised that from the hours upon hours spent in his father's car. Simon walked around to the back and looked at the markings: Ford Cortina 1.6 litre. There was a sticker in the rear window but at this angle he couldn't make it out.

'Simon, this is my dad. Dad, this is Simon. Simon Clarke.'

He hadn't noticed that the two of them had ended their well over due embrace and made it all the way over to him so Simon quickly wiped his wet hand on his jeans and offered it to Mr Rowling. Mr Rowling reached out and took hold and the two men shook hands. Both grips were firm, but Mr Rowling's was firmer. He was a bit smaller that Simon, maybe had been taller in his prime, but looked as though he never reached the grand six foot that men liked to reach for. He was pot-bellied, but strong, Simon could sense that. His face was round; clean shaven, his features larger than most, and Mr Rowling's hair was brown and cut short; not styled in any way shape or form. Looking into his eyes was like looking into his daughters eyes. They were big and brown and deep and full of light and Simon guessed that he too may have a String and his eyes were a reflection of that String. He wore boots, dark green trousers and a slighter lighter shade of dark green jumper. All he needed was a flat cap on his head and stood before you would have been the stereotypical Yorkshire man.

'Pleased to meet you Mr Rowling.'

'Aye, lad, welcome to Rottenhouse.' Mr Rowling pulled his hand away, 'Barbara, go in takitchen and put kettle on wouldya. There's a good girl. I shall help Simon here with the bags.'

'Okay, dad.' And with that Lucy went into the house leaving Simon alone with Mr Rowling.

Simon clicked the small button on his key fob and the boot of the car popped open. Mr Rowling, looking at the car with auctioneer eyes, walked around the electric blue marvel; eyebrows raised. 'You have a beautiful house, Mr Rowling.' Simon said trying to break the silence with small talk.

'What sort acar is this, Simon?'

'Err, it's a Golf. The new model. Hybrid and all that.'

Mr Rowling looked up at him with a puzzled look upon us face. 'Highbrid? What's a Highbrid, Simon?'

Be good Simon, be good. Different places different faces and all that.

'Well, err, it can run off electricity as well as petrol.'

'Oh. Really? Don't get much call for the like a that roundear. How do ya get the electricity in anyways, Simon?'

Sweet mercy.

Simon raised the boot and lent in. 'Well, you can charge it like a battery from home or when you brake there is a system that harvests the unused power as electricity. Quite clever.' He stood up, holding his small backpack which housed his travelling camera gear, and Mr Rowling was stood right next to him, hands in his pockets; the puzzled look still etched on his face like an ancient stone carving.

'Seems a bit much, just for driving round in, lots to go wrong there I'd say, Simon, yaknow what I mean? All those bits and pieces, butoom I taargue. But I do have to say, these modern cars, these Highbrids and what have ya, they aint patch on cars from mahday. Take Cortina over there, 1.6, nothing flash, but gets outtatrouble if needs be. Now she has been rolling along nigh on 40 years weout anything going wrong with her. Aye, she's had to be in service from time to time like all cars, but nowt major, Simon, know what I mean. No bits and pieces, Simon, you know; bits and pieces.'

Simon didn't know but he nodded all the same even though he kept being asked if he knew what Mr Rowling meant.

'These new cars,' Mr Rowling continued as if he hadn't made his point before, 'foreign metal don't like our air, Simon (the word air was stretched out, like Simon wouldn't know what it was). They don't like the air, they don't like being used, Simon, yaknow what I mean? Tom from garage says so and he knows about motors, he knows. He's kept Cortina on road. Good man is Tom.'

Simon stood there, the camera bag beginning to get heavy, his mouth agape seemingly not sure whether to answer or not. 'This one has done us all...'

'What fuel do ya put in it, Simon?'

The puzzled look transferred from Mr Rowling's face across to Simons. 'Hey?'

The old man leant in, scrunched his forehead and lowered his voice like you would do to a questioning child. 'Fuel, Simon. You know; the stuff that makes it go.'

Of course I know what you are going on about. I was just answering your other question you prick, the one about how unreliable modern cars are compared against ancient rust buckets. Why does he want to know what fuel it runs on, what has that have to do with the price of sausages?

Simon was tempted to say fairy dust, but knew that such a joke would be lost on this guy.

'Petrol, un-leaded.'

A look of utter dismay crept across the old man's face. 'Un-leaded, Simon? Not diesel or leaded? Seems odd.'

Seems odd? Seems, odd?

Simon was about to say something he would have later regretted when he heard Lucy bellow from across the other side of the world, informing them that the tea was brewed – there was a twang in her voice, he was sure he heard a twang in her voice - and he welcomed the release from this madness and wondered how much more of this he could take, though all the while knowing that he would have to take two weeks of it; two shitting weeks of it.

'Okay, Barbara, be rythere. Give us two minutes.' Mr Rowling picked up one of the suitcases that Simon had heaved out of the back of the car and before setting off said, 'I'll introduce ya to Tom tonight at the club if yalike?'

Simon threw his camera bag over his shoulder, closed the boot, locked it by pressing the little button on his key fob and lifted the remaining suitcase. Following Mr Rowling into his beautiful cottage – the wooden sign next to the front door read The Tall Stacks, Simon sighed and said, 'Sounds great, Mr Rowling.'

2

Simon followed the old man into the house and made sure to wipe his shoes on the welcome mat before entering. The house was laid out much like their own was in Guilford; the main hallway ran through the centre of the ground floor, the stairs rising up at its end. At equal intervals along the well-lit hallway there were two doors on either side leading to as yet places unknown. At the end of the hallway, next to the stairs on both the left and the right were two doors – one was locked with a padlock – odd \- the other looked as if it served as the back door and the way out into the garden.

The house on the outside was gorgeous; and could be sold in heartbeat, but sadly location, location, location stood for nothing because no one would buy a house that was decorated as if it was still in 1972. The hallway was ordained with garishly flocked wallpaper of differing shades of orange and brown and white. Geometric shapes broke up the monotony of it, but it did little to attract the eye.

Simon closed the door behind him and placed his bags down next to the one Mr Rowling had already left. There were paintings on either side of him but he paid them no regard and followed the old man as he led the way into the first room on the right – the kitchen. There was a small table in the centre of the room and on it were three cups of freshly made tea. The rest of the kitchen, apart from a kettle and toaster and the bread bin, was bare. The units and worktop were wooden and it all looked much like any other typical cottage kitchen. Lucy was stood over by the window, her hands gripped the ceramic butler sink, admiring the two of them as they walked in. She looked positively radiant and the light which poured through the window engulfed her.

'It's not changed a bit, dad. Just like when I left.' Lucy said as Simon walked over to her leaving Mr Rowling by the table watching them.

'Nothing needed changing, Barbara. It does for me, yaknow what I mean?'

'Aye.'

There it was again. That twang that only ever popped its ugly head up when the String broke. And aye, she never said that even when she was full tilt bat shit crazy. Simon had a Scottish friend, Kyle. He had been born in Saltcoats, just north of Glasgow, and had moved down to London when he was about ten or so; something to do with family and work and money. By the time Simon had met him and become friends he was working as a film editor and had no hint of a Scottish accent left. It was only when he was drunk, angry, or speaking with a fellow Jock that the Glasgow grunt – as they all called it – would come, so he could kind of see why Lucy was retreating back to that way of talking. But so soon? So soon after pretty much sodding this place off like a bad headache? It just didn't seem right. But then what in the last two hours had seemed right? The fact that she was now Barbara? The fact that he had been ripped off by a guy that wore child's clothes? The fact that the man he had to ask for his daughters hand in marriage seemed to be a complete nut job? None of it seemed right. But maybe it was him? He was tired, had been working hard these last few months to try and get the money together so that he could pay for the wedding and get the new gear he wanted for the studio. He sighed deeply and lent over taking the mug of tea and he drank it slowly.

Mr Rowling, whilst sipping his tea said, 'You'll be sleeping in yer old room, Barbara? As you said, not much has changed round here. The village is still as was, people come and people go, but the heart still stays. As long as we have the mine and the quarry then not much can go wrong, if ya know what I mean.'

Lucy nodded and took a gulp of her dark tea, 'you off to club tonight?'

'Aye. Taking Simon, too. Show his face yaknow, they've all been asking.'

Lucy smiled and tapped the sink with her fingers and the ring on her left hand clattered brightly against the ceramic.

Simon had a sudden thought. It made his stomach churn and his arsehole pucker up. 'You're not coming then?'

'No, Simon. Not if rules are the same.'

Mr Rowling nodded; whatever that meant; it was like there was some sort of secret code between them which shouldn't exist. Simon couldn't think of anything to say to get out of it. It would seem too obvious now. He had no choice but to go. There was a tension growing in the room and he knew he was the only one that could feel it. Why weren't they talking to each other, why weren't they hugging and laughing and talking of old times and what they have been up to and how they missed each other and how they regretted what they had done. Why weren't they doing anything?

Simon placed his mug back onto the table, sure in the knowledge that the old man was laughing at him from deep behind those big eyes and then he saw it and was shocked that he hadn't noticed it when he had walked into the kitchen. 'Why are you wearing a apron? You never wear a apron?'

Lucy shook her head in an almost whimsical fashion. 'I always wear one, Simon. Always.' He didn't know whether this was a joke or not. But then he looked into those brown eyes and saw her String tighten and knew that she was serious. He was sure as hell that she never wore one. Why the hell would she for heaven's sake? She was a modern woman living in the modern world, not some eighteenth century housemaid doting on some rich family that treated her like a paid slave.

'Lucy, you've never worn a apron, not since I met you anyway.'

'Who is Lucy?' Mr Rowling asked roused from the delight of his brew.

'Fuck it.' Simon said.

'No need for that kind a talk, Simon. Now I ask again, who is this Lucy?'

'Yeah, Simon, who is Lucy?'

3

Simon's mouth opened and shut like a fish bobbing for air. Had she really just said that? Had he heard correctly? Surely not. He looked around the room in case someone else had walked in and he hadn't seen them, but there was no else there, just him, Mr Rowling and Lucy. The air grew hotter still, though the other two seemed not to notice. Their eyes were upon him like a jury waiting for you to give your reasons behind killing a hundred innocent people. His throat became dry; a sack of nails in a skin suit.

'You are. I mean, like you said in the car, you were Barbara here, but changed it to Lucy when you came down south. Remember?' He was pleading now and his voice dropped octaves as he spoke.

'But that is your middle name, Barbara.' And as is to confirm that Mr Rowling went on to say, 'Barbara Lucy Rowling. Not Lucy.'

God this guy is a pedantic bastard.

And then something clicked in her. He could see it – like you can see the egg timer working on a computer as you wait for a programme or a web page to open – she was computing what was happening. A small line of sweat appeared on her forehead and when she blinked he could see his Lucy again, and whatever had been there before was now gone.

'Sorry dad. I should have told you when I arrived. This is just a misunderstanding. I left that name here when I left. I wanted a fresh start, you remember? So I stopped being Barbara and stuck with Lucy. I asked Simon to try but I guess it's just, just new I suppose.'

Mr Rowling ran his hands through his hair. 'Okay, Barbara, okay. Hard times back then, but fresh ones ahead. But Simon, please, two things,' Mr Rowling held two fingers up, but he wasn't flicking Simon the royal V, they were turned in the universal signal for peace, 'first; none of that language please, not here. And second; it's Barbara when you is in this place, she aint Lucy, yaknow what I mean.'

And Simon did know what he meant but didn't have time to say anything as Mr Rowling took one final swig from his mug and left the room walking back into the hallway and through into another part of the house closing the door gently behind him.

The two lovers looked at each other; Simon was unsure of what he would see, looking into those pools of wonder and was happy when he saw his Lucy taking off the apron and throwing it onto the breakfast bar staring at it as it fell to the floor. Another tree cracked outside in the distant forest and with the sound came a small bead of sunlight and it shone through the kitchen window and lit up Lucy's face. She leaned over and the two of them embraced, no words were uttered because they both didn't need to. They could sense each other's shock, fear, regret and amusement of today's events. But as Simon closed in and held Lucy tight he got one final look into her eyes and he didn't like what he saw. 'What the hell is going on?' He whispered, but Lucy didn't answer.

4

They had taken their bags upstairs in relative silence. Their room, Lucy's old bedroom, was directly above the kitchen and had views of the stream and the valley walls and the forest that lay beyond. There was a double bed, two side cabinets and a separate door leading to a very small bathroom which contained a shower and a sink. The view from the window was beautiful and Simon, forgetting about the recent troubles, was excited about getting out his camera and taking some shots for his portfolio. He gazed out the window for some time, not really thinking of anything, just taking in the view and enjoying the silence.

'View hasn't changed since I was a little girl. Nothing has changed; it's just the way it was; even the curtains are the same. The smell too, it's all the same. I bet you can't wait to get snapping again, especially in the forest, you've been cramped up in that city for too long.'

'Hmm.' was all he could muster. Of course nothing had changed; time didn't seem to exist here, like some great hand had pressed the pause button and Mr Rowling's house and the surrounding area were locked into place, unable to move forward – unwilling perhaps. Simon could hear Lucy unpack and put things away in the drawers. She was right about one thing; he couldn't wait to get out there, into the wilds and let his eye wander and his camera click.

'You sure you're okay, honey?' Lucy asked as she put the suitcases behind the bedroom door.

Simon looked at the reflection of Lucy in the window and said:

'Not really, no. Close the door would you.'

Lucy closed the door. The house was silent, whatever Mr Rowling was up to downstairs wasn't making any noise. Simon could hear the wind rustling through the trees and the water cascading down the stream. The rain had stopped and it wouldn't be long before the sun started to set and for night to fall across the valley. He turned away from the window, removed his light weight jacket, and threw it onto the bed. He had to be careful here, that old String needed to stay loose and he knew that if he went too far it would snap, snap like a crocodile's mouth.

'What is it, Simon? Come on, tell me. I know it's weird, the whole Lucy, Barbara thing, but if you think about it; it is perfectly reasonable.'

'Yeah I get that. But come on; give me a break, would ya, I mean you threw that bad boy on me when we were in spitting distance of this place. And then there was that bloody petrol station with that guy.'

'What about the petrol station?'

'Oh nothing much, just that I was ripped off by some fat guy dressed in someone else's clothes – I am sure of it Lucy, sure of it, they were someone else's overalls and there was this stuff coming out of the garage, it wasn't oil, well it could have been oil but mixed with something, I don't know, I don't know it was just odd, and he was odd, this whole fucking place is odd.'

Lucy sat on the small chair next to her vanity unit, she looked puzzled but there was something about that expression that Simon recognised – oh yeah, he recognised it good.

'I can see what you are thinking, Lucy. That I must be imagining the whole thing; that my mind is playing tricks on me and I am seeing weird stuff coz I want to see weird stuff.' Simon took a step forward, leaning over the bed and pointed a finger at her and then down below them, toward the kitchen, 'Well what about what happened down there, Lucy, all that shit about the club and you not being Lucy and how he speaks to me and speaks to you, explain that Sherlock friggin Holmes.'

'What doya mean, Simon?'

'What do I mean? For Christ sake, Lucy, you were different down there, you were...you were,' and then it hit him. Hit him like a truck carrying a trailer full of bricks. 'You were Barbara.'

'Stop it, Simon.'

'Stop calling me THAT! For fucks sake, stop calling me THAT!'

Lucy flinched; her eyes became wide and startled. 'Stop calling you what, Simon.'

'Simon. Stop calling me Simon. You never call me that. It's either Si or Sausage or honey or anyfuckingthing, just not that. Not since we first met.'

'I don't know what you are talking about.'

'No, of course not. Like downstairs when I called you Lucy and you freaked out and sided with yer dad and made me think I was mental, that I had just made it all up. You made me think for a minute that you were Barbara and I had somehow slipped into some alternative universe. How can you answer that then, hey?'

She shook her head and blinked in that God damned condescending way he oh so hated. This was turning into a crappy start to their holiday and he realised that they were fighting and they never fought, never argued or raised their voices to one another.

'Look, it's been a long day, Sausage, (that had been a struggle for her, like downstairs when he could see the egg timer ticking away behind her eyes it was the same now) we are both tired and need a nap or something. Don't forget that I haven't been back here in a long time. This is just as strange for me as it is for you, ya know what I mean. Just give it time, please.'

Yeah right, whatever, sweet heart. You haven't had your dad talking utter nonsense or been invited to a night out with a bunch of strangers.

Maybe he was being too hard on her? It had been a long time since she left this place. Lucy and her dad hadn't talked for long time until two months ago when Simon insisted they make good their fractured relationship before it's too late. The deal with her name is acceptable, when you cross the T's and dot the I's it made sense. He would just have to except it, especially when the old man was about. The rip off merchant – Bobbie – may have been right, who knows, it may well have been forty quid and it was Simon that had made a scene and believed it was less than that. He moved his hand toward hers, a fleshy olive branch outstretched, and she took hold of it; squeezing tight. They had some troubles to work through, and he guessed as their time here wore on there would be a few more, but it wasn't all that bad. So he had to call her Barbara for a couple of weeks, so he had to put up with Mr Rowling and his odd – really odd – ways for a couple of weeks, so what. This place was gorgeous, a hidden haven that he knew he could easily fall in love with, especially if he found time to get his camera out and start snapping. It could be a lot worse he supposed as they both settled down on the bed, embraced and fell asleep.

5

Simon was alone on the garage forecourt. The roof was gone and the rain was floating down like wet dandelion seeds soaking him to the bone. He looked around for a sign of life – for Bobbie/Lewis – but there wasn't anybody around. The lights were off in the shop but the courtyard was lit with an afterglow of some unseen distant sun.

His head was thick, groggy; much like it was the morning after a few heavy drinks. Maybe the shop had some water, he wanted some water; he was so thirsty all of a sudden that he felt sand in his throat. He took a step but realised that by taking one step he had taken four and then as he took another step he felt as if he were floating, as if in space, but he wasn't floating toward the shop where he so desperately wanted to go to get a drink; he was heading toward the padlocked garage. Heading toward the building where some foul looking red gore flowed from beneath its rusted blue door. The garage's metal roof flapped in a wind that wasn't there. The door looked like a massive metallic mouth which had been shut for hundreds of years and was preparing to open. Simon was sure he could see the building heave in and out as it breathed. He didn't want to go there for he was sure that behind that door there lived monsters; monsters that had made Lewis into Bobbie.

Simon swung his arms to try and change direction, but it did nothing and he floated closer. Simon kicked but that did nothing and now he was within 20 feet of the red oil stuff. He was thirsty and the effort was drying his throat further. He went to swallow and found that he couldn't, all the while getting closer to the where the gore had settled into little pools of filth. He tried to swallow again and reached up and grabbed his throat. But it wasn't there. He couldn't feel it. No soft pink wet flesh. Instead his throat felt solid and sharp like tips of a hundred nails which pointed out like some ancient defence on some ancient castle. He moaned in fear, but nothing came now that his throat was full of iron teeth and all the while he is getting closer, 10 feet to go, 10 feet to that red oil gore.

'Just an old Zephyr.

'They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.'

That was Bobbie/Lewis but Simon couldn't see him/them when he looked about.

And then something caught his eye; it was movement in the red gore oozing from underneath the garage door. Just ahead, the gore started to form a dome. But not a smooth dome. It was fragmented, like bedraggled hair that hung straight down hiding whatever face lay beneath.

'They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.'

And then the gore covered shape that was rising slowly from the red ooze began to moan; it was a low moan, feminine, he was sure of that. The moan – its Bobbie, BOBBIE \- was as if it were the last cries before the end and they went on and on until it became a scream and that scream went on and on and Simon got closer and closer and the scream got louder and louder until it became a yell and that yell grew fierce and guttural and in the distance there was a flash of lightning and a huge rumble of thunder...

6

In the valley another tree fell to the lumberjacks axe and it hit the forest floor heavily.

Simon awoke with a start; grabbing hold of his throat and then the side of the bed sure that he was floating toward some red coloured filth that was all that was left of someone – a girl, a girl called Bobbie and his breathing was fast and shallow and he was hot, sweaty and thirsty.

He got up, unsteady at first, and walked around to the end of the bed and into the small bathroom holding onto whatever he could as he went. He flicked the light switch on and leant on the sink as he tried to control himself. Looking into the mirror he saw that he was pale, his eyes sunken with deep dark rings beneath them. Licking his lips he turned on the cold tap, waited a second or two and then cupped his hands allowing the water to collect. When the cold liquid was brimming he bent over and drank what he could, before refilling and drinking again and again and again. On the final fill, instead of drinking he splashed the water over his face and kept his hands there whilst he straightened up.

He felt better now. Relaxed. Whatever that dream had been about was drifting away like a leaf caught in a rivers current.

Simon took his hands away and opened his eyes.

Behind him was a woman and her skin was flayed, her eyes were gone and their black sockets reflected nothing and her mouth was wide as if she wanted to scream but without a throat no sound could come out.

So Simon screamed for her.

7

In the valley another tree to fell the lumberjacks axe and it hit the forest floor heavily.

Simon awoke and sat bolt upright. 'They Leak!'

His chest moved in and out rapidly. His clothes were wet with sweat and tight around his body. It was as if they were trying to strangle him. He looked over to see if Lucy was there but she was gone; the bed sheets slightly ruffled, the pillow crooked. Looking around the room lit by a fading twilight sun, he saw that the bedroom door was open and the hallway light was on. There were voices coming from downstairs.

He eased himself back onto the soft duvet and sighed heavily running his hands through his hair. 'Fucking hell.' It had been a long time since Simon had had a dream – a nightmare – like that. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had had one. His breathing was becoming normal and he licked his lips. Simon was struggling to remember the gist of the dream, it was disappearing quickly – which he was thankful for – but he knew that he had been at the garage and that the red gore had been there.

Someone was saying something. Somebody was there

From his pocket there came a soft vibration and it startled him. Reaching down and fumbling he removed his iPhone and opened his eyes so that he could see what the alert was for. The background image was of Lucy – a princess in her red dress – but her face was obscured by the green box and the text that was inside. The message was from Kyle and it read:

Give me a call. Know on holiday and isn't urgent but need to talk.

He let go of the phone and let it fall onto the duvet next to him. Right now, speaking to Kyle was the last thing he wanted to do. What he really wanted was a beer, a few of them to be precise. He took a quick shower, dried, and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean shirt. Ready for the long haul he took in a deep breath and headed back downstairs.

The Peroni Incident

1

Simon gathered himself together, left the bedroom and headed downstairs. The upstairs hallway was decorated in that same lost in time 70'ss style that matched downstairs. It wasn't awful and in the same situation that Mr Rowling was in – alone and without a wife – Simon believed that most men would do and be the same. What was the point in changing anything when the only one seeing it, living in it, was you?

He walked past the family bathroom – had a little chuckle to himself – when the avocado green bath suite shone bright in the fluorescent glow of the bathroom light. There was even a matching bathmat to boot, as well as a fluffy toilet seat cover.

The stairs creaked as he walked down them, though he tried to take care as his ears struggled to catch whatever it was that Lucy and Mr Rowling were talking about. There were paintings and pictures on the walls but Simon paid these no attention as he reached the bottom of the stairs and, noticing that all other doors were closed off to him, headed into the brightly lit kitchen. Mr Rowling was stood at the sink, where Lucy had been a few hours ago and Lucy had taken up a seat at the table and was pouring through a box of old photos.

He stood in the doorway; the silence from within the kitchen was a brick wall he knew his body couldn't tear down. It was Mr Rowling that acknowledged his presence, 'See ya drifted off there for a while, Simon.'

Simon smiled, though he knew it looked fake but carried on none the less. 'Yep. Journey really took it out of me. Did you have a nap...Barbara?' That was harder to do than he had anticipated.

'A little, I think. You were out for the count.' She went back to her photos.

'Another five minutes, Simon, and we shall head off over to the club if that right wayou? Times gettin on now, nigh on seven already, if yaknow what I mean.'

'Yeah, cool with me Mr Rowling. I could do with a beer or two.'

The old man nodded. 'I'll just get macoat. Best you wrap up warm, you aint used to air up here. Gets nippy, especially after a few I can tell ya.' He brushed past Simon on his way into the hallway, a subtle whiff of Old Spice in the air, 'I saved ya a couple of corned dog sarnies.'

Images of the gore pouring out of the garage flashed before Simon and his stomach churned.

Mr Rowling was just about to put on his overcoat when Simon asked, 'What's corned dog?'

Now, Simon wasn't sure, he could have been mistaking what he heard as a button clicking together, or the old clock that hung on the wall ticking louder than usual, or it could have been the natural creaking and groaning of the house that caused it, but Simon was sure he heard Mr Rowling tsk and then shake his head. Zipping up his coat, 'you explain would ya, Barbara? I gotta make sure the garage is locked before we go.' He opened the door, the light of the bulbous moon pouring in, and headed outside, closing the door harder than what was needed. Simon turned, wondering how on earth he was going to get through a night if he didn't know what a corned dog was, and looked at Lucy; his eyes asking the question his mouth couldn't bring itself to say.

She was smirking and it pleased Simon. He hadn't seen that little smirk all day, thought for a few minutes during the earlier episode that he wouldn't see it for the rest of his days.

'Corned beef you twat. Now grab em out of the fridge, second shelf I think, and be quick about it, you have about two minutes before dad comes back in here and gives ya what for, best you not keep him waiting.'

'How the hell am I going to survive tonight without you there translating for me?' The sandwiches were on the shelf; unwrapped and ready to go. He took them out and held them out to Lucy like they were some ancient artefact he had come across during a dig.

'Christ, look at the size of these bad boys! It's like two loaves of bread with a wedge of cow smashed in the middle. And look at all that brown sauce.'

'You like brown sauce.'

'Yeah, but come, there must be half a bottle in there.'

'Well if ya don't want them then put them back. But don't come crying to me when you have had a skin full and are puking yer guts up all over the shop making a dick of yourself in front of your future father in law. Be prepared to drink a lot tonight bucko; the men up here will make sure you do and won't forget it if ya don't.'

The last thing he had eaten was an overpriced Panini from a service station at around lunchtime. The smell of the sandwich was starting to make his stomach rumble and his mouth salivate. He closed the fridge door and took a bite out of the wedge. It was delicious, though the brown sauce made it hard to breathe for a moment, and he took one more bite as he headed over to Lucy and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

'Wish me luck?'

She glanced up, physically pulling herself away from the black and white images that she was looking through. She also made an effort to cover up some of them with her arms.

'Be careful what you say, Simon. It's a different world up here. It's not like The Rose back home, they don't know you so that means some of them won't like you, and they will make that pretty obvious too.'

Her eyes were a fire of concern and Simon believed that given half a chance they would crawl out of her sockets and try and bore their way into his own eyes. His throat had become dry all of a sudden, he could sense her seriousness even though he had never seen her like this and whatever warning she was giving she meant it – really meant it – like when a parent tells you not to walk on railway lines or play with traffic.

'Okay, okay, I'll be careful, Lucy, promise. Scouts honour and all that.'

Lucy took hold of his hand. 'Don't call me that. Not here, not even if we are alone, don't call me it. And another thing, I know what you are like, don't flash the cash, don't buy a round just because you think that that will get yer some leeway with these guys. It don't work like that, not here. Doing that is just a sure fire way to find yerself in the alleyway having the shite kicked out of ya.'

She let go of his hand as from outside the engine of the Cortina roared into life and the headlights blinked off and on a few times – hurry up southerner, they yelled, hurry up and come and see how real men drink!

Lucy looked out of the window. 'You'd best be off and I shall see you later.' And Simon could only kiss her on the forehead as she had once again become consumed by the photos.

2

By the time Simon reached the car he had finished eating the giant sandwich. The moon was high and big and round, a type of moon he had heard be called a Hunters Moon from time to time, and the forest, the valley and the courtyard, were glowing with its milky blue light. Even the old Cortina looked luminous under the moons ethereal glow. In the distance he could hear the rushing water of the stream.

Simon walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He expected a creek, maybe a groan from the old door as he pulled hard on the handle; but there was nothing and the motion was as smooth as his own.

He went to get in but stopped as Mr Rowling said, 'in the back, son.'

At first Simon thought he was joking. I mean, come on, what was he a kid, an ambassador, Lady Muck? He was about to chuckle and wave it off and carry on getting in the front but stopped; Mr Rowling's face; his narrow eyes, his pursed lips, his furrowed brow; he was serious! As serious as he had been when he had asked Simon to watch his language and to not call Barbara, Lucy.

'You mean...'

'In back. Front seat was Mrs Rowling's and's now Barbara's.'

He closed the door and opened the rear door and sat behind what was once Mrs Rowling's seat. The beige velour was soft, the car smelt clean, really clean, like it had been through a washing machine and hung out to dry. Surely no car this old should smell this good, Christ, even his own motor which was barely four months old didn't smell this good.

'Seatbelt, Simon. They save lives if yaknow what I mean.'

Like a good boy Simon did as he was told because he knew what Mr Rowling meant.

3

Mr Rowling put the car into gear, released the handbrake and eased the car off of the slippery cobbles and onto the road heading back the way Simon had come. The road ahead was hidden in darkness, lit only by the low beams of the Cortina. Mr Rowling wasn't exactly putting his foot down but was doing a fair lick of speed, the car didn't lumber but floated along the tarmac bouncing lightly from bump to bump, crest to crest, corner to corner. He clearly knew these roads like the back of his hand and as he reached the junction to the main road he flicked off his headlights, turned them on again and turned right without slowing or stopping as the road signs suggested.

'You see what I did there, son? I dipped the lights, saw no other car coming and so knew it was okay to carry on without even stopping. Ya see, if I hadn't done that I would have had tastop and fart about. But cars like this, Simon, home built cars that is, can do stuff like that. Akourse, they do need a man behind the wheel, if ya know what I mean.' He flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror; a sly grin lit by the dials of the dashboard.

He's gauging me. He's gauging what sort of a guy I am. Will I bite, won't I? Will I try and speak up for what I am, for what I drive, or won't I. Am I a man or aren't I?

Go with the flow.

If Lucy's mantra; was a voiced concern is a concern gone then Simons was; go with the flow and he had lived his life by it, much to the annoyance of his friends, his family and Lucy for that matter. Going with the flow usually meant that poor service was put up with, shoddy work was never challenged, and bills not paid met with a lack lustre approach and in general, as Lucy put it; shit just doesn't get done! But none the less, Simon carried on like that and wouldn't change and would always just go with the flow. Go with the flow, don't cause ripples and Simon smiled and returned his gaze to the village that went whizzing by.

They had been on the road for less than ten minutes when Mr Rowling slowed, pulled the car into a narrow driveway between two stone buildings, and parked his car in the empty car park. The engine turned over a couple of times before coming to an end. The car fell silent and became dark as the keys were removed and the small lights over the doors went out. Simon removed the rather tight seat belt and took hold the polished door handle.

'So, Simon, I take it Barbara warned ya; bout this place?'

'Well, wouldn't say warn, but she did give me some advice.'

The old boy kept his eyes fixed to the road and his hands were clasped to the steering wheel. 'This is a Working Man's Club, Simon. Working Man's Club, yaknow what I mean?'

I'm going to snap. I don't have a String, don't need one – go with the flow and all that – but I'm going to go off here. I know what you are going to say Bob, don't do it, please, don't do it...

'Barbara wouldn't have warned yer if she didn't think it necessary, Simon.'

Go with the flow Simon. Come on, go with the flow. Wanker or not, this guy is your future father in law.

'Look, Mr Rowling,' Simon said leaning forward; looking at the reflection of the old boy in the windscreen, 'I'm not some wet behind the ears, knee high to a grass hopper baby. I'm thirty-five years old. I have a mortgage. My own business and my own car for heaven's sake. Not many men can say that now can they? I know I don't fit what might make for a man here – whatever that is for crying out loud - but as sure as muck is muck, I am a man, and I would appreciated it if you treated me as such.' And Simon sat back hard against the velour and the car bounced a little.

'We shall see, Simon.' And with that the car door opened and Mr Rowling stepped out into the cool night air.

4

The two men walked across the poorly lit car.

'Is this the only place for a drink in the village, Mr Rowling?'

'Yup. Always has and always will. Folks have tried, but they don't understand how places like this work. They come here wahope, seeing money where there aint none, seeing a bunch of men working hard, dirt on their hands and in their hair and they think that a few low priced beers and cheap fried grub will get the wallet taopen. But they don't understand, Simon, they don't understand and they aint welcome.'

They walked through the orange glow of an overhead street light and their shadows shrunk and then stretched out.

'I'm surprised a big supermarket chain hasn't opened up here. Especially now that they seem to cramp all the stuff into those little stores.'

'Like I said, Simon, folks have tried, but they don't understand. Like that car yagot. Folks from other parts don't like it up here, they don't like the air, they can't get used to it, Simon, and they don't understand the village and the history of this place and how,' he paused then; scratching his chin and pulling his hands through his hair. Finally the words came to him as he splashed through a puddle, 'how we don't need them. We don't need them and we certainly don't need all their bits and pieces that can go wrong, that can break and then nothing works, Simon. Nothing works and the village dies. We can't let that happen.'

They were about halfway across the car park which had no cars in it except Mr Rowling's when he noticed that one of the buildings was a burnt out hulk.

Simon said, 'Sad to see old buildings go like that. All that history just lost.'

Mr Rowling didn't break stride, nor look over to where Simon was looking and Simon was sure he could hear a sense of glee as the old man spoke about the fire damaged building.

'Fire got that one. Mr Grayson, the old boy that live there, died in the fire; burnt to akrisp he were. You see, Simon, the fire got him, that's why he died. Fire does that, ya know, it burns ya, especially if you is unable to get away from it.'

What is this some public safety announcement? Does he think I don't know what fire is? Go with the flow, Simon. Go with the F.L.O.W. don't rock the boat, don't further spoil what has already been a crappy day. He's been alone for a long time, never had the chance to tell people about the dangers of fire. Never had the chance to pass on his deep and all-knowing snippets of insanity.

Simon found it hard not to chuckle, not to burst out laughing. The dangers of fire! This guy couldn't be for real, could he? Already Simon knew he had a few good tales to tell his mates when he got home. They would love this guy, not in person, but as a butt of a joke, or as a; your father in law aint a patch on mine tale of woe, this Mr Rowling was untouchable. And as much as Simon wanted to stop him there,

right there if it pleases ya, Mr Rowling, do you think I am some sort of mentally retarded fucktard that doesn't understand that fire can kill or that understands that cars from 1972 aint as reliable as cars made now and that time does move – its linear – not paused whenever and wherever you fancy? Well do ya?

and no matter how much he wanted to say that he guessed it best just to let it wash over him. Wash over him and not leave a trace as it dripped off of his conscious and onto the floor.

Go with the flow, Simon, Go. With. The. F.L.O.W.

5

In the far corner of the car park, which was in fact the old village square, there was an old brick building that stood taller and wider than any other in Rottenhouse. It was three stories high, and there were five windows on each floor, large windows with great sheets of glass reflecting back the moon and the stars. The ground floor windows were alight, whilst the upper windows were dark. The front of this Victorian era building was lit up by two bright bulbous lights on the end of long cast iron poles. In between the lamps were a set of sandstone steps that led up to a monstrous painted door; its glossy green surface a blaze of colour in the dark night.

Simon headed up the stairs, cautiously, as they were still slick from the earlier rain shower.

On the right hand side of the door, screwed into the old brick wall was a brass sign (freshly shined by the looks of it) that read:

Rottenhouse

Working Man's Club

Est. 1875

This was an old building, but it didn't look it. Even under the glow of the two lamps and the soft sheen of the street lamps, the Working Man's Club looked untouched by time; the opposite of the buildings that surrounded it, which were a chequerboard of old and new brickwork and green with moss and decay. This old building had seen many things and probably held many secrets, Simon thought as the door opened and he followed Mr Rowling through into the main reception area. There was an atmosphere that surrounded this club, both inside and out, a smell encased it; like the smell of flints as they sparked together – burning – but not on fire. It was a hot atmosphere, thick like toffee but not sweet, actually it was the opposite of sweet, and it left a tang on the tongue which was foul and not pleasant.

The reception area was large with brown and beige wallpapered walls and the walls were adorned with all sorts of old decorations and fixtures and fittings: antlers, cups and trophies, guns, hunting paintings, paintings of men with guns, paintings of men with trophies, heads of animals, a brass canon, a painting of a woman with her breasts and arse showing, paintings of animals both dead and alive, stuffed pheasants and photos of men playing cricket and golf and football. From the high ceiling there hung a great chandelier with light bulbs that tried to trick you into thinking they were candles. There were many doors leading to many secret places and there was a small wooden desk much like you would find in an old hotel in the middle of the reception area, unmanned at the moment, but only recently as a cigarette released a grey wisp of smoke into the air. The stairway leading both downstairs and upstairs was at the far end of the reception room and it spiralled its way up and up to poorly lit hallways. The part of the stairway that led down into the basement looked newer, not the marble and wood and cast iron of its forebear, more like concrete and wood, and it was dark, really dark, and looking down there Simon had the same gut wrenching feeling he had when he looked at the gaping metallic mouth of the garage back at the edge of the village and on the walls that led down into that dark place there hung just two paintings, bigger than the others that ordained the reception, but they were shrouded in the darkness – the urge to look upon them, to know what they were was great, but so to was the urge to run away from this place. Run away screaming.

Simon realised, when he heard the not so dulcet tones of Mr Rowling, that he had been stood in the doorway, mouth open like a teenagers first glimpse of a titty, for some time and that the old man was stood next to the reception desk waiting patiently by a closed door.

'Come on, Simon. Don't be scared. I thought you were man?'

Was that a joke? Who knew? Simon most certainly did not. There was a soft clatter of balls, as if a game of snooker was being played from behind the closed door to his left as he quickly moved from the front door to where Mr Rowling was standing.

Mr Rowling put his hand on the brass door handle and before turning it he looked at Simon dead straight in the eye and as he spoke his voice was low, a whisper almost. 'You're in my world, Simon. This is Working Man's Club and the men here demand respect. So before I open door, best you leave whatever type you is out here and try not to make a fool outta me in there, yaknow what I mean. If you is a man like ya say you are, then now would be a good time to show it.'

Simon blinked as spittle splashed his face such was the over pronunciation of the word it. He slid off his coat and surreptitiously wiped his face clean of any phlegm that may have been there. Before he could say anything, though he didn't really know what to say because once again what could you say for crying out loud, Mr Rowling had opened the door and the old brass hinges creaked and screamed bringing the conversations that were being had in the bar on the other side of the door to a complete stop.

6

A room filled heavy with smoke, the stale smell of beer stung Simon's eyes and clung to his clothes like brambles. Many were the men that laboured over their drinks but on the sound of the creaking door turned to face Simon. Eyes from many men looked at Simon; they burrowed deep into him like a curious rabbit seeking a carrot in a mine field. They scanned him, appraised Simon as if he were a trinket found in the attic of a long dead relative. His throat became dry, a barren wasteland full of needles that stabbed him when he swallowed. He was stood there for what seemed like hours, looking from his left to his right, his body swimming weightless in a sea full of human sharks. Mr Rowling entered his field of vision he stepped forward and headed toward the bar all the eyes followed him as he went.

Conversation's started up again, though he guessed some were about him, and pint glasses clattered and thudded upon the wooden tables. It was a fairly large room, squared off with numerous chairs and tables laid out in a random pattern. The bar was at the end of the room, a stairway led off somewhere to the right whilst three doors were on the left. The decoration matched the reception room though there were many more paintings upon the walls. There were occasional posters or square plaques denoting the various beers and snacks that were on offer. They looked old and hung stagnant like dead fish on a fisherman's catch pole. The room was a crescendo of conversations (and eyes; eyes looking at him) as he reached the counter of the bar – surprised to see it empty – and placed his light coat on the barstool next to where he stood.

The barman said, 'Evening, Mr Rowling. Usual eit?' as he grabbed a pint glass from the overhanging rack above the counter. As he did his white shirt lifted up revealing a fat, hairy belly covered in moles and fuzzy hair

'Aye, thattabe grand,' and as an afterthought, 'what you having, Simon?'

Simon scanned the available beers. First looking at the counter and then behind so as to see what bottles were available in the fridge. There wasn't much to choose from; three pumps were on the counter top, each one an ale of some description, whilst behind the bar there were cans of Heineken, or again, bottles of ales that he had never heard of. The ales had names that were brutal, somewhat comical though disturbing: Grumpy Farmer, Long Tree Froth, Rottenhouse Puddle, Sticky Thatch, Stonemasons Folly and finally, Flogged Daughter. Surely this couldn't be it? Surely the other big names had managed to break through?

The barman was already halfway through pouring Mr Rowling's Stonemasons Folly, the golden juice frothing lightly and so Simon looked again behind the bar a little bit agitated. He hated Heineken, he just didn't have the taste for it and as for ales, they just tasted of sour dirt and leaves. Simon knew he was a fussy arsehole when it came to beer, he couldn't stand the taste of spirits either, but he could always find something. Something. A cold sweat leaked from his pores and his gusset felt wet and he knew that even though Mr Rowling wasn't looking at him, he was thinking about him, hoping against hope that he would say the right thing, order the right drink – a man's drink. Well here he was, a man, looking for a drink that would account for his delicate taste buds in a world full of various shades of acid that only a real man can drink. A real man of Rottenhouse and Simon considered asking for a lemonade, then thought better of it and it started to weigh heavy on him, like he was about to choose whether men should go to war poverty, and he felt as if the sweat were pouring out of him. Without really thinking, the panic of decision getting the better of him, he blurted out the first thing he could think of, 'Err, I know it's a long shot, but any chance you have Peroni?'

Mr Rowling's glass bounced hard off of the pump and some of it spilled to the floor. How the glass didn't shatter was a miracle unto God himself and both the barman's and Mr Rowling's eyes were upon him, wide, like a deer's caught in the headlights of an oncoming car that was just about to send it into the next life. Their faces were a mix of utter bewilderment and utter disgust. It was as if Simons head had just exploded and what was left in the gaping hole of his face was a tiny alien man sat in a control room of blinking lights and handles. The bar however hadn't fallen silent, not like in the movies, and there was still a throng of chatter and clunking pint glasses in the world of the Working Man's Club, but here, at the counter, the air became thick with their own silence and tension.

'What do you mean, Simon, Proni? We don't have none of that foreign muck here. Just proper stuff, man's stuff, if yaknow what I mean.'

'Err...' Simon stumbled, regretting the choice immediately.

'Well? What do you want, Simon?'

The barman finished pouring Mr Rowling's pint and placed the heavy glass onto the counter top. Its froth poured down the side and soaked into the overly clean bar towel. For a couple of seconds, though they felt like hours to Simon, he stared at the green sign that told him he could buy tickets for the upcoming meat raffle. Mr Rowling was waiting patiently for Simon to answer.

'Perhaps a Heineken, Simon. That might suit ya better.

'Best ya get that for him, barkeep, before the bell is rung, if ya know what I mean.' Mr Rowling said, a glint in his eye, which Simon had never seen before and he was doubly shocked when the old man turned to the barman, winked and they both shared a joke; laughing under their breaths and Simon guessed (he had a University education you know) that the joke was on him, well and truly on him.

'Alright, Heineken it is then.' And the barman wore the grin of a man who knew something you didn't; like your wife was sleeping around with the stable boy, that your business was about to go belly up or that you had just ordered the wrong drink.

Simon merely nodded, a glum grin upon his face. This situation reminded him of being a boy in the sweet shop that had been on the corner of his road where he grew up. He had so many containers of sweets to choose from – Cola Cubes, Army and Navy, Bon Bon's of all flavours, Rhubarb and Custard, American Hard Gums, Sherbet Millions, Midget Gems and Wine Gums and the list could go on and on - some days he had stood there, like he was stood in front of the drinks on offer here, and not had a clue what to order for the fear of missing out on something good – something sweeter but only now, the choice wasn't for something sweeter; I mean how sweet can a pint of Flogged Daughter be? No, this choice was like choosing what poison you wanted to end your life with and to top it off, you were being judged on that choice. Judged by one of the harshest, strangest critics Simon had ever met and sadly, by the looks of things, Simon had gotten it wrong.

7

The barman grabbed a can of Heineken from the fridge, pulled the tab so that it opened with a fizzy click and put it on the counter. Mr Rowling didn't sneer at the beer but Simon could see he was put off by it; like it was garlic held out to a vampire.

'Glass?' The barman asked.

'Yes, thanks.'

The barman reached up and grabbed a glass – his belly sticking out for all the world to see – and placed it next to the can of beer.

Simon looked at the glass and then to the barman who returned his gaze with a blank stare; and what can I do for you, you stupid southern prick? Simon looked back down to the glass and then over to Mr Rowling who returned the gaze with a similar blank look, but those eyebrows of his were raised; that's right, Simon, those raised eyebrows said, that's right, that's the right glass for you, ya soft southern pussy.

'Problem, Simon?'

Go with the flow Simon. Go with the F.L.O.W. probably just a village joke. That's right, that's all this is. A joke that they play on all the blokes that come in here that haven't got a clue what the hell they are doing. Just go with it. It's okay that they think you are a total arse and that you haven't got a manly bone in your entire body. That's okay, it's for FUN. All in the name of FUN.

Simon knew this was no joke and so Simon picked up the can and poured all of it into the glass. 'No problem, Mr Rowling. Just never been served a beer with a wine glass, that's all.'

Mr Rowling inhaled through his teeth like a plumber just about to give you some rather bad news. 'Well, what can I tell ya, Simon? Drink like that there is only for the ladies on a Sunday night. None of the men drink it. Tastes like shiiiite, if yaknow what I mean?'

'But it's in a wine glass.'

'Aye, Simon, that is a wine glass your right there, lad. Ladies like a wine glass. Now yacant get a pint of this stuff in a wine glass.' Mr Rowling pointed to his own drink and took a large gulp; a bit of the froth stuck to his top lip and he licked it off greedily. Simon looked to his own sorry state of affairs and realised that the beer from the can hadn't even filled the wine glass up. There was less than half a pint in that small little dumpy can and he tipped it fully over to make sure he had extracted every drop from its metal core.

'A pint of this won't fit in that glass, Simon, because that there glaaaass isn't made to fit a pint.'

No shit Sherlock.

'But you can still drink your ale from this glass. It just wouldn't be a pint. I mean, yeah, you'd have to have about four or five of these to get a pint, but you could still do it.'

'Why would I do that? Why would I put proper stuff in a ladies glass, Simon? I don't think you understand. I thought you went to university?'

'Well, yeah, I did, but what I'm saying is that I know a pint is a pint, but this wine glass isn't meant for beer, it's meant to have wine in it.'

'No, Simon. No. That kind of thinking might be alright down south, where you have all that fancy beer and sparkly wine, but up here lad, where the ground is hard and the days are long we have ale in pints and lady drinks in ladies glasses.'

This could go on all night and Simon could see no victory here. Even if there was a victory it would have to be a hard fought fight, plus he didn't really know what he was fighting for anymore. 'I guess you're right, Mr Rowling.'

The old man smiled a smile that said; yes, that's right, little man, I am right and I am always right. I'm never wrong even when I am wrong. I am so single minded, little man, that I can see no other points, no other aspects to anything that I say or do because I don't need to. I don't need to. What I say goes around here, everyone knows it and its time you learned it too, YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN?

'Let's go sit down, Simon. They are keen to meet a southerner like yerself. But none of that Proni talk, Simon, not with mamates, if yaknow what I mean, and make sure to order a proper drink next time, not a ladies drink, Simon.' And then those eyebrows dipped, 'But not Flogged Daughter, for Christ sake don't order that.'

'Will do, Mr Rowling. But what's wrong with having a Flogged Daughter?' Even saying it made Simon feel sick.

'Nowt wrong weeit, Simon. But it aint for us to drink. It's for the Chairman. Only the Chairman drinks the Daughter, know what I mean.'

And then Simon remembered his dream. He remembered the blood coming from the garage; he could see it as clear as he could see old Mr Rowling drink his pint and the glint in his eye as he did it. The image of that oil blood pouring from under the garage door and the attendant – Bobbie that was called Lewis wearing clothes that were far too small for him – stood in front of Simon made him remember, forced him to remember what he had heard, and it sent cold shivers running down his spine:

They leak.

They bleed.

They don't stop once they started.

Strung Him Up From the Sky

1

Two hours went by in that vague fugue of being new to a group of people that know each other like brothers – blood brothers. You are sat there, lost in conversations you know very little of and barely understand. They speak the same language as you but their words seem foreign. Those words float towards you and you struggle to gather them up whilst the conversation continues on and on and the more you struggle the more you loose of it and the tighter the rope gets around your neck until, eventually, it all breaks down and you are swept away; lost in an oceanic maze of words and confusion.

Mr Rowling's friends, associates, Simon, associates, that's what Mr Rowling called them of which there were many, came to visit the southerner that had entered their village. It was as if Simon were in fact some travelling alien that had crash landed on this planet and he was a marvel to behold. They all asked the same generic questions: Do ya come from London? How do you put up with the noise? How can you drink that filth? Is it always too hot down there? What do grow? How can dogs run? And he answered them with respect but as he did something about the way they looked troubled him. Now, Simon would freely admit (as these country folk waddled to and fro and talked of farms, quarries, the weather, the burnt out house and the like) that he was no catalogue model and that he was really lucky, blessed if you will, to have such a beautiful girlfriend as Lucy, but the men around here weren't exactly the cream of the crop. The average age in the club must have be around 40, the youngest just out of his teens, whilst the oldest was some wizened old fella in the corner who sucked on a wooden pipe and blew brown fetid smoke into the air from the side of his twisted mouth. Each one of the men he saw had some sort of affliction, be it a large nose, or massive ears or a wonky set of eyes, perhaps there was a wart on the tip of a nose, or a limp from a knackered leg. You name it, one of these blokes probably had it. Mr Rowling, however, looked like an ancient King, sat upon his grand throne, overlooking his misguided and rotten plebs. Mr Rowling was in fine shape, whilst the rest of the men were broken, spoiled

Simon could see why Lucy had left this place if this was all there was too offer. It was a harsh thing to say, but hey, when the devil shits in your face you have shit on your face. It's simple.

Simon was patient with the questions being thrown at him and answered them politely, simply as if speaking with children (which he could tell was one of the key ways to communicate with each other around here) and always with respect, as Mr Rowling had asked. The old man seemed pleased and after he had drank his wine glass of beer (that still grated Simon, but hey, go with the flow and all that) he had gotten him a pint of Grumpy Farmer. To Simons surprise the taste hadn't been too bad: like eating dirty carrots with a touch of sugar sprinkled on top.

He was four pints into Grumpy Farmer and was starting to feel better about the whole situation when he started thinking about what had transpired earlier in the day. So what if Lucy had once been called Barbara. It made sense, when you thought about it. This place was like finding the lost cities of gold hidden deep inside a forest that never gave up its secrets; it was untouched by most of the modern world in which we all live and for an outgoing girl like Lucy it must have felt like a prison. As for Mr Rowling, well he was old, set in his ways. He had been alone for some years with only the company of the valley and the odd folks of Rottenhouse. He was strange, yes, outdated; definitely, but would he hurt or try and stop him from marrying Lucy: probably not. He was just one of those guys you had to get used to and try to get on with. And Simon was good at that. Really good at that. Maybe that's why his friends always knew to go to him for money when they needed, or a helping hand when they requested it. Or maybe it was because they knew he was a push over, easy to persuade; always seeing the good in people and not the self-absorbed shits they could be. Maybe. Maybe not. Simon was happy and Lucy was happy and that's all that mattered to Simon in the long run.

2

It was about ten o-clock when Simon decided it was time to break the seal. He guessed where the toilets were by the volume of men that went in and out of the room to the left of the bar. He also decided that now would be a good time to offer these fine folks a beer. The club was relatively busy, though Simon had no real way to judge but there were a good 50 to 60 people in here. Sat around his particular table were 5 others whom he believed were Mr Rowling's closest friends, not associates, and it was to them that he would offer a drink to.

But there was one other that he believed he needed to buy a drink for. A chap sat on his own, garbed in a dark blue shirt and brown trousers, in the far corner of the club, where the lights were dim and where it appeared that only men armed with a pint for the offering would dare go. They would warily walk up to the man, the pint held out to him as if to appease some all-seeing powerful God and then without a word, just a tip of the cap (even if they weren't wearing one) they would leave their offering and walk away. There was never any eye contact. The man in the shadows would continue to read his papers, licking his lips occasionally before turning the pages. The beer would be drank rhythmically, a couple of minutes between each gulp until it was reaching empty and then another would be placed there by another willing chap. If Simon judged this right then by the time he had gone for a piss the shadow man's pint would be nigh on empty and he could be the one to offer up the next sacrifice. After all, Simon likes to keep people sweet, he wants what's best for him and Lucy, and getting on Mr Rowling's good side was his key objective this fortnight.

Simon stood, his chair scrapping on the wooden floor. He was light headed, but not drunk. 'Just off to the toilet. Another round?'

The men that were sat around the table nodded, almost in unison, and then returned to their conversations about the need for a better road along the valley floor between the dry well and silos. Simon turned to Mr Rowling, who was sat next to him and leaned over. Keeping his voice low he asked 'What do I order?'

'Just point over to our table when yaorder. Barkeep will know.'

'And what about that guy over there. Do I get him one?'

'Aye, Simon. Pint of Flogged for him. But don't say anything. He already knows who yaare and why yahere.'

Simon nodded, straightened himself up and headed off toward the toilet. As he walked past the bar another man was heading toward him. He was young, about the same age as Simon. He had short dark hair and a fat overly featured face. The guy was short and wore dirty jeans and big boots. He bore a resemblance to Bobbie/Lewis in the garage and he pondered, if but for a fleeting moment, that they may be brothers. Simon could see by the way the man walked that he was drunk, really drunk, and he stumbled and swayed with each unsteady footfall. Simon offered a smile and a nod but the gesture was not returned; the drunk man's eyes were wide and firmly fixed ahead, they moved for nothing. Simon turned to see what the guy was walking toward and could see that his target was Mr Rowling and Mr Rowling had spotted him. Simon got the urgent feeling that something was wrong. It was the same feeling you get when there is going to be a fight in the pub or when your partner was about to fly off the handle at you for no apparent reason. As much as he wanted to stay around and watch was about to happen Simon really needed to piss, the seal was breaking of its own accord and he opened the toilet door just as the drunk man reached the table where he had been sat not two minutes before. He heard the drunk man slur a hello to Mr Rowling but then the door was closed and the conversation disappeared and was replaced with the fuzzy white noise that all pub toilets are graced with. He made his way to one of the three urinals and taking out his pink weapon, he relieved himself against the rather clean white porcelain. It was a sweet, welcomed release, and he exhaled as the hot urine splashed against the yellow disinfectant block. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly overhead and he heard a fan kick in from somewhere behind one of the stalls.

Shaking his penis free of any drips he zipped up and went over to the sink. Strangely, there was no mirror above the three sinks. In its place, held in a thick dark wooden frame and clear glass was a recent photo of the outside of the Working Man's Club. It was a good photo, Simon appreciated the composition, the lighting and the way whomever had taken the photo had managed to capture the essence of this old place. He washed his hands admiring the picture and hoped to capture something of the same with his own camera. Just as he turned the taps off Simone heard a commotion. The white noise had gone and it was replaced with just one voice and it was the voice of Mr Rowling. Simon quickly scrubbed his hands dry on the blue paper towels and rushed out of the toilet and into a scene he would never have imagined seeing.

3

On the floor, next to the table Simon had been sat at not 5 minutes before, was the drunk man. He was sat on his backside, his right hand cradling his jaw, his left hand held aloft in desperation. The man he was despairing too was Mr Rowling who was stood over him like a victorious boxer. The other men had remained in their seats, though they were all turned to see the fracas.

'Who do yathink you are, Stevie Johnson? What do yathink yer up to?'

'I'm s-s-sorry Mr Rowling. Forget maplace, is all. Drunk too much, that's maproblem. Meant no disrespect.'

'Camon Stevie, don't try and pull wool over my eyes. Yaknow what yer uptah. You think that now you got the big farm you is the big man around here. You thought you'd come in here tonight...'

'No, Mr Rowling, it's not like that, it's...'

Mr Rowling moved quickly and slapped the young man around the face. There was a soft groan of disapproval from the men in the club and Simon noticed the man who sat in the shadows shake his head.

'Don't interrupt me, Stevie Johnson,' Mr Rowling said calmly, 'Yajust don't learn do ya? No matter what we try and teach you youngers, you just don't learn. You never learn. Maybe you need another lesson.'

'No, Mr Rowling. It won't happen again.'

Simon caught movement from the corner of his eye. The man in the shadows had stood up and was appraising the scene. Simon moved a little closer to the bar but then decided it was probably best to stay where he was.

'Just shut up, Stevie, for your mother's sake, just shut up. Yagot the farm cos yer dad was as stupid as you. And he paid the price for what he did, didn't he, eh? Strung him up from the sky and watched that poor old bastard swing for what he did. We thought yawoulda learnt from that, Stevie, but no. Smug bastards all of ya. If what we did to yer dad don't take that smug look from yer eyes then I'm sure he can.' Mr Rowling looked over to the shadow man and said, 'If that's okay with you, Mr Chairman?'

The drunk man moaned and tried to move away but stopped when he felt the boot of one of the other patrons against his back. His face was panicked, flowering red with stress, and by the looks of things; he had wet himself. The other men in the club all turned and looked to the shadow man. There was a silence now, a deep silence, one that sucked you in and took away your breath. Simon's heart began to race and his chest heaved with each breath. The shadow man nodded and dropped his papers onto the table. There was another short moan from Stevie but no one paid it any attention. From under the counter the barman revealed a long wooden truncheon, its grip tied with cord so as to give a better hold. He passed this club to the Chairman who took hold of it easily even though it looked as if it weighed a considerable amount. Simon was finding it hard to swallow and his guts started to churn. He had never seen a beating before, most of the time they happened outside in the street or behind closed doors. He hoped, no prayed, that his guts would hold up if it went the way he knew it was going to go. The Chairman gave the truncheon a couple of swings as if in mockery of the man that was about to get his head smashed in by it and even though the Chairman was under the same lights as everyone else his features were still hidden in shadow and Simon, as much as he tried, couldn't see the man that was hidden under there. But he guessed that he was smiling: everyone else was. Everyone else except him and poor Stevie Johnson.

Stevie now tried to get up but Mr Rowling put a solid left boot onto his chest and shook his head. The Chairman stopped swinging and pointed the truncheon to a cleared spot on the floor. The clutter free area wasn't shiny like the rest of the wooden floor, this part of the floor looked dull, scrubbed clean of any shine. Simon was sure everyone in here could hear his breathing it was so hard and he almost screamed in sheer terror as he realised why that bit of the floor was so dull; why no one sat there.

Two men, Charlie and Edward, who had been sat with Simon got up and took hold of an arm each and dragged the poor whining soul across the floor. Simon had expected the young man to put up more of a struggle, to be shouting and screaming like most people would on their way to a beating, but Stevie, though clearly scared, had given up his futile resistance without much of a fight.

Mr Rowling then took to his seat. He wasn't smiling; he wasn't anything, just a blank canvas on which to paint whatever you wanted. The two men dropped Stevie onto the floor. There was a wet piss smear marking his small journey and then the two men returned to their seats and much like Mr Rowling, their faces were clean of any emotion.

This is normal to them Simon thought, this is a daily routine for them. Like taking a crap or putting on a shirt. This is just a matter of course and how they manage the village. No prisons or police, no lawful justice here.

Stevie looked up to the Chairman and the Chairman looked down to him and with his left hand signalled for Stevie to stand up. There were mutterings from the men in the audience; mutterings that seemed to give Stevie some of the respect he had lost back. He was taking his punishment and he would learn from it. If he didn't learn from it then... Simon didn't want to think about that.

Chairman looked down on Stevie; the truncheon swinging in his right hand.

Take it outside, take it outside, please. Just lead him away. I don't want to see this.

With a quick swing the truncheon flew through the air and struck Stevie hard on his right side. It sent him flying to floor in a spray of spittle and flaying arms and legs. And then the rest is pretty much what you would have expected and needs no great oratory. Redacting the punishment, Chairman nigh on smashed the life from Stevie. The wooden truncheon thudded against his body and Stevie screamed in pain as a few rib bones cracked here and there but still the blows rained down. Blood began to seep from under his clothes such was the ferocity of the hits and the dull floor became a wash with it. But Simon noted, with grim surprise, that the Chairman never hit him in the face, just his arms, legs and body until there wasn't an inch that was either bloodied, covered in bruises or broken.

4

It was all over in less than five minutes. The two men that had dragged Stevie over now took hold of him again and led him out of the main door and out into the night. Stevie wasn't moaning, he wasn't doing anything except bleeding.

The Chairman walked back to his table, handing back the truncheon to the barman as he did, and continued reading his paper. The barman wiped the weapon clean and placed it under the counter and the club came to life again as if for the last ten minutes they had been frozen in time.

'Another round is it?' A voice asked from another part of the universe.

'Eh?' Surprised that his voice even worked his throat was so parched. His stomach hurt as did his chest because he had been breathing so hard. He was amazed to see that Mr Rowling was not in the least bit preoccupied with what had just happened, no one was, they were all just carrying on like nothing had happened.

'Another round is it?' The voice said again, only this time a little louder, a little slower.

Simon turned toward the voice and saw that the barman was patiently waiting for him to order. Simon wanted to be sick but knew that he wouldn't be able to do it.

'Yes please.' He managed and he lent against the counter; his head in his hands. He had sobered up in a matter of minutes and his head heaved and span as the hangover he was due to have in the morning suddenly started to kick in.

'Not seen a beating before?' The barman asked as he set to pouring the drinks.

'Only on tele.'

The barman laughed. 'Aye, get used to it after a while.'

'Used to it? If things are that bad then why not call the police?'

'No police round here, don't need it. No, folks round here understand the way things are done and if anyone doesn't do as they are told or follow the rules then they is punished. The Chairman sees to that.'

'Another one for him, please.'

'Already on it.'

I bet you are.

The barman passed the pint of Flogged Daughter over to Simon. 'Go give it him, rest will be ready when you get back.'

'Great.'

Simon took hold of the pint with a shaky right hand. He walked over to the Chairman under the shadows and placed the glass down onto the table. He didn't doff his cap, fake or otherwise, he hadn't the strength to do it. Behind, he could feel all eyes upon him, watching him, studying him, making sure he didn't screw this up and then the truncheon had to come out to play again. He took a couple of steps back and admired the fact that the Chairman didn't even seem to be out of breath after such a brutal exercise. Maybe admired was the wrong word, and Simon realised that not to be breathing hard or panting like a knackered old dog after dishing out such a hefty punishment was downright scary so Simon turned tail and headed back to the bar.

The Chairman took hold of the pint, nodded toward Mr Rowling, who then raised his own glass and the two men took a hearty swig in celebration of the justice that had just been served.

5

Taking two trips, Simon handed the drinks to the others and then sat back down into his chair. He felt like he had been away for days, all that he had learned and knew about these folks was now lost. He watched them talking about this and that but paid no attention to the words that they were saying. All he could think of was the beating that Stevie had taken. All he could think of was watching the truncheon go up and down, up and down and up and down again and again and again. That awful bone cracking, skin tearing thud it made with each strike. How the Chairman had managed not to hit his face or kill the poor bastard was a miracle – plain and simple – though he knew that Stevie, right now, probably wished for the sweet release of death to come and take him away.

But there was one thing that troubled him and it only really occurred to him now when he had a moment to get his thoughts back together. He turned to Mr Rowling and not caring who he interrupted or what the conversation was actually about he asked, 'What the hell did Stevie do?'

'Broke rules.' Mr Rowling replied in that stone cold, flat tone, as he stared into his pint and then taking a gulp he turned to Simon. 'Break rules, you pay the price round here. No time for trouble makers, Simon.'

'So, what did he do?'

The pint glass was placed on the table, the other men that sat around were paying no attention to Simon nor Mr Rowling; they were much to pre-occupied with a rather tall and skinny man that had just walked into the club.

'Just the folly of youth, is all, Simon. Now leave it be, you aint gonna understand, not until you have spent some more time here.'

The tall and skinny man, wearing blue jeans and a long wax jacket greeted each of the men around the table with a handshake and a nod. When he reached Mr Rowling he shook his hand with both of his, cupping them as if it was a goblet of the finest red wine.

'Good tasee ya, Bob. How's it been?' The skinny man's voice was soft and he was well spoken. It belied his age.

'Can't complain, Phil. Can't complain. Its good tasee yatoo. Looking well.'

Their hands separated.

Phil continued, 'Feeling good to. The Mrs has me fed well and the Doc's pills are doin the trick. Can't say that for Stevie Johnson though. Just saw him stumbling through square. Needed another lesson, did he?'

'Aye.'

'What fer?'

'What it's always fer when they get too big fer their boots.'

Phil nodded and continued to pay Simon no attention what so ever.

'Hopefully though,' Mr Rowling continued, 'that's the last time he forgets his place. Anyways, tell barkeep to put beer on me tab; yours and his. I know you aint had a good crop.'

'It's not crop that's the problem, Bob, it me blinking cattle. Got some kind a scratching bug, they have. Riddled weit they is. Vets gonna give em a jab wisomink or other but none will be fit fer market. Not this year.'

Mr Rowling offered a consoling shake of his head. 'Probably that bloody factory over in Brook. Since that been there all sorts of folk been falling ill. And now yer cattle.'

'Probably, Bob. But what can we do?'

'Nowt. For now at least. Anyway, go get yer drink and have a night.'

Phil headed off towards the bar.

'Now there's a good man, Simon. One of the best.' Mr Rowling took up his pint and in one large, world consuming gulp, drained it, leaving a white frothy residue on the sides of the glass.

Simon nodded and for the rest of the night, until he said his farewells to the men of the Rottenhouse Working Man's Club, he was as silent as the grave.

6

Mr Rowling was the better side of drunk. He had consumed around six pints of the finest ale known to the folks of Rottenhouse and he wobbled out of the club saying his goodbyes as he went.

Simon was sober. Stone cold sober. Since poor Stevie had been beaten half near to death he hadn't felt the urge to drink. The pint he had gotten himself just after the episode was the last he had drunk and even though he could feel the eyes of the men in the club upon him, judging him, wondering why this bloke isn't draining pint after pint as if there was no tomorrow (and probably confirming what they all thought – that all southerners are softies and can't handle their beer) he made it last the rest of the night.

Simon couldn't get the image of Stevie stood up, waiting for his punishment like a boy stood waiting in the line for a penalty, his expressionless face red with tears but nothing else, out of his head. That picture he had of Stevie, as the night wore on, mixed together with the image of the garage and the red oil blood that seeped from under the door

They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.

swirled around in his head. He couldn't get rid of it and he wanted to go back to the house, back to Lucy, and then lay down and go to sleep.

Memories of the nightmare that had awoken him earlier were gone and he started to feel his body begin to close down, preparing itself for a good night's rest. It was as if he was now a computer, put into shutdown mode at the end of a long day, and his internal system was updating its files with the day's happenings and they were flashing before his eyes prior to going black. Simon put on his light jacket as he walked through the reception room and followed Mr Rowling out into the chilly night. Clouds were obscuring the stars and the moon shone through them leaving a pale cream gossamer painted over the sleepy village of Rottenhouse. He had been through quite a series of events today. Too many for one day. But maybe tomorrow would fare better. A fresh day; a fresh start. Perhaps the weather would be fine and he could take Lucy and his camera into the forest where they could be alone for a few hours. He found he could always relax with his camera.

As the two men walked down the steps and into the square Simons shutdown mode was interrupted as he saw that Mr Rowling had put his hands into left jacket pocket and had removed his car keys. He rattled them as if to wake some unseen dwelling creature.

'You're not driving, are you?'

Mr Rowling kept on going and held out his keys and rattled them again. It was a motion that said; of course I am you silly southern tit. Why else would I have gotten them out?

'But you're over the limit.'

'Limit? What you mean, limit?'

'Err, the drink driving limit?' Simon's voice raised an octave or two as he finished.

The two men were now in the deep shadow at the centre of the square. The only car left in the car park was Mr Rowling's and it loomed large in the distance; lit by the orange street lamp.

'Nowt like that here, Simon. Probably one of yer silly city ways?'

'No, Mr Rowling, it's the law.' And then to try and make him understand that Rottenhouse isn't a law unto itself, Simon added, 'Everywhere, yaknow, the law.'

Mr Rowling reached his car, went round to the driver's side and placed his hands on the roof making sure that the keys were well away from the paintwork. The glow of the street lamp lit up his back as if it were on fire; the rest of him was shrouded in a dark shadow. The shadow reminded Simon of the stairs that led down into the basement in the Workings Mans Club. Suddenly he wished he had never brought the subject up.

'Camon Simon, yer talking silly now. There int no law that says a man can't drink a couple of drinks and drive home. What kind a world you think this is, Nazi bloody Germany? And if there were a law like that, I would now about it, don't yathink?'

Simon smiled, at first thinking this was a joke but then remembering that this was Mr Rowling we were dealing with here and he didn't tell jokes, well ones that Simon understood anyhow, no, Mr Rowling was a straight man, a factual man who saw things in black and white, not magenta or navy blue or orange or sunburst yellow. Maybe it was his tiredness, or that his own String was tightening, but Simon couldn't let this one go.

'Mr Rowling, seriously, it's the law. You aren't allowed to drink and drive. It's serious, like lose your license serious. People die.'

'From a few drinks? Camon Simon, really? You tellin me that people have died just because a few pints were had? Don't believe it.'

'What's there not to believe? It's like a fact or whatever. You drive drunk and your judgment and all that is off and you end up rolled in a ditch wondering how the hell you got there. Worse still, you end up ploughing into someone, or someone's. Surely, Mr Rowling, even here, you know that it's illegal. Please see some sense would ya.'

Mr Rowling's head jerked a little and even though he was in shadow, Simon could tell that his face was wrinkled into a snarl.

Quickly, as if to take back what he had said, Simon whispered, 'Not sense, Mr...'

'Sense?' Mr Rowling interrupted with, 'Sense? Sense is you getting into the car and keeping quiet. Against law. Ha! I'll show ya Simon. There aint no amount of beer that can hinder me at madriving.'

Since when did this become a challenge?

'Let me drive. Please.'

'Just get in car.' Mr Rowling put the key into the door lock and there was a clunk as all the doors unlocked and he opened his driver's door and calmly got into the Cortina.

Simon took a deep breath, regretting that he opened his stupid mouth, and got into the car making sure he put on his seatbelt; checking that it was locked into place and tight; three times over.

'Against the law.' Mr Rowling whispered and shook his head in utter disgust. 'Wait till the guys here that one, shit themselves with laughter they will.'

7

So, on that chilly summer night, under a creamy gossamer moonlit glow, Mr Rowling drove his car home with a look of complete smugness etched upon his face as he guided the car from bend to bend, crest to crest. He even dipped his lights as he reached the junctions, like he had on the journey up to the club, and each time he did this he turned to Simon, a wry grin on his face and he rolled his eyes in a comical over the top gesture.

'Drink driving, my arse.' He would mutter to himself.

Simon had expected a running commentary from the old soak but he was quiet; apart from an odd chuckle here and there. Only the roar of the engine and the wind blowing over the car could be heard. Simon wished that he could lean forward and rip that chuckle right out of Mr Rowling's throat. Probably best that he didn't though.

8

With a bump over the curb and a squeal from the brakes Mr Rowling brought the car to a complete stop in exactly the same place it had been prior to them leaving. Simon took off his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Mr Rowling followed suit and locked the car checking each door was tightly shut and locked before heading toward his stony cottage.

Before opening the front door he turned to Simon. 'Made it home safe and sound. Didn't plough into anyone or end up in a ditch.'

You mocking twat. Fuck you. And fuck your stupid smug face.

Simon nodded but didn't say anything; a fake grin taints his features.

Mr Rowling stepped forward. Placed his hands by his side and leant into Simon. He was close enough so that Simon could smell the beer on his breath; see the whites of his eyes as they bore into his own, down into his mind and then further down into what felt like was his soul and they looked about there for something. They tore away at his innards, tossing them aside without care. Memories of Simons past, his loves, what he lost, his faults and his dreams flew past his eyes in a second; each one bringing a new set of emotions be they good or bad and Mr Rowling's eyes searched, hunted, wanted for something in Simon.

But they found nothing.

'Aye, thought so.' Mr Rowling said and shook his head, turned, opened the door and walked into the glow of his hallway.

Like a Limp Rag

1

Mr Rowling had hung his coat up and headed off upstairs to bed leaving Simon alone in the kitchen. Simon poured himself a cup of water and drank it. The water was different up here, it tasted better than that bottled water stuff and he poured another cup of it and drank deeply. The liquid was cold; really cold, but good. He took in a few deep breaths leaning heavily on the worktop.

Sleep called for him. Begged for him to come and play. So Simon obliged. He placed his jacket onto a hook, turned off the kitchen light and walked up the creaky stairs. Luckily there was still a light on in the hallway and after relieving himself in the toilet he crept along the hallway and into the bedroom. The room was dark apart from a small slither of light that crept out of the built in bathroom. It was enough so that Simon could see the shapes of the objects in the room and he carefully undressed, leaving on his pants and his plain white t-shirt and got into bed. His side of the bed was cold though he could feel the warmth coming from Lucy as she laid there asleep, but he didn't cuddle up next to her. He preferred just to lay there in the dark and let sleep take him. Outside, now that his ears had become accustomed to the quite, he could here twigs cracking and leaves being brushed aside as something made its way along the road. Some animal seeking food and water. Simon could hear the splashing water of the stream as it rushed by and he believed it to be one of the best things he had ever heard. It calmed him. There was a splosh as something went into the water and what sounded like hooves splashing in the stream but he paid it little attention, instead he just focused on sleep and he tried to let it all go so that the dream fairies would come and take him away.

'Have a good night?'

'I didn't think you were awake. Yeah it was okay.' Simon said. 'Just tired, been a long old day.'

Lucy slid over from her side of the bed, her warmth embracing him. She was wearing her winter nightie; the one Simon called her Keep Out the Cold and Keep Out the Cock nightie. He hated that bloody thing but tonight he was happy that she wearing it as he had no real urge to put out any moves, if you could call them that. Lucy placed her right arm over him and she moved her hand down his chest and under his pants taking hold of his already semi hard penis. From deep within Lucy came a soft moan as she stroked it.

2

There was no kissing. It was hard, fast, as if they were two teenage lovers going at it for the first time. Simon was on top, thrusting hard, giving it as much as he could. He would look down, opening his eyes so as to see Lucy's pert tits wobble up and down. But he didn't look down for long. Seeing them do that and the way in which she bit her lip always got him off. Simon had known a handful lovers, most of them, in a strange way, were ugly lays. They just didn't look good on their backs or on top or on their side. But Lucy. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, she looked hot. Hot to trot! Simon had to control himself; breathing hard and concentrating like a brain surgeon would during surgery with a scalpel and an open skull in front of him, so as not to climax early when he looked at her. Some nights he would win that battle, others he wouldn't. Tonight, when the fates seemed against him and the tiredness started to eat away at his concentration he realised that he was lasting longer than he would have thought. Not losing rhythm and looking down again, his eyes accustomed to the dark so much that he could see Lucy and she was looking at him. Straight back at him, with a blank washed out gaze that seemed far off. Dead; as if there was something in the way of her getting off.

But she couldn't be dead, he could hear her breathing and her soft moaning as he pushed deeper inside of her. He looked away and then back down.

Dead eyes.

And it wasn't just her eyes that seemed lifeless; it was as if he were screwing a thing, a lifeless thing that was as limp as a rag. Most of the time, especially when the love making had been fired up by her, Lucy was insatiable. She would do all sorts. There was no real carnal position left untouched, she grew her nails specifically so that she could scratch at Simon's skin, that's the type of girl Lucy was. But tonight, there was nothing. If it wasn't for the heat being generated it felt to Simon as though he were screwing a corpse. But as always, no matter what men go through; be it trauma, death, disease, loss, torment, hunger, thirst, mental disorders, loss of limb, you name it, they always find a way to release the substance kept in their balls and tonight was no different and Simon climaxed inside of Lucy breathing hard and slobbering over her neck as his juices mixed with hers.

He eased himself off of her. She grabbed a tissue and placed it down there (this aint no Hollywood, Simon thought) and they both rolled over.

For a moment Simon thought he had imagined the whole thing, that this was some weird dream or that he had kicked the tyres and lit the fires and had, without knowing it, forced himself upon her.

'That were good, Simon. Right proper good.'

And then Simon passed out.

3

The leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.

The Working Man's Club reception room loomed large around Simon as he floated through it. He was alone and he was naked and cold. The reception was dark apart from a small light that was shining down the dark stairs that led to the basement. It hovered there like a wisp in a fairy tale forest, its white glow shifting in pulses.

I don't want to go down there. I don't like what I will find down there.

From his left, behind the closed doors where Simon had heard men playing snooker, he heard the hard thwacks of the truncheon as it beat some other poor soul within an inch of their lives.

Chairman's Justice, he thought to himself, and then shook the thought away.

Simon kept floating on. Toward the basement stairs he didn't want to go down. The light that lit his way moved as Simon got closer and now it was hovering above the painting that was hung on the wall below the first flight of stairs. Simon floated down them. He couldn't stop himself. He knew this without trying. There was something pulling him down. A gravity with sticky fingers and it came from the painting. He reached the concrete floor and saw that the stairs continued on down to his right; into a darkness that screamed of eternity.

Then he stopped. The paintings gravity released him from its grip and Simon floated on the spot. His bare feet didn't touch the floor but he could tell it was cold. The air was cold enough so that as he breathed he could see his own breath form as vapour. Not wanting to, he looked at the painting and as much as he tried to look away he couldn't. As much as he tried to scream he couldn't. The painting was of a forest clearing. The trees surrounding it were giant brown lifeless hulks. The ground beneath them was scorched dry by the bright yellow sun that was painted into the right hand corner. There was a heat coming from that sun. Simon could feel it upon his cold pale skin. In the centre of the painting were two men. Both wore black cloaks and were shrouded by a dark green, putrid glow. One of the men held a scythe, its blade covered in rust and blood. The other man held the same wooden truncheon that that Chairman had held aloft that very evening. Looking down he saw that the painting had a bronze plaque nailed into its rotten wooden frame. It read:

Chairman's Justice

They Leak. They Bleed. They Don't Stop Once They Started.

There was a movement from within the painting and now the two men were separated from each other. What separated them were two crosses made of wood. Crucifixes carved from roughly hewn timbers. Upon them were two men. One of them Simon recognised as poor Stevie Johnson; his skin flayed almost to the bone. On the other crucifix a man burnt to a cinder.

From Simons right, down the eternally dark stairs, there came a cry. A child's cry.

Simon's breath became short and fast and he could feel panic starting to take him. He tried to move away from the head of the stairs that led down into that eternal darkness but it was to no avail. Then a voice was in his head. He didn't know who it was it said, 'It's in the painting. What you think is what happened.'

Simon looked back to the painting even though he didn't want to. Again he tried to scream but he could no more do that than he could walk across the ocean. The burnt man that had been on the crucifix was gone as too was the crucifix that bore him. In its place was the garage, only this time the door was wide open, beckoning him to come in and he could see that it wasn't oil that came from within it, it was blood that oozed from its concrete and metal core. Simon leant in, his naked form almost touching the hot painting. Peering in, past the oozing blood he could see a metal table. No not a table. It's a...it's a...the word was on the tip of his tongue. Not a table, no, it's a bed. A metal framed bed. No, it's not that either. It's a... it's...

A gurney! It's not a table, it's a gurney, and on the gurney, handcuffed to it, with fear left like a smear upon her dead face and with skin torn from her body and her ribs open as if to welcome some demonic surgeon was what was left of Bobbie. Blood dripped from her; it dripped from the walls and it dripped from the ceiling. It was as if her blood would soon drench the scorched earth with its deep crimson filth.

A crying child screamed from deep down again, though this time its cries seemed closer and then the screams turned to a soft wailing voice. The child's voice said sweetly, 'Yup, you're gonna love me some day. I'm not going to leave until I see your face.'

I want to wake up! I want to wake up!

The crying child screamed and now it's once solitary outbursts were joined with many, many more.

They all said as one, 'IM GETTING CLOSE, YAKNOW.

'IM NOT GOING TO LEAVE UNTIL I SEE YOUR FACE!

'I'M GOING TO WAIT HERE FOR YOU.'

They then cried for something; like Mr Rowling had searched for something they were crying for something. They wanted, hunted, for something. Like Mr Rowling had wanted, hunted, for something.

Whatever gravity that was holding up Simon let go and he fell hard onto the concrete floor. It was cold, ice cold, and made worse now that the warmth of the painting was gone. He tried to get up but whatever gravity had held him up now seemed to be holding him down.

The baby's screams and cries were now joined by another sound. It was the sound of the rushing river. But this was no river made of water and stones and mud and Simon saw that the blood that had been pouring out of the garage was now pouring from the painting and down the walls. He couldn't breathe such was the shock of it. His body was hot beguiling the cold that seeped from the floor and into his skin. He sweated from every pore. The blood was now halfway down the walls. It was thick and red and had an oily skin that made it shine on the white wisp glow. The cries from below intensified into one ungodly crescendo. Now that Simon was sat arse first on the concrete floor he could no longer see if there was anything down there but he knew there was. Like he knew that there were birds and knew that there were bugs under rotten logs and the subtle movements he saw down there made the realisation the more terrifying and just as the blood reached the floor he saw that his feet were dangling over the edge of the stairway. They were prone to whatever it was that was moving down there. Their pinkness a deep contrast to the blackness that hung there like a hole in both time and space. Instinctively he went to move them, but it was too late.

And Simon screamed himself awake as a small child's hand gripped his right foot and tried to drag it and him down with it.

3

Simon awoke with a start, snapping his legs up to his chest fearing what the children would do if they took him down there.

4

His adrenaline kicked in almost instantaneously, and he soon realised that it had been a dream. All of it. There was no painting, no gurney, and no screaming children. Just him and the mottled sunlight coming through the window.

'Shit me.'

It was then that he saw that he was no longer in bed and that he was totally naked. Simon was on the floor; the hard shaggy carpet itching on his bare arse. He was sat with his knees up to his chest; his arms wrapped around them and he was rocking back and forward like a man that has seen his own future. A cold sweat was on his pale skin. Swallowing, though it felt as if he could be sick at any moment, he heaved himself up and got back into bed, the sheets were still warm and he huddled under them. Picking up his watch from the bedside table he saw that it was a 5-45. Just as he was about to close his eyes the white light blinked a couple of times on his phone.

Grabbing it he saw that he had gotten another message from Kyle:

Hello? Come on mate. Call me, text me, whatever.

No joke. Need to talk. #fucktard

'Whatever.' Simon said and put the phone back and as he drifted back off to sleep he wished that he wouldn't dream anymore.

Thankfully, that wish came true.

Well, for now anyway.

The Big Boy is Coming Out

1

It was 11 in the morning when Simon woke up. Though he hadn't slept all that well he felt refreshed, ready for what today would bring. Lucy wasn't next to him; she was an early bird no matter what the situation was and she often woke before him and made her way downstairs. For her, that time in the morning, where there were no distractions, was a great time to catch up on work. The finance world never sleeps, Sausage, she would say, best deals are found at the weekend.

He still didn't fully understand what she did. It involved buying stuff from company A and selling it to company B or C or even D sometimes. There could be times when what she bought lost value, then it would be stored and sold when the profit margin reached a higher level. There were all sorts of financial technicalities and big words involved (one of his favourites was Bottom Feeder. Though Lucy didn't class herself as one it sure seemed that that was the one sure fire way to make money) though what it boiled down to, or what his simple mind boiled it down to, was buy cheap, sell high. Simples.

Simon got out of bed, stretched, and got dressed. He left the bedroom and went into the main bathroom. We all have our sanctums of peace, it just so happens that Simons was the toilet. Locking the door behind him he freshened up, washed his bits (remembering how the sex had been the night before but not thinking too hard about it because he just didn't want to think about who or what he had had sex with) and grabbing his phone from his pocket, flicking and touching his way to the BBC News app, he sat upon the toilet and read the stories of the day whilst taking a dump.

2

In the kitchen, Lucy was sat alone. She was playing with her hair much like she did when she read a book of flicked through a magazine, only this morning there was no book, no magazine and the pictures she had been looking through last night weren't there anymore. Her gaze was far off. She seemed to look through the table, through the stone floor and down into the very core of the earth. More and more Simon was seeing a resemblance in Lucy to her father. Through the large window Simon could see that the sun had bleached the sky a bone white and that there wasn't a cloud present, an almost perfect summer's day. Beams of light pierced through the net curtain and lit up the kitchen and dust motes floated about and their tails were as if fairies were dancing a merry jig.

'Yer dad not about?'

'Hmm?'

'Your dad. Is he about?'

'No. He went out about half an hour ago. Something about the garage. Said he'd be back just before dinner.'

'Oh, okay.' Simon went over to the kettle and seeing that it was still half full he flicked the switch turning the little orange light on and setting the coils in motion.

'You alright?' Simon asked grabbing a cup.

'Yeah, fine. Why?'

'Nothing, you seem a bit spaced out that's all. Want a cuppa?'

'No thanks. Dad made so much this morning I'll be on the toilet for most of the day.' And then she was far off again.

'But you're okay, yeah? You're happy to see your Dad?'

Roused again but this time more alert than she had been before; her eyes ablaze in the glare from outside. 'Really happy. Happier than I thought I'd be. We talked for hours and hours this morning. Caught up, yaknow? It's like I haven't really been away, like I said yesterday, this place hasn't really changed since when I was a girl. I can't wait to see some of the friends I left behind.'

The kettle began to shake and then with a violent click thick steam came from the hole at the top. Simon went about making himself a cup of tea whilst he looked out of the window and admired the scenery. He could really get used to a place like this.

'You wanna go out for a bit? I can show you some amazing spots. Days like this don't come too often up here.'

'That would be great,' Simon said as he sipped at his tea looking out onto the world outside, 'Glad I brought my camera. Wasn't going to at first. Not much call for landscapes at the moment. The clients just want retro looking stills or urban dystopian nonsense. But this place is amazing. Reminds me of when I was just starting out. Maybe it's the freedom. No pressure, yaknow, I could take a picture of whatever I wanted, however I wanted. Shame really.'

'I knew you would like it up here. You've been cramped up in that studio, in that city, for far too long.'

Simon turned and the two of them locked eyes in their special way where they don't have to say anything because they know that they love each other, would do anything for each other, and it would always be that way.

They Leak. They Bleed. They don't stop once they started.

Simon's eyes narrowed and he took in a deep breath as he remembered the painting in last night's dream. He turned away from Lucy and closed his eyes; blocking out the sun, the hills, the tress and the lush green grass. Two nightmares in the space of one day. The first one he could remember very little of – the girl in the bathroom was the only real image he could conjure but the thought of her made him wish that he couldn't. The second dream however, was a different kettle of fish. He pretty much remembered every detail of it. With his eyes closed he struggled to shake off the image of the stairs that led down to that endless black nothing and the feeling on his skin as the child grabbed hold of his foot.

Lucy's arms were wrapped around him all of a sudden; her head resting on his back, her breaths matching his own. They stood together until Simon's tea went cold and the clock struck 12.

3

By 1-30 they had made it halfway up the valley slope and Simon had taken enough photos to fill a factory. Not far from the house there had been a little wooden bridge that arched over the stream and the wooden carvings of trees and flowers that adorned it made it a dream to photograph. Though he knew, as well as any photographer, amateur or professional, that out of hundreds of photos there was only a handful of real good ones and even then that small percentage could be whittled down to nothing once the processing work began. Simon was a strong believer in a post-production process that steered away from aftermarket tools. A good photo shouldn't need that many tweaks, it shouldn't need colour enhancements or that dammed HDR effect which sent him loopy every time he saw it. Maybe just a crop here, a drop in contrast or brightness there was all that would was needed, even a flick to black and white just to give it that extra bump, but that's it. Sadly though, his studio work was driven by his clients and they seemed to love the effects that only after market programmes can bring. Sometimes Simon thought about changing his title from Photographer to Graphic Designer such was the nature of the work that he now undertook.

Clambering over a low stone wall he captured the wall as it jutted out like an old set of teeth against the lush background of the valley floor below. His ears pulsed with hot blood as the shot was taken – his trigger that that shot was a keeper – and he pressed the small button on the back of his camera to preview the shot. Almost perfect. Just needs a bit of cropping to take out a piece of flyaway grass that had flown into view but apart from that, nothing. He even thought about presenting this to Mr Rowling as Simon realised that he had captured the house and the stream without even noticing it whilst he was taking the shot.

From farther up the valley, 'That a keeper?'

'Oh yes.'

'Can I see?'

'Nope.'

Simon heard her chuckle, a familiar chuckle, a good chuckle. It was an old joke between them and he guessed one that was held between couples where one of them (or both) had interests or jobs in which it relied heavily on their artistic merits, be that photography, drawing, writing or acting, who's punch line remained the same You won't see it until I am finished with it and nothing will change that.

4

Once at the top of the slope, Simon hung the camera around his neck, placed his tripod on a rock that jutted out and was the shape of a bowl, and admired the view.

Rottenhouse was below him, the village flowing from west to east. The house in which Lucy had grown up in was on the outskirts and whilst more houses were jumbled together in the centre, various buildings and farms and sheds dotted the landscape like dice thrown in an epic game of Craps. Most of the fields were green such was the nature of the farming here, though there were fields of golden yellow and some of a fierce red. The stream cut its way around the outskirts of the village and then turned sharply as it reached the valley wall on which he stood and turned north back into the village and off into the horizon. From this distance, though it was hard to tell, it looked as if the stream flowed under the Working Man's Club at the centre of the village. Along the stream, just after it dog legged back in on itself, there was a small hut, maybe a home, on its own with smoke rising from its little crooked chimney.

'Beautiful, isn't it?'

'Breath taking. One of the prettiest places I have ever seen. Makes what we have back home look like shit.'

Lucy stepped in and took hold of Simon's hand and squeezed it tight. She didn't say anything at first, there wasn't much to say. They both knew their words couldn't bring any justice to the landscape that was laid out before them.

If God did create the world, Simon thought, then the day he made this place he must have taken a step back, tapped himself on his God like shoulder, admired it, tweaked it here and there just so that at every possible angle the view would be spectacular, and then showed it off to all his friends.

Once the view had been thoroughly taken in Simon removed his pride and joy from his camera bag and screwed in onto the main body of his camera.

'Heyup, the Big Boy is coming out.' Lucy said as she sat on the smooth stones and stretched out her legs.

Simon smiled and raised his eyebrows. He then offered it to her to hold and she did so carefully, after all, she was the one that spent out the 8000 pounds to by the hulking great thing. Opening up his tripod and adjusting it so that it was level, he took back the camera and placed it carefully onto the stand making sure to attach the extension pole to the lens so that it didn't flop down such was the weight of it.

Lucy knew, as well as Simon, that the Big Boy only came out on special occasions and only when Simon was sure that he could capture something truly special.

'You gonna tell me, or keep it secret?'

Simon pointed down to the valley floor. 'That hut down there. There is something about it that has taken me fancy. Like that old station back in Hampshire, you remember? I did that perspective piece where I photoed it from various angles and heights and then merged them together. I'd like to do the same with that hut down there. It looks so peaceful.'

Lucy craned her neck and looked down to where Simon was now aiming his camera; looking through the viewfinder like a sniper seeking out his next kill.

'That's the old lumberjack hut. Well it used to be. Chopper John used to live down there. Guess he still does.'

'Chopper John?' He tried to hold back a snigger but his voice ended up full of it instead.

'Yes, Chopper John,' Lucy bit back sarcastically, 'that's what we called him when we were kids and it kind of caught on with the oldens too. He's probably long dead by now.'

A silence fell on the couple as Simon went about his business. Slowly his memory card filled with images of the lumberjack hut, the stream, and surrounding areas.

We all have these occasions when we act before thinking, talk without forethought. Situations like that usually occur when we are distracted or in deep thought. Simon was pretty good at putting his foot in it with actions or words that seemed to pop out without warning. So it came as no surprise to Simon that, as he was lost in his work and unaware of his thoughts or his mouth, that he said, 'So, your Dad. He's quite the character.'

'Watchyamean?'

The camera clicked a few more times and he looked from behind the viewfinder down to where Mr Rowling lived, his face as red as radishes. 'How can I say this...? I guess he's been alone for such a long time he hasn't really noticed.'

'What are you trying to say, Si?'

'Look, Lucy, I don't mean it how it is going to sound, but he's, well, he's mental. Not like dribbling in a bucket I'm the second coming of Jesus kind of way, he's just not all there.'

'And?'

Simon could feel her eyes upon him so he kept to the viewfinder thinking that he should have checked himself before starting the conversation. He could also feel her String, it was tightening, and given enough of a pull it would snap and he didn't want that, especially after the day he had had yesterday.

'Just that he's got a way of saying things, like yesterday, with how he told me that modern cars aint as reliable as old ones, or that I couldn't sit in the front of the car as that was your mums, and now yours by the by, and that I had no right to sit there. He even said that there was no such thing as the drink driving law. He pretty much thought I was insane to think such a thing. And he wasn't talking about the law not being in force up here, oh no, he was 100 percent certain that there was no such thing as being over the limit.'

'Come on, Si, I don't think it's that bad. He has his ways, yeah, like all of us do, but he has been fine with me. It's different up here, remember. But different don't mean their stupid.'

'I know, I know,' Simon unscrewed the camera from the tripod and began changing the lens back to his more user friendly one. He continued, 'I get that, I really do, and I am happy that you two seem to be getting on. Maybe it's just that I aint from round here and there is a tension between us, I don't know. But, last night, in the Club, some poor bastard had the living shit smashed out of him and your dad was kind of the one that made it happen.'

'I know.' Lucy said flatly.

Simon stopped his fumbling and looked at her with a face akin to a fish in a pond.

'You know.'

'Yeah, I know, and by the sounds of it the guy had it coming.'

Simon threw the tripod down. 'Had it coming. Jesus Christ, Lucy, he was beaten half to death.'

She folded her arms across her chest, yeah and so what?

Simon, as he spoke put Big Boy back into its protective wrapping and then into the bag. 'So what did he do then? What God awful thing did that poor guy do to your dad that deserved him getting his bones smashed to bits?'

The wind blew Lucy's hair across her face and she swept it back with her hand. Her eyes looked at Simon like her fathers had done the night before and like they had done when they fucked the night before. He could see she wanted to say something, it was on the tip of her tongue and her chest heaved in and out and her throat rose and fell as she attempted to get it out. His gut dropped about thirty feet as he realised that what Stevie had done might not have been done to Mr Rowling. It might have been done to her.

He lowered his voice, 'Please tell me. If it's bad I'm sure...'

'Stevie called him Bob.'

'I'm sorry, what?'

'Called him Bob.'

Simon fell to the floor laughing, hitting the stone and gravel path hard making him freeze for a brief moment and then continued laughing at the sheer madness of it all. His laughter echoed around the valley and it filled the green and pleasant land with the sound akin to a bunch of loonies in a room bustling with balloons and clowns.

5

'What's so funny?' Lucy asked, raising her own voice over his seemingly uncontrollable laughter.

'What's...so...funny? What's so funny? My God Lucy, that's all the guy did? That's it?' Simon tried to contain his laughter seeing that the String was about to pop but he couldn't help it. Of all the things a man could do to another man, of all the things men have done to each other over the many years poor old Stevie was torn a new one just because he used someone's first name. Another bout of laughter boomed from his throat and that seemed to be the stick that broke the camel's back.

'You know what, Simon; you can be a real dick sometimes.' And she stood up and brushed the dust from the arse of her shorts. 'I told you it's a different world up here. There are rules and that lad broke one of them. You may not understand, you may not like it but hey.' She stopped then for a moment, her eyes far off, and Simon could see that computer generated egg timer ticking over as her brain thought of the words to say. 'That's the way it is. If you want to marry us, then you will have to live with it.'

Simon stopped laughing and his throat seemed to close in on itself. He thought for a brief moment that he was being strangled by his own muffled laugher as it crawled back down his throat. Finally he managed to breathe.

'Marry us! What the hell does that mean?'

She looked flustered now. Her face turning a hot red – she didn't make mistakes, especially during arguments, and that darned egg timer appeared again in the dark recesses of her eyes.

'Marry me, I meant. You know what I meant, stop being a fucking arsehole.' She lowered her voice now to something a little more reasonable. 'I love you Si, I really do. These last years have been amazing and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I know things can be weird up here, really weird, trust me; I know, it's why I left. But you have to realise that this isn't Guildford, Si, this isn't London. This is where I was born, this is my past and down there is my dad and he reached out to me as much as I reached out to him. Don't forget, he lost his wife and his daughter, Si, and that must change a man. Now he wants one of them back and I am willing to put in the time to make that happen.'

Simon sighed. What she was saying was true, he supposed, but still, there were a few points he needed to get over. He couldn't just go with the flow, especially now that the rest of his life was dependant on the next few days. He stood so that she was no longer talking down to him and him up to her.

'I get that. I do. I can't imagine what it must be like to lose your wife and daughter. The thought of losing you makes me want to be sick. I just thought things would be different I suppose. You guys have barely talked; you've spent no time together. I thought it would be all hugs and long talks and stuff and I would be like a fifth wheel for most of the time. I feel if I were to ask him right now for permission to marry you he would laugh in my face and call in the Chairman with his large truncheon.'

Lucy smirked and then realising how that must have sounded Simon chuckled. He moved in close to her and the two of them shared a brief cuddle.

'I guess I thought it would be a bit different too,' Lucy said as she removed herself from the embrace, 'But he isn't that type, yaknow. He doesn't really do that kind of thing I guess.'

Simon nodded.

'Give him another day or two. That should get him used to having company again and maybe then I shall speak with him. Don't worry, Sausage, by week's end it will all be alright and I am sure that you won't have to have the old Chairman's truncheon waved in yer face.'

Simon lent down and picked up his camera and the backpack whilst Lucy looked at her watch. She looked tired but content. Up here, in the clear air with the wind whipping around she looked more beautiful than she had ever done before. Simon could no more understand the rhyme or reason of why she was with him than he could understand the fundamental laws of quantum mechanics. But maybe that was the problem, there was no problem, but sometimes we can't see ourselves for what we really are. Sometimes it isn't about the looks; it isn't about what we wear, and from what circles we climb. Occasionally, like with Simon and Lucy, it came down to two people that met, fell for each other, and now want to make that bond eternal. Love is blind and all that.

Simon had endured many obstacles in his life. What was one more?

'Do you mind if I head back.' Lucy said, 'You can't really get lost up here, and the house you can always see. Especially with Big Boy.'

Simon shook his head and put on the backpack. 'Nah, it's cool. I shall only be out for another hour or two anyway. Be careful.'

The two kissed and just as she was about to head off Simon added, 'The sex, last night. Were you...okay?'

She turned and looked at him, the sun glistened off the stream in the background and up above them a crow cried out.

'Dunno. Don't remember much. Twas I not to your liking, sir?' She curtsied, pretending to outstretch her invisible dress.

There she goes Simon thought, there you go, dodging the subject with a joke. Usually it's a counter argument, isn't it, but I'm guessing the air has you all a fluster.

'You weren't your usual self, is all. Bit; lay there and take it for England, that's all.'

'Must have been more tired than I thought. I'll make it up to you I'm sure.' With that she turned away with a wave.

And that's that I guess. Conversation over...

'Simon!'

He turned and saw that Lucy was stood there; her light blue vest top hitched up revealing her pert breasts in the summer sun. She had a massive grin on her face, her eyes wide with enjoyment and glee as she bobbled up and down so that her tits moved in time with her.

Simon laughed and grabbed his camera.

'Fuck off!' she yelled and as quick as she had got them out they were put away again and she was headed off back down the valley laughing as she went.

6

Twenty minutes later, as Simon was trying desperately to capture the right angle of a gnarled old tree, there came a blood curdling scream from down in the valley. He ran to where he and Lucy had been and looked down to the valley floor. He couldn't see much, the sun was bright today and a haze was all around him. He narrowed his eyes and knew; even though the person that was down there could have been anyone, that it was Lucy.

Another scream came, a scream he knew, he recognised, and this set him into a death defying run down the valley slope. Skidding down the hill Simon leapt the wall like a hurdler making sure to hold his camera tight so that it didn't bash his teeth out. Big Boy jumped about in his back pack and he could feel it digging into his spine. The straps of his bag dug into his skin under his arms and the weight of it threatened to topple him over onto his arse. The closer he got, the steeper the slope seemed to get and he was sure that there wasn't so many rocks and rabbit holes to contend with on the way up. And when the ground began to level out and the small wooden bridge could be seen he saw that Lucy was stood next to the stream but looking away from it and facing him but her eyes were closed and her hands were covering her mouth and her hair was blowing wistfully in the breeze.

7

A few meters from Lucy he slowed to a jog. His heart was pounding its way out of his rib cage and his legs burnt. Whatever had made her scream he couldn't see, it was hidden behind a tangle of bush and river grass that poked up from the edges of the stream like old man's hair.

'Lucy? You okay?' Simon said breathlessly

She shook her head keeping her hands over her mouth and her eyes closed. He could see her chest heave in and out in, much like a woman in childbirth was trained to do.

Simon was closer now, his heart still raced like a thundering train. He could hear the stream as it careened through tiny rapids. But there was something else in there, a bigger obstacle that was throwing up splashes of crystal clear water into the air and over the bank.

'What it is?' Simon was close now and was just about to take hold of Lucy but she stood away from him, turned and threw up; her sick flowing onto the crisp green grass like a spilt paint tin. 'Fuck.'

Lucy continued to throw up as Simon took off his backpack and placed his camera on top. He walked over to her and now that she was knelt down; her hands on her knees, Simon held back her soft but sweaty hair as she brought up what remained of her breakfast. Simon held her hair back and stroked her bony back for a few minutes, looking occasionally over his shoulder, until Lucy seemed as though she was done.

'Aww Christ,' she said spitting out a wad of brown phlegm.

'Salright, Luce, salright.' Simon let go of her hair and rubbed her back one more time before standing.

Lucy coughed, seemed as though more sick would come up, and then wiped her mouth with a tissue she had taken from her shorts. Still hunched over and with a hand on her head she used the other to point to the stream. It looked like she went to say something and her mouth opened a couple of times but no words came out.

Simon patted her on the back. 'There's water in the bag.' Said distantly as he walked over to the edge of the stream. His heart picked up pace again, blood pooling in his ears, heating them up and his hands were sweaty. The memory of when he was a boy and had found a dead tramp in a back alley came to him; how he had felt scared, sick, but at the same time excited that he had seen death and not ran away like the rest of his pals. Still he couldn't see what was in the water and what was causing the splashes of water to venture high up into the air.

Now that he was closer the water splashed onto his shoes and he could feel the coldness seep through the fabric, through his socks, and touch his skin.

The smell coming from behind the bright green grass and tangle bush intensified the memory of the dead tramp in the back alley. It had been stinky, really stinky, like age old meat left in the sun for too long. The tramp hadn't left its mortal coil for long, perhaps two days Simon had been told, and so wasn't in the gloopy stage yet, but still the smell that had oozed from it and flowed up Simons nose like a thick putrid milkshake had, and still was, the most disgusting thing he had ever smelt. Simon's thoughts then turned to the splashing he had heard the night before. The footsteps that he had heard on the road outside of the house and then the sounds of the animal as it trundled across the bracken and fallen twigs and then splashed into the stream in search of a drink.

Dead animal. That's all this is. Probably half eaten by wolves or some shit like that

8

Craning his neck so to see whatever dead animal it was that was lying in the river his stomach churned and his throat became a nursery of sick as the lifeless left eye of Stevie Johnson stared right back at him.

9

Simon took a step back in shock, 'Aww jeez.'

There was a soft whistle as the wind whipped up from the stream and through the rushes across from the body. He went to say something, felt his guts ripple, decided not too and took a step forward. He thought his own breakfast was about to come hurtling up the one way express backwards but it stayed down and he took some careful breaths, much like he did when there had been about seven pints of Peroni piled down his throat. The water lapped over Stevie's corpse. As it flowed over him the water was tarnished with blood which dissipated further downstream. His legs and feet were completely submerged whilst the rest of him poked out of the water like a stick in a pile of mud. His body was twisted round as if startled by some silent whisper and it looked as if the current of the stream, strong after yesterday's rain, had dragged him some twenty meters from where he had entered.

Now Simon was no detective but to him the cause of death was pretty obvious and he peered in closer, some cold and wretched part of him taking hold, and felt his own eyes wince in pain as he looked at the hilt of a knife sticking out of Stevie's right eye socket.

The current didn't push that all the way in. A hand did that. A strong hand.

'God-damn,' Simon wheezed, 'what the hell did that?'

He could hear Lucy greedily drinking from the bottle of water and though he wanted to turn and see that she was alright his morbid curiosity took over and his eyes remained firmly fixed upon the knife jutting out from Stevie's head like a murderous exclamation mark.

Lucy stopped drinking, the bottle of water expanding with a crack and exhaled. She let out a deep satisfying belch, took another swig, and then poured the rest into her hands and splashed her face with it.

Simon watched in wonder as the water started to lift the corpse a touch and as if it were still alive Stevie's arms floated further to the top of the water; the cuts and bruises from the night before a fresh bright red against his pale dead skin. Behind him, what felt like miles behind him, Lucy mumbled something that he couldn't make out nor cared to. There was an urge inside of him. An urge he had felt before but in completely different circumstances and it troubled him. It intrigued him.

They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started

Simon's foot twitched at the thought of the small hands as they wrapped around his bare skin trying to drag him down into that eternal black nothingness.

'You listening to me!' a voice from beneath a mile of ocean said, 'I'm going to get my dad. Stay here and make sure...make sure... Just stay here, okay?'

'Okay.' His own voice was as far away as Lucy's and he turned and watched her run back toward the house, her hair a mad twist of wet hay. On the soft breeze he caught the scent of fresh sick and he spat into the water; the white frothy head of the phlegm mixed in with the red tinged water like satanic cordial.

'You aint going nowhere, are ya Stevie? Looks like you had yerself an accident.'

Stevie bobbed and nodded as the fresh water continued its ceaseless efforts in trying to drag the body further downstream.

10

Simon took a step back, transfixed on the body for a moment longer. Then a familiar, but surprising urge took over and he grabbed his camera. He took seven shots. Three were full frame close ups of the face, two were of the whole morbid scene, one was taken upstream; the body almost hidden away which would make for an odd treat for the viewer as they scanned the image. The final image, the one Simon got that ear burning sensation over, he shot with the camera on top of the tripod so that he could slow the shutter speed down and thus giving the water a mystical, floating look, as it lapped over the body of Stevie Johnson.

11

The camera was quickly put away and the tripod folded back up as if it was never thought of as he heard footsteps walking across the wooden bridge.

He wasn't really traumatised by what lay in the stream, taking those pictures had proved that, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off Simon was slowly realising that what he was seeing here was not only a murder, but a murder that he had some prior knowledge of. His heart skipped a beat and all of a sudden it was a hotter day than it had been two minutes ago. He was next to a dead body. A murdered dead body for Christ's sake, and here he was taking pictures like he was on some kind of busman's holiday. What the hell had he'd been thinking?

Another one of those wretched black crows cackled overhead. Simon watched it swoop down like a fighter plane on some low level bombing run. The crow spotted him, the body bobbing in the water too, and then the bird turned and headed off toward the village screaming bloody murder.

Simon heard a large splash of water as Stevie's body slipped a touch and now the water level was up to his chest. Sooner rather than later the whole body would be under and taken away on the current. An image of himself, diving into the water and trying to rescue a dead body flashed before him. There would be questions no doubt. He would be questioned by whatever called itself the police around here.

No police round ere, lad. Don't need it

Surely not? But then again, Mr Rowling's complete denial of a drink driving law made Simon think that there probably wasn't a police force around here and that they, by some weird set of coincidences, managed to fall outside the umbrella of the modern world in more ways than he thought possible.

A few heavy heartbeats later Lucy and Mr Rowling were standing next to him and both seemed out of breath. Lucy was as pale as the body floating in the stream next to them whilst her dads face was bright red and his cheeks were puffing. He not only looked tired from the quick walk he had just made, he also looked flustered – unhappy – but not concerned or distraught which was what Simon had expected.

You're a fine one to judge, Simon, he thought to himself, you've just spent the last twenty minutes taking pictures of that poor bastard as he floated on a watery deathbed.

It would have been an odd sight to anyone passing by; two people dressed for the summer in shorts and t-shirts stood next to a man seemingly set for a cold winters day, as Mr Rowling was wearing thick beige trousers and on top a green sweater made out of the thickest wool Simon had ever seen.

'Can't believe it.' Lucy whispered, 'He's just dead. Dead. I was just coming home.'

'Alright, Barbara. Calm down. You've seen dead animals before. This aint no different.'

'No different,' Simon spat, 'No different. There's a guy dead in the water not five feet away with a knife sticking out of his face.'

'Simon.' Lucy whispered as if that would calm him down. Simon quickly looked at her and his eyes said all she needed to know and she shrank back a little so that the two men were between her and the stream and the body.

'That aint no animal, Mr Rowling. That's Stevie Johnson. You know him, yeah; he's that poor bastard that was beaten half to death last night.'

'Simon, don't make yerself a spectacle.' Mr Rowling said calmly. 'And watch yer language, too. Nowt the time for such a like as that.'

Simon shook his head and threw his arms out to the side like a child at the end of a particularly random tantrum.

The sounds of a thrumming engine made all three of them turn toward the bridge and the road that lay just beyond.

'That the police?' Simon asked.

Lucy shook her head and he could see by the look on her face that she was ashamed of that fact.

'No. Then who is it?' Simon said.

Mr Rowling put his hands deep into his pockets seemingly unconcerned that there was a body of a man floating dead in the water just outside from his home. Simon couldn't tell if he was deep in thought or just had plain ignored him; Mr Rowling's only sign of life at that point, with his back turned to Simon so that he was facing the sound of the engine, was that of his body heaving with every staggered breath.

Lucy stood there like a scarecrow.

Simon was just about to ask who the hell that it was coming up the road in what sounded like a van from the 50'ss when there was a squeal of brakes and the thrumming engine ceased in a couple of cancer ridden coughs.

'Don't need police, Simon. Never have, never will. We stick together here and do things how they should be done, yaknow what I mean.' Mr Rowling said as in the distance whoever was in the vehicle got out and closed the doors behind them sending nesting birds flying into the unbroken blue sky.

12

'Best yago back tahouse, you two. Leave this to us now.' Mr Rowling picked up Simons back pack and handed it to him. Simon had no intention of leaving and so he took the back pack but straight away handed it to Lucy.

'I'm staying, Mr Rowling. Lucy, you can go back. I need to be here.'

'Be here for what, Simon?' Mr Rowling asked.

There was a tension in the air. A static built up, and Simon could feel it like you can feel the electricity coming from overhead pylons. There was a sound to this tension and it filled Simon's ears like a white noise.

'I don't know Mr Rowling. Curiosity. A sense that there has been a crime and that I am a part of it. I don't know.'

'We don't need you, Simon.'

'Yeah, come on, Si,' Lucy said, 'Come back to the house with me. Leave that to Dad and the others.'

'I'm staying, Luce. This aint right.'

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 up 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.

So much had happened in so little amount of time it was overwhelming as much as it was completely unbelievable. It was like the summer rain showers Simon had played through when he was a boy. Back then the days had seemed eternal and amazingly hot. The afternoon clouds would build in the distance, blotting out the sky far off on the horizon. Those fluffy white clouds would get blacker and blacker until they dragged themselves overhead; carried on the soft slow wind, and then would release their wet cargo usually mixed with the odd flash of lightening and rumble of thunder for good measure. The rainfall would be quick and intense and fat rain would soak the ground causing drains to overflow, roads to flood and gardeners to whine about the state of their cabbage patch. But then, as quick as the rains had come they would stop, and the clouds would lift and sun would burn its way through and all would be as it was except for the smell that hung in the air like a fog, the smell that no one could describe but Simon always thought of it as what he thought electricity smelt of if it were mixed with a bit of tree sap. The only difference with what was happening now compared with the showers of his youth was that they disappeared after a few hours, his issues here ran much deeper than that, and he knew that some of them would take years to drain away, if ever.

It seemed a massive issue yesterday when Lucy had told him about her previous name and he remembered how confused, angry, disillusioned perhaps, he had been by the confession. What had happened since made that confession seem piecemeal; a single rivet in Titanic's steel hull. He should have done more he supposed, could have done more to stop Stevie being beaten and then butchered. He could do more to put that cantankerous old coot downstairs in his place. But really, could he? Did he have it in him? No, was the simple answer. It was alien to him to confront, to be all up in someone's space, and to tell them how to go about their business and how best it was to live their lives. How the hell was he supposed to bring any sort of normality to a place that seems to thrive on ripping itself apart?

2

Simon didn't venture downstairs for some time. He tried to go back to sleep but it was no good. Each time he closed his eyes he could see the axe that Lewis had been wielding; its shiny sharp end covered in all sorts of fresh gore. Simon got out of bed, unable to relax, and ran himself a fresh glass of water from the sink. Changing his clothes, burying the ones he had taken off deep in his suitcase, Simon headed downstairs. Just as he left the bedroom and headed down the hallway the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. Pulling it out he wasn't surprised to see that it was Kyle calling him. The picture that flashed up was of Kyle dressed as Princess Leia in her slave garb from Return of the Jedi. It had been taken back in their college days and it always made Simon smile; not only was it a man dressed in a metallic bikini, it also reminded him of the fight that Kyle and another man dressed in the same Slave Girl garb got into over who had the best looking fake tits. That day, as well as many others good or bad seemed so long ago. Simon could barely remember what had happened a week ago let alone ten or fifteen years ago. The phone continued to vibrate and Kyles face, all smiles and skin and fake boobs jumping out of the bikini top, continued to hover on the front screen of Simon's phone. Today, sadly, that photo didn't bring a smile to Simons face and as much as Simon wanted to answer the phone, he couldn't bring himself to slide his finger along the black bar at the bottom of the screen saying ANSWER in red writing. He just didn't have the energy. The phone stopped vibrating and Kyle disappeared. A missed call alert was all that was left. Simon put the phone back into his pocket as he walked down the stairs. Heading towards the kitchen the familiar voices that had been floating around the house like ghosts had vanished and it left the house quiet. Even the clocks ticking seemed muted as if it feared to be any louder in case it broke the silence and incurred the wrath of some yet unseen monster. Looking from the bottom of the stairs into the kitchen he could see that the room was empty and the rest of the doors leading from here were closed all except one which led out of the house and into the garden. The back door was ajar, a slit of light slicing through like the last beads of light before a solar eclipse. Simon considered going back upstairs; no one had seen or heard him coming so who would notice if he went back upstairs and back to bed? For some reason he felt scared, fearful of being near Mr Rowling, and didn't to want face him, though the thought of seeing Lucy made butterflies flutter in his belly like they always did.

Standing on the last step of the stairs Simon took a step back wanting to turn around, then second guessed himself, and finally with heavy feet stepped down onto the hallway carpet which was old and itchy; his heart was racing but not knowing why.

Because you know he's done stuff like that himself, don't ya! Old Bob Rowling the axe swinging maniac has lumped off a few limbs in his time but now that he seems to be the Chairman's right hand man, like Tonto was to The Lone Ranger, or Goofy is to Mickey Mouse, he doesn't need to dirty his hands anymore. He's the orchestrator now, not the organ grinder and that's what's scares you, isn't it Simon? That guy out there, the father of your future wife, has secrets. Loads of em. Like you have photos, he has secrets, and like you have those special photos so too does he have special secrets and they are both more disturbed than you could possibly imagine

Simon jumped as the clock clanged its brass bell and rang out five-o-clock with five long and drawn out bangs.

See, even the clock had you spooked, you great ninny! That was Kyle's voice; Kyles low monotonous voice.

Simon reached the door leading to the garden, went to pull it open when something made him stop and he really didn't want to go out there. What would he say? Oh, hey Mr Rowling, Lucy, you two okay? Yeah, great. Well I'm not. No, Mr Rowling, that's right, I'm far from okay. You wanna know why? Good. Well I shall tell. Sitting comfortably both of you? Good. Then where shall I begin...

Simon's heart leaped out of his chest and his hand fell to the door handle almost slamming it shut when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Vurrrt Vurrrt

Vurrrt Vurrrt

Vurrrt Vurrrt

Vurrrt Vurrrt

'Piss off, Kyle.' Simon said to his trouser leg pocket.

Simon opened the door, walked through a hot, muggy conservatory; which was barren of any furniture, and out into the rather small garden.

Mr Rowling's garden was a sun trap at this time of day and Simon got the sudden yearning for either a cold can of lemonade or a pint of Cider with ice in it.

Mr Rowling's garden was sparse and it smelt of lavender. It wasn't exactly massive, not what you would expect surrounded by all this land, but then again, when compared to city gardens what Mr Rowling had could be deemed as a luxury in the realms of the green fingered folk. The lack of flower beds, planting areas or anything that required attention showed that Mr Rowling cared little for green fingered folk. There were two things in his garden; the first was a table and a set of four chairs; wooden but clean and tidy. The second was a shed that sat at the end of the garden on a concrete base. It was of average size, again made of wood, and again, was clean and tidy. Either these things were well looked after or they were new.

Sat at the table were Lucy and her dad. He wasn't surprised to see Mr Rowling still wearing trousers but was slightly put back to see that the jumper had been removed revealing a beige polo shirt. They each had a glass of what looked like lemonade next to them, which made Simons throat tighten.

'Oh, hey sleepy head. Feeling better?'

'Yeah, thanks. Still a bit groggy, but I'm sure I'll be fine.'

Mr Rowling hadn't looked up but he was smiling. Lucy smiled too and lazily pointed to the large jug sat on the table.

'Lemonade?

'Yes, please. My throat feels as dry as a desert after all that heaving.'

Lucy went about pouring him a fresh glass.

'Take a seat, Simon. You look dead on feet.' The old man pointed Simon to a chair opposite Lucy so that Mr Rowling would be at the head of the table, as it were.

Simon obliged and sat down feeling better now that the weight was off of his feet. Lucy slid the glass over to him and Simon drank half of it down in a single gulp. Mr Rowling watched him intently, holding his own glass whilst his other hand hung down and fiddled with a couple of blades of long grass.

'Still okay to go out tonight, Si?'

Yep,' Simon stifled a burp then, 'Excuse me. Yeah should be okay. Though I may only have a couple.'

Somewhere close, small birds were twittering a soft tune and Simon could hear the stream rushing by. Images of the axe and the body tried to force their way into his consciousness but he was quick on the draw and stopped them in their tracks. Somewhere in the valley there was a large crack, like a single gunshot. Simon sat bolt upright as something large hit the ground in the woods beyond. It appeared that Mr Rowling either hadn't heard it or had ignored it.

'Don't tell me old Chopper John is still at it?'

'Aye.' Mr Rowling answered taking a sip of his lemonade. He seemed completely disinterested.

'Living in hut then, like he was before?'

'He's the lumberjack and that's the lumberjacks hut. Where else would he live?' Still disinterested but he had it within him to try and show how grand his intellect was. Lucy went to answer but quickly closed her mouth when she realised the same thing that Simon did. She looked at Simon and raised her eyebrows as she drained her glass.

The echo of the tree falling lifted and the stream could be heard flowing over yonder. Mr Rowling must have seen Simon notice this and said, 'Shame you had tasee that, Simon. Wouldarather you'd have gone back to house with Barbara like I asked, but still.'

Simon was getting used to Mr Rowling's blank, expressionless face. You had to look in his eyes to see what he was thinking, to understand what he was really saying. Simons internal translator wasn't the latest model, was a few years old, and in need of some desperate maintenance, but it did the job none the less and held up to some of the hardest scrutiny. It was having trouble with old man Rowling though, but he could deduce what Mr Rowling was really saying.

When Simon didn't answer Lucy spoke up, 'Can't believe he's dead. I used to hang around with his sister when we were little. Sure; a few times we tried to dress him up as a girl.' Lucy fiddled with the bits of material that made up her belt on her shorts, 'Who would do such a thing?'

Simon shook his head. Mr Rowling sighed heavily but didn't say anything. He really was looking distant, as if lost in thought, deep thinking about an ancient problem that seemed to have no answer.

'Nice of Lewis and Mr Pickering to help out. His poor mother.'

Simon choked and spat out his mouthful of lemonade back into the glass. 'Help out? Nice of Lewis and... You even know what happened after you left?'

Lucy sat back in her chair. 'They took the body back to his mother. Didn't they?'

'Only after they...'

'Don't think that's for ladies ears, Simon.'

'What?' Simon blurted out and turned his attention to the old fella. Mr Rowling sat forward and placed his half empty glass onto the table. 'Simon, please. Barbara saw enough. What with the body and the knife and all that. Best leave what happened alone.'

In all the years that Simon had been with Lucy she had never been one to shy away from the facts, no matter how horrific they were. She almost revelled in them. Anytime one of their friends hurt themselves she wants to know how it happened, where it hurts and what it looks like, which was why he was taken aback when she had thrown her guts up when she found the body of Stevie. If ever she was told that she wasn't allowed to see anything or be told anything; be it gruesome, private or just plain non-consequential, she dug deeper until whatever it was was known to her. There was nothing he could hide from her, and when he tried to keep things under the Lucy Radar; birthday presents, Christmas presents, holidays, parties, that kind of thing, she had a way of getting it out of him one way or another. So when Simon was about to fight her corner Lucy said something he'd never thought he would ever hear her say.

'I agree with Dad, Simon. Best I don't know.'

That shut him up and Simon wanted to smash the glass over the head of Mr Rowling when he saw that smug smile plastered across his face. For a brief moment he imagined throwing himself across the table and grabbing Lucy by the collar and shaking her violently what the hell are you saying, Luce! When have you ever let anything stop you from knowing everything? Even if what you need to know matters not a jot to you, you have to know. You have to dig and dig until the nugget of information is pulled out of the poor sucker you have latched onto. There was something stopping her being herself, he could see it in her expressions, the way she sat, the way her eyes looked right through Simon and out into the fields. She was different. Changing.

Changed, Simon. She has changed. Reverting to how she was when she was a girl. Changed to suit the environment.

Simon didn't know what to say, the words having been taken from him and he sat in silence, his arms hanging down, his fingers being tickled by the long grass. He looked at first to Mr Rowling, but he was back to fiddling with the grass, and then to Lucy who was of no use to him. It was as if she were two people now. Occasionally, like this morning out in the valley, she had been Lucy – his Lucy – the one he had fallen in love with. The same Lucy he had met in a pub, him wearing an old pair of jeans and a black Pulp Fiction t-shirt (the one with Uma Thurman on the front, her laying on her belly looking right at you; all seductive with that straight black hair and red lipstick; cigarette in one hand and a gun nestled below her chest) whilst Lucy was wearing a short, figure hugging red dress, she too with straight black hair and red lipstick. She wasn't smoking a cigarette nor did she have a gun nestled below her chest but when he had seen her, standing out from the crowd holding a glass of wine, he knew that she was going to be the woman he was going to someday marry.

Simon now felt like a fifth wheel. Whatever they had been talking about prior to his arrival seemed as though it was not going to start up again. Among his friends Simon had many things to talk about, even with Lucy, he found small talk easy. But Lucy's father made things hard. He was so obtuse and even in silence he could still bring a conversation to a halt.

His phone vibrated again and for some reason, like when you are in a library and you try and whisper to your mate but instead you shout your mouth off with excitement, it sounded louder than it should have.

Lucy looked up. 'That your phone?'

'Kyle. He's text me a few times now he's left a voicemail I think.'

Lucy shook her head. 'Probably another one of his stupid jokes. Guy is an idiot sometimes. Better check though, just in case.'

'Suppose.'

Simon took out his phone and saw that he was right; the voicemail icon was flashing and with Kyles being the only missed call his detective work seemed sound. 'Excuse me.' Simon said, and he stood and walked down to the end of the garden pressing and holding 1 on his phones keypad to quick dial voicemail.

As he walked away he heard Mr Rowling say, 'What is voice mail, Barbara?' She then went on to explain.

The computerised womanly voice on the end of the phone asked which option he would like to choose: One for new messages Two for old messages Three to record a new message greeting, Simon choose option 1 and listened intently.

3

Hey fucktard. Why you not return my texts? Too good for me now that you is thinking of settling down? Too good now that you have your own house and business? Anyway, just been told by that prick Marcus that you is selling some of your shite and that he's got first dibs on the good stuff. Now come on, Si. We're best buds. If you is selling up bits to pay for the wedding or whatever then A – tell little Miss Red Dress to calm the truck down and B – let me see it first, especially your guitars man. Come on buddy, really, Marcus first? Weddings can be pricey things Si-baby and I know Red Dress has you wrapped around her left tit. I aint proud of this but man you have some good stuff, so, before that lard arse gets there, I want that Red Rock Rose Ibanez, I want the valve amp and a few of the pedals – especially that phase shifter; I love that bad boy. If your selling everything then I definitely want that R2D2 projector man, that is the most awesome thing I have ever seen and I need it in my life. You know I is good for the money. Marcus, he don't appreciate the finer things in life. Anyway. Have a nice time away. Don't crap yer pants when you ask old man Rowling for her hand. I'm sure he won't axe you to death when you ask him. But then again, it is a bit red neck up there. I've seen American Werewolf, Slaughtered Lamb, or whatever that pub is called. Speak to you later. Don't go on the moors alone fucktard.

Then the line went dead.

4

Simon hadn't noticed that he had been listening to the call with his head up against the rough timber of the shed at the end of the garden. He put the phone into his pocket without looking, almost dropping it onto the grass. His head was spinning a little but not as much as it had prior to him being sick earlier. Simon had that gut wrenching feeling you get when you go over a bridge at speed or when you know something bad could have just happened and you narrowly avoid it. Kyle was a prankster, since the day Simon had met him Kyle loved playing a joke; a jolly jape, a harmless bit of tom-foolery. Occasionally they went too far, like when Kyle had encased a friend's car in cellophane, or when he organised for a For Sale sign to be put up outside a neighbour's house, or when he put glue on a toilet seat, or pretends to be dead. You name it; he has done it.

'Everything okay, Si?'

Simon pushed himself from the shed, his forehead a little red from the harshness of the bare timber and he looked at Lucy. 'Err, yeah. Fine. Just Kyle with one of his stupid jokes I guess.'

Lucy shook her head and rolled her eyes. 'What's he trying to pull now?' She then turned to her dad and continued, 'Kyle, he's one of Simon's old college mates. Loves to play practical jokes, but I don't see the funny side most of the time. Gets annoying after a while.'

Mr Rowling drank the rest of his lemonade and placed his glass back onto the table. The little birds were tweeting again and from the garden opposite a small black cat hopped onto the wooden fence and began walking across it; its tail flowing from side to side to keep balance. Mr Rowling clicked his fingers and the cat immediately jumped down and made its way to him. Even the animal world is at his beck and call.

'Well, what is he up to now?'

'We're selling up. That you contacted Marcus and offered to sell him all my stuff. Something about we needed the money, desperate to keep the business afloat to get as much money together as possible.' Simon shook his head. 'Guy is off his trolley.'

Lucy didn't reply straight away, from a distance Simon couldn't tell if that digital egg timer was ticking away behind her eyes or not, so he guessed that it was, which made him more suspicious than he thought he should have been. She kept her eyes on Simon as he sat back down at the table and he poured himself another glass of lemonade. He thought it was odd of her, usually she loves a bit of Kyle bashing, but surely he wasn't right. Was he? Could Lucy be selling up his stuff without even speaking to him, unlikely, but so had it been unlikely that Simon would have witnessed a man hacking apart another man this week. Simon was starting to realise that, in this place, anything was possible.

'He's not right, is he?' Simon had lowered his voice to barely a whisper in a vain attempt to keep it from Mr Rowling, but it was no good, and he saw from the corner of his eye that the old man, though still stroking the cat with one hand hanging down from his chair, had looked up and was waiting for the situation to evolve.

'Of course not. Don't let him get to you.' Said with an authoritative stance but there was something underlying in her tone, her mannerisms and it didn't sit well with Simon. Like the look she gave him yesterday in the kitchen, or like she had been after that bullshit attempt at sex last night, she was different. But he had to be careful here, he couldn't mention the wedding. But at the same time he had to know. Simon's old adage sprung to mind and he repeated it a few times

Go with the flow, Simon

Go with the flow, Simon

Just go with the sodding flow. Simon. Simon.

'SIMON.' Lucy yelled pulling him out of the fugue.

'Yeah, sorry...What?'

She was looking at him with black insect eyes and Simon turned to see Mr Rowling waiting for something. But what?

'If yaneed money, Simon, if business is bad, like I hear things are down in the cities, then don't think I can't help.' Mr Rowling lifted the cat onto his lap looking ever more the like the Bond villain Simon was beginning to think he was.

'Dad, no, it's not like that.'

'Yeah, Mr Rowling thanks, but really, business is great. Never been so good despite, like you said, the rest of the UK struggling. Kyle is just trying to stir things up, is all. Appreciate the gesture but we're fine.'

'Yeah, dad, Simons right. We're good. Really good.'

Mr Rowling continued to stroke the cat. 'Family is an important thing, Simon. Thought I'd lost mine, but sat just there is a woman I thought I would never see again.' He lent forward and let the cat jump down onto the floor. He unconsciously rubbed down his trousers to get the fur and fluff off and licked his lips prior to commencing. Simon noted that the birds, the crickets, even the stream had fallen silent; waiting for the old fella to continue. 'She tells me yagood man, Simon, honest, trustworthy and the like. I have no reason to doubt that. You've seen some things that don't sit well, I get that, but that don't mean to say they aint right, that don't mean to say we aint got reasons for doing what we do.

'I saw ya face last night when I told ya we don't do with police and the like here. You looked as if you've just picked up the finest goose in the market only to find out it were a rabbit dressed in feathers. We had police, when I was a boy we had two local fellas who watched over us. But they weren't good men Simon. They were bad men. That the opposite of good. They did things to kids, Simon. Not nice things. Bad things. So we got together, a few of us, and put an end to it.

'For good, Simon, and by that I mean we killed em.'

He leant back and wiped the sweat from his brow with a white hanky that he had retrieved from his back pocket.

'I'm not sure what you want me to do with that, Mr Rowling. If it's an acknowledgment of that and my approval then that is something I cannot give. What happened last night with Stevie and then today, it seems barbaric. I can hardly believe it all happened and yet I was the one that saw it.'

'Such a shame. His mother must be in bits.' Lucy added but Simon didn't dwell on her words and by the looks of it neither did her father as he took up the conversation again:

'We will find out who did it, Simon. He got what was coming to him last night, might seem odd to you, that, but like I said and will go on saying; is that we do it different up here. That said, his death want right, and we shall find out who did it and bring him to justice.

'Rottenhouse justice.' He added as an afterthought and now that he had stopped the birds started singing to the soft beat of the crickets and in the background the stream seemed to flow once more.

5

Mr Rowling left the couple alone at the table and headed inside.

Simon took a deep breath and let it out in one long sigh. Lucy poured herself half a glass and held it to her forehead. It made Simon notice that it had gotten hotter in the garden. The sun had started its descent and would soon fall behind the valley wall that he and Lucy had climbed that morning. All of a sudden he felt dirty. Not just hot and sweaty, but dirty like he had just ran a half marathon through mud and grit and was made to stand in front of a wind machine just for good measure.

Lucy waited for her father to be out of sight and then said, 'Sorry I've been a bit off, if that's even the right word, Christ, I can't think straight. Got a million and one stupid things going through my head. Memories of my childhood, this house, the hills and how bloody green everything is, still is. It hasn't changed, Si. I know people say that a lot, but really, this place hasn't changed one little bit, it's all the fucking same as it was when I left. And as for all the attacks and murders; I am as shocked as you are. Sorry it's not going to plan, Sausage.'

Simon could have cried and he felt his face tighten. And when he looked up and saw her eyes were welling up he felt his throat tighten and was sure, given the opportunity, his eyes would soon leak. All that had happened, all that he had been through, all that Lucy had put him through was swept away with that one single heart felt statement. 'Was there ever a plan? Do we ever have a plan? I can see what you mean about not changing and I suppose why should it, I mean apart from all that's gone on, you can't argue that this place is stunning.'

'He's right though, when you think about it. Might seem completely crazy but they have their reasons.'

'We all have our reasons, Luce, but that doesn't make them right. I just can't understand how your dad can be so cold about it. I've never met anyone like him. You have to admit he's got some issues going on.'

'He has his ways. Guess I got used to them, but they do seem to have worsened since mum died.' She looked solemn. Her eyes closing and opening slowly, wetter than they had been a minute or so ago. Lucy brushed her hair from her face and took in a deep breath. She had never really talked about her mum's death. Lucy always managed to change the subject whenever the conversation came up. He knew she had cared for her mum, deeply, and that they had been more like sisters than mother and daughter.

Simon said, 'Can't believe how beautiful it is here. A few ticks shy of perfect. It's like a movie set, everything framed and brightly coloured. Reminds me a bit of Hobbiton, not that I've seen many little people.' He then pictured Lewis and Pickering and a few of the others he had had the honour of meeting last night in the club. 'A few orcs and trolls mind you, but defo no Hobbits.'

A little chuckle popped out of Lucy and she lifted her hand up to her mouth to quash it. 'Does that make my dad Bilbo?'

'Not a chance. If he's anyone he's Saruman. Except he aint got no tower, only a club.'

With her head cocked to one side and looking down at the patchwork lawn she smiled and said, 'Sméagol then? No wait...probably more like Gollum'

He saw that Lucy was biting back a laugh and that was enough to make him burst out with deep and relieving laughter and together, sat in the hot garden in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, drinking lemonade from glasses owned by a sarcastic, egotistical moron, they shared that laughter and it made them feel better about everything. However, one mile away, old widower Johnson, who was mother to the late Stevie Johnson, had just received, from the back of an old van, the last loosely wrapped parcel of her sons chopped up body. Unlike Lucy and Simon she wasn't laughing. She wasn't crying either. She wasn't doing anything except making sure that he was all there before Lewis and Pickering left.

Skin You

1

Early evening and it was still hot in Rottenhouse and the air smelt of asphalt, sickly sweet with lavender and freshly cut grass and as they drove to the club Simon lent his head out of the back passenger window and inhaled deeply. It was a smell he had never taken in before and though sickly and sour he enjoyed it. Found it strangely soothing; like incense in a small room.

It was oddly quiet tonight in the valley. The birds, the crickets, even the trees in the summer breeze seemed lifeless and when getting out of the car Simon could hear his own heart beat as it pumped blood around his body. There were no cars in the car park but to his side, though he tried not to look, the burnt out corpse of a house was still there, untouched, like a reminder to those that leave candles on at night that this is what can happen.

Last night when the club had been draped in darkness and only lit by the two Victorian lamps, it had looked ominous. A sleeping giant that you dared not wake. But as he, Lucy and the ever present Mr Rowling walked from the same parking spot as last night and toward the old building Simon could see that whatever thoughts or nightmares he had conjured up were farfetched, childish almost.

Lucy gazed at the building for a moment, smiled, but didn't say what was on her mind as they reached the stone steps. Entering the club through the giant doors, she placed her palm against the cool red brick and Simon was sure that her eyes had narrowed then and that there was a tiny flinch as if she had been shocked with a small jolt of electricity.

'You okay, Luce?' Simon whispered.

'Yeah, I'm good. Just been a long time, is all.' Lucy struggled with that last part, her throat not letting the words out so it sounded choked, forced.

There was something there, he knew there was; a fear of something. He could see that fear, or what he thought was fear in those deep and delightful eyes. It was the same fear he saw when she had gone to see her friend who was dying of lung cancer. And even though she said she was alright, that everything was fine, Si, just upset is all, there had been something that had troubled her, put a fear in her so deep that she too could suffer, that she was not beyond the reach of Deaths cold hand. But what could possibly cause such a fear when touching the brickwork of this old place?

They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.

Get a grip, Si. Get a grip. This is the real world, not a horror novel where the buildings come alive and eat you up or that the old haunted house is built on an ancient Indian burial ground and just to add insult to injury a radioactive waste dumping ground.

'Are you okay?

'Wha?'

'You look a little pale. Seen a ghost?' Lucy smirked and placed her hand upon his cheek. Her hand was warm and he leant into it noting that the good old Mr Rowling was now talking to a skinny man far off in reception.

'Peachy. Though I wonder what treats we are in for tonight.'

They walked in together, not holding hands, for Simon guessed that old man Rowling wouldn't approve of that, but close together so that they bumped hips a couple of times. Taking a deep breath, watching as Lucy, who would be known as Barbara to these folks tonight, Simon readied himself for another night at the club.

2

Early evening light drifted through the tall windows of the club, it engulfed the bar with a pale pink glow on a sweet summer's eve. Dark shadows were cast in the corners of the room, hiding potential monsters. The old oak and beech trees that encircled the building cast long twisting lunatic black lines across the wooden floor that in the prevailing wind they waved and grabbed at you as you walked past like the clutches of hell itself.

3

Sunday night at Rottenhouse Working Man's Club was ladies night, for a fashion, and the usual guttural man talk was now interjected with the occasional twitter and muted cackle of the woman folk. They were sat in the far corner of the club, past the counter on the right had side not too far from where the Chairman had been seated not 24 hours prior. Was there a reason to them being sat near the all-seeing, all knowing and all judgmental Chairman? Though it pained him to think so, Simon guessed the answer was pretty obvious.

Simon, a bit more at ease with himself and his surroundings (though when entering the club and as much as he tried to stop his eyes from looking, Simon couldn't resist the pull of the far end of the old reception area and the stairway that led down into that black nothingness that he had dreamt of last night) sat in the exact same place he had last night, drinking the exact same ale he had supped the night before, looking at exactly the same group of men that he had seen here last night. The only differences - apart from the women folk and the stale air now not so quite as stale as there was a hint of perfume acting like an undercurrent to a corked wine - was that he was now not sat apart from the rest of the men, but intermixed with them; one of them if you were to believe in such things, and that the Chairman's seat was empty, like a throne of an old king, it sat unoccupied, patiently waiting for its master.

The floor of the bar had been arranged differently to last night. Now most of the tables were on the left hand side and spread out accordingly so that it left a walkway through to the bar and space to get to the toilet without much toing and froing. On the right, where the men folk had been seated yesterday, and Simon presumed for most nights except a Sunday when the ladies joined them, there was now a raised platform and upon that a microphone stand, drum kit, a couple of acoustic guitars and many other musical instruments that Simon did not know the name of and some even he didn't even recognise. Below the raised platform was a clear spot that could possibly be a dance floor, though Simon doubted that there would be much dancing going on tonight.

Taking down a good measure of his ale his eyes locked onto the rough, worn circle of flooring that made up the Beating Zone, and wasn't surprised to see that it was still devoid of any sort of detritus. Simon had only seen that piece of floor once but his hatred for it was deep. Each time someone ventured toward the Beating Zone his heart raced and his body flexed, poised like a coiled a snake to strike at whatever came at the passer by though he doubted what the hell he would do if something actually did happen. What was odd, more odd than the women sitting on their own and all drinking the same drink, more odd than the locked door in the corner of the room, more odd than the stairway that led down to the eternal darkness in the reception, was that as the person who approached the Beating Zone – like the tall skinny man he had met last night was doing right now – they got within a step of entering it then veered wildly to either the right or the left, like there was a hole to hell itself beneath their feet and their brain screamed get away, move! Simon was amazed that the skinny man moved instinctively to this right to go around the Beating Zone without even looking up, and carried on to the bar without a passing glance at the worn floor.

Local voices flowed over him, like a passing train not stopping at your station. Leaving them well alone and distancing himself from what the men were conversing about unless it directly concerned him, which most of the time it did not for fear of putting his foot in it. Lucy on the other hand, was having the reminiscence of her life. Whatever fear Simon had presumed was there; was gone and she was conversing with the lady folk like they were her best buds from back home. There was muffled laughter, as if it were not forbidden, but wholly frowned upon by the husbands, and Lucy would occasionally look up to look for her future husband to make sure that he was okay.

And Simon was, for the most part. Yeah, he supposed, shit had most certainly gotten real over the last couple of days. This was the first in-law meeting to beat all first in-law meetings and he would be able to regale his mates with tales of this wondrous for years to come. At first he thought himself alone, that Lucy had drifted away and was replaced by her old, lost self, Barbara. But this afternoon, he had spoken too, been talked to, by his Lucy and it had filled his heart with joy and his soul with a renewed sense of hope that this journey hadn't been for nothing and that he wasn't alone in all this. He had her and would always have her. There was still some doubt though; watching Lucy with those once childhood friends filled him with that doubt. She looked so comfortable, at ease. He had never seen that look in her before. Well not never, there had been occasions, but from what she had said about this place and the reasons behind her leaving Simon thought it was odd. Perhaps it was an act or perhaps she was being polite? He couldn't be sure and who could without the power of mindreading? Her eyes were wide and she seemed interested in the other ladies small talk, something to which he knew – like he knew that she had one sugar in her tea but none in coffee – that she hated small talk and would at all costs get out of it.

But now Simon had more pressing matters to attend to and had known that sooner or later the question would come up by those that didn't know or understand. Looking back from Lucy's table, passed the Beating Zone he noticed that the eyes of the table were upon him; awaiting his answer like a pack of caged lions waited for their dinner.

4

'A photographer. I kind a specialise in landscapes, montages, nature shots, that kind of thing, but the studio that I own does a lot of portraits and business promo shots. Its basic work but it pays the bills and means I can spend more time on the part of my job I enjoy.'

The men around him thought about that long and hard, brows furrowed and eyes narrow. All of their faces were different though there was one common thread (apart from the bulbous noses, big ears and small eyes) they all wore a sneer as if Simon had just told them that he had had anal sex with each of their daughters whist he got their wives to film it. Men on other tables carried on talking, as too did the ladies in the corner, but the men surrounding Simon were silent – pondering, taking it all in and considering what to do. It reminded Simon of asking a child prior to taking the snap what games they like playing or what their favourite cartoon is. They just sit there, frozen, eyes darting from left to right as their brains delve deep and calculate the correct answer. These guys were doing the same now, in unison, until finally a man with a tremendous nose that seemed to drip clear drops of snot like a tap with a rotten washer spoke up. His accent was deep and he spoke fast.

'So, whad yado fer alivin then, Simon? Follow yer father?'

'Well, I'm a photographer. That's what I do. My dad worked on the railways but I...'

'A railwayman,' Snot Man said and nodded to his fellows in acknowledgement of something Simon wasn't too sure of, 'Good job thart. Properjob. What he do? Lay track? Engineer was he?'

'No, he was a...'

'Driver? Was he driver, Simon?' another chap asked who sat next to Snot Man whom Simon had nicknamed One Eye for obvious reasons. There were more of those odd little nods which Simon though strange considering he hadn't even agreed with them.

'No, he was an electrician. Man and boy as they say.'

There was collective Ahhhhh from all the men, including Mr Rowling, who seemed pleased with what Simon was saying.

Snot Man said, 'So you took after yaPa, then?'

Simon went to put the drippy nose man right, and all others by looks of their dumb faces, but Mr Rowling interrupt.

No, Clive, he is a photographer. Not an electrician, like his old man were. He chose not to follow his father.'

There was a collective sigh and groan from his ever growing audience. The faces turned to him swelling so that he could now not make out the group of ladies sat in the corner and had lost sight of his Lucy.

'Whysthat, Simon?' Snot Man asked with a look of deep concern upon his face.

'I, err, well I didn't want to I suppose.'

'Whys that, then?'

'I suppose, Clive,' there was a bit of a grumble then and Mr Rowling leaned over taking hold of Simons shoulder.

'That's Mr Sparks to you Simon. Only few can call him Clive. I am one of em, you int.'

Simon looked into Mr Rowling's eyes hoping to see a wee glimmer of jest but instead, and not surprisingly, he saw nothing except truth.

'Sorry.' Simon said toward Mr Rowling and then to Clive.

Mr Sparks waved it away. 'Now why dint yafollow in fathers steps.'

'Never fancied the life he had. It was hard. Long hours, weekends, poor money. He didn't see much of me or my mum and when he did he usually fell asleep standing up he was so bone tired.'

'Aye, Simon, tough life on rails but one tobe proud of. Mr Rowling's father, Mr Rowling, he were railwayman.'

All the men took a swig of their respective ales and Simon felt obliged to do likewise. And then a question came to him and as much as that inner voice screamed to not do it he couldn't stop himself. They had touched a nerve when they had brought up his father, a nerve that Simon had fought long and hard to cauterize.

'Why don't you work on the railway, then, Mr Rowling? If you don't mind me asking.'

The old man grimaced, licking his lips before answering and when he did answer his voice took on that condescending tone Simon was getting used to hearing.

'Closed railway down, Simon, otherwise I'd be doing exactly the same as what my father did and his father before him. Most men round here, Simon, all do what their fathers did.'

An eerie quiet fell around the table, the men that weren't sat around returned to their own conversations after hearing enough from the southern wanderer. Upon their faces Simon saw the familiar look of disappointment mixed with the knowledge that their assumptions had been correct and that the rest of the world was not a world they wanted to live in.

'If not on railway, then where do you work, Simon?'

'Gods teeth, Clive, you is as thick as those pigs you keep. Christ, heint no electrician. He be a pho-tog-ra-fer. Yaknow with camera and what not.'

Clive was physically taken aback, not at the fact that Mr Rowling had raised his voice but by the fact that Simon wasn't an electrician like Simons father had been. Simon was sure he had said he was a photographer at the start of this weird conversation.

'Sorry, Mr Rowling. Don't understand. So, Simon, you take photos for a job.'

'Yes. I have my own studio.'

Mr Clive Sparks shook his head, 'People pay ferphotos, like of trees and stuff? Seems odd. I mean how much could a bitapaper with a picture on it be worth?'

'Aye, Simon,' Mr Rowling said, 'wondered that maself, I did. Since when can a foe-tow be worth the sort amoney to keep a roof on top of yahead. Aint never heard of such a thing.'

All eyes were on him again, judging eyes, wanting a response that would either let him off or cast him into the stream; a knife jutting from his eye socket. Again, like the conversation he had had last night over the drink driving laws of the United Kingdom, Simon couldn't believe he was having to break down every little aspect of his life, having to explain what he did as if he were talking to children.

'There is plenty of money in it. It's a form of artwork, like Monet or Turner. A good photo can fetch hundreds of thousands of pounds. If it weren't for photos then we would live in a very different world. Mine don't fetch that kind of money but people pay good money for a portrait or a wedding.'

Eyebrows were raised and it seemed as though Simon had quashed whatever other questions the group had broiling inside of them.

All except one, and it was Snot Man who asked it.

'But aint that woman's work?'

Simon took a breath, stood, and excused himself to the toilet whilst the rest of the table muttered to themselves and agreed amongst them that yes Simons work, the work he had taken most of his life to master and still had some way to go was women's work and that he was foolish not to have followed in his dear dads footsteps.

5

The night dragged on. The clock on the wall ticked its way to 8 in slow agonising sweeps. The sun drifted down until it went behind the valley and the soft pink hue that filled the room was replaced with a vile yellow shroud from the overhanging fluorescents.

Many drinks were imbued, laughter was echoing around the bar like a storm. Ladies still drinking from their wine glasses brimming with beer; chuckled and mumbled in whispers.

Simon had tried to speak with Lucy when he went to the toilet. He wanted to go back to the house, maybe take some night shots on his way, anything to get out of this club and these people. He had gotten to within 10 feet of her when she looked at him and quickly shooed him away, back to where he had come from. And then he realised something, something he hadn't seen but had seen; that none of the men went over there. The women were left alone, distanced from the rest of the club. Only the barman went into that corner, his tray full of glasses of beer. The women neither had to ask nor offer payment. They simply sat, drank, talked, muffled their laughter and got a top up when they had all finished.

Simon sat back down in his spot next to Mr Rowling and opposite Snot Man and One Eye; a fresh pint of ale replacing his old empty glass. He wasn't acknowledged by anyone when he came back, their conversation remained unbroken by his presence. Whilst watching the band begin to set up on the raised stage Simon gave in, understanding that he was here for the night, so decided to stop day dreaming and to listen to what Mr Rowling and Snot Man were talking about.

He wished he never did.

6

'Any word on who it were that put it in his eye?' Snot Man asked.

'Nope. I have a couple of thoughts, but I need to speak with Chairman first.'

'Lewis clear it up?'

'Aye, though he made a bit of a scene about it. Plus I learned something about that little twat that troubled me. In such company as this I prefer to wait for Chairman. But let's just say I think Lewis is in for a lesson.'

Snot Man wiped his nose with a brownish hanky. 'The young don't seem to learn.' Snot Man said shaking his head.

Mr Rowling looked over to where his daughter was sat. 'No. They don't. It troubles me, Clive, makes me think we are losing touch with what's right. Losing touch with the past. Take the ladies over there. Look at em laughing and the like. Never happened like that with the old Chairman. Place is getting soft.'

'You talking of Mr Johnson? What he were up to was wrong, the worst, like the old lawman had been up to. You onbout how long it took?'

'Darn right, Clive. What were it, three weeks before he were put to justice. Pathetic. Crime like that should have had swift justice. People round here should be ashamed. Times past that would have been done in a day. Not that I'm blaming Chairman, no, it's the people, Clive, they don't listen. All comes down to the young. They aint being brought up right and the parents are to be put to blame for that. Look how hard it was to keep the induction going? Since the club came to be, to get in you have to do a stint behind bar. Learn ya place. Do ya time, earn some respect before you take a drink with the other men. Bloody blokes around here don't understand and shouldn't even be here if yaask me.'

'Chairman will see it put right, Mr Rowling. If not he will lose his place when voting time comes at year end.'

'We'll see, Clive. See what he says about the killing before I truly judge.'

The door to the bar squealed and the men turned to see who it was. The Chairman held a leash in his right hand. The Chairman looked over to Mr Rowling and the two men shared an understanding of the situation much like Simon and Lucy shared things when the two of them looked at each other.

Simon's hands began to shake and his palms grew wet with sweat. What the hell was on the other end of the leash? Whatever it was must be pretty big as the leash was thick, like rope on a tug boat. He looked over to see if Lucy was looking for him, hoping that she was so that he knew what he had to do. Or hoping that she wasn't there so that she didn't have to see this.

The Chairman reached the worn area (Beating Zone) and pulled hard on the leash so that what was on the end of it came sprawling through the door way; crying as it did. Simon still couldn't see but there were cheers and jeers and clanging glasses and shouts of About time! and Bring him to justice! from various quarters of the room. Simon was sure he could here higher pitched yells coming from the ladies table but couldn't be sure.

All the other men were standing so Simon got to his feet as the leash was pulled again and this time there was a moan from the person, it was a person, only a human could moan like that, and that moan turned into a cry as whatever created it hit the floor hard. A third tug on the leash brought another cheer, but still Simon couldn't see who was on the end of the rope.

C'mon Simon, you do know Mr Rowling's voice said in his head and Simon guessed he was right and with a fourth tug of the rope and with a fresh bout of blood thirsty laughter coming from the crowd, Lewis, the rope tied around his body and neck, landed face first on the floor. Landed face first on what he called The Chairman's Court and what Simon called the Beating Zone.

7

The Chairman gestured to his audience to be quiet and to sit and with a scrapping of wooden chairs the men, and women, of Rottenhouse obliged; quietly and orderly.

Looking over to the ladies corner Simon was pleased, though a little worried as to her current whereabouts, to see that Lucy was no longer there.

'Gentlemen. I ask for your attention on this fine summers evening,' the Chairman said, his voice as big as he was tall and thick with accent. His eyes burnt with a fiery green hue and they were as big as the spherical lampshades that hung from the ceilings. 'It saddens me, aye it does, to find myself with another one of our young men at the end of the leash. Yet another mark on The Chairman's Court.'

Hands tapped on the tables like cats on a tin roof.

'I know I haven't been quick off the mark. Times have changed since many of us were boys, the world around us grown sour and that sourness has tried to seep into our hearts and into our homes. The young think they now it all, they think they know better than us! Time to put them right, time to put them back into their place before we lose what we have fought so hard to make.

'Bob Rowling brought one such misbegotten soul to my attention earlier today and I ask him to join me now and to lead Lewis down to the basement where his punishment awaits.'

Lewis moaned again and Simon could see that he wanted to scream but the rag stuffed into his mouth was stopping anything but a bestial groan to come out. The Chairman gave the young man a kick in the side and Mr Rowling made his way over. He shook hands with the Chairman and took from him the looped end of the leash like a proud owner of a winner at Crufts.

The men around Simon tapped the tables again only this time there was a rhythm to it, a slow drawn out rhythm that reminded Simon of the drums from an old King Kong movie. The two men left the main room, dragging their mewling dog behind them. Lewis was trying to stand as he was taken into the reception area but each time he managed to get to his feet Mr Rowling would tug on the rope forcing Lewis to crawl. It was a despicable, inhuman sight, and Simon looked away and closed his eyes hoping that the darkness would take him away.

But it didn't and the sounds of Lewis' rag soaked moaning wafted through to him and it seemed to grow with intensity when mixed with the hand drumming until it became a ghastly song that Simon really didn't want to listen to. Why were they doing this? What the hell had Lewis done to be treated like that? Simons mind filled with images of the shiny axe swinging down onto the dead body in the stream cleaving it into pieces. That axe had been swung by Lewis, he had done that rotten task without a care in the world, had even played with the body for crying out loud.

It's not right. It's not right. Simon kept repeating until he became sick of it. Nothing here makes any sense and everything seems to happen without rhyme or reason and at the drop of a hat and I can't deal with it. I don't want to deal with it.

Every part of him, down to his bones, wanted away from here. Away, not just from the Working Man's Club or the village but the entire county too. He wanted to go home. He wanted Lucy to be by his side. He wished that when he opened his eyes that he would wake up in his own bed and find that the last few days had been a sick and twisted dream.

'Been a while since they used gurney.' Snot Man said with a slight chuckle in his voice.

Simon started to feel sick. He opened his eyes but nothing had changed; he was still surrounded by the same men only now Mr Rowling was gone. The sick feeling kept growing and Simon didn't trust himself to do a test burp for fear of throwing up all over the place.

But where?

C'mon, Simon, you know where. You know we've taken him down there, down to that dark place that I know you dream of. We've taken him down there, me and the Chairman, and we mean to teach him a lesson.

Not wanting too but having no choice his throat was so dry he drank the rest of his beer and whispered to Snot Man, 'Where have they taken him?'

'Down basement, lad.'

'There not...killing him, are they?

'No,' Snot Man shook his head, 'Least I don't think so. No,' he concluded, 'won't kill him. What he did don't warrant that.'

Simon leaned in closer almost tipping over his empty glass, 'What he do? I mean, what did he do?'

'Fraid I can't say, lad. Not for your head to know such things. If you were meant to know, you'd know.'

Snot Man went back to speaking with One Eye, Fat Cheeks and the rest of the table. It was a conversation that Simon couldn't give two shits over. Without excusing himself he got up and headed over to the toilets making sure to stay well away from the Beating Zone and to not make eye contact with anyone. There were a lot of sounds in the room coming from the men sat around the numerous tables. Simon heard the familiar crack of dominoes hitting other dominoes and wood. From the table nearest the windows opposite the raised platform were sat really old men and they were talking loudly about the drainage in some lower field. Below an old painting of the valley six men were sat around a larger table, upon it was a board and some odd shaped playing pieces. As Simon walked past this table he saw that they were playing a game of some sort on a board that looked a little like the board you used in Risk. Strange cries of Folly, Folly or Duffer plot would be shouted by over eager mouths. Walking past the bar he saw that Lucy was still not back in her chair. She must have been gone some 15 minutes or so.

'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.

He ignored the front room, the back room too, something told him that what he wanted to find wasn't in there and the floor boards continued to creak as he made his way into the kitchen. Something scurried in the dark corners and Simon jumped back against the doorframe. Light from his phone pointed to where the sound came from but found nothing but the remains of a family kitchen. That same something, or maybe another something scurried with what sounded like knives for claws across the floor and Simon aimed the phones light in that direction. Beyond the table and chairs and fallen ceiling and loose cupboards and blackened pots and pans was nothing but dead shadows hiding things, scary things, and Simon started to second guess his choices and ponder getting the mother truck out of there.

'Rats. It's just rats you schmuck.' And as if it heard him the scurrying beasty squeaked back, Simon was sure that he glimpsed two little beady eyes hiding behind an overturned frying pan.

'What's here? What am I looking for?' He said as he shone the torch light across the room. Everything was black, though smears of a strange brownish liquid leaked from corners or cupboards and from the shattered electrical fittings. He took a few steps, for some reason he held onto the door frame, and shone the light on the back wall of the kitchen. Written in large white paint that had gone grey and streaky was one single word: NONCE. The O was replaced with skull and crossbones. Drips of paint had run down the walls and the light followed them down and down. A chair was overturned next to the wall, something had been smashed and what looked like a large carving knife was dug into the floorboards; the light from the phone glinting from the still strangely shiny steel. Next to the knife was a hand print, but it hadn't been made with white paint, it was dark and brown, like the brownish goo that seeped from all over the kitchen. With a shaking hand, so much so that he had to remove the other from the doorframe and double clutch the phone, he followed the hand prints along the floor and back out of the kitchen.

Simon shook his head in disbelief, 'What a surprise.' As the hand prints moved from the floor up to the bannister and headed off, up the stairs, and into another gloomy place where Simon really didn't want to go. Behind him, the rat – he hoped it was a rat – squeaked a couple of times and he was sure it was saying go on, Simon, man up. Go see what's up there. Go on.

'Shut up you little furry bastard. Let me think.' But what was there to think about? He had come in here for a reason he couldn't quite remember, let alone justify, and now was looking at what was quite possibly another scene of yet another murder in this tiny little village. From where he stood he could see the front door, the orange street light and Mr Rowling's car. They were only a handful of steps away, so leaving this place wasn't an issue. What was an issue was that he wanted to know what had happened here and seeing those hand prints going up the stairs meant that whatever had happened here went on up there.

Off you go then, chum. Don't forget to write and send me a postcard the rat squeaked as it scurried once again across the kitchen floor.

Lifting the phone, the handprints marked the journey Simon would have to take like sadistic breadcrumbs in a forest of the dead.

'Jeezus.'

Simon shone the light on the wall once more, read the one single all encapsulating word NONCE and shivered when he saw the O was a skull and crossbones and then moved the light back to the stairs titling the phone so that it engulfed the entire hell begotten stairway.

'If I die here, Ratman, I'm gonna come back and haunt you.'

The floorboards creaked and cracked like old men's bones getting out of hard backed chairs as he walked upstairs, following the brownish handprints.

5

At the top of the stairs the hallway lead off to the right as too did the handprints though now the brownish marks were fading and becoming hard to see. Upstairs was much like downstairs in so much as it was blackened with soot, charred where the flames had taken hold and smelt stale. But the fire hadn't been all consuming up here. Perhaps the fire brigade (if they even had one) managed to temper the flames before they tore this place apart. Even so, it was still a wreck and completely unsalvageable.

Simon reached the top of the stairs and like a Marine in some far off war zone he turned quickly and aimed the torchlight down the small, narrow hallway. There was nothing there but fallen paintings and wreckage. Was Simon a little disappointed? He supposed that he was. It was the same disappointment you get when watching motor racing and there isn't a crash. A part of you is happy that there were no accidents, but another part of you is a little put out that bits of metal weren't shredded and tyres launched into the sky. So for what it was worth Simon was a little disappointed that whatever it was that he was looking for wasn't charging at him with an axe or chainsaw or a glove covered in homemade knives.

Using the light he followed the handprints across the hallway and into the only room whose door was open. The groaning floorboards were replaced with squelching as water oozed from the wet carpet below Simons feet. With each footfall a fresh whiff of stale water floated up and hung around him like a fog. Instinctively he placed his arm across his mouth and nose but it did little to mask the smell coming from the floor.

Entering the bedroom, his heart racing a little too fast, there was a flash of lightening which lit room almost on perfect cue. There was no bed, no furniture what so ever, and all that remained was an old dirty sheet hanging from the light fitting.

Removing his hand from his mouth and nose Simon's senses were then overwhelmed by the stench that filled this little room. His vision swirled as it overtook him and seemed to swallow him up. Another flash of lighting lit the room and Simons shadow on the side wall was matched with the one from the sheet hanging from the ceiling. He choked a little, gagged, but didn't vomit much to his relief.

'What is that smell.'

He shone the torch around the edges of the floor. Rain began to patter on the roof in small fat drops and what had been a soft breeze now started to whistle through the gaps in the walls and windows. Still the stench went on and it wouldn't be long, Simon thought, until it sucked the life right out of him.

Whatever it was he thought he was going to find wasn't here.

He shone the light one final time across the far wall and the handprints were there again. He moved over to them taking care not to tread too heavily. There were two handprints, clearly one was a left hand and the other was the right. It was as if whoever the hands belonged to, Simon was starting to believe they were the hands of Mr Johnson, had placed them palms down on the wall and there was a smear of blood just above the splayed hands and stepping back Simon imagined a man, hands pressed against the wall, his head against it and by the looks of how clear the prints were he was like that for some time. Was the man screaming, crying for his life and for forgiveness?

Another flash of lightening made Simon look down and see a frayed piece of rope laying on the floor next to an overturned chair that looked like it matched the one in the kitchen. The rain outside became heavier and the wind picked up making the house mumble in disgust.

'Time to go, Joe.' And Simon turned, brushing the manky sheet hanging from the ceiling.

There was another lightning flash but this time it was followed quickly by a monstrous crash of thunder that shook not only the house but Simon too. The rumble went on for some time, the sound hitting the valley walls and reverberating like a drum. Simon reached the bedroom door and was about to step out when the sound of something swaying, something stretching; like wet rope tied to a mooring, forced him to freeze. The shake he had lost returned.

Stood there, frozen to the spot, he imagined in those brief moments all sorts of horrific ways in which that stretching could be the prelude to his own death. But when it didn't come and there was no follow up Simon presumed it just the making of the wind and rain and the storm. But then the smell came up again and this time Simon recognised it from his time in the morgue.

'Hang on. Why was there a sheet hanging...' Simon turned around and manoeuvred his phone so that it pointed the light back into the room and up at the ceiling where the sheet hung. Again, as if on cue there was another flash of lighting and a deep roar of thunder. The room was engulfed in white strobe and Simon's torch app was made moot. It wasn't a sheet that was hanging from the ceiling. What hung from the ceiling, eyes wide with a mouth forced into a perpetual scream, had once been human but was now a charred mess of features. Simon dropped his phone and the world went dark.

6

If I die, I'm going to haunt you Ratman.

Bar-Ba-Ra!

Bar-Ba-Ra!

Bar-Ba-Ra!

Nothing.

Simon came too in what looked like a hospital ward. It was an old hospital, rotten, abandoned, left to the wilds. He was sat in a chair. Correction, he was tied to a chair; tightly, with restraining leather belts wrapped around his wrists and his feet. His head was being kept in place by a thin metal band that squeezed his forehead tighter and tighter with every breath. There was a smell in here too, sickly sweet like marzipan. Though under that was another stink, just a whiff, but enough to tell Simon that he wasn't alone.

An empty gurney on rusty wheels was across from him. Next to that was a drip that held two blood red sacks of liquid upon its hooks. Long, clear tubes came out of the sacks and at their ends were giant needles the size of baseball bats. Behind the gurney was a window, dirty glass from years of neglect hid the world beyond and green creeping vines poked through gaps like fingers.

'There's something I need to show you.' A female voice said from behind him.

Simon couldn't answer for now there was a leather belt wound around the lower half of his face and it pushed a filthy smelling rag into his mouth. Breathing heavily through his nose he tried to scream but it was useless.

'There's something I need to show you.' She said again, only this time her voice was closer. Much closer.

Simon gathered his strength together and dug his ankles into the floor and pushed his aching back into the chair in an effort to try and brake free. It was another useless gesture.

A hand fell upon his shoulder and remained there. 'Don't struggle, it only makes them harder.' Concern dripped into the female voice but Simon didn't trust it.

'That's it, Simon. Well done. It will be okay.'

The hand left his side but stroked his bare skin making his hairs stand to attention. Simon tried to look again but his vision became blurred the more he looked to either the left or the right.

The girl coughed, deep and hard spitting whatever it was she had brought up onto the floor. Simon heard it splat against the brownish white tiles and was repulsed.

'Would you like to see me?'

He tried to nod, though he didn't know why and was surprised when his head moved ever so slightly up and down. Surprised and terrified.

'I'm not very pretty.' Much like the smell her voice was sickly sweet and there was something rotten underneath. Simon knew that the voice was being faked, it was too sweet, too girly, and it was hiding something.

There were tiny, wet sounding footsteps, then from Simons right a girl he recognised walked in front of him. She had wet brown hair, long and wild. It was pulled forward in dark twisting strands sticking to her pale face. There were eyes under that hair, dead insect eyes reflecting back the image of Simon tied to an old desk chair. Her mouth, lush red lips, now dry and flaking, was open in a perpetual scream. Her nose was missing replaced instead by just a single hole where some off coloured liquid oozed. Inside her mouth there were no teeth and her tongue was cut out so only half of the pink muscle remained and it bled profusely. The girl was wearing a tatty strait jacket though it didn't seem to mind her. The leather bindings ended just below her waist, just covering her womanhood, and then Simon had to close his eyes when he saw that a dark reddish brown liquid dripped down from between her legs.

'I knew you would be disgusted by me. I can see it in your eyes. It's not my fault, it's theirs!' The girl said, though her mouth didn't move and it seemed as though the voice came from everywhere much like music from a pair of headphones. And she was young, perhaps not even eighteen yet, but that voice was fake.

'You've seen me before. Haven't you? In that picture under the stairs and in your bathroom in that house at the end of the road. I was very pretty then.'

Something licked Simons face, something small and furry and it squeaked in his ear; all a dream, Simon, it's all a dream from when you fell, the squeak told him and Simon knew it was little Ratman. And he was right, he was dreaming. All of this was a dream. Simon tried to scream himself awake but the rag stuffed in his mouth made it impossible.

'You are theirs until they let you go. Don't struggle, Simon, like I said, it only makes them harder.'

The girl took a few steps backwards and manoeuvred herself so that she climbed onto the gurney, which was more like a bed turned into a wheelchair, and lay herself upon its filthy mattress.

'Now it's time for them to do what they have to do and leave me alone. You have to see this, Simon.'

The young girl who Simon recognised from his previous nightmares opened her pale bony legs and spread them wide. From her vagina the thick liquid slopped out like puss from an abscess and the skin that surrounded it was horrifically shaven and badly bruised. Simon once again tried to scream himself awake and heaved so hard that his vision blurred. But it was no good. His only saving grace was that he could close his eyes and he did so, shutting them both tight much like a child would when they were receiving a surprise present.

'Not a chance, Sausage.' Lucy said from behind him and he felt her hands pull through his hair and force open his eyes with her fingers. He tried in vain to shut them again and his eyes watered but it seemed to Simon as though Lucy had both grown in strength and gained extra sets of fingers.

'You are going to watch this and you is going to like it.' Lucy said and then went silent.

Bobbie moaned then. A moan that reminded Simon of the same sound he heard from behind the garage door.

'A man's work is never done.' Mr Rowling said as he appeared from Simon's right hand side. The old man was naked apart from a pair of slippers and a flat cap. His skin hung from his bones like wet curtains and blue veins stuck out like railway tracks. His penis was erect and bobbed up and down as he walked toward the girl laid prone on the gurney. He came to a stop at her side and stroked her face and hair admiring Bobbie like a proud father would.

Unable to look away, Simon watched Mr Rowling grab hold of the two giant needles and then with a great intake of breath and effort he lifted his arms and stabbed the points into Bobbie's large, dead eyes.

Simon tried to scream and even if the rag hadn't been in his mouth he was sure that the scream from Bobbie would have drowned out anything that he could have produced. Her screams were massive, bestial, and they tore away Simon's brain removing all though. From between Bobbie's legs the trickle of blood turned into a flood and it quickly poured over the gurney and onto the floor. Bobbie was still screaming as Mr Rowling walked around, cupped his hand under her vagina and then poured the blood over his throbbing erection.

'Be silent child.' Lucy said like a caring mother and when Bobbie stopped whining, 'Good girl. Good girl.'

It was then, when the room had fallen silent, that Mr Rowling pulled the girl forward so that her legs were hanging over the gurney. With a cold, heartless smile he thrust himself deep inside of her causing blood to spray into the air and across his face and chest.

As Mr Rowling raped Bobbie, Simons eyes rolled up into their sockets, and before he passed from this nightmare into the real world he once again felt the little furry something lick his face.

7

There was something licking his face and Simon instinctively jarred away from it and swung his hand at whatever it was.

He touched something wet and furry, it squeaked, and then there were tiny rushing footsteps as it fled. Simon opened his eyes and was enveloped in darkness and stink. Squirming, he shuffled backwards on his hands and heels, hitting the wall hard, dropping little chunks of plaster into his hair and lap. Panting, not fully remembering why he was sat on the damp carpet, Simon scrabbled for his phone picking up random bits of detritus that were slimy to the touch.

But there was nothing there. Either the phone had run out of battery or the app had closed down. In this total darkness, a thick black fog that consumed him, he was unable to see where his phone had landed when he fell. And he did fall. He remembered that. He fell because once again he lost consciousness for what seemed like the millionth time this weekend. Simon knew why he fell but he couldn't bring himself to think about it. Didn't want to think about it even though he could still hear the rope stretching somewhere in the gloom. The dream he had had was still swimming up in his head though it was fragmented and becoming fuzzy. Two images stuck with him and would continue to hang in there like an old painting. The first image was of the girl, Bobbie, and her dead eyes as they stared back at him. The second image, and strangely the one that haunted him more than anything that had happened in that terrible scene was of Mr Rowling and his erect penis: how he stood there, all proud with his flat cap and slippers whilst his old cock stood to attention covered in blood so dark it was almost black. Simon was unsure that he would ever get that later image out of his head.

Outside of the house the rain had stopped and the wind had dropped. Whatever the storm threatened seemed to have dissipated though Simon was sure he could hear far off rumbles of thunder. Getting to his feet the fresh movements brought with them another assault to the senses as the stink lifted and hung around him like an awkward girlfriend. He had given up trying to find his phone and decided that coming back in the cold light of day would be the best outcome. Besides, he was wet, aching, and no doubt as smelly as a dead horse.

Feeling along the wall Simon reached the doorway where he had earlier received the epiphany of what may be hanging from the ceiling. A little birdie told him to look around have a look and see it said but there was no way on earth he was doing that. Besides, what was the point? In all that gloom there was nothing to see. Although Simon knew, like he knew that the girl in his dreams was Bobbie and that if he asked about for her he would get blank faces and awkward looks that said don't ask questions, foreigner, don't get involved in stuff that aint your business or you will find yourself in a gurney being butt fucked by the Chairman! that if he did turn around and look into the blackness the hanging body of old man Johnson would be lit up, his face full of smiles, swinging in the silent air.

No, little birdie Simon thought, I aint gonna turn around.

His phone vibrating changed that.

With eyes focused purely on the light that was rising from his screen he quickly stepped in, picked up the phone and walked back out into the hallway whilst his eyes refocused on the differing light. The phone number on the screen wasn't recognised by its internal brainwork so was just a series of numbers. Simon edged it to his ear unsure whether to answer. If this was a telemarketer he was apt to go bat shit crazy.

Just before the last vibration Simon pressed the green ANSWER button.

'Hello.' He said.

There was no reply, just silent fuzz.

'Who is this?

Nothing, though Simon was sure he could hear footsteps.

'Lucy, is that you? Lucy?'

Silence. More of those muffled footsteps which could just be interference.

'Last chance. Coz I'm gonna hang up in three seconds...'

Nothing. Perhaps a door opening.

'Two.'

More footsteps?

'W-on...'

'Tick-tock, Simon. Tick-tock goes my Daddies big clock.' The voice was gravely, distorted, as if the phone was being held to close to his mouth. He was sure it was a man's voice, but the distortion and the northern accent made it hard to tell.

'Who is this?'

'Nobody. Everybody. It doesn't matter who I am, Simon. What matters is you.'

'Kyle, if this is you then go fuck yourself, alright. This isn't a good time.'

'Who's Kyle?'

'What do you want?' Simon asked scared of what the answer might be and then before the voice could answer and always thinking of the one he loved he added, 'How dya get this number? Is Lucy okay? Please tell me she's okay?'

'Aye. She's fine. Although she's picked up some nasty habits, Simon. Southern habits which we don't care for up here.'

'What are you talking about? What do you want?'

'I want you and that bitch to leave. Youint welcome here. Take your stupid camera and yer flashy car and go.'

'Listen, whoever this you don't frighten me.' A bit of a lie as he was terrified.

The distorted voice laughed. 'Not frightened. You stupid prick. Old man Johnson said he weren't frightened and looks what we did to that nonce. Go on, turn around and have another look if yadare.'

He knows where I am. He's here

Simon didn't turn around but instead held the phone away from his ear and turned his senses up to 11. There was no sound apart from his own breath, his heartbeat, and the laugh coming from the speaker on his phone. His eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness but it did little to dissipate the black fog. Instinctively, much like the feeling you get when the TV is on in another room, Simon knew that apart from the hanging charred corpse and the rats, he was alone in this house.

Lifting the phone back up he said, 'Who are you?'

'A friendly neighbourhood hero, Simon. But I won't stay friendly for too long.'

And then the phone went quiet. Simon stood for a moment or two; the phone attached to his ear like a gaudy earring whilst the house eased into the night with creaks and groans. Gathering his thoughts, minding not what he stepped in or crashed through he once again used his phone as a flashlight and got out of there. As he raced through what remained of the house blood swam in his head and the groans and creaks and moans and cracks became a rotten crescendo in his ears. Simon imagined the house demolishing itself behind him, the splintered pieces of wood and neck choking electric cord getting closer and closer and running faster only made the house fall quicker. He knew it wasn't, but he could feel it wanting too. He knocked a painting off the wall as he bundled down the stairs and in the main hallway his boot went through the burnt out floorboards almost tripping him. He pulled his foot free remembering his dream from the night before

I'm going to wait here for you

and was sure it took extra effort to release it from the splintered hole.

Finally he was free of the hole and within a few more steps he was out into the humid air, free from whatever it was he had felt in that burnt out shell and pleased that in his hand he still had his phone and around his body he still carried his camera bag.

Not wanting to hang around, either from whoever it was that had been on the end of the phone or if there were any passers-by wanting to know what he was doing running out of that old burnt out house, Simon checked the car park, saw that Mr Rowling's car was still there and headed back to the house at the edge of the village.

Before he left the village Simon took one more look over his shoulder. A mist was rising and it obscured the club in the far corner. Though from his position it looked as if the mist was coming from the club; a sleeping dragon's breath. Simon couldn't even see the Johnson's house anymore, and that made him feel easier.

He followed the main road home and it was an uneventful journey. He had much to think about. So much had happened in such a small amount of time. The last two days Christ it's only been two days felt more like two years.

'This place is off the scale.' he said to a tree stump sticking out of the ground like a zombie's hand reaching out of its grave. And he was right, wasn't he? He supposed that Lucy changing her name was fair enough and was something done by hundreds of people to escape a troubled past. But then his mind's eye flicked to how she looked before he left the club. She was different. The same, but different, as if he had been looking at her for all these years through an epic set of beer goggles, and now that he was sober, the drunk fugue had worn off, and Lucy had been revealed for what she truly was.

Should he even marry this woman?

'Don't be a dick. She's the best thing to have ever happened to me.'

But the other things that he had been through. They were troubling.

'Screwed up, more like.' He'd been through some truly hair raising experiences. Stuff only seen in movies or read about it books. But here he was, living it. But not for much longer. He was sure, that given a clear mind and a good deal of thought he could persuade Lucy to either go home with him, or if she stayed that he would go on alone and she would follow after. Either way his intent was clear; blessing to marry or not. It was a shame he hadn't befriended her dad, but he was just a little too much for Simon to deal with.

8

Ahead the road disappeared into the darkness; there was just enough moonlight now to see that he could cut through a field at an angle. He crossed the field, walking over lumps and bumps of freshly tilled earth. He guessed it would be a shortcut and was pleased with himself when he reached the road leading to Rowling's house and had shortened the journey by a good 20 minutes.

To his right Simon could hear the stream. He hated that stream now. Before the incident he had been fond of it but now he couldn't care less if the thing dried up and turned to dust. That stream had reminded him of being a child, paddling in the Meon with his family, picnics and ice cream and everything summer should be. Now it just reminded him of the axe, the body, and Billies open legs and the gore that oozed from between her legs.

9

It was as Simon reached the cobbled driveway leading to the Rowling residence that it dawned upon him, like a scientist making a cruel discovery, that he didn't have any keys.

'Typical.' Simon said to himself and he sat on the low brick wall. 'Fuck my luck.'

Half pulling out his phone so that just the right part was visible, Simon clicked the side button on it and was a little put out when he saw that it was only 10:45. If he was lucky then he would only be out here for about 30 minutes. But knowing that his luck would match the situation Simon knew he was going to be out here for a little longer than that.

And then something came to him. A hope. Just a little bit, but hope none the less.

He walked to the front of the house. A low powered security light came on over the front door and it gave him enough light to see by. At the side of the door were a few plant pots which Simon hoped his salvation was hiding under.

Lifting the first there was nothing there.

Lifting the second and holding his breath...there was nothing.

Simon let out a gentle sigh, 'Fuck it, come on number three.' Lifting the third plant pot he wasn't surprised when beneath it there was nothing but a wiggly worm.

All that was left were two old rocks upon which some greenish blue weed grew. He moved one slightly and the light coming from above the door shone its glory down upon the salvation Simon had been hoping for.

'Bingo.'

Simon used it to unlock the front door and made sure to put the key back, he wanted no more trouble. After that he walked into the dark house, though the upstairs hallway light was on which was enough to see by, closed the door and went into the kitchen, relaxing with every step.

Wanting to get out if his wet, stinking clothes, Simon ran upstairs and had himself a quick shower, making sure to throw his soiled clothes into a plastic bag before stuffing them into his suitcase and headed downstairs. Whilst he showered, the black goo from the house dripping from him like crude oil, he had a sudden urge to investigate this old house. He was alone for the first time in what felt like days. Usually being alone meant a quick knuckle shuffle for Simon, but not tonight, tonight he would have a little look about. With that thought he showered a little quicker, put on clothes over his wet skin and rushed downstairs.

The Study

1

Locked doors are a fascinating thing, aren't they? Not much in this ruined world we live in can both hinder and help such as a locked door. They can hold back or they can protect against. Another one of their charms is the magic they keep locked away. The secrets that they protect. Mr Rowling had such a locked door, it was at the far end of the downstairs hallway. The door wasn't any different from any of the others, just your basic rectangle hunk of wood with some fancy beading and all coated in natural oil. For Simon, it wasn't how the door looked that held him in wonder, oh no, it was what was behind the door that had him stood there, a key in his hand that he had found at the back of the cutlery drawer in the kitchen, reading the small tag attached to the key with a bit of brown sisal.

Study (SPARE)

But with any locked door, with any secret, comes the trepidation before the leap. Do I tell? Do I investigate? What if I'm caught? What if I don't like what I find? What if the holder finds out of my betrayal? These questions kept going round and around in his head like words from an annoying song you heard on the radio.

In preparation Simon had sent an investigative text to Lucy

When you due home? Do you want me to wait up? Xxx

but as of yet he'd had no reply. He guessed that he had probably 30 minutes tops before she and Mr Rowling got back. Plenty of time for a snoop. There would be plenty of warning from the roar of the car's engine.

'Plenty of time.' Simon whispered to the door. It didn't reply.

2

Simon's father had a locked door. It was a room that neither his mother nor sister were welcome in. To Simons knowledge no one, apart from his father and maybe one other (a guy his father called The Juicer), had been in that room since the day they moved in up through to the day the house burnt to the ground, taking his father and the secrets it and he held with it.

One day however, when Simon had just turned thirteen and those adolescent hormones had been in full flow, he had sneaked in there, braking one of the seemingly endless rules his father ordained upon the household. Maybe it was just teenage rebellion that encouraged Simon to venture into that forbidden world, he remembered that he had been curious much like he was now, had been for a few months, but never had the opportunity, or the guts to go for it. Simon could remember how his little hands had shaken when putting the key in the lock, and the heart stopping silence that filled the house broken like a rumble of thunder rolling on a silent plain when the key turned and the lock clicked open. The door had been hard to open as it scraped on the rough carpet, resisting the weight that Simon had thrown against it. He had thought to close it again, that whatever had been in there was best left unknown, but curiosity got the better of him and when there was enough of a gap he squeezed through, scrapping his belly on the door latch for good measure.

His father's secret room was dark and heavy. It stunk of stale cigarette smoke, his father being a 40 a day man and proud of it, and beneath that there was a sweet, sickly stink that Simon, at that point in his life, didn't know was the tell-tale sign of a heroin addict.

3

Simon scratched at his belly where the latch had grazed his skin all those years ago. The stairs creaked making him jump a little but at this point Simon was well versed in things that went bump in the night. He gave the front door one last cursory glance and then twisted the handle. The door opened inwards and the light from the hallway spilled in. Simons shadow was long and thin across the crimson carpet. He stood in the doorway, waiting for the door to finish opening like a cowboy in an old spaghetti western, batwing doors swinging and the dust encircling. His heart was beating a little faster, though he wasn't scared of what he was doing. He had that nervous sensation that told you that you needed a shit but apart from that his curiosity had taken over.

The tick-tock of the clock in the hallway reminded him that time was not on his side.

He felt along the left wall, found what he was looking for and flicked the switch. The main study light came on. It wasn't too bright and the soft light drifted over the study like a shroud. The room was what estate agents back home called a box room and though slightly larger, it looked to Simon as if the adjacent living room had been walled off at some point to make space for this study. There was an old wooden desk on the far side of the room below a window, to the left and right of the desk were two large shelving units all made of dark wood. There was a single chair under the desk and in the far corner an odd five legged chair made itself useful as a coat hanger. The carpet was crimson, but there were golden flowers sown into it in random places. The study walls weren't wallpapered like the majority of the house was, there was no real need as the walls were covered with pictures, paintings and what looked like old pieces of parchment from ceiling to the rail that was half way up. One man's life in many wooden frames.

Simon started to feel a little uneasy about what he was about to do. Rooms are locked for a reason. Secrets are kept for a reason. He was now trespassing on those secrets He was disregarding a common courtesy shown when things are locked away. But what harm could a little peeking and poking do?

'Not a jot.' And with that he left the hallway and walked into the study.

4

It smelt old in there. Used. Not dusty or musty or damp. It was the smell of old books and trinkets and aftershave. It wasn't harsh; in fact it was a smell that Simon quite liked. His own study (if he could call a box room full of crap a study, but it sounded posh didn't it?) had the same kind of smell. The study had its own atmosphere that was different from the rest of the house. The room felt heavy, intense, like great things had happened in here and greater things were yet to come. It was a hidden den, a secret place, one that saw not a drop of cleaning fluid or polish or air freshener. It cleaned itself, Simon thought, and as insane as that sounded, Simon believed that this room had the ability to keep the dust and the filth at bay. His body was toxic to this room, his scent fouling the pictures and the books and the paintings. But it was too late. He was in, and he couldn't turn back even if he wanted too.

There were papers and an open book on the desk but the pictures on the walls were what enticed him at first. There were a lot of pictures of the valley, some very old with dates going back to the 1850's. Others were newer and dated as just after WWII. The newest was dated as 1979 and it showed the town square decorated with banners and flags and people surrounding tables of food. It reminded Simon of the Queens Jubilee back in '77 but this was dated two years after. In the back of the photo was the Working Man's Club and it too had banners and flags adorning its red brick work.

'I bet you didn't like that.' Simon said to the club.

Halfway along the wall the photos became paintings. All except one, The Fighting Temeraire, Simon didn't recognise and he glanced over them noting that most were of fighting ships, some sail, some steam and some more modern like HMS Hermes returning from the Falklands; all rusty and damaged. Scars of battle

On the opposite wall, in the centre, there hung a giant painting of the quarry that, Simon guessed, Mr Rowling worked in. It was a grand oil painting, mostly blues and greys though there were some specks of yellow and black that denoted machinery or the odd working man and Simon admired the detail and skill as he neared it. The frame was thick and simple and again oiled to a dark sheen. An image of the painting in his nightmare flashed before his eyes and Simon knew the two frames were the same. But what did that matter? Such fames can be found anywhere and he had no doubt seen a million of these in his travels. Much like the painting in his dream, this one also had a brass plate screwed into the bottom piece of wood:

Rottenhouse Quarry 1988

Sirrell Grove

Either side of the grand oil painting were two others. They weren't as large but they were each individually lit by their own little lamp that hung on the wall above them. The lamps had little green glass lampshades which directed the light straight down highlighting the two paintings like two old masters hanging in the Louvre. The smaller painting depicted a cricket scene, the batsman raising his willow to the crowd whilst the bowlers and fellow batsman were clapping in awe. Not your average village pitch though; it was on a much bigger stage, perhaps Lords or Edgbaston. Leaning in he read aloud the brass plate,

'Mighty Boycott at the Helm, 1980, Lords Cricket Ground, Versus Australia.'

The painting wasn't great but it was effective and Simon could almost hear the idyllic sound of leather against willow. Sounds of the summer.

The other painting, to the right of the grand quarry depiction, was of a football ground. Again, not a village scene, this was a stadium. Players in white with blue collars celebrated a goal whilst the players in red and white strips were crest fallen. The picture wasn't named but by the kits Simon believed one team, the team in white, to be Leeds United and the other, Sunderland.

Simon took a quick look at the clock that was on the bookshelf and saw that 10 minutes had passed already. He quickly scanned the books on the shelf to the right of the desk and saw nothing of merit though he noted many autobiographies; Boycott, Botham, Churchill, Peel, Parkinson and Truman to name but a few. There were a couple of smaller pictures along a couple of the shelves, friends and family Simon thought, but none were named so he hadn't a clue who they were. One of the pictures, slightly bigger than all the others, was of Geoff Boycott and next to him someone that looked like Mr Rowling only considerably younger. There was something scrawled on the photo but Simon couldn't make it out.

There were books on gardening, more on WW2 aircraft and tanks and one on American Civil War ships. Two books stood out from the crowd and were on a shelf all of their own next to some shiny trinkets. Simon pulled one of them out and looked at the cover, his eyebrow raised.

'I knew you were a bit out there Mr Rowling, but Mein Kampf, really?'

He flicked through a couple of pages and was just about to close it and jam it back onto the shelf when what looked like a handwritten message caught his eye. He opened the book up on that page and to Simon it felt as if the page liked being opened there, as if it had been opened there a great many times:

Bob. We joked and here it is.

Your friend, Chairman.

'Jesuskrist.' And with that Simon closed the book with a dull thud and put it back into its place. He had a sudden urge to bleach his hands clean, but for the time being made do with his jeans. He turned his attention to the second book which now seemed absurdly comical to the one he had just seen. This one wouldn't need a bleaching of the hands after handling it. The second book was thick and heavy and he had to hold it in both hands.

'Stan Thrumpers Cookbook for Widowers.

'Catchy title there, Stan.'

He flicked the book over to its back and was greeted with a black and white image of a man smiling from ear to ear like a lunatic before he tells you that he is the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 'And quite the looker, too.' Simon chuckled and continued to chuckle as he placed the book back in its place next to Mein Kampf.

'What a whimsical collection you have here, Mr Rowling.'

He perused the papers on the desk, 'Watch some cricket, play a little footie, then over lunch have yourself some deluded ranting's from the world's greatest looney, and then, for treats, enjoy a well cooked meal by your old pal Stan the Man Thrumper. Oh, and if you've got time, hack apart some guy and dump his remains outside of his mums house just for good measure.'

There was nothing of note on the desk, though some of the letters he didn't touch or turn over for fear of leaving a trace of his being in this room.

'Can see why you keep this place locked up, Mr Rowling. An Aladdin's cave if I've ever seen one. He turned around and faced the back wall.

There was another grand painting on the wall. There was also an ornament.

5

Simon leant back on the desk almost pulling a bunch of papers onto the floor. The chair squeaked as its wheels turned whilst Simon steadied himself.

'The dream.' Simon whispered. And he was right. The painting matched the one he had seen in his dream. It was set in a forest; the sky blue, washed white in some places. The tress were full of lush green leaves, the grass a seeming endless expanse of carpet where here and there daisies and buttercups sprouted as to mock the painter's hand. In the far left hand corner of the painting there was a stream, much like the one not a 100 meters from where he stood and it flowed diagonally across the painting disappearing off of the edge. There wasn't a body in this stream, though a quick set of brush strokes could change that.

Simon moved in a little closer. He knew what was there, in the centre of the painting being engulfed in flickering Halloween orange flames; he had seen it all before.

Two men were being set a flame, their bodies strung up on crucifixes made of dark wood and their hands and feet lashed together with rope.

'Fuck me. It's the same. IT'S THE FUCKING SAME!'

The two men, upon their crosses of death, shared the same dead, black eyes as Billie had in his unconscious blackness, though there was no gore coming from between their legs. Their mouths were wide; deep circles of blackness. Simon was sure he could hear their screams through some weird Voodoo power direct into his skull.

There were two men stood next to the crosses. Both men wore long black shawls that covered them from head to foot. The material flowed over the grass beneath their feet like a black tide of filth. In their hands they each held an axe and a truncheon.

'Weapons of choice for any killer,' Simon mused, but he wasn't laughing. To Simon his voice sounded like it was the musings of a man on the edge of running. Now close to the painting Simon could read the brass plate, again he knew what would be written on it before getting there, but still, the shock of it was no different:

Chairman's Justice

They Leak. They Bleed. They Don't Stop Once They Started.

'I've got to get out of here. This aint right. Nothing is right here. I don't care what he says or what Lucy says. I aint gonna fit in here.'

Simon heard the sound of a car coming down the main road. Turning quickly and looking to the window the world outside was faintly lit by a car's headlight. But that faint light was getting brighter with each second.

'Shit.'

The ornament, Simon. The ornament.

Before leaving the room and closing the door to the freak show that was Mr Rowling's study, Simon made himself take one quick look at the black ornament that was on a shelf below the painting.

'Well there's something you don't see every day.' Simon said whilst he was halfway to the door. And he stopped for a couple of seconds until he heard the car drive past and the familiar squeal of brakes.

He wanted to touch the ornament. Wanted to touch it, maybe weigh it as to prove to himself that it existed and wasn't a figment of his imagination. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands thinking he probably looked a bit like Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Arc, probably not as cool though (he didn't have a whip or a fedora and this was no golden idol like it had been in the film). The car pulled into the driveway, its lights lit up the kitchen and hallway overpowering the household bulbs. Simon placed one hand onto the black marble bust and rubbed his fingers across its cold features. It was real. Flicking off the light in the study, the last thing Simon saw as he closed the door, locked it and ran into the kitchen placing the key back into the drawer as the front door opened, was the bust. And though he could scarcely believe who it was of and why such a thing should exist he couldn't deny the fact that not only did Mr Rowling have a copy Mein Kampf taking pride of place in his book collection he also had in his possession a bust of the man that wrote it: Adolf Hitler.

5

Simon had made his way into the kitchen and started to pour himself a drink of water by the time the front door opened. He was stood by the sink, his back to the window. He knew his face must look flushed, it felt as red as a radish, so he quickly gathered his thoughts in an attempt to calm himself. Though the image of Hitler wouldn't quite shift, a part of Simon wanted to laugh, laugh until his head exploded.

There was silence between Lucy and her father as they put their thin jackets on the hooks in the hallway.

'You in the kitchen, Si?'

'Yeah. Just having a drink. Just got back myself.'

'Really?' Lucy said walking into the kitchen. Her eyes were wide with concern. 'What took you so long, you left hours ago?'

She took a seat at the small table. Mr Rowling walked in and joined her, paying no attention to Simon. A whiff of stale beer and cigarettes filled the air.

'The storm got me. I managed to find some shelter. But it got me pretty good. Once I got back here I realised that I didn't have a key. I stood outside for a bit then thought I'd look for a spare, found one, too...'

Lucy finished the sentence, 'Under the rocks. Dad, I told you, imagine if that were a burglar or something.'

Mr Rowling didn't answer, just smiled at the table. He was listening though. Simon could see that he was listening very well. That was his finest trait, a man of few words but with ears that seemed to pick up on anything and everything.

Lucy shook her head, 'Where abouts did you hide? Must have been somewhere in the square I bet, that storm hit just as you left.'

'Weirdly, it was in that fire damaged house. Not ideal, but there was nowhere else to go.'

'You went into the Johnson place?' Mr Rowling said. His cheeks were a little red, but Simon couldn't be sure if it were the beer or what he had said that had caused them to redden.

'Yeah, like I said, there was nowhere else to go.'

'What did yasee?'

'...Nothing.'

'Really, Simon, nothing? You sure, son? You sure you saw nothing? From the looks ofyer it looks like yaseen a ghost.'

'What are you talking about, Dad?'

'Simon knows. Don't yaSimon.'

Simon was all of a sudden very much aware of the sweat that was boiling on his forehead and that he was holding the glass so tight in his hand that it was apt to smash into a million pieces. His teeth ground together and he blinked more times than necessary. Trying desperately, but failing miserably, Simon tried to lessen the shake by holding the glass with two hands. Like a school boy caught kicking a smelly kid in the toilets Simon said, 'I didn't see anything.'

'Come take a seat son, looks like you need to take a weight off.' Mr Rowling pulled out the chair next to him and offered it to Simon.

'You okay, Si, you've gone grey.'

This is it, Simon thought, it's over. I'm either going to make it over to that table or I'm going to have a stroke right here and end up a dribbling wreck being fed liquid food and shitting in a tube for the rest of my life.

6

Simon sat down. Two sets of eyes were upon him, watching him. His own were fixed upon the pale bleached wood following the shapes the knots made, each one looking like a tiny Worm Hole to another dimensions.

'Si, what's wrong. Tell me.'

With a deep sigh Simon began.

7

'I'm not sure how much of this will make sense but I have to get it out. Tonight was the straw that broke the camel's back I suppose. You know me, Luce, I'm not the sort of bloke who gets like this, I'm like go with the flow and all that, but these last two days have been... well, they've been shite. Mr Rowling I know you don't care for such language but I was brought up without such graces I'm afraid, so I shall apologise now before I go on.

'This place isn't what I expected. Its chaos. I've seen more shit here than I have ever seen. Movies and TV shows haven't got crap on stuff that goes on here. Take that poor guy in the stream today. I watched him take a beating for doing something so meaningless it beggars belief and then this morning we find him floating face up, a knife jutting from his head. Now, I know you don't want me to do this, Mr Rowling, I don't mean no disrespect cos I know that is big around here, but Lucy has the right to know. She has the right to know what happened after.'

'What happened, Si?' Lucy said.

Simon looked to the old man and saw that he was not going to stop him. If Simon didn't know better it looked as though the old feller had given up listening all together, but Simon knew that was not case.

'That Lewis guy, you know Luce, the one they dragged through the club tonight like a dog, he had an axe. A big shiny axe. He and Pickering... well they...they.'

'SpititoutSimon, for heaven's sake.' Mr Rowling said.

'They hacked him up, Luce. Arms, legs...head. Chopped up like a chicken on a Sunday afternoon.'

Lucy put her hands over her reddening eyes. There were little sobs coming from behind her hands.

'Barbara, you know why they did it, don't ya. Those rules have been about since your days and well before that. The only shameful thing here is that Simon had to see it. That's all.' Mr Rowling said putting a very awkward hand upon her shoulder. It was an act that looked clumsy.

She didn't reply. Lucy shook her head and wiped a bit of snot from her nose. Simon had hoped for a little support but was left wanting much like had been back at the club.

'So that's all, Luce. I tell you that a bloke you used to play with was hacked to bits like a piece of cheap meat and all you can do is twist a finger and wipe away an errant tear?'

'What else do you want from me, Simon? Really, tell me. It's sad, yes. But like dad says, it's happened before and it will happen again. Just a shame you had to see it.'

'A shame! Jesus Luce, what the hell has gotten into you? Two days ago you would have freaked out at that. Now it's as though it's all just part and parcel of everyday life like you see it every day. Or saw it.' Simon saw a glimmer in Lucy's eyes then, like a thousand memories came flooding back all at once reminding what had gone on here, reminding her of all the cruel and twisted stuff she had seen and accepted. Simon was afraid that he was losing her. Not in the literal sense, she was his and he was hers, but she wasn't Lucy anymore. She was two people now, the girl she had fled and hidden from, the one called Barbara had found her shell, the one called Lucy had stolen it, and now Barbara wants it back. And she wants it all to herself.

'You're changing.' Simon said unable to hold it in.

'What's that supposed to mean?' She snapped back. Lucy never snapped back.

'Since we got here. The girl I once knew; seems like I lost her along the way.'

'Seems a bit farfetched that, Simon. Bit like High-Brid cars and drink driving laws and men that make a living from photos, if yaknow what I mean.'

'Mr Rowling, please, come on, give me a break will ya. I've tried to be nice, Christ, I'm a nice guy, but all this, all this death and beatings and axe's and hanging men and rats and fat guys in girls clothes and the nightmares, it's driving me insane. Really, how thick can someone be? How thick can an entire village be? He called you Bob. Not a cunt or a fucktard or a prick. No, just your name. Bob. Bob. Bob. It's insane. I can't take it anymore. We came here to mend things, to try and rebuild, the last thing I expected was to be a part of two murders. The last thing I needed right now is for you screwing with me.'

'SIMON!' Lucy yelled looking as if she were about to wrench the hair from her head. But it was too late. The freight train had left.

'No, actually, the last thing I need is what is happening right now, with Lucy. She isn't the girl I came up here with. She isn't the girl I want to marry any more. As insane as that sounds, it's the truth.'

Out of breath Simon slid the chair away from the table and walked over to the sink with the gasps of shock and surprise from Lucy floating with him like unwanted rain clouds. He had done it, finally lost the plot, and was, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, regretting it. He didn't need to turn to see the look of dismay upon old man Rowling's face; it was reflected in the windows like a painting dipped in water and left to run.

'Shit it.' Simon whispered, and he hung his head in shame.

8

Simon had expected something a little more from Mr Rowling. Perhaps a defence of his actions. Perhaps a little fisty-cuffs for being called thick or a cunt or a prick (and in the heat of it all Simon thought he had called him a fucktard, but couldn't be sure). But there was none of that. He was sat in his chair just looking at Simon with that blank look he was so good at giving.

Lucy on the other hand had a mouth that was wide open, jaw to the floor with hands that were either side of her cheeks like a shitty actress in a low budget horror flick acting as if she had just seen a ghost. Simon clutched his hands together they were shaking so wildly. He was both scared and exhilarated at the same time. There was something satisfying about what he had just done. The truths weren't out, but the ones that counted were, and all parties knew what Simon was feeling. It was the same feeling Simon had when his father had been killed in the house fire and he was finally able to tell his mother what he had been through as a child.

9

'I'm still Lucy.' She whispered.

Mr Rowling placed his hand upon hers.

'It's alright, Barbara, truths out now and we is all better for it. He's right about a few things I suppose, but it don't change what we do and I am not going to apologise. He's said some things I know he regrets but that's pebbles in a stream as far as I'm concerned.

'Besides, looks like you've found yerself a husband. Shame I had to find out that way, would have preferred something a bit more traditional...'

Lucy leant over and hugged her father then. Wrapped him up like a mother swaddling her child. Simon watched as Mr Rowling closed his eyes and eased his body into the cuddle, allowed himself to be cuddled, and then wrap his own arms around his daughter. She mumbled something to him and him to her, words lost but by no means worthless for they made Mr Rowling squeeze tighter and hold his daughter closer for a moment longer.

'Best you go off tabed, Barbara. I would like to talk with Simon for a while.'

'Okay dad.' And she moved away from the cuddle and kissed him on the cheek and wiped the tears from her eyes. Simon expected her to come to him, but she did not, and he felt a little sad.

10

'Take a seat, Simon. Time we had a chat, man to man. And don't hold back, Simon, let's be open and honest no matter what needs to be said. I can feel you have things to say, I can see it in yer eyes and in the way you keep your head down when you are near me. Don't be worried about what yasay, how yasay it either. I am a man that don't care for swearing much, but now that the lady is up in bed I'm thinking we can let a few of em slide, if ya know what I mean.'

Simon did as he was told.

'Look, Mr Rowling, what I said, I didn't mean to go off like that...'

'A man doesn't apologise for speaking truth or doing what was right, Simon, he simply carries on doing what he does. Much like what you've seen the last couple a days. We do those things because they are right, Simon. Take old man Johnson. I know what you saw in the dark, Simon. I know you saw him, hanging from the light fitting all burnt and beat to bugger. I know you thought it wrong to hang a man and then burn his house down taground. But I also know what you saw written on the wall.'

'Nonce.'

'That's right. Nonce. You know what a nonce is, dontya Simon?'

'I guess.'

'They do things to kids Simon. Dirty things. And I don't mean play Tonka trucks or football in field or build brick castles in the garden. I wish it were that, but no, they fuck em, Simon. Like a man would do to a woman on a Saturday night after MatchatheDay had finished, nonces do to kids. They groom em and then ruin em.'

'Okay, I get the picture.'

'Johnson was a nonce, so because he were a nonce we beat the piss out of him and strung him up. So yasee it were justified what we did. Wouldn't you do the same thing?'

'I guess, but why did you burn his house down?'

'To make sure he were dead, Simon. Like when we hacked apart his boy.'

'But he had a knife literally dug into his skull. The guy couldn't have been anymore dead. Besides, I thought it was for ease of transportation.'

Mr Rowling smiled.

Simon said, 'I can't forget what I saw. I can't accept it all like you can, like everyone else here can. There's a part of me that just wants to jump in my car and get the hell out of here. I had planned to do that. Even if Lucy said otherwise I was out of here and I didn't care if Lucy came with me or not.

'But there is this other part of me Mr Rowling. This annoying bit of my brain that gets in the God damned way all the time. It's the bit that loves your daughter, Mr Rowling. So much so it makes me do stupid things; like put up with murder, put up with beatings and nightmares. Even nagging city girls complaining that their nails have cracked or that they have put on half a stone and am now morbidly obese even though they weigh less than a gnat's dick is all water under the bridge as long as I have her in my life and she is happy. You know it's funny, I always thought that there was this piece of Lucy, what I called her String, that whenever she got angry or upset or mad or annoyed this String of hers would tighten and keep tightening until finally snapping. A few times it snapped at me, most of the time though it was at colleagues or friends. I'm starting to think that I have one too. Maybe we all do in a way. Some of these Strings are tight all the way through our lives whilst others are slack and take a lot to tighten up.'

'I appreciate that Simon and I'm happy that my little Barbara has found herself someone that will marry her. I have seen men fall for women, it's not the greatest of sights but I understand it nonetheless. Never happened to me. The love I had faBarbara's mother was a love forged through time and a need to fulfil the requirement's we here hold dear. And your right about the String, though I think it more like a bridge that we put more and more people on until one day it breaks in half.'

Silence.

'Let me show you something, Simon. Won't be a minute.'

Mr Rowling left the kitchen and went into the locked room at the end of hallway. Until he was back, holding three photos in his hands, Simon expected to hear screams and yells of betrayal coming from that room as Mr Rowling sensed that someone other than himself had been in there; snooping and peeping at things that didn't concern them.

Before the two men continued their conversation Mr Rowling poured the two of them mugs of cold water. Simon drank his greedily, his throat parched. Mr Rowling merely sipped at his.

The old man placed the photos picture side down, hiding the images from sight.

'Has Barbara ever shown you her mother?'

'No. She doesn't really talk about her. Don't think she even has a photo.'

'Aye. Thought as much. They were close those two. Thick as thieves my father would have said. Did everything together which left me to pick up the dregs. Not that I minded, not one for child raising me. When she died of that cancer it was all that Barbara could take. Not soon after she up sticks and went.'

Mr Rowling folded over the top photo and showed it to Simon. 'That's her. That's the wife.'

It was a simple photo taken on one of the first Polaroid cameras produced in the 60's. It had that unique brown and orange and yellow tint that photos get over time that Simon loved so much. In the photo was a blurred background, possibly of the valley but it was hard to tell. In the foreground was Mrs Rowling. She was wearing a skirt down to her knees and a neat blouse. They were very basic clothes and spoke nothing of the 60's era this photo had been taken in, however it was the woman that stole the limelight. She was gorgeous, a spitting image of the daughter she bore into this world. She had long dark hair, wide eyes which invited you in and a mouth outlined with full rounded lips. An ample bosom led down to a tight waist but not too tight, there was some meat under there. Her legs were athletic but still womanly. Simon couldn't believe that Mr Rowling had not only caught such a beauty in his net but that he didn't even love her. How could something like that even happen. He had seen, was even sure he was one of them at times, men batting way above their average, but what Mr Rowling was doing was hither to unknown of unless you were a fat millionaire or a rich 90 year old oil baron.

'You were a lucky man, Mr Rowling.'

The photo was laid flat again, hidden from sight, a look of concern on the old man's face.

'What dya mean, Simon, lucky? '

'Well she was a good looking woman, Mr Rowling.'

Mr Rowling flipped the photo back over and looked long and hard at it.

'I was lumbered with that so called looker for nigh on 19 terrible years. That fat old lump trapped me 8 month into our shit begotten relationship by falling pregnant with Barbara leaving me no choice but to marry it. Christ, I pleaded with her father, my father as well. I would have done anything to be rid of it. I was willing to pay the Rag and Bone Man the money to set to her womb with a pointy metal strand but that fell on deaf ears. Our folks were having none of it and before I knew it my hog was tied I was married and living with that wretch.'

'I don't mean to sound disrespectful here, Mr Rowling, but are you totally mental.'

'Hey?'

'Your wife, ex-wife, whatever, she was gorgeous. Like insanely beautiful. Surely you are joking right. That's it isn't it, this is another weird joke that us southerners don't get?'

'No, Simon. This is no joke. What I married wasn't gorgeous. She were a pig in a dress. Not like the other beauties that we have around here. And much like a pig she wouldn't leave me be for a moments rest. Hung around me like a ghost she would. Christ, I couldn't get a moments rest from it. She were a wrongn, Simon, in both looks and character, if yaknow what I mean?'

'No I don't see, Mr Rowling. Really I don't. I wish I could, because what you are suggesting is that quite possibly the most beautiful thing on this planet loved you and wanted to be with you, had a child with you, which I have to add is just as good looking, but I can't, so you are going to have to explain. From what I have seen of the women around her your wife was a rose in a field of rat shit. So please, do explain.'

Simon saw a little grimace when he mentioned his daughter and that grimace turned to a frown when he spoke of the other women of Rottenhouse, like he had scratched at a scab and made it bleed a little.

'Alright, Simon, calm down there lad. Just being honest withya that's all. Let me explain what I mean then. Yasee she were sex mad, Simon. Couldn't get enough of it. Now I aint no prude when it comes to matters of the bedroom but I couldn't believe some of the stuff she would do. Weren't right were it. Weren't natural.'

'Like what?' Simon asked

'Like dressing up as a school girl trying to look all innocent and telling me she is a virgin and wants to be punished; like I would want to have sex with a school girl, Simon, I aint no nonce. She would dress up like a nurse sometimes, her breasts all pushed up in a tight corset thing and her legs covered in those God awful French stockings. There were times she would almost force herself upon me when I were asleep or working in quarry. She would put make-up on or pretend she were one of those dirty bitch strippers. A couple of times, usually after a couple of drinks, Mrs Rowling would wait till I were asleep, yaknow, that deep sleep a skin full of ale puts you in, and then tie me hands to the headboard. She would wake me up then, either by kissing me or sitting herself upon my face; jy-rating her womanly bits against my mouth. One time, she even put things inside of her, Simon. Not just her finger, which I know happens, no, she would use my fingers to make satisfaction complete or she once put a cucumber up there. I were going to have that with me sarnies the next day. Couldn't look at the bloody thing after that. One time, even the shaft of my favourite hammer were plunged into her wet hole. She would have sex with them all, Simon. God it were disgusting. I even had to throw away that hammer and buy new one from store in next town. Couldn't use it, though she wanted me to mind you. Told me it would remind me of her and that if I wanted to I could taste her whenever I wanted.

'She once tried to take my feller in her mouth one Tuesday morning over there by sink. I had to push her away it were so un-natural. She wouldn't stop. Thought it were a game and tried again. Geroff I would yell, Geroff ya dirty sow but even then that wouldn't stop her so I had to hit her. Punched her square on side of head and she went down like a sack a spuds. Now I don't condone such behaviour, Simon, and I won't tolerate it if it isn't warranted, but sometimes it's necessary when things are getting out of control.

'I can see by yer face that you can't believe what I am saying, Simon, that a woman could do such things and not be deemed a witch or some such things. But I tellya, it were so. And there be more too, that aint it, not by a long chalk. Sometimes, Simon, she wouldn't wear any underwear and go out and about with me into town or up valley. I tried to get her to put some on but it were no good. She said she wanted to please me, make me happy and all this other sick twisted crap so she could get her hands on the chap down in my pants. I can see her now, she would sit opposite me on bus or in club or in town square and flash her lady parts at me. Licking her fingers and putting them up there. Now I don't mind fresh meat Simon, but I don't like looking at a winking clam on a Thursday afternoon whilst I try and enjoy the view of the moors. And that's another thing, Simon, she shaved it so it were smooth like a babies backside. She told me that she did it for me, so it looked young and sweet and innocent. I didn't like that, Simon, not one little bit.'

The old man sighed, a great intake and release of air like a hot air balloon readying to soar high into the sky. Mr Rowling then said, 'I tell yaSimon, she wouldn't leave it alone and to be honest, though it does pain me her being the mother of my daughter, but I were a little happy when she was taken from me such were the relief from her dirty ways.'

He took a sip of water then. There was a visible relief in him and his shoulders were held a little higher now that that weight had been removed.

Simon knew, like he knew that he wasn't going to be leaving here tomorrow and that he was apt to stay for the rest of the week and make a go of this place, that Mr Rowling had never before spoken of his wife in that way. He had never told anyone, not even the Chairman or whoever his closest chum was in this place, of those things. He supposed, but in an awful and all-consuming comical way, that he should feel honoured to be the one Mr Rowling chose for such a great and honest debriefing of all things concerning his ex-wife and what she wanted to do to him.

11

'Yaseem to have nowt to say, Simon. You've been sat there as silent as the grave for 5 minutes.'

Simon covered his mouth as he tried to talk but coughed instead. With a struggle he managed to speak. 'I don't really know what to say. You've told me things that, in all honesty Mr Rowling, most men would give their left nut for. Stuff that your wife wanted to do to you is what dreams are made of, for the most part anyway. Plus, it's just weird, right? You and me having this conversation. What is it that you want from me?'

Mr Rowling rubbed the back of his neck; agitated. He wasn't used to this.

'We are going to be family,' Mr Rowling said finally, 'you and me and her upstairs. I suppose that I thought it best to warnya of what could be. Yaknow, Simon, they say like father like son, but in our cases it could be like mother like daughter. I wouldn't wish what I went through on any man.'

Confused and somewhat dismayed Simon used his fingers against his closed eyes to try and rub that frustration out of him. But it was doing no good.

'Ahhhhh, Christ,' Simon said as he dragged his hands down his face stretching his eyelids and cheeks. 'I appreciate the warning, or whatever it was supposed to be, Mr Rowling, and as much as it makes me want to tear out my own guts in embarrassment I can only say that if Lucy offered a slither of what you were put through I would die a happy man.' Simon flung his hands into the air, 'There I said it. By all that's wrong in this world I am telling the father of the woman I want to marry that I wouldn't mind if she dressed up like a school girl and wanted me to spank her let alone want to suck me off on a Tuesday morning or whatever. Mr Rowling, really, are you really telling me that you think this woman,' Simon pointed to the stunning female in the vintage photo with a finger that stabbed the air, 'that this Goddess that you thought was ugly not only was besotted with you but offered you things of the carnal variety that are like the sodding Holy Grail of sexy time. Is that what you are telling me? Because if it is I may as well drown myself in that stream out there.'

Mr Rowling picked at his ear, plucking an errant hair and flicking onto the floor. Shaking his head he said, 'Not one for all this Simon. You can probably tell that and maybe I went too far with what I went through with Mrs Rowling, but it needed to be said, if yaknow what I mean.'

The old man looked at Simon then and that usual blank expression was gone. Instead it was replaced with one that Simon had never thought possible. It was the same look of love and sorrow and care and comfort that his mother had given him when he had told her about the way in which the man she loved and married and took to bed and treated like a king had abused him sexually, as well as physically.

'I know it weren't the way you wanted it, but nonetheless, you have my permission to marry my Barbara. If you still want her, despite the looks.'

'Despite the looks.'

'Aye, Simon. Yaknow, she's like her mother int she; nowt going for her apart from the cooking that is. Now you is a good looking feller. Shiny Bait my father would have said. Yadon't have to settle for the burnt and bony bit a meat. Not that I am that way inclined, Simon, I aint no poof-ter like that beshitted cock sucker down in Heather Cove.'

'What are you getting at, Mr Rowling?'

'Yacould do better, Simon. Camon, you must see it, especially when you had the pleasure of the other lady folk of the village in club tonight. Now there are some fine women, good women, with no filthy night time habits.'

'Now I know you must be joking.' Simon said, though he knew that Mr Rowling wasn't and he could feel his own String starting to tighten. 'Those trolls aint a patch on Lucy. No wonder she left if this is what she had to put up with.'

'What do you mean, Simon?'

'She's a smart, sexy woman, with a mind to make something of herself, not just settle for a single toothed, flannel shirt wearing shit farmer. That woman up there is one of the very best, not only as a person, Mr Rowling, but as a shrewd money making machine too. Don't get me wrong, she can be a total bitch sometimes, emotionless and hard much like I see yourself being, but ugly, like you think she is ugly, is complete and utter madness. And if that is what you think of her then we have a problem. A big problem. You want to mend bridges, you want to fix things with your daughter, then see her for what she is before it's too late, because I tell you, she is a stubborn girl, and once she has made up her mind that's it. Good luck trying to change it.

'But to answer your question; yes I do want to marry your daughter. Nothing would make me happier and I thank you for your blessing. It makes me happy to know that you will walk her down the aisle and I know that she will be happy too.'

The trees outside creaked as the wind whipped around them. In the distance the stream continued to flow and bubble and splash over the rocks. Up in the valley there were occasional bleats from the sheep still crazing on the sweet summer grasses and twice Simon heard the cry of a wolf. Time past slowly, the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway slicing through the thick silence like a steam train rolling across the joins in the track.

Eventually Mr Rowling said, 'I will try, Simon. You have my word.'

'Thank you, Mr Rowling.'

And then Mr Rowling offered Simon his hand and Simon shook it.

'Please, Simon, call me Bob.'

And that was that Simon thought. A few more truths let out of the bag though they were both better for it. He hadn't the answers he wanted concerning the body in the river and the way in which they treated Lewis but he also knew that he shouldn't really concern himself about it. Let them carry on just as long as it didn't affect him or Lucy; he couldn't really care less now what they did. If Mr Rowling, Bob, could try and change and be a better man then Simon was sure he could do the same and accept that weird and twisted world of Rottenhouse a little bit more openly no matter how much it grappled with his own set of morals.

They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.

But he still wanted to know about Billie.

He still wanted to know who she was, who had killed her for he was sure that she was real and sadly, dead, though he suspected he knew the answer to at least one of those questions.

12

'What are the other two pictures of?'

'To be honest, Simon, I don't know why I brought them in with me. Before you go back south I shall show you, these and some other bits in study which I'm sure you'll appreciate.'

Simon had to stifle a laugh as he remembered the Hitler bust as well as the maddening face of Thrumpers cook book, but then his expression changed and he felt his face redden. They Leak, They Bleed, They don't stop once they started. He was sure he would never forget those words for the rest of his days.

'Do you fish, Simon?'

'Nope... Well, I once went sea fishing on the back of my mate's boat in the Solent down south around Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. We got a little sauced up on cheap beer and the fishing kind of got forgotten. Think I caught a crab and a milk bottle.'

'So no then?'

'No.'

'So you have been fishing.'

'Wait, no, no I haven't been fishing.'

Bob scratched his head, 'I'm confused.'

'Me too. Let's start over.'

'Simon, have you ever river fished?'

'No, Bob, I haven't.'

'Tomorrow I shall take you over to the Deep and Quick and we shall have a little fish. All day mind you, from dawn till dusk.'

Simon accepted.

Bob stood, slid the chair under the table and as he walked around the table whilst saying his goodnight he placed a hand upon Simons shoulder. 'Good talk, Simon. We shall speak more tomorrow.'

'Yeah, it was. Look forward to tomorrow.' Simon said and surprisingly; he wasn't lying.

Pink Meat (The Fishing Scene)

1

Simon didn't dream that night. He slept the kind of sleep he believed soldiers did when they came back from war. Lucy had been asleep when he had finally gone to bed. He did consider waking her to see if she was okay, but just as he was about to give her a shake he thought better of it. Why wake a sleeping bear even if that bear might give you a comforting hug and words of encouragement? No, best to leave her to sleep, to dream, as the chances of that bear tearing your face off were way too high.

Instead he had slept right through from when his head hit the pillow till there was a little knock that came from behind the bedroom door. As he walked over to the door in just his pants he glanced at his watch, 05:58, the digital numbers stated in that bold yeah and what ya gonna do about it way. Yawning deep and rubbing the yellowing dust the fairies leave whilst you sleep from his eyes Simon slowly opened the door.

Bob was stood on the other side; fully dressed in his fishing garb, plastic waders included, and a look of sinful pleasure was upon his face.

'Good morning,' Bob said, 'you've got 15 minutes until we leave. Dress for the weather but take a jumper just in case.'

'Okay.' And with that Bob headed off along the hallway and down the creaky stairs walking like a robot.

2

16 minutes later, Simon was sat in the back seat of Bob's car; his breath fogging the windows as he waited for the old man to finish placing his fishing gear into the boot. Simon had offered to help, which of course, was turned down, and so he sat waiting for his father-in-law like a good boy should. Simon wasn't the best judge of character but was now starting to understand Bob, though he knew that his understanding was much like the understanding the very best scientist have of our universe in so much as we know a little, enough to get us by but every now and then the universe throws us a curveball that makes us sit up and take notice.

3

They drove for about 30 minutes in silence. Outside the world whizzed by one field at a time. Rottenhouse stood in a part of England that was renowned for its natural beauty but the drive to wherever it was they were going lost some of that charm as all Simon saw was farm land and fencing. An occasional cow here and there and a random flock of sheep grazed on the land but apart from that it was just endless bland countryside. That was until they reached their destination. The car was parked in a small clearing which was at the end of a muddy track cut deep into the forest. The trees draped low, swooping arches and clumps of bush and flowers dotted the path. It reminded Simon of the entrance to the Batcave from one of the movies made in the 90's. Simon and Bob carried the fishing gear down to the river in single file, Bob leading the way. Crickets played their crooked banjo tunes whilst birds sang along aimlessly, seemingly not knowing the words. Midges and fat honey bees flew around on their own mini adventures and Simon, both hands full, blew at them if they came close. The trees here were as tall as any tree Simon had ever seen, their branches reaching out far and wide and there green leaves casting deep shadows upon the forest floor. In between the shadows were sharp swords of light slicing through the gloom and at their tips random clumps of flowers grew. Some Simon recognised, others he didn't, and he made sure not to tread on any one of them. There was a heavenly feel to this place. The air was soft and easy to breathe and it filled him with energy.

Ten minutes later, with Simons shoulders starting to burn such was the burden he carried, the familiar sound of flowing water began to overpower the tweeting birds and the crushing of forest detritus under his boots. The midges and honey bees thinned and were replaced with long, thin dragon flies. Simon wouldn't have been surprised if a little fat white rabbit wearing a top hat and carrying a timepiece was to have run past him, a flummoxed Alice in hot pursuit, such was the majesty and oddity of this place.

Simon, not really paying attention to the road ahead, came face to face with a tree blocking his path, his nose inches away from being smashed to bits. For a moment he thought that Mr Rowling had simply walked into it, through it, perhaps. But then his mind settled. Two wooden signs, with arrows pointing left and right was nailed to that tree and two paths followed those arrows. The path to the left was labelled; The Quick and Deep, the one to the right was labelled; Old Brew House, but Brew had had a line scratched through it and over the top had been written in a rough hand, Rotten.

Simon looked to his left and saw Bob walking through the rays of sunshine, his fishing rod and net laid across his shoulder and his fishing box swinging gracefully in his right hand. Before he followed, Simon looked down the right hand path. The forest wasn't as pretty down there and a cold wind whipped about his feet like dancing pixies. It was darker, though the sun shone through in the same sword like beams of light, it was darker. The trees overhung the track and their branches reached out as if to snag you and pull you into their twisted grip. Nothing was visually different down there; it felt different and because it felt different Simon knew that it was different. On one of the trees there was a faded marking, what was once red was now a brownish colour. Simon was unsure, but to him the marking looked like an X.

A strange feeling came over him then. A childlike yearning to know what was down there even though every fibre in his body told him to do otherwise. There was something else too, not Deja vu, it wasn't that clear, but it wasn't too far short of that. Simon could see himself, a shadowy version of himself, perhaps bathed in moonlight, walking, no running, down that path. He looked agitated, on edge, and he was carrying an axe. A big rusty axe. His own head moved from left to right as he ran down that path, Simon was looking for something – someone...

'Hurry up, lad, day's wasting!'

The feeling evaporated and Simon was back in the heat and the beauty of the forest.

'Coming.' Simon replied as he turned to his left and followed the old fisherman; he too with his rod and net over his left shoulder and his fishing box in his right swinging like a pendulum. Looking back over his shoulder Simon asked, 'What's down there?'

'Down where?'

'That other path.'

'What other path?'

'Christ,' Simon said under his breath and shook his head though it hurt his shoulder to do so, 'The one on the right, just back there. Sign says Old Brew House.'

'No it doesn't. Sign says Old Rotten House, and that's what yafind down there, hidden in trees like a skulking child. Best not go down there, dangerous ground, soft underfoot and full of pot holes that go all the way down to the big red guy, if ya know what I mean.'

'Why's the name changed and what's with the red X on the tree?'

'It doesn't matter. Now come and take a look at this and tell me you have anything as beautiful down south as what we have up here.'

Simon stood next to Bob. Their combined sweat left a bitter aftertaste in his throat. The path faded as the green grass of the river bank took over. The river flowed from right to left, following the contours of the ground. Where it crossed in front of Simon and Bob was the place they called The Quick and Deep. The river swelled here and became circular in shape, like a giant bowl dug out of the earth and filled with a clear liquid. On the other side the ground rose up abruptly and trees dotted the peak like sentinels on some ancient rampart. The water was flat, even the soft breeze didn't ripple its surface. About five meters out from Simon and bobbling on the surface was a red buoy, its tip slightly faded from exposure. To his right, where the water flowed from, the water came in quick but slowed the moment it touched the small lake, seemed almost to go under itself only to bubble and foam at the far left of the lake where it exited and continued on its journey.

'Never used to be here. There are mines under this village and in the valley. Old mines. One of em collapsed after days of heavy rain, killed a few folk that were making good to rotten timbers. Before that the water used to run through here at a rate, I can tellya, not like yer rapids you'd find in Grand Canyon or some such place but enough to pucker up the old arsehole. No fishing here either. We used to call it The Quick for obvious reasons. Once the mine collapsed and the water filled up we added the Deep part. Don't go past that red buoy over there or you'll find out how deep the river really is.'

Simon pointed to where the water entered the lake and disappeared on itself. 'Why does the water do that, like its folding in on itself?'

Bob didn't look. He didn't need to. 'Weird, intit? There's a big old bit a rock on river bed and when mine collapsed it made a hole just before rock. Now most of the water flows under that rock, into hole, and down into the mine shafts that were exposed when it collapsed. It pops back up on other side, as clear as baby tears.'

Surrounding the lake were many fat bushes covered in tiny red berries. Red berries that only birds could eat. The path that Simon stood on followed the lake all the way around and looked well worn. A dog's bark in the distance confirmed what Simon had been thinking. Dragonflies and other water loving bugs flew lazily in the summer heat. Occasionally there were splashes and ripples from the water's surface as either a fish came up for breakfast or a bug landed for rest. Bob was right; this was nothing like Simon had ever seen. A hidden wonder and as if to put the proverbial cherry on the cake a kingfisher darted from an overhanging branch into the crystal clear water and within a heartbeat it was back out again, its electric blue and orange feathers glistening in the summer sun and a fat silver fish hanging from its lance like beak.

'My God.' Simon said not really knowing what to say. 'This place is amazing. Like a dream only better.'

'Aye, son.' Bob said sighing, 'A hidden paradise made better by the wriggly little blighters that swim beneath it. Now close yadumb founded mouth, you look like a fish caught on a hook and put the gear down over there.'

3

They placed their fishing gear on the bank. Simon put on the rubber waders that Bob had lent him. They were a tight fit, tighter than he would have liked and his balls scrunched up into his belly and the straps dug into his shoulders. He was hot before he put them on and was getting even hotter now that the wind had dropped and the shade had been taken away. Bob, on the other hand, looked relatively at ease and not a bead of sweat ran down his brow. On top of a couple of wooden pallets that were now fashioned into a makeshift table, Bob opened up the two orange and white fishing boxes and scanned the water. He sniffed the air like a dog searching for its treat and then poked out his tongue; tasting the air. Bob smiled.

'Looking like a good day, Simon.'

And Bob walked over to the still waters and poked it with his chubby thumb. 'Waters good. Fish are gonna bite today.'

For the next 30 minutes, with the sun beating down on their heads and the dragonflies swooping and the water flowing, Bob showed Simon the best way to tie this and knot that and twirl this and tweak that. He showed him how to set his tracer, how to weight it perfectly and what best hook (pronounced it oook not hook) to use. Bob droned on with the bait they were using; a mixture of fish guts, meal worm and some other fishy substance that had a name he didn't catch and that a good fisherman watches the water, not the line, always the water, Simon, Bob had said, Not line. Not until fish bites and pulls you off, and Simon had laughed. Bob questioned him and Simon thought he would tell him. And why not? They were friends now. At least that's what Simon thought. But when he saw Bob's curious look he didn't bother and waved it off. Once both rods were prepped and ready to go, Simon holding his like the first time a boy holds his cock; not really knowing what to do with it but knowing that if used right it will bring a wry smile to your face, Bob wiped his forehead with his bright white hanky and said, 'You got all that. You ready?'

Simon looked to the river, then to the rod and then to the man in front of him. 'Ready? Yes. Got all that? In all honesty Bob, I didn't have a clue what you were talking about. Not a sodding clue.'

4

The two men waded out into the river. The water felt cool through his waders. The air was cooler out here as well. It was quiet too, except for the splashes they made and the sound of the soft wind whistling through the tall tree tops. The two men were surrounded by a graceful silence.

'Remember what I said, Simon? Slow and steady, like whipping a rope. Don't be too hard, soft: supple hands. And don't go yanking that rod till the little fish bites or it's time to move on.'

'Alright.' Simon said, the water now up to his knees and not wanting to go any further as that buoy loomed closer with every step taken he stopped.

'Watch me, then you.' And Bob slowly raised the rod so that it was horizontal with the lake and then with a smooth motion flicked the rod so that the line cast out some 15 meters into the depths of the lake. It made a satisfying plop into the water.

Simon steadied himself, dug the wellies into the stones and weeds beneath his feet and did the same as Bob. Though not as graceful, a little bit quicker and jerkier, Simon managed to cast off, his own line a meter or so away from Bobs.

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.'

'Fuck me.'

'They probably would, given half a chance.'

And the two men shared their first laugh together.

When their laughter ended, Bob snorting and Simon sighing, they both looked at their lines.

'Try over in that shaded bit, Simon, under that willow tree. This time a day the fish like a bitashade.'

Simon did as he was instructed.

Plop went the hook, the bait and the weight. Yes, Simon could get used to this. Where was his nearest lake or stream? He scanned his mind of the area he lived in and was sure that the River Wey wasn't too far from him and he had seen men fishing there from time to time. From memory, and from a conversation he had had with someone, he believed he needed a license to fish, but surely that had to be easy to come by. Probably just a matter of handing over some money and some ID and ticking the right boxes about catch and release or whatever it is they call it. He was sure Lucy wouldn't mind. After all, he didn't have any other weekend obsessions, only his photography, which she was pleased to be a part of as that usually meant going out for walks and weekends away. This could be his one manly vice. She could have a womanly vice, maybe swimming, keep fit, Zumba or some such shit like that with her girly mates, and Simon could have his fishing.

Simon glanced over at the man he was now allowed to call Bob and saw himself in a decade or two. Stood in some river or some lake, knowing what the hell was going on and understanding the subtle intricacies that fishing has. He could try and master it, like he had tried to master photography. Perhaps, if all went well, he would have a son or daughter to pass down his fishing knowledge too. Perhaps Bob, Grandfather Rowling, would teach the grandkids how to fish, though he would have to watch the language and the stories and the way he always seemed to say the wrong thing.

A little plop brought him round and he looked over to where the sound came from but there were only ripples left. Ripples that weren't far from where his line vanished just ahead of the reeds under the shade of the willow tree.

He and Lucy had once made love under a willow tree. He thought about maybe bringing Lucy here, showing her the willow tree and then making love under that one so as to add to their sordid collection. But then he remembered what lay beyond the valley wall behind the trees that stand atop it like sentinels. The Rotten House. The house of pig fuckers and daughter molesters and dog killers and Christ knows what else.

Simon unconsciously hummed the theme from Deliverance but somehow it made the thought of him making love to Lucy under that picturesque willow tree seem so carnal it bordered on criminal. That he was the one molesting a poor defenceless animal whilst those cracked toothed morons watched, fiddling with their own pricks and fannies.

The day went on and the minutes ticked by and with each passing minute both men became accustomed to one and other. They were bonding and Simon, even though he couldn't forget about the beatings and the killings and the dreams and the way Mr Rowling thought that Lucy was fat and ugly, was starting to understand, starting to like this odd ball and hoped that their friendship could continue to grow. After all, he was just going with the flow like he always did.

10

We are all guilty of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. To say the right thing at the right time seemed nigh on impossible to Simon, as one usually thought of what would have been the right thing to say about two hours after the right time had passed. But even he, a genius of the wrong words at the wrong time (once he asked an elderly woman of 86 if she had had a nice day at her own sister's funeral) couldn't top the master that was Mr Bob Rowling.

'You ever thought about having sex with an animal, Simon?'

Water splashed up at his face and he turned his head abruptly. Then realising why water was going everywhere he quickly bent down, the water pouring into his waders, to rescue the rod that he had dropped.

'Eh.....Sorry...hang on...did you just say what I thought you said?' Simon said as he scrambled for the rod.

'Careful, lad. Quick, get rod outta water.... That's it.'

Simon had retrieved the rod though he didn't think about the state of the line, the bait or the God damned oook.

'Did you just ask me if I ever thought about having sex with a pig?' Simon let out an anxious snort of a laugh and his eyes looked all around because he didn't really know where to look and he hated looking at Mr Rowling because he didn't even seem perplexed by the outrageousness of it all.

'Well I said animals, but aye, Simon. Have you ever thought about it?' Bob leaned in even though the two men were separated by a good five meters. 'You know, really thought about it. The angles, the struggle, the mess and the noise. How does it work for crying out loud?'

'Thought about it? Crap on a stick, Bob, you got to be screwing with me. Thought about it. Why the hell would I think about fucking a pig or anything else apart from a girl? And not a girl pig or a girl goat before you go there coz I can see it in your eyes, Bob, I can see you were gonna come back with that werenchya?'

'Natural int it? For a man to think such things. I aint saying that I want to have my way with a farm animal, Simon, I'm only asking if you've ever thought about how you would go about it.'

'What?'

'Now take my Margaret for instance. I toldya how she were crazed for it, how I resisted her dirty ways no matter what she said or did or wore or put up there. But there were times Simon, oh my there were times when I couldn't resist. She beat me down till all I had was just all instinct and lust and I had to have her. You know what I mean, Simon. You understand when I say you have to do what men were made for?'

'Not one fucking clue, Bob.'

As he went on an on Bob never took his eyes off of Simon and his face turned red and sweaty and there was a satisfied grimace on his face as he spoke.

'Now you have yer usual position, Simon, missionary it's called and I have to say I prefer that as it's almost the way God intended us to have coitus with the loved one. Fer the most part that's how I did the night time duty. But when she beat me down and that darker urge came over me, I'd turn her around and bend her over,' Bob carried out this act using his free right hand to imitate him turning an imaginary woman around and then with his hand outstretched, his palm facing away from him he continued, 'I would then ease her over so that her fat arse were pushed right out and her chest were right up hard against the kitchen worktop.' Bob slowly eased his hand forward so that the imaginary woman would have been bent over like he described. At the same time Bob pushed his groin forward a little as if he were about to enter this imaginary woman he had bent over the kitchen sodding worktop. 'Now, at first, when I had Margaret like that, I would grab her hair and twist it round my hand and wrist like this,' Bob took hold and twisted the imaginary woman's hair and with an odd, slow circular motion of his wrist, he coiled that hair around his hand and Simon wasn't surprised to see him pull back on it like he would have done to his wife. 'Now, I would yank that hair back and I would go at her from behind till I were done,' Bob thrust himself forward and back a few times, each thrust more disturbing than the last until he was done. He uncoiled the hair and took in a deep breath. Simon took in a deep breath too, held it as if the two men had just shared that climax between themselves and then sighed with a great heave of relief.

But that relief was premature.

'She got used to that though, Simon. She cut her hair short so I couldn't grab hold of it. Canny woman she was.' Bob shook his head and Simon was sure he could see a wry smile appear. Bob then placed his right hand on the imaginary woman's buttocks, stroked them for what it was worth and then raised his hand and spanked the air that was acting as the imaginary woman and that was in fact an imaginary version of his dead wife and the mother of Simons future wife. 'She started asking for a spanking, Simon. Saying she'd been a naughty girl and needed to be taught a lesson by her Chairman. So I did just that. I spanked her fat arse, Simon, until it were red raw and almost bleeding. Bright red, pink meat. Like a freshly carved bit a Bream.' Once again Bob raised his hand and lowered it imitating the spanking that he gave his dead wife. Bob kept on thrusting his groin forward and back forward and back which was starting to make Simon feel sick. Not uncomfortable, that feeling had long since passed. Maybe if Bob got his cock out that would be uncomfortable, Simon quickly dispelled that thought for fear of it coming true.

As fun as it was for Simon to be watching this, he wished he could have poked his eyes out as Bob kept on thrusting his plastic wader covered groin back and forward, he thought what kind of a weird couple they must have been and then wondered if Lucy knew and then wondered if he should tell her and if he were to tell how the hell would he go about it and how she would react? He had to put an end to it.

'As interesting as all that is, Bob, what the fuck has that got to do with them rednecks up there banging animals?'

Bob stopped his thrusting and took his free hand away from the imaginary woman. He stood up straight and adjusted the grip on his fishing rod. His little fat cheeks were flushed with the effort and he looked a bit flustered. Perhaps, Simon thought, all those memories of having sex with his old lady were coming back and he was beginning to have a bit of a moment. A soggy moment.

'From behind, Simon, that's what I'm getting at. You'd have to haveem from behind where you're in control. Might need a bita-rope I spose.'

'Bit a rope! Fuck me, Bob, you are one odd fella. I don't mean that in a bad way, but come on. Really? Now I'm an open minded guy, but you are off the friggin map. I have never thought about how you go about screwing a pig or a goat or a rabbit. You say from behind and with rope and it seems to me you have thought about it more than I have so I take your word on the matter and let's close it. Please. Let's close it and move on. Watching you thrust about like that has put me off my lunch.'

Bob pouted and seemed to be on the verge of a tantrum and Simon partly regretted what he had said as on reflection he thought that maybe he was saying that Bob had actually made love to an animal. But like a child's face lights up when its mother or father gives in and lets the little spoiled bastard have that sweetie treat or that expensive toy, Bobs face lit up like Time Square on New Year's Eve.

'Speaking of lunch, Simon, guess what we got.'

Simon slapped his knuckles against his forehead. 'If you say pork I'm going to scream, and maybe throw up.'

Bob chuckled and Simon opened his eyes and didn't like what he could see.

'It's pork.'

Simon screamed and stamped his feet so that water splashed all over the place scaring away any fish that had come their way looking for a tasty bite to eat and he wasn't sick as promised but he was soaking wet and Bob was looking at him and smiling.

The two men sat on the soft green verge and ate their lunch in silence which Simon didn't mind one little bit.

11

Looking at his watch Simon saw that it was just after 1 in the afternoon. He had eaten his lunch, plus drained two bottles of water. Now that the midday sun was beating down upon him his eyes watered and they became heavy. Much too heavy. Looking bleary eyed over to Bob, Simon wasn't surprised to see that the old man had fallen asleep and was softly snoring.

As Simon fell asleep he wondered to himself why Bob thought that his wife and daughter were ugly. He wondered why Bob, a man he thought was straight laced, had spoken in such away about how he went about seeing too his wife when the night before he had explained in great detail how appalled he was when his wife got the urge upon her. He also pondered the old Brew House over there, behind the trees and hidden in the deep of the forest and what it meant in his life for he knew that at some point over the coming few days he was going to find himself there.

Simon fell asleep...

12

...and he started to dream.

Simon stood at the lakes edge, the water lapping against his bare feet. The water was cold, the air was cold and the sky was grey, not with clouds, the sky had been bleached of all colours and was now a shade of nothing.

It wasn't summer anymore.

Everything was a monochrome miasma.

The lake stood there like a sheet of glass. Smooth and flat. Perfect reflections of the sky, the trees, even himself were upon it.

Across from the lake, beyond the bright red buoy that marked the spot where the lakes water turned black and went down all the way to hell, the ground rose up as a sheer sheet of rock. There were dark holes bored into this rock face. Holes that led somewhere that Simon didn't want to go to. Atop it, there were trees that now looked like ancient men; their branches contorted in such a way to look like arms and legs. In the branches that were shaped into hands the tree sentinels held what looked like axes. Falling leaves from those shapes looked like blood dripping from sharp blades.

A breeze wrapped about him sending chills across his naked body.

'It's not summer anymore.' Lucy told him. But she wasn't there.

'I know,' Simon said, 'It's cold and I'm naked. Where are my clothes? I'd like my clothes back please, or the Chairman might see my willy.'

Simon blinked and it seemed to take longer for his eyelids to open, close and open.

'The pigs have them. Over there.' Lucy said. But she still wasn't with him, here.

Simon looked to his right. He blinked, close and open, and the lake was gone and he was no longer in the pretty place anymore.

'I'm not in Oz anymore, Auntie Em.'

The world was still many shades of grey. Simon was stood outside a great house, a house that looked a bit like a church. It had many windows which were like square lifeless eyes. Its front door, a bright white against the draining grey of the rest of the world, was open like a gaping mouth. The house was made of wood and was in a bad way. The house looked sick and groaned with pain. Or was it pleasure?

'It is sick. Been sick for a long time. I bet fire can cure it.' Simon said.

Simon looked lazily to his right. There was a sign hammered into the ground next to him and it stood about waist high. It was pointing to the house over there. But the sign wasn't made of wood; it was made out of meat. Human meat. The post was a leg which had been cut off halfway down the thigh. It was held straight by a metal bar screwed into it much like you would see on someone who had a severely broken leg and it was now being held in place by rods and bars and bolts. The signboard was a huge flap of fatty browned skin, in its middle there was a hairy belly button and this was all held to the leg-post by bits of bone and metal and twisted wire. On the belly-sign the words Rotten House were burnt into the pink meat, seared like a piece of prime pork belly. Attached to the belly-sign was a woman's hand; Simon knew this because the nails were painted a bright red, like the buoy in the lake. Its first finger was pointed toward the great house that stood on a mound surrounded by nothing but grey sky and swirling clouds.

'That's a pretty neat sign. Why do the pigs have my clothes?' Simon asked turning his attention back to the house on the hill.

'So they look pretty on their date.' Lucy said.

'Date with who?'

'With them. Those guys over there by the pens. They want to meet you. You should go to them one day.'

The meat sign twitched, as if it were coming to life. And it did come to life. Well the woman's hand did that was strapped to it like a wretched montage of filth. The fingers wiggled and then pointed over, left of the house. The writing on the meat sign changed. It now read, O'Hagan, and blood dripped from the bottom of the g.

Simon looked over, following the finger with his eyes. Next to the house were five pig pens and outside of those pig pens were many pigs snorting around the dirt and the scraps that lay at their trotters covered in mud and muck. Next to the pig pens, leant on the corrugated metal that housed the little piggies were three big men. They wore big boots and dungarees that looked ten sizes too big. The men wore matching flannel shirts and all three wore similar baseball caps; their peaks curved at each end. None of the men had faces. It was black where their heads should have been. But there was shape to those cloud faces, there was form. Simon knew they weren't looking at him, they weren't looking at the pigs.

Pigs that were wearing his clothes.

'They are ready for their dates. But I need my clothes back.' Simon said lazily.

A crack of thunder that could have been a gunshot ripped above him and Simon looked up to the sky. Rain that was thick and heavy dripped onto his face and splatted to the ground. It fell with no sound and it landed with no sound. The earth beneath his feet sucked up the fat rain like a thirsty dog lapping up a bowl of water.

The rain wasn't cool and it wasn't cold like the air. It was warm. Warm like...

'Like blood.' Simon said and as he spoke some of it went into his mouth and it tasted metallic, like licking a battery.

'It is blood.' Someone said. A girl he thought he knew but was unsure.

He closed his eyes. He knew it wasn't rain falling on his naked body and dripping into his mouth.

Another crack of thunder boomed overhead and the pigs squealed behind his closed eyes and Simon didn't want to open them. He kind of hoped that he could go somewhere else now. Back to the pretty place but this time he would like it to be green and blue and red and yellow and for there to be bees and bugs and birds and fish and rods and nets and bait and ripples and Bob. Good old Bob.

But then the squeals stopped.

The rain that Simon knew wasn't rain but was something else kept on falling and Simon was drenched.

He wished with all his might to go back to the colourful pretty place.

With his eyes shut tight it now felt as if he were on his back. Laying down on a cold metal something that was taking his weight.

Not wanting too but unable to stop them from doing so he opened his eyes and what he saw horrified him so much that his body, the body that was on the waking side of this dream, heaved and flexed violently enough to stir Bob Rowling from his own sleep.

Above him was a woman. He knew this because her legs were either side of his head and she was crouched down over him close enough so that he could smell her womanhood. And from that womanhood, that cut and torn piece of tender flesh, there poured forth a dark red gore. That gore from her cuts both outside and inside of her vagina and which rained down onto his face and into his still open mouth made him gag, it tasted of old batteries, petrol fumes and something eggy too. He shut his open mouth and inhaled a scream so deep that it caused his body on the other side to choke.

He then saw that the woman was strapped into that position; squatting over him like she were pissing in a forest, by a series of cords and pulleys and those cords and pulleys were sown into her skin so roughly that it made him want to cry. Adorning most of her beaten body a name was etched into her skin and blood seeped from each of the cuts. That name was Billie and she wasn't dead as she hung there as from deep within her Simon could hear the soft moan he had heard when he was at the petrol station.

Simon rolled over to the side, or he was rolled over to the side, he couldn't tell. Across from him was Mr Rowling. He was naked. His flabby bare arse wobbled as did his beer belly.

They wobbled because he was once again thrusting. But it wasn't thin air his erect penis was penetrating, for in his hand Bob held the Bream Simon had caught in the pretty lake and on Bobs face was a smile as wide as the crescent moon hanging in the night sky. But as he went on that smile turned into a grimace, a grimace Simon didn't want to look at.

With each push forward the fish squelched.

With each push forward Bob moaned with pleasure unbound.

With each push forward Billie moaned with pain.

With each moan of pleasure and of pain Simon heard he retched and screamed and cried and wanted it to be over though he knew it would never be over until he did something about it.

'They leak. They bleed. They don't stop once they started.' Lucy said. And she was there now. Next to her Dad. And she was holding the fish for him and she was smiling. The fish however, from the continual pummelling, was deteriorating, its pink meat was all battered to bits and chunks of it fell to the floor and melted into the concrete greyness.

Simon closed his eyes. But they didn't close. He tried to move but he couldn't move.

'Wake up.' Someone said.

'I can't.' Simon replied through gritted teeth.

'Wake up.' Someone said.

'I'm trying.' Simon whimpered as he felt a hand upon his bare bum cheek and something hot and fleshy touched his vulnerable anus.

'Wake up.' Someone said. And that someone was Bob. Bob from the other side.

And finally Simon left that place.

12

'Come on, Simon...wakey, wakey.' A distant voice from behind Simons tightly closed eyes said. He wasn't dreaming anymore, he was back in the real world and not in that grey dead zone.

He knew it was Bob's voice that was trying to wake him, there was no mistaking his dulcet tones, but Simon was struggling to open his eyes. He could feel the sun beating down on him; it made his skin prickle and Simon could see the bright yellow disk as a fuzzy blur on the dark side of his eye lids which made him more want to keep them shut. Simon was afraid of what he might see when he opened them. Clothed pigs? Signs made out of bits of human? Faceless men? Bob having his way with a fish? Billie? He didn't want to see any of that ever again. His body still felt numb, like it had done in the dream, only now he was clothed and his bare arse wasn't about to be penetrated by that fleshy stick thing. It had all been a dream. A horrid dream, but just another freaky series of images that he could pile up and call them the Rottenhouse Dreams like it was some ghastly exhibition of his finest work.

'Times awasting, son. Grab yer gear and let's get back to it.'

Simon grunted, licked his lips and finally opened his eyes. He was blinded for a moment, the suns bright white light causing his eyes to water and sting. Rubbing at them and coughing up a wad of phlegm he asked, 'How long was I out?'

'Bout 15 minutes. Dropped off meself too, but yer snoring and fussing woke me up. Good thing too.' And then peering deeper at Simon he whispered, 'you alright, lad? Look a bit peaky.'

Finally the haze went and Simon could see Bob standing a few feet away; his waders partly covered in water.

'Just a dream. That's all. Been having some doozies since I've been here.' Simon glanced down to his body, saw that he was still dressed in the plastic waders and then felt his face in case it was still wet with the gore that had been dripping from Billie's hole. He was dry, a little sweaty, but not wet with blood.

'There was something real about that one, though.' Simon said absentmindedly.

Bob had just turned to walk into the lake when he stopped and looked at Simon. Was there concern in his eyes? It was hard to tell. The sun was getting lower and Bob was standing right in front of it bathing him in a shadow ringed with pearls of pure white light. Simon had to squint to see him and when it became too much for his fresh waking eyes he looked away, over to where his rod was standing by the makeshift table made from old wooden pallets.

'What yamean, real, Simon?'

'I don't know. There was something about what I saw...... it's like having Déjà vu but in reverse if that makes any sense. Probably doesn't.'

Bob shook his head and Simon thought about what he had seen. A name. He had seen a name, and it was on the tip of his tongue. Simon knew he had never heard that name before so why was it written on that brutal looking sign?

Bob headed off to his spot in the lake. Though when Simon spoke up he stopped once again but this time he didn't turn, just stood there, the water rippling from his green waders.

'O'Hagan... does that name mean anything to you? O'Hagan?'

Bobs silence was enough of an answer and Simon got to his feet; stretching his back out as he did.

'It does, doesn't it?' Simon took a step forward. A tentative step and the soft ground beneath his feet squelched like a damp fart. 'It's them isn't it? That family that live up in the Rotten House. They're the O'Hagan's. They were in my dream. Three brothers. Big guys all of em too. I saw the house as well and it's all beat to shit. But there's more than three of them up there. I didn't see the girl, nor the mother or father. But I know they are there. You told me about them but you didn't mention names or how many or what they looked like. It was all a dream, but I'm right though, aint I, Bob?'

Simon didn't need Bob's acceptance of his assumptions, he knew he was right. Like he knew he was right when he first saw Lucy, his Princess in a red dress, and knew she was the one that he was one day going to marry. He wasn't a confident man, lived his life through a lucky turn of events and mostly through the will of another – his Princess in a red dress, but he was confident now. It must have been what he had been through in the last couple of days that made him so and Simon could feel that Rottenhouse, that Bob, that Lucy who was sometimes Barbara, that the Working Man's Club, that the beatings, that the murders and the nightmares, were making him a stronger man. A better man.

Bob simply nodded and although Simon could only see the back of his head he could tell by the way in which he slouched, how his head was tilted slightly forward and his hands were loose by his side that Bob knew what Simon was getting at. Knew he was having dreams and seeing things and was starting to understand this place and unearth its secrets. He knew that Simon was now at a cross roads in his life. A cross roads that either kept him on this path, toward a future that consisted of Bob and Lucy and a happy family or one that was without Bob, possibly then without Lucy, and one that was empty and full of long nights holding a bottle of bourbon in one hand and soggy semen stained tissue in the other.

Simon took back the step he had made and unknowingly crushed a worm under his boot. If he believed in the Butterfly Effect then he could have linked that crushed worm to what followed in the next 24 hours. But he didn't believe in the Butterfly Effect. He only believed in three things really and the last two were new ones. The first thing he believed in was that he loved Lucy and would do anything for her - anything. The second was that he wanted, with all his heart, for Lucy and her father to be a family again and to mend whatever was broken between them. The third, and this was the new one, was that this place was affecting him. Turning him somehow. He didn't not like it, nor did he welcome it with open arms. He went with the flow, remember? Always went with the flow. And right now that flow was taking him down an uncharted river where monsters sometimes lived beneath the waves. He found that he could put up with the beatings and the killings and the missing girl that he didn't know was missing but had an inkling that she was tied up somewhere bleeding from places he didn't want to think about. The nightmares weren't all that bad and they would go once he was away from this place. Even Bob, good old Bob Rowling was becoming tolerable, a friend even for what it's worth. A strange friend. One you both wanted to be around and then didn't want to be around at the same time. Bob was a good man. Blinkered, yes, but men with high morals who have lived a very straight laced and hard life generally were blinkered. Especially if those beliefs were never questioned or corrected by those around you and with the hierarchy of this place such as it was it seemed to Simon as though that never happened. You were punished for it if you question what was told to you so best keep your mouth shut.

Over the last couple of days Simon could have turned around and gone home. He remembered he had thought just that last night, but here he was; still here and he would stay here until Lucy and her father had mended their relationship and then they would go home, to their little piece of heaven and plan out their wedding and send out invitations, one of which would be sent to Mr Bob Rowling and he would attend the wedding, escorting his daughter down the aisle proud to be her father and proud of the man she had chosen to be her husband, and then they would go on their honeymoon, to some hot country and live the rest of their lives together.

Simon nodded in agreement with himself. Watched as old man Rowling cast off into the crystal clear waters and stood there like an ancient gunslinger waiting for the next gunfight. Simons head itched, so he scratched at it, his hands feeling wet and greasy. Grabbing his rod which was baited and ready to go, he waded out into the lake joining Mr Rowling and this he believed was his way of saying that he was here, here to stay, no matter what, and that he would be a friend and wouldn't fuss and moan about what goes on here. He would go with the flow because that was the sort of man he was.

The sun moved across the endless blue sky but was not obscured by anymore clouds. There were no more gunshots, no more screams or barks or squeals from pigs or dogs or people. Even the trees were silent, holding their breath just so that the two men could fish in serenity. Only birdsong and crickets playing their mad banjos floated on the soft warm breeze. And so they fished until the bait was gone and their catch net was full.

13

As the sun started to drift behind the valley wall the two men packed up their fishing gear and headed along the path. Simon carried the two rods and the two fishing boxes whilst Bob took care of the catch net and the fish that it held. The path wasn't as pretty as it had been now that the sun was on its way down. Its colour, which had been lush and vibrant, was washing away to the colour of whale bone. The big trees, which on the way in had been welcoming, now loomed over Simon and Bob as they trundled along. Simon felt the urge to walk with his head hunched over, his eyes rolled to the top of their sockets scanning the path ahead in a watery haze.

With their backs to the low sun their shadows stretched out in front of them like mad spirits. It didn't take long for them to pass the wooden signpost; Simon made a great effort to not look down there for fear of what he might see. Near the car park Simon's shoulders, back, legs and arms throbbed with a burning pain. He'd never been to the gym but believed what he was feeling now must what it be like to feel after a good session on the free weights.

He was just about to try and read what time it is on his wrist watch when a strange smell drifted past him, a mixture of sweat, oil and wet dog. He sniffed it a couple of times and out front he could see Bob doing the same; looking left and right as he did.

'Odd stink,' Simon said, the words catching in his throat as the smell intensified, 'What the hell is it.'

'Nowt good.' Bob said.

And he was right.

They left the forest and walked into the darkening car park, the smell growing and growing until it was all Simon could smell. It was sticking to him like a wet mist.

Stood by the car were three men. They all turned as one when the sound of the pebbles crunching under Simon and Bob's footfalls reached their ears.

They were the same men from Simons dream and they towered over the car.

14

They wore the same dungarees and the same shirts and the same caps and had same big hands and the same big feet covered in even bigger boots. Simon could see their faces and when he did he kind of wished that they were still covered in the black smoke that had smothered them in his dream, for not only were they brothers, identical brothers, they each looked as mean as a hungry dog and scarred much like they had been fighting like one too.

Bob stopped and as Simon reached his side so he put his hand on Simon shoulder; the water in the catch net leaked over the edge and ran down Bob's waders.

'Stay here, son. Put stuff on floor and mind yer manners. Don't say a word unless I say it's okay. Okay?'

But before Simon could answer, Bob had walked off leaving the catch net wobbling precariously on the ground. He did as he was told, placing the rods and the fishing boxes onto the ground. He even took a few steps back and found himself under the shadow of the trees. And there he stood, hands by his side, straight back but with eyes that darted from left to right and up and down trying to gather in as much light as possible.

The three big brothers shared a glance and then moved so that they were stood in front of the car, blocking the passenger side. Simon couldn't be sure but the brother in the middle, the one who wore the blue shirt and wore a Gulf Oil baseball cap looked as if he were in charge. Simon didn't know how he knew this, maybe it was how he stood straighter than the other two or that he was ever so slightly taller, wider, stronger, like he had had the lion's share of the meat that had been on offer.

The car park was bathed in orange fire and deep black shadows were scratched upon its surface from the great trees that surrounded it. Simon was stood under the trees at the far edge waiting for Bob to say something to the three men that were seemingly holding his car ransom. But he didn't. Not until he was right next to them did he begin to talk but at this distance Simon couldn't hear what they were saying. Bob looked like a child next to them, but he didn't seem to notice how small he was, how easily those three men could crush him like a bug. Instead he stood there no differently to how he stood next to Simon, he wasn't intimidated by them, even when all their eyes were upon him he remained still.

Twice the big men looked at Simon and his heart thrashed wildly. The third time it was just the bigger brother that looked his way. There was nothing in the stare, Simon couldn't really see the big brothers eyes, but knew that behind that blank stare was a mad man, a killer, a hunter, a destroyer of dreams and a bringer of misery. When he looked back to Bob, Simon was sure that there was a wry grin on his big face.

A few more words were uttered between Bob and the big brother and then the big brother looked at brother 1 and brother 2, they seemed to share another glance, perhaps some kind of telepathy that twins tell tales of, and then they headed off away from the car and into the forest.

Bob wiped his forehead, seemed to gather himself and then pulled a set of keys from out of his pocket. Without looking back he waved at Simon to come like a good dog. Simon picked up the catch net first, the 7 fish they had caught lifeless in the water.

'Everything okay?' Simon asked when he reached the back of the car and placed the fish into the cool box that Bob had gotten ready.

Bob looked over the car and toward where the three brothers had exited the car park.

'Aye lad,' he said with a sigh, 'Nowt to really worry about.'

'Then what was it about? They were the O'Hagan's, right?'

'Yup. Go fetch restagear whilst I start up car wouldya.'

Simon went back, gathered the rods and the tackle boxes, placed them into the boot of the car. He then quickly took off his waders, glancing at the trees in the distance just in case he was being spied upon, put them in the boot next to Bobs and closed the boot lid taking care not to slam it. Simon wafted away the oily petrol fumes that drifted from the exhaust like storm clouds and got into the back seat grateful to be out of the hot waders and for his balls to be free.

There was a tension in the car as they journeyed back to Bob's house. The air felt hot with it. They didn't talk and from the back seat Simon couldn't make out what was going on with Bob. Occasionally the old man would look in his rear view mirror but his eyes gave nothing away.

Unable to let it go and just before reaching the turning that led to the house, Simon asked, 'So, you going to tell me what that was about or are you just going to leave me guessing?'

Not taking his eyes off the road Bob said, 'Just curious is all, Simon. Nowt to worry about. They tend to think that the lake is theirs, seeing as it is so close to their house and all. But they know I have the ear of the Chairman and so they don't tend to ask for a fee for using it.'

'A fee?'

'Aye, Simon, a fee.'

'What do you mean?' But Simon knew the answer before he even asked.

Bob shook his head, 'For an edu-cay-ted feller, you don't half ask some stupid questions, Simon. You know, a fee, a payment for using the lake. For catching what they think is their fish. Now most won't argue with em, you saw the size of those big bastards. Christ, they could wrench the legs off a bull without breaking sweat. Especially Lawrence. He was the biggest one and the one that does the talking. But I don't take none atheirshite. As said, I got the ear of the Chairman, and they know that so they leave me be. Anyone else and it's either money, fish or both.'

Bob drove the car into the driveway and he eased it to a stop right next to Simon's electric blue wonder and in the exact same spot it was in when they had left.

'And I suppose they don't like southerners as well?' Simon said as he got out of the car and closed the door.

Bob did likewise and then leaned on the roof of his car. 'Guess again.'

Simon shrugged.

'Well they don't give two shits if yer southern, western, eastern or bloody Chinese. All they care about it that you is fresh meat, if yaknow what I mean?'

'No I don't...'

And then he did. Simon couldn't help but chuckle. 'Hang on, you telling me that they would have wanted me to...err... how can I put this? Oh yeah, you telling me that they wanted me to be their little piggy, is that what you are saying?'

Bob winked and moved to the back of the car and opened the boot. Simon was left standing by the passenger window. Was he shocked? Not really. Why would he be? It was the preverbal cherry on top of the cake if you looked at it that way.

Bob unpacked the fishing stuff and closed the boot. Simon turned to Bob and he realised something then. It was only a small something, but it was a thing that made their bond of friendship that little bit stronger.

'Did you just save me from a potential arse raping, Bob? If so, how can I ever repay you?'

Bob consoled Simon by patting him on the shoulder a few times. 'Repay me?' he said taking hold of the cool box that stored their catch, 'Well, you can carry that stuff back to the garage and put it all back fer starters. Then you can clean the waders. And if you still feel like yawant to repay me further from saving yafrom a good seeing too, you can make sure you mention not a word of it to Barbara.'

Nodding, Simon picked up the fishing boxes and watched the old man walk to the house. 'Whatever you say, Bob.'

Clean Yourself Up, Piggy

1

Lucy had been napping when Simon walked into the bedroom after completing his chores. She slowly came around as he undressed but didn't say anything and Simon was grateful for that. He went and took a shower not really thinking of anything but getting clean. When he got back she was sat up on the bed; her head propped up by two pillows. The fading light from the bedroom window made her hair turn from brown to auburn. She was wearing the tight jean shorts he liked and a thin white vest top with a matching bra underneath. Back home, this sort of garb would have turned some heads and she probably wouldn't have gone out like it. But here was different. Heads would turn, not because she looked stunning and had more flesh on show than Lady Godiva, but because they thought she probably looked out of place, lost, and like old man Rowling had stated last night, ugly; they wouldn't give two shits.

As Simon dried himself he asked Lucy what her day had been like. She only shrugged, said she had been to see old friends and went to visit places where she grew up and then asked Simon how the fishing trip had been. He didn't answer straight away but continued to dry himself though it felt like every time a bit of him finally dried it got covered in a thin film of sweat again. It was hot tonight. A breeze from the open windows helped too cool the air a little, but Simon knew it had been a mistake to take such a hot shower and now he sat on the small wooden chair in the corner of the bedroom naked, and he thought about what had happened during the day, he couldn't help but smirk.

'What's so funny?'

'Nothing,' He said stretching out his legs so that his balls touched the cold wood of the seat sending a little shiver up his spine.

'So did you have fun? Did you and dad get on okay?'

'Yeah, really good. After last night's chat we kind of got everything out in the open, if you know what I mean. He taught me a few things about fishing and how to set a rod and all that jazz. Plus we caught us a fair few. I got the first one which was surprising.'

'Wow.' She said and she smiled a little sweet crooked smile. 'That's great. I'm glad you two are getting on. I know it's been hard for you, for me too and this place has some odd ways about it, but maybe we just got here at the wrong time.'

A little bird outside in one of the trees that lined the road sang a song. Another bird, perhaps its mate sang back and soon there was a little duet going on between the two. Simon lifted his legs and wiggled his feet and toes. They were red around the tips and his ankles looked slightly swollen and were also a little red.

On the bed Lucy was sat twiddling with a strand of her hair. It was something she always did but it didn't signify anything in particular. It was just a habit. And then he remembered how she had been last night in the bar, how dismissive of him when he wanted to leave. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago, and Simon couldn't really think of all the things that had happened since then. Had they even talked about that? He couldn't remember.

'Is everything okay with you?'

She stopped twiddling her hair and let it drop to its natural place. Lucy looked at him and Simon wished he could read minds for her face gave away nothing.

'Yeah,' she replied and Simon clenched his fist against his thigh.

'And that's that, is it?'

'Well yeah, I suppose. I'm good. Dads well. You two are getting along and I think me and dad have patched things up.'

'Patched things up? You've barely spoken since we've been here.'

'I got some time with him last night. After you left. We had a good talk. I let him know what I felt and he let me know what he felt, in his own sort of way, you know how he is. We aint ever going to be the Hallmark card father and daughter. Shit, I don't think we will ever get anywhere close to that, but at least we have something now. Something I can't describe. It's a feeling... I don't know...it's hard to say with words, plus I aint very good at this kind of thing, you know that.'

She plucked that bit of hair out again and started twiddling with it, curling it around her first finger over and over again.

But Simon knew what she meant. It wasn't that complicated really.

'Family.' Simon said.

'Family.' Lucy said.

And then Simon remembered the O'Hagan's and what their family got up too and he must have given something away then as Lucy surprised him with, 'You met the O'Hagan's today, didn't you?'

His balls went up inside his stomach, shrinking away like frightened mice, and his anus scrunched down in the creases of his bum. Simon nodded.

'Was it the brothers you met?'

'Yep, well not quite. They were there, waiting at the car when we were on our way back but your Dad went over to them and told to me wait some distance off. They talked, but I don't know what they talked about. He mentioned something about a fee so I guess it was that. Big guys.'

Lucy slid off the bed then, walked over to the chest of drawers and took out some pants, a pair of socks, a t-shirt and a pair of blue shorts. As she did this she said, 'You know why he did that, right? Told you to keep yer distance?'

'Oh yes.' Simon said and didn't need to explain further.

Lucy placed the items on the bed and she laughed. Simon laughed too, even the two birds outside laughed along with them and when Lucy stopped laughing Simon stopped laughing but the birds kept on singing and so Simon guessed they weren't really laughing at all and when Lucy turned to Simon her eyes were narrowed and her gaze was firmly locked onto him like a Lioness stalks her quarry and Simon knew then what she was thinking, he didn't need no sodding telepathy to tell him what thoughts she had going through her mind; they were pulsing from her, seeping from her skin, from her pores, from her eyes and from her mouth in silent hot hard waves of lust, want, need and desire.

She fucked Simon as he sat on the wooden chair that she used to sit on whilst her mother brushed her hair and sang her songs. She fucked him hard, didn't take off her clothes so his cock rubbed harshly against the jean shorts and her cotton panties which he had to pull to one side. Her panties were soaking wet.

He didn't last long. But it was long enough for them both and when she pulled his sore cock out she placed one hand down there to stop anything oozing onto the carpet and with her other hand she slapped him across the face and then caressed that spot whilst all the time her eyes were on his.

They were both breathless and hot and sweaty.

'I'm the only one that gets to fuck you, piggy.' She said in that voice that isn't quite Lucy and isn't quiet Barbara.

'Yes.' Simon panted not liking what he heard but liking it all the same and all thoughts of where he was and what he had done swirled about him like it always does when the sex was quick and fierce and painful and sweet.

'Now go and clean yourself up, piggy.' And as she moved away from him she smeared the hand that had cupped his stinking semen across his chest making the hairs there matt together like wet Velcro.

He stood quickly, repulsed, though still horny, but Lucy was already enough of a distance away not to be near him.

'You dirty bitch.'

Grinning like the lion that ate the cat that got all the cream she said, 'Yeah, but you fucking love it.'

And she was right. Weren't they always right? And so Simon went back to the bathroom at the other end of the hallway and had another shower and listened as Lucy walked by the door and went downstairs.

It was then that Lucy was taken.

2

Simon found himself standing in Bob's front garden totally naked and dripping wet, his flaccid penis swaying in the cool summer breeze like one of the trees that lined the road and he was looking about for any sign of who or what had taken his Lucy, but he couldn't see anything, he couldn't hear anything except for the bloody fucking crickets and the beshitted birds squawking and tweeting like mad men demanding food in their cells. There were tyre tracks and the pebbles of the driveway were scattered all a sunder but as for a signal as to where the people had gone that had taken Lucy there was not a jot and Simon screamed and cursed to the sun and the clouds and the beshitted birds and the crickets that wouldn't shut up and tell him where his Lucy was, and to tell him who took her and fakristsake how he was going to kill everycuntingoneofthem if they didn't shut up and tell him what he needed to know

Simon looked back to the house when he had finished mouthing off, he needed Bob's help, but right now Bob was no good to him because he was lying unconscious on the floor; half in the house half out of the house and a little trickle of blood ran down from his nose onto the hessian doormat that said WELCOME in faded black letters, and there was a blood stain that would never shift and would be there forever more.

A little fly with yellow and black stripes buzzed Simon and it landed on his shoulder and so Simon scrunched up his face and hunched his shoulder and twisted his neck to get a better look at the little hitchhiker. It was also a little reminder to him that he was naked.

'Do you know who took my Lucy? Where they took her?' The little fly flapped its wings but didn't fly away. If it did know where she was then he was being quiet about it.

'Guess not. You aint no good to me then.' Simon swiped at the little feller but the fly was too quick for him and it took off and flew about his head as if to mock the tall pink sack of meat and Simon went over to Bob then. He checked that the old boy was still breathing, he didn't have to check that hard as he could hear the snores before he even knelt down though as he knelt he saw his little penis swaying back and forth and a sudden urge to teabag the poor old unconscious man at his feet took over him.

'I need to put some clothes on.' And as quick as a flash he did just that and as he ran back down the stairs, making sure that his phone was in his pocket as well as his car keys and wallet, he saw that the old man had come around and he was sat on the doormat rubbing the back of his head.

'What the fuck happened? Where is Lucy?'

Bob shook his head, perhaps trying to shake away the cotton wool feeling being out cold leaves behind. 'They took her.' He said sleepily.

'Who's they, Bob?' Now he was stood behind the old man who remained on the floor rubbing the back of his head. Bob sniffed and then spat out a wad of bloody phlegm. 'I thought it were good between us. We had a deal.'

'What are you talking about? Good between who?

'Actually, who cares, I just want to know where she is. Can you tell me that Bob or are you going to sit there like an idiot?

'It'll do yano good, lad.'

'Yaknow what; fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck them, fuck em all, Bob. I've had it up to here.' Simon did the necessary action with his hands pointing to the top of his head and then ripped his car keys out of his pocket. 'I'm going to get the police and fuck what you think about it.'

Bob moved his hand as if to block the way out of the front door. 'I can't let yado that, Simon.' But he was too slow and Simon was through the doorway knocking the old man's shoulder with his knee.

'Whatever, Mr Rowling. I'm done.' Simon muttered as he trundled across the driveway to his car. He actually had no clue where the police station was, if there even was one, but he wasn't going to stay here with a thumb up his arse waiting to see what happened.

'I can't sit around here. I can't do nothing, Bob. You may want to deal with this your way but I aint going to do that, Bob. I'm getting the cops and that's that.'

Simon heard groaning but didn't turn to look at him. He guessed the old feller was getting up, probably still rubbing his head but he didn't really care. Simon pressed the button on his key fob, the four indicators flashed orange and the doors unlocked with a great mechanical clunk and he was just about to walk around to the driver's side when he saw something shiny jutting from his front left wheel. Eyes wide and heart pounding and stomach churning he looked to the left rear and saw another shiny bit of metal jutting from the tyre only this time there was a great gash in the black rubber to go with it, and running to the other side, the side in between his and Bob's car, he saw that the same had been done to those tyres too. Simon raised his hands to the air and then threw them down with such force that they went ever so slightly numb and he took in a huge lung full of air and held it. His face reddened and he believed that his head may explode if he didn't breathe out. Then his vision started to blur a little but at least the feeling came back into his hands and he clenched them tight trying to hold back the bile that swelled in his throat.

He looked up; saw Rowling stumbling toward him still rubbing his head. Simon moved his eyes to the back of his car and saw that something was written on the back window. How he didn't know; it wasn't dirty, but it looked as if it had been dirty and the words had been smudged into the grime. Simon released his breath, held onto the words that wanted to flow forth like a breaking dam and slowly moved to the back of the car.

Reading what had been painted on his rear window in what looked like blood made him pull his fingers through his hair tightly enough so that his eyebrow and eyelids pulled up and he tightened his mouth into a toothy grimace. This time, when he took in a large gulp of air, instead of holding it and counting to 10 or thinking nice thoughts or going to his happy place where frogs leapt from lily pad to lily pad he let it all out with a great sigh.

'Have you seen what those bastards have fucking done to my car. Fucking pricks! It's those lanky cocks up in that house, I know it, it has to be them. Look at that on the window. LOOK AT IT!' Simon pointed to it with a shaking finger on the end of a shaking hand. 'They've written Southern Nonce in blood on my fucking car. They can't even spell Southern right neither. It aint got a V in it Bob, I can tell yathatfornothing! What do they want with her? What are they going to do with her?'

He took another breath, realised what this meant, and leant against the boot of his car breathing in short sharp bursts that stung his throat. The metal of the car was hot but he didn't care. He muttered, 'How am I going to find her now?' and then cried.

3

Bob surveyed the car rubbing the back of his head and wiping his bloody nose on to his clean handkerchief. He seemed not to notice Simon's outburst or the fact that he was crying which both angered and appeased Simon because his sobs were pathetic, but it still didn't stop him from carrying on. Still lent over his car Simon wiped his snotty nose with his sleeve and did the same with his eyes. With his head hung in the middle of his crossed arms and his nose touching the cars hot bodywork he peered through a small gap and watched Bob. From behind his little peephole Simon could tell that Bob was eager to say something but was holding it back; which was very unlike him.

Sucking up the clear liquid that was still trying to leak from his nose and without raising his head so that his voice sounded as if he were in a cave, Simon said, 'I need to borrow your car.'

'Why?'

'You know why, Bob. Your daughter has been abducted by those pig shaggers up there and I have got to go and get her. I don't want to think about what they might be doing to her or why they have taken her I just want to get in your car and drive up to that house and bring her back.' Simon lifted his head and his eyes were red and wet and a fresh trickle of snot seeped from his nose. He sucked it back in and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. 'Please, Bob. Please.'

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 the 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.

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 that 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 other 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.

2

Walking slowly and carefully ssshing the pigs as he went by them, Simon walked up the small set of steps and onto the porch. The old wood moaned softly and Simon placed the small knife onto the porch floor and grabbed the gun. It was heavy, a shotgun with sawn off barrels so they were barely a foot long each and it had a dark coloured wooden butt and the thing looked old but useful and Simon crept back down the stairs and sat with his back against the raised porch and investigated the weapon. In the distance, still slumped on the bridge was old man Lud. Simon questioned where his head was, guessed it must have floated off down the river. Apart from in video games of his youth he had never fired a gun, never held one, and holding this contraption felt alien to him. In movies and TV shows actors always looked comfortable holding guns, it looked easy, as if they fitted in your hands and were meant to be there and that may well be the case for smaller handguns but this piece of machinery felt clumsy. It wasn't a pump action shotgun and pressing a small button on the side of the barrel nearest the trigger and pulling the two barrels down, the gun split in 2 on a couple of hinges and two golden bright shells were sat in the breach like two eggs in a cup.

'That'll do.' Simon closed the gun, stood, and readied himself by taking in a deep breath and stretching out his neck and shoulders in long arching movements. As he was about to walk up to the main door he froze. The sun was giving out its last bursts of light before it finally set and the sky had turned almost black. Inside the house would be blacker and he couldn't risk turning on the lights. He would go around the back. Confront the O'Hagan's face to face.

And that's what Simon did. He walked around the side of the house, not on the walkway but just below, just in case there were peepers in the windows. Around the back of the house the hill sloped down steeply but there was enough of the plateau here so that a small vegetable garden could be kept as well as a shed. The back of the house was as bad as the front and the smell and the heat seemed to settle here and not be taken away by the soft summer breeze.

Everything in Simon's body told him to run when he saw in the garden, surrounded by the guts and entrails of a recently slaughtered pig, the mother and the largest of the three brothers. The brother wore the same garb as his father only he filled it out. Earlier the brother had looked big and Simon had been some distance away, now closer, he was a giant. He had a head the size of a pumpkin and a jaw that could crush rocks. On his head the cap was perched awkwardly and he kept on pulling it down as he went about his gruesome business. He was using the biggest cleaver Simon had ever seen and beside him was the mother and as big as he was she was just small. A tiny woman in a filthy yellow plaid dress which was covered in dirt and blood. She had small features and beady eyes and mousy brown hair that was matted. There was no beauty there and probably never had been.

Big brother and small mother continued on chopping and cleaving and heaving as Simon stepped out from behind the rusted carcass of an old Ford Anglia. He had the gun pointed at them and his shadow, with the sun behind him, stretched out far enough so that what was left of the pig was covered in it, as too was the small mother.

'Nobody move.' Simon said, though to him it seemed not the right thing to say. Neither of them listened though, and big brother brought the cleaver down with a mighty chumpf and little mother turned to see what the fuss about.

'Who's that?' Little mother said. Her voice was barely a whisper. 'Who thefuck are you?'

'I said nobody move.' Simon took a step forward and unknowingly crushed some potato plants beneath him. Big brother looked up which seemed to take some effort.

'He's gone and stamped on daddy's spuds, mother.' Big brother said. His voice was huge, thick like mayonnaise, and Simon could tell this chap had never been to a college. Probably never set foot in a school his entire life.

'He's holding Luds gun too.' Mother said, and then she pointed to the house behind her with a gnarled thumb, 'Go get daddy, he's gonna want to see this.'

Big brother took off his baseball cap and threw it to the floor. He kept hold of the cleaver, gripped it tighter as he looked at Simon, then the gun, then back at Simon and then to the axe he held which was still dripping with blood. He coughed up a mean wad of phlegm and spat it out. A bit of it clung to his dry lip and it dripped down like dirty egg white onto his tatty vest.

'Daddy's dead.' Big brother said and Simon could see that even though the lights were on but nobody was home up in that big old head of his he still had a brain and that brain was all instinct and not marred by the modern world in which Simon lives in.

Mother narrowed her eyes and then put her hands on her small hips. Her skin was crumpled up like rolled wool. 'Nah. This little chap didn't do with Lud. Gun aint been fired, would have heard it. And as fer that bleeding axe, could be pig's blood is all. Nah, he aint done with Lud.'

Simon raised the axe and now both weapons were trained on the pair. 'Guess again, woman. Now I asked Lud to give me Lucy back and he refused, so I am here asking you the same thing; give me back Lucy or I'll kill you just like I killed your daddy.'

'Is he right, son?'

Big brother wiped his nose with his bare arm and then looked up to the sky. He sniffed the air like a dog trying to find a scent. His head moved from left to right then right to left and then it arched so far back he thought the big guy was going to fall over onto his arse. With a quick snap he returned his gaze to Simon, but now his eyes were wide and he raised the cleaver so that the pointy end was aimed directly at the man with the gun.

'Father's dead, mother. I can smell his blood. He's over by the bridge and this streak a piss must've cut him deep coz there's alota blood.'

A few things happened very quickly then. The mother screamed such a deep scream that it defied everything about her size and birds flew up from trees and the scream drowned out the rushing river. She ran at Simon all hands reaching out like talons and her eyes wide with hate and anger and revenge. She reached Simon quicker than he had anticipated and he didn't have time to fire the gun or to raise his axe and all he could do was swing the shotgun in a short arc, move his body back a step and then let the little woman run face first into the butt of the gun as he brought it down and when he brought it down there was a crunch of bone and a tear of skin and a shriek of pain and the old woman fell to the floor and didn't move. Blood poured from the open wound below the woman's left eye and the cut was deep enough so that Simon could see bone poking through. Just when Simon thought that the old woman had either died or was out cold she began to fit and her body contorted in odd angles and she foamed from her mouth and nose. A few seconds of that were followed by a deep groan coming from her belly right up through her chest and out her mouth and then she was dead and she lay in a pool of blood, spit and vomit.

'Imagonnakillyou!' Big brother charged in and Simon felt pity for the dumb brute. The big guy had instincts, could tell that his own father had been murdered and where the body was, and he could also snap Simon into two pieces with his shovel like hands of his and muscles the size of mountains, but all that pure strength and anger was directed at simply charging at Simon much like his father, and then his mother had done, and they were both dead. Simon knew he had been lucky with the father and had relied on his own quick instincts and perhaps a bit more luck to kill the mother but he had time with the big one and used the time to raise the shotgun, wait till he was about 5 feet away and then pulled the trigger.

The boom from the shotgun wasn't as loud as Simon had anticipated but the low noise didn't diminish the impact the released shell had on the chest of the big bastard running at him. The pellets tore through the blue overalls and the white vest and the skin and the bone and then all the little pellets ripped the insides out of big brother straight out his back leaving a hole the size of a football right in the middle of the big man's body. Big brother stopped dead in his tracks, literally, and opened his mouth as if to say something but there was nothing to say because he was dead, he just didn't know it yet. The body swayed back and forward as if it were a little leaf on a rose bush and then blood came out if his mouth, his eyes and his ears and out of the hole where little bits of innards hung like a busted piñata. He fell to the floor with a thud, an arm outstretched as if he were trying to reach his mother but couldn't make it. And that was that. Another two people dead by Simons hand though at this point he wasn't really thinking about that or the consequences. Those thoughts were being pushed to the back of his mind by the adrenaline, by the need to find Lucy, and the natural instinct we all have to survive.

3

Then there was only the sound of the pigs munching and the river flowing. Night time was creeping in and the forest animals were falling quiet. It was the lull before the nocturnal creatures went about their business. It was dark enough now that Simon couldn't see through the trees and it was a sea of black nothing. Soon, without a moon and no overhead lamps, he would be surrounded by the blackness.

Simon, for reasons unknown to him, searched the body of big brother and found nothing but a wet hanky, what looked like a rabbits foot tied to a piece of string, a lock of ginger hair and a lighter, which he took and placed in his back pocket.

There was another low moan. It came from the house, from behind one of the bare dirty windows. Whoever was up there hadn't heard, or had heard and ignored the gunshot and now that it was darker Simon could make out a yellowish light coming from one of the upstairs windows. A soft breeze whipped around him and he could smell fresh pine and water. In other times, and with a lick of paint and a few fixes, this place would be a lovey place to live.

But now wasn't the time to think about such things. He went into the house not caring how much noise he made.

4

The guts of the house were ruined. Walls knocked down, bare wet walls, hanging electrical cables and bare light bulbs. Anything that could be rusty was rusty. Anything that could be mouldy was mouldy, and flies hung around like whores on street corners. It didn't stink as much as it should but there was a stench here that hung about. There were no discernible rooms. What looked like what was once a dining room was now a mechanics dumping ground. What looked like a kitchen now looked like something you wouldn't want to sit in let alone cook a meal in though there was still a cooker but it was brown and green and covered in congealed fat and grime. Cupboard doors hung off hinges and pots and pans and plates and mugs were strewn here there and everywhere. The kitchen led through to a hallway where on a table was a box with six more shotgun shells. Simon put the axe down, replaced the fired round and put the other five in his pockets making them bulge and dig into his thighs.

Another moan and then laughter. Two sets of laughter; one was wheezy the other sounded muted as if behind a hand. The moan went on and on and sounded both painful and excited. At the end of the hallway there was a set of stairs and the soft yellow light that Simon had seen outside was clearly visible up there. From upstairs the sound of bed springs squeaking and heavy movement was ended with more moaning and laughter and talking too.

'Please don't be Lucy.' Simon said as there was another moan only this one was full of pain.

Simon ran up the stairs, saw that the light was coming from the room at the very end of the hallway and headed that way. His cheeks felt wet and he didn't know if that was from tears or sweat. Clumsily he dropped the axe, but before he could react he was outside the room and then inside the room with the shotgun raised and he was shouting, 'Let her go you fucking animals!' and there was a commotion and two men moved quickly away from the bed and they turned to see who it was that had come storming in and their hard cocks swayed and pointed at Simon like their dirty fingers did, and their eyes were wide and their mouths open in shock as the man they saw in front of them had a gun and it was aimed at them, 'Who the fuck is you,' one of them said and Simon guessed it was Harry because the other said, 'He's got yer gun, Harry,' and the two of them looked at the gun and then back at Simon. Whoever was on the bed moaned but the three men had other things on their minds.

'Let her fucking go or I swear to God I will shoot your fucking brains out.'

The brother that wasn't Harry raised his hands and now Simon saw that they were both totally naked. Harry raised his hands too, mimicking his brother, and he looked to his brother and then to the girl on the bed and then with curious eyes back to Simon.

'Let who go? Her?' He gestured to the girl on the bed who was naked and on her belly and covered in cuts and bruises and claw marks. She had pale skin, pale like Lucy's. She had dark hair, dark like Lucy's and Simon was crying now as he knew who it was on that bed.

'You fucking animals.' Simon said and pulled the trigger twice.

5

The smell of cordite, blood and sex was all around him. The yellow light was bright now and outside the world was black and that blackness tried to come through the windows and Simon was glad the windows weren't smashed.

Simon dropped the gun and the woman on the bed shuddered and moaned and tried to say something but couldn't as her mouth was full of rag. She tried to roll over but couldn't as there was a large leather restraining belt holding her down.

Simon stood there for a minute, not too sure what had happened and why he was here. Everything had happened so fast. This could be a movie he had seen and was now dreaming it; re-enacting scenes from that film but altering them to fit his circumstances. Harry's body stopped twitching and the blood from the two men started to pool around Simons trainers. This wasn't a dream. This was real and the moans and cries coming from the woman that he loved and that had been raped countless times slowly brought him round and Simon leapt over the twitching body of Harry caring not that half his face was missing and was now decorating the far wall. Simon rolled Lucy over.

As soon as his hand touched the woman's flesh he knew the truth of it then. And it was a rotten truth.

The woman that he rolled over and took out the rag filling its mouth wasn't Lucy and by the resemblance to the old woman downstairs he guessed that it was her daughter and that the men that were fucking her were her brothers.

'This can't be happening.' Simon said, but knew that it was.

The woman on the bed looked near to death, all skin and bone, but she didn't squirm or try to break free. She wasn't pretty and shared an ugliness with her mother and had jagged features. 'Are they dead?' She asked and her voice was soft, angelic, and it filled Simon's heart with sadness. Her eyes were still shimmering though; amber gold and they were her one redeeming feature.

'Yes. If I untie you can you walk? I'm getting you out of here.'

'Out of here?'

'Yes, to a hospital.'

'Aren't you here to fuck me? Did they bring someone new to taste my honey?'

'No. No I'm not. You don't have to do that anymore. You're safe now.'

'I want to be fucked. I like it.'

'What the hell.' Simon got up from the bed, almost slipped on the blood and grabbed hold of the broken wardrobe to his side.

'Daddy fucked me the best. He could go for a long time. Please don't let him be dead.'

'He's dead.' Simon muttered with a dry throat and wiped away the sweat and blood from his face with the back of his sleeve

The girl started to cry and Simon went to leave.

'Don't go. I'm still tight. Come back and see. You can hit me and cut me and bleed me if yawant. Whatever yawant I don't mind. I don't want to be alone.' She opened her legs and some of her brother's semen leaked out of her poorly shaven vagina.

'I'm sorry.' Simon said and he turned and walked out of the room and the girl screamed at him but the words were lost amongst the bestial cries for sex and the screams from the girl went on and on as Simon walked down the stairs, through the hallway and out the front door into the night where the stars shone brightly and the river flowed freely.

'This is a rotten place. And rotten things need to burn.' Simon said and headed over to where a tractor was parked next to a disused diesel pump, and he was running on pure instinct now. It had consumed him.

Lent against the tractor, trying not to think about Lucy and where she might be but failing miserably, he put his hands over his eyes then over his ears and roared at his feet to try and release the anger he felt at himself and the situation that he was in. He had killed five people for nothing. He tried to justify it as self-defence but he had put himself in those situations. It was his actions that had led to where he was now. No one else's. All that he had preached to Lucy and Bob over the last couple of days about how they should live their lives and what was happening up here was wrong seemed laughable now, and Bob had been right, it did depended on your point of view. From the outside he had killed five people in cold blood. But he knew it was justified. It was them or him. If he'd of know that Lucy wasn't here then it would have been different.

But Lucy hadn't been there and now he had to clean things up.

Simon grabbed the jerry can that was by the tractor, knew by the weight of it that it was full, and walked with it hanging by his side back to the house.

He made that trip a few times and to make sure the job was done right he put buckets of the liquid inside the house. He found some blue gas bottles as well which he placed next to the buckets of stinking diesel. He did this in silence and didn't speak up when the girl called for him to taste her honey and fill her brown hole from up there where he didn't want to go and when he was finished he walked back to the bridge and carefully slid down to the rushing river where he covered his face in the cold water and drank deeply and washed himself clean of the fluids that he was covered in. Then, as promised, he took a piss in that river, but he was sad because it was too dark to see trickle in.

6

The moon was peeking over the roof of the house that was once called The Brew House and was now called The Rotten House. It was 9pm and the forest had come alive and on the bridge Simons ears were ringing with the roaring river below him. He was on the other side of the bridge, the good side; he thought, and ahead of him the body of Lud was still slumped over like a drunkard.

He heard a scream from the house, from the room that he couldn't see.

'I'm sorry,' Simon said and with the lighter he had stolen from big brother he lit the trail of diesel. Simon picked up the torch that he had dropped, clicked it on and walked away and the forest he had walked through didn't seem so scary now and bushes were just that and not haggard witches and fallen trees were just hulks of dead wood and not grinning monsters waiting to eat helpless passers-by.

7

By the time he had reached the car park the sky behind him was an orange glow that was more like he was used to back home. Only this orange glow wasn't caused by city street lights. There were occasional explosions as the buckets of diesel went up or a gas bottle finally gave in. There were squeals from the pigs too, pigs that he had locked up tight into their pens and then drenched them and the ground beneath them in diesel.

Simon was glad that he couldn't hear the last moans and cries of the girl he hadn't freed and he wished her a quick death, but knew that she probably hadn't got one.

He unlocked the car, got in and started the engine. The headlights were bright and they lit up the forest ahead enough that birds took flight and a deer that had been standing there ran for cover. He reached into his pockets, took out the 5 shotgun shells that were digging into his thighs and grabbed his phone which he hoped wasn't damaged.

Pressing the button the screen came to life and he was pleased to see that there wasn't a scratch on it. There was, however, another missed call, and clicking to see who it was he dropped the phone onto the soft carpet and had to reach down before looking again to make sure he had truly seen what he thought he had read.

The missed call was from Lucy, and he cursed her for not leaving a voicemail. Then the phone vibrated with another call.

He answered it and the robotic girl on the other end gave him the options he knew so well. He pressed 1 for new messages, and waited...

The voice on the other end was Lucy's. She sounded calm; not panicky, or like she had been crying. There were no other voices behind hers, no sounds to isolate where she was even though Simon had a pretty good idea where that was.

'Si, I'm waiting for you. I don't know what they want from me and I'm not sure why I'm here. I've got to tell you that I'm not going anywhere until I see your face again. You have to understand I'm not just anyone. I'm the one you are going to love someday and I'm gonna wait her for you. Don't fight it, you'll be fighting destiny. You must know that? You must know that you are going to love me someday? It's been written and we are the ones writing it. We are getting close and I'm not going to leave until you say my name. Not till you say you love me. Look into my eyes when you find me and say you love me and say my name.

'I love you.

'And you will love me.

'One day.'

The Working Man's Club

1

Simon drove the car back to Rottenhouse. He kept a window open so that cool air swept through the car. It was hot tonight, or maybe he was hot, burning with rage and fear and it seemed to take an age to reach Rottenhouse but eventually Simon pulled into the car park in the centre of the village and parked the car outside the club.

There were no other cars in the car park. There was no one milling around. A mist was rising and rolling in from the stream and Simon got out of the car and all around him was silent.

There were many lights on in the club. They invited Simon in. He had no weapons, only the torch and the lighter which wouldn't count for shit when it kicked off. Simon wished he could lie down and sleep, perhaps over there on the cool steps leading to the club. Maybe the mist would cover him and he would vanish for a little while and time would freeze; keeping his Lucy safe, but again Simon started to believe that whoever had taken Lucy didn't mean to harm her. She was taken for other reasons.

At 9-45 on that hot summer evening Simon walked up the stairs and opened the big door of the club. The light stung his eyes and for a moment he was blinded and then the blindness faded and he could see again. The lobby was empty and quiet and behind him the door slammed and echoed like booming thunder.

Simon opened the door to his right, where he had heard men playing snooker on his first night here and wasn't surprised to find the room deserted. He then walked over to the door to the bar and the door screeched when it opened but it didn't matter because the bar was devoid of life and not a drink was being drunk or a crisp being crunched.

'The lights are on but nobody's home.' Simon said.

Then there were footsteps behind him. Soft ones made by bare feet. There was something wet about them too. Simon turned to see who they belonged to and let the door to the bar close and then he stepped behind the small desk as if to protect himself.

A girl appeared from the stairs leading down to the basement. She was naked and her long dark hair was wet and clung to her head, neck and shoulders like paint, and as she turned the corner Simon couldn't see her face because the wet hair was covering it. She was tall and slender and had skin that had once been milky white but was now streaked with dirt and grime. Across her arms and legs were bright red blemishes that looked like marks from a whip and down her arms there were pot marks which looked red and sore, they looked like an addict's autograph. Her nipples were erect and she was physically shaking. There was something familiar about this girl, but he didn't know what.

'Follow me.' She said with a pretty little voice. A voice that didn't belong here.

'I don't want to.'

'But you have to. They are waiting for you. Please.'

'Who's waiting for me?'

'You'll see.' And the girl turned and headed back down the stairs where in his dreams all was dark and there were things down there that wanted to grab his feet and pull him down.

His legs went stiff, trying to fight every step taken, Simon headed over to the stairwell. His hands were clenched tight and he was sweating heavily. He could hear the little wet footsteps as they went down the concrete stairs and peeking around the corner the girl had stopped, waiting for him on the first landing before the stairs turned to the right and headed down to the basement.

'Come on.' She said and when Simon started down the stairs she started walking again; her wet hair reflecting the light like oil. Her buttocks wobbled slightly and a small cut on her right thigh oozed a little blood.

Reaching the landing Simon noticed that the paintings that had been on the walls were gone. There were lighter coloured patches of wallpaper where the paintings and frames had protected the wall and little lights shone down onto nothing. Below him the stairs led down but not into darkness like in his dream. What was down there was well lit and the girl was once again waiting at the bottom of the long stairway where a corridor led off out of Simons view. Her little footprints had left wet patches on the concrete and when he reached the bottom Simon found that he was standing in a small lobby, straight ahead was a long corridor and to his sides there were two rooms which had massive pad locks fixed to them. Everything was in a state of disrepair. Paint peeled off the walls, doors hung crookedly on busted frames and windows that peeked into dark rooms were either smashed or their glass had faded to an odd grey colour. The floor was tiled and was once the colour of clay but now it was dirty and smeared with filth and puddles of rank water. Water dripped from the ceiling and from pipes that ran along the walls. Electric cables were tacked in place and hung down like heavy spider webs. Down the corridor were six rooms; three on each side. All but one had their doors closed and they looked as if they hadn't been opened in a long time. The fluorescent lights which clung onto the ceiling with shoddy screws and plastic ties weren't doing a good job in lighting the far end of the corridor. There was a bright light coming from an open door and shadows danced on the floor there.

It was hot down here and he felt as damp and as dirty as the girl in front of him. He was close enough to her now that he could smell her. She smelt of the earth, a rich earthy stink like after a rain shower. There was sweetness there too, perhaps her natural scent that still lingered like a scar, and he knew that smell from the petrol station.

'Who are you?' He whispered but knew the answer.

'Nobody.' and then she headed off down the corridor and Simon felt both a twang of sympathy and a white hot rage at this young woman. And then her smell disappeared and his senses were filled with the real smell of this place and it didn't smell good and reminded him of the sex room he had been in up at the Rotten House.

He wished he had kept hold of the gun.

2

Her feet splashed in the puddles and bits of paint that had flaked off the walls stuck to her bare skin as she went down the corridor and when she reached the open door she turned and faced Simon and though she shuddered she stood still waiting for Simon like she had been ordered to do.

Hesitantly he walked toward the door and kept his eyes on the naked girl. He knew her, he was sure of it, but that was a minor issue right now. His heart was racing fast and he could hear each pump clearly in his ears. When he reached the open door the girl took a step back and gestured with a little nod to her left for him to enter.

The light in the room was harsh but not too bad. He could see everything clearly. Too clearly it seemed; colours jumped out at him, a bug on the wall had a leg missing and the table in the far corner had a book under one leg to keep it stable and stop the medicine jars and sharp tools from falling off. All this he saw but was forgotten as the real horror of the room was in its centre, tied to an old hospital gurney, and what was restrained there had eyes that were begging him for mercy but Simon didn't know why.

'Ah, good to see you, Simon. Glad you made it.' The Chairman said, and the man himself stepped from the shadows to Simon's side. He wore a fading black shirt with matching jeans. Around his waist was a rather ornate rope belt held in place by a fearsome looking buckle.

'Where's Lucy?' Simon asked Chairman but kept his eyes firmly on the man he knew that was restrained on the gurney.

Before he answered Chairman loosened the top button on his shirt and ran his hand through his greying hair. 'She's here and will be along shortly. We have other business to attend to first.'

'What are you going to do with Lewis?'

Chairman chuckled and placed a hand on Simon's shoulder which sent shivers racing across his body. 'I aint gonna do anything, Simon. You are. But not yet. Like I said, we have some other business to attend to first. Always work before pleasure and your work is nearly done.

'Take a seat, son.' Chairman pointed to an old wooden chair next to the table with the wonky leg but Simon refused the offer with a shake of his head and said in a voice that trembled. 'I prefer to stand.'

'Okay then, that's your choice.'

Chairman walked over to the gurney and lent against it so that Simon could no longer see Lewis lying there. He could still hear him though, and he moaned like the girl in the Rotten House had moaned and on both occasions Simon had been glad that they had had rags stuffed in their mouths because he didn't want to hear what they were moaning about.

'First, Simon, I must thank you for what yadid at the O'Hagan's place.'

'You know about that?'

'Of course.'

'Then why are you thankful? I killed 6 of your people and burned their farm to the ground. Pigs too.'

Chairman smiled, 'What's done is done, Simon. No one can change the past no matter how much we want too. You know the stories, Simon, what they got up too. At some point or other it were bound to happen, it just so happened to be you that were the one to do it. Heard you chopped off old Lud's head?'

Simon nodded but didn't answer and the room was quiet if only for a second or two. He pictured the body of the old man; slumped to one side, blood pouring from the grotesque neck wound he had caused. From memory he looked as if he were reaching over for something, perhaps scrabbling for his head that had rolled away and plopped down into the rushing cold water below.

'Hmm, guess he didn't see that coming.' Chairman said then continued. 'Anyway, secondly and more importantly, is that Barbara is okay. Safe and well. No marks, bumps or bruises.' He then added whilst winking, 'Untouched.' Which made Simon feel sick. Behind Chairman, Lewis moaned low and whimpered like a baby.

'So what is it you want with her?' Simon asked.

'It's not her we want.'

Simon noticed the empty gurney in the corner of the room. How he hadn't seen it when he walked here he didn't know. Though it could have something to do with the man restrained in the other gurney.

'I guess that only leaves me then.'

Chairman nodded.

Simon said, 'What do you want me for?' and his eyes looked over to the filthy gurney in the corner and Chairman's eyes followed his and Chairman chuckled to himself, another joke Simon wasn't a part of, and then his eyes were back on Simons.

'Oh, nothing like that my dear boy.'

'Then what for?'

'You'll see soon enough.' And Chairman fiddled with the rope tied around his trousers.

Simon tried to swallow and found it hard. 'You're not from around here, are you?'

Chairman pushed out his bottom lip and flared his nostrils. 'What makes you say that?'

'Well first off you don't talk like them. You have no accent and you pronounce most of the words correctly and haven't bastardized them so much that most of the time I haven't a sodding clue what anyone else is talking about. And you don't look like them.'

'Look like them?' Chairman repeated.

'Come on. You must have noticed it. It's not exactly a Paris catwalk up there. More like the arse end of Crufts.'

Chairman shook his head and looked confused. He reached over, to a small table that was by Lewis' restrained feet, took the pint glass from it and drank deep. When he had finished it, he offered some to Simon and his eyes were wide as if to say it's okay, just water.

Licking his lips, for he was parched, Simon took the glass and drained what was left and handed the glass back. Both men let out gassy belches though Simons had a little chunkiness to it that wasn't pleasant, and the hot sour taste stayed with him longer than he would have liked.

Lewis struggled a little and Chairman placed a hand on his bare, dirty foot and the restrained body flinched and then fell silent.

Chairman looked at his watch. 'Time flies,' and with a grin and then looked past Simon, to the girl that Simon knew but didn't know, who was still stood in the doorway behind them and said, 'Billie? Would you fetch Lucy and Bob please?'

3

Simon flicked his head back. The girl had turned away but Simon was quick enough to see that she was the same girl that had been in his dreams, in his nightmares. It only took Chairman to say the name for it to finally click in Simons head. And then it all came flooding down on top of him. She had pale skin but it hadn't always been pale. There were cuts on her back and down the backs of her legs. Deep cuts that had been stapled together, not stitched, so at first you couldn't really see them. She had been bled like a stuck pig, probably in the garage by the man that was restrained on the gurney right now. And then Simon remembered the needle marks on her arms, the ones he thought made her look like a junky but weren't from a heroine needle, they were from an intravenous needle; one that was needed to put back the blood that they had taken from her.

'You fucking animals.' Simon hissed, and he clenched his hands to fists and turned to face Chairman whose face was a sea of calm.

'Perhaps, but evil is a tenacious and persistent stain that transcends death. Am I to be blamed for what I have become?'

'She's just a girl.'

'Like the girl you killed today.'

'Fuck youyou cunt. I put her out of her misery. But you lot act as if you are judge, jury and executioner all rolled up into one. Why, just why do you do it?'

4

'Because we can, Simon. Because we want what's best for our town and we do all that we can to make sure it stays safe. Since the day I was welcomed into this village I have strived to that end. There has been trouble, nonces, killers, and pig fuckers, but they don't last long. We weed emout, like black fly on a cabbage leaf. Since you've been here you have seen that. It might not have been to your liking but nonetheless you can see why we do it and once you have the why then the reasoning becomes self-evident.

'Take the girl there; she came here with another girl, all tits and arse hanging out. They camped by the river, just by the lumberjacks place and were here for a few weeks, Billie there even found work in the garage on the edge of town. They held hands around village and cuddled whilst eating ice creams under the shade of the blessed willow trees. We knew what they were up to at night laying naked together under their woollen blankets and it aint right so we crept up on them one night, and though we didn't catch them, we knew what they were up too and so made sure they couldn't do it again.'

Simon said, 'You cut her up and bled her dry by the looks of things. That's not dealing with an issue.'

'What you see is only the outer shell of Rottenhouse. Both girls were put to better uses.'

'Better uses?'

'Well yes, Simon. The doctor has to practice on something.'

5

Simon jumped up from the chair and flung it against the far wall. 'You know what, fuck this. You lot are insane. You can gift wrap it and tie it in a bow but to me all I see are a bunch of killers. Now I'm taking Lucy and I am getting the fuck out of here. If you come near me, or her, I'm going to tear your fucking head off. You got that?'

Chairman half raised his hands in the air surrendering. 'You aren't going anywhere.' And he lowered his hands and took a step forward. Simon hadn't anticipated this and was unsure what to do. He took a step back but was near the back wall and if not careful would be cornered. Back at O'Hagan's place it had felt easier. Simon had been full of adrenaline and it had all been on the spur of the moment. Here there was no moment. There was no adrenaline, and to top it off he had no axe or a gun and he really wished he had kept that gun.

'Best you calm down, Simon, before you make a mistake and I have to take matters into my own hands.' Chairman took another step forward and puffed out his chest and lifted himself up as if to show his dominance much like old man Lud had done back on the bridge before Simon hacked his head off.

And then Lewis, perhaps seeing that Simon needed a little help or maybe it was just that he was in pain and was scared, moaned and whimpered and tried to break free causing the gurney to pitch and heave and squeak across the floor. The noise of it filled Simon's ears and it stung. But Simon was grateful, and as Chairman turned to see what was going on Simon took the opportunity to lunge forward; aiming for the neck and head with his trusty right hand.

This time though the swung right fist of red knuckles found nothing but air as Chairman gracefully ducked the punch, his cloak flapping about like a murder of crows. Simon teetered on the verge of falling but rescued himself, but there wasn't time to unleash another flapping punch as with seemingly very little effort Chairman grabbed Simon by the arms so that Simon was stood there to attention, arms by his side, and heaved him up leaving his shoes dangling a foot off the ground. Simon looked down to Chairman and Chairman looked up to him with a deep dirty grin of mastery upon his face and Simon tried to struggle free but his feet dangled and the grip became tighter. It was so tight that even his legs were unable to kick out for that was the only real opportunity Simon saw. He cried out in pain and desperation and that cry turned into a roar which burned his already sore throat.

'Let him go, please, Mr Chairman.' A woman's voice. It was a voice Simon felt like he hadn't heard in years.

The grip loosened and Simon fell to the floor, the tops of his arms throbbing with pain and his throat thick with phlegm. His mind swam and his legs felt like jelly. A familiar hand reached down and ran her fingers through his hair. In the background there was a screeching of rubber but Simon could only look at the floor and let the woman continue stroking his hair as he sat there cross legged. It was for only a minute that Lucy did this but in that minute Simon was transported back home, to when he was young and ill with fever and to how his mother used to run her hands through his hair with her soft white hands and it made him feel better even though the fever remained and his legs were stiff and crooked. Those magic hands. Healing hands.

But then Simon heard Bob and Chairman speak and Lucy's soft hands stopped caressing him and he was reminded of his father and how his rough hands had many times touched him. Forceful hands. Nasty hands. Dirty hands. Simon came too and looked up at the woman he loved. She seemed unharmed, clean, and Simon thought that an odd thing. Bob and Chairman continued talking but Simon didn't pay them any attention. He pulled Lucy down to him and whispered into her ear, 'Are you alright?'

She nodded but didn't look him straight in the eye. She was looking elsewhere.

'We have to get out of here. Now.'

That's when Lucy looked down and he saw that she wasn't Lucy anymore and that she had changed and those eyes that were still the same colour they always had been were narrower, darker, and not the same shade of blue they used to be. Her face was fatter, rounder, and not the familiar shape he was used to. Even her clothes were different, older, plainer and not tight fitting.

'We're not going anywhere.' Barbara said, and hoisted Simon to his feet; carefully, oh so very carefully.

6

'And now the work begins in earnest.' Chairman said. He and Bob were stood either side of the gurney which was restraining Lewis and they shared a joke that Simon didn't want to know. The gurney that had been in the corner was now on Chairman's left and the naked girl, Billie, it's Billie, was laid upon it, un-restrained, with her arms outstretched and her feet entwined like the crucified Jesus. At least there wasn't anything leaking out of her, Simon thought to himself, but it was a shitty consolation prize.

The air in the room grew hot and stale and Simons breathing became erratic. He went to hold Lucy's hand, remembered maddeningly that she wasn't Lucy anymore and pulled his hand away, but she grabbed it before he could place it by his side and they held hands together like they had done after the first time they had made love.

'You want to marry this woman, Simon?' Chairman asked.

'Yes, I do.' Simon said through gritted teeth.

'And the father is happy with this?'

Simon looked to Bob and Bob looked back at him. 'Aye.' Bob said, and Chairman smiled. Lucy's hand that was holding Simons tightened ever so and Simon turned his head but saw nothing but her once beautiful profile.

'Barbara. You wish to marry this man? An outsider? And then have your marital home here in Rottenhouse?'

'Yes. With all my heart.'

'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' Simon pulled his hand away from Lucy's and stepped back with his hands in the air. 'What are you talking about, marital home?'

'Simon, please.' Lucy pleaded, and when she looked at him there were tears welling in her eyes.

'Kyle was right.' Simon muttered.

'What?' Bob asked.

'Kyle. He left a message. Said that the house, the studio, all of it was up for sale. I didn't believe him. I can't do this. I have to go.'

'Simon,' Lucy grabbed both of Simon's hands and she held them both tight even though Simons were limp and she raised them close to her bosom and he could feel the heat rising from her. 'Please, it's for the best. It's what I want. It's what we need to do. If you love me, then just listen, please.'

Simon nodded and Lucy nodded but hers was to the Chairman so that he would continue.

'Then you know what must be done. Barbara, you must go first.'

'Simon?' She whispered, like she did late at night when she wanted her itch scratched. 'Look at me.' And he looked at her like she said and she was Lucy again. His Lucy.

'I love you,' she said and he believed her.

'With all my heart I love you and want to be with you, here, with my family, your new family.'

'But I can't live here with these people, Luce. With that other you.'

'Sshh.' Lucy put a finger to his mouth and her eyes dug deep into his and he was lost in them like he always was. She owned him, pure and simple, and it weakened him further realising that even here, surrounded by death and decay, he still wanted to be with her.

'It's going to be alright, Sausage. 5 minutes and it will all be over and we will be together with no more lies and secrets and bullshit. Trust me.'

Simon did trust her and he kissed her finger as she took it away but he had no idea that that finger was attached to a hand and that hand to an arm and that arm to a body and that body to a soul that could carry out such an action that she was about to do.

7

Lucy turned and walked slowly to her father who she kissed on the cheek. She did the same to Chairman but added a thank you before she moved herself so that she was side onto Lewis who moaned when he saw what Simon saw in her eyes; there was murder in her stare.

Lucy reached below the gurney and grabbed hold of a long sharp knife and she looked at it first as if she had never seen a knife before and this was the first sharp thing she had ever seen. She twisted her head, mouthed I love you to Simon, took in a big gulp of air and then plunged the knife into Lewis' chest. The rag in his mouth subdued most of the scream but there was enough there to know that Lucy hadn't done a good enough job and sensing this she pulled the knife free and twice more plunged it into the prone Lewis and within a matter of seconds he was dead and his blood covered the gurney, the floor and Lucy.

During all this Simon had been screaming but he didn't know he was doing it. His hands were covering his face but not his eyes and he could see that both Bob and Chairman were wearing smiles like kids on Christmas Day. They had little trickles blood down their clothing but to them it mattered not, and that was when the wave finally pulled him under and with that wave came everything that Simon feared. All at once it was found out that he had killed his father, that he had set the fire and tied his father to the chair in which he had been his most dirtiest in and from afar watched him burn. It was discovered that he had lied to the police about the fire and that a man was put in prison for a crime that he didn't commit and was still there; rotting in a cell that should have been Simons. Lucy then discovered that he had cheated on her with Kyles sister three months into their relationship when it was getting to real for him and he didn't know what to do even though he was sure that he wanted to be with her but that stupid manly urge had gotten the better of him and he had to stick his dick in a willing hole just to prove that he could do it. She found out about the child he put in the woman's belly and the child that she terminated with a pill from the clinic. But the worst truth, the one that was the difference in everything that he had done and would do was that he needed Lucy. Without her he would be lost and useless and nothing. None of them in that room knew of these secrets, all except Simon thought those things in the seconds after Lucy had murdered Lewis to prove her love for him and her love for Rottenhouse. And now he had a choice. Live a life with her, away from everything that he had accomplished, for that was what she had planned for him, or walk away and face the consequences of his actions.

9

Lucy placed the knife in the hands of Chairman. Lewis' blood covered everything it touched. Lucy then stood by Simon's side but did not make an effort to comfort him or look at him or ask him what he felt. Her silence was in praise of what she had done.

'And now to you the final act, Simon. Take the knife and show your love to the woman you want to marry. Show us what this place means to you. End the girls troubles and then live the rest of your days with the woman you love surrounded by those that love and care for you.' Chairman said and held out the knife to Simon; blood dripped from the tip of the blade and joined the puddles of red gore on the floor.

Simon walked over to Chairman. He could kill them. It would be simple. The knife was there, right there in front of him. He could take it up and with one swift motion could stab it into the Chairman's chest without him even seeing it coming. Bob might put up a struggle but Simon had dealt with worse today.

Then his troubles would be over. But would they really be over or just beginning?

Before taking the blade and letting instinct make the decision for him he looked at Lucy - that would if he married become Barbara, and saw all that he loved and wanted and needed right there not five 5 away, covered in blood and panting hard.

Chairman and Bob were breathing hard too and only Billie, who was still lying on the gurney with a lifeless stare etched onto her face, remained calm. For Simon the world stopped moving then, time ceased to exist in that room under the old Working Man's Club that was once an asylum for the criminally insane and a place where doctors carried out evil and un-Godly acts upon those who couldn't defend themselves. It was one of those doctors who'd actually said Evil is a tenacious and persistent stain that transcends death. Am I to be blamed for what I have become? and in time Simon believed that you couldn't be blamed for something that you had no control over, that life had a way of flushing out the chaff from the pure. Simon took hold of the knife and held it so that the sharp end was pointed directly at Chairman. Simons hand was shaking, his whole body shuddered and he lifted the knife and plunged it deep into the soft pale flesh.

10

Billie didn't have a rag in her mouth and whatever drug she had been sedated with released its numbing grip upon her and she screamed a bloody scream which filled the room and echoed around the many walls of the Working Man's Club. Not satisfied, Simon stabbed the girl until the breath was not only taken from her but from him too, and he fell to the floor caring not that the blood from Lewis and from Billie was covering him from head to foot. Some small piece of life was still in Billie, perhaps her brain was still active, and her left leg twitched. Simon looked away, threw up hot chunks of nothing, and by the time he looked back to the gurney the girl had stopped twitching and the woman he had seen killed in his dreams was now dead by his own hand.

Soft fingers returned to his hair. There was a screeching of wet rubber on tile as the gurneys were taken away by men Simon didn't know, but the soft caressing hands still curled through his wet hair.

'Barbara.' Simon said, and so he became a man of Rottenhouse.

Epilogue – Home Sweet Home

Simon ripped the sign that had bugged him for the last 18 months down from the tree. The old sign fell to the floor and smashed into two pieces. Simon glanced to the place a tree once stood which had had a red X painted on it and saw nothing but a dead stump and then remembered the roaring fire that he had made after he had cut that tree down. That had been a good day. He could hear the river in the distance, the river he had once pissed into after ridding Rottenhouse of a filth that had festered for far too long. He didn't hate that river anymore. It was as much a part of him as his own heart.

Nailing the new sign to the tree he was reminded of the hundreds of nails he had used when building his new house. A house built out of his and Barbara's dreams. A babies laughter from somewhere near the lake reminded Simon that the house he had built was now filled with childish dreams and his heart beat a little faster and he smiled a wide smile knowing that in an hour or so he would receive a hug from his little Margaret. Once the sign was in place and sturdy, Simon took a step back. It was much like the sign that was smashed on the floor. One arrow pointed to the left; to The Quick and The Deep. The other arrow, the one that pointed to the right, was now marked with one word: Rowling.

Simon looked at his watch and saw that he was already late. He picked up the two pieces of wood and walked with pace back to his newly built home. He walked through the forest that he had once believed witches and trolls and dragons once lived in and couldn't help but laugh as he walked past buttercups and daisies and bluebells which were in full bloom.

He reached the bridge and like he always did as he crossed it he stepped over the dark red stain where old man Lud had died and then glanced into the water below just to make sure the head wasn't there.

On the other side of the bridge Barbara was stood with her arms crossed. She looked unhappy but playfully so. Simon had promised to be back for 1. It was now half past that hour and even though he was the man of the house he didn't kid himself and besides, what man is truly the man of the house these days? Simon stopped before fully crossing the bridge and admired the woman that was stood before him; her full bosom and plump stomach were made all that more rounded by the blue and white checked dress she wore. She had a round fat face and sunken eyes. His Barbara was far removed from the wretch he had met in that ghastly red dress all those years ago. How thankful he was for the woman she was now. He thought then that later tonight he would have her over the kitchen table like Mr Rowling had once told him about.

Sensing that in him she smiled and cupped her breasts with both hands.

'You'll get me front door and me back door if yawin tonight?'

'Win? What you talking of Mrs Rowling?'

Barbara took her hands away from her breasts and walked the rest of the way so that she was stood next to her husband. She wrapped her fat arms about him and looked up into his eyes and Simon looked down into hers.

'You would die of starvation in a pie shop, Mr Rowling. Tonight is voting night. Dad put yaforward, remember?'

And Simon did remember, and his guts churned a little at the thought of it. 'Oh yeah, I forgot about that.'

'Forgot about it.' Barbara said mimicking him, and as she pulled away from him she made sure to keep her hands on his sweaty chest. 'Christ alive, Simon, it's not every day you are put forward to be Chairman. Now come inside and have yer lunch before it gets any colder.'

Simon took Barbara's hand and they walked together up to their new home built on the foundation of the house that Simon had razed to the ground wSimonh fire. He walked past the pigs and their pigsties and whispered to them to shush as when one started they all went crazy and it drove him mad. He loved those pigs though, especially when it came to market day.

And when he past the pigs and the pigsties he looked up at the house that he had built with the help of the men from Rottenhouse and smiled and took in a deep breath that filled his nose with the smell of fresh wood, tar, and lavender, and Simon said 'Home sweet home' and the pigs behind him snorted as if in agreement and continued on eating the bones of a man that had broken the rules he Simon would soon be charged in keeping.

The End

