Rottenhouse (2 page)

‘
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.