Sker House (10 page)

“I mean sometimes, death, sorrow, misery. It pollutes a place. Affects it.”

“So you're saying Sker House is... polluted?”

Old Rolly tipped his head to one side. “For want of a better word, yes. And I don't just mean that the bloody sea is full of rubbish. Which it is, by the way. The Mumbles Lifeboat Disaster wasn't exactly the first tragedy to befall this place.”

Dale was suddenly excited. At last! This was what he needed for his article. First-hand knowledge, real-life accounts, not just sanitised tourist stories that anyone could pull off the web. He suddenly wished he had brought his Dictaphone with him, or at least his notebook and pencil. No matter. He would commit as much as he could to memory, and make notes later. “There have been other... disasters?”

“Many more, son. More than you can imagine. Not all as famous as the Mumbles Lifeboat, but a lot of terrible things have happened in and round these walls.” Then, the old man said something that gave Dale chills. “In some places, evil lurks.”

“It does?”

The old man sipped his pint and wiped froth from his moustache. “Absolutely. Did you stop to wonder what that ship was doing there? It was way off course. The seas around here are dangerous. Ships and boats have always taken care when traversing the shipping lanes. The Samtampa's course should have taken it well clear of the Black Rocks. But for some reason, it didn't. It was almost like it was drawn here.”

“Maybe the wind, the current...”

“Yes, maybe. That's what I told myself, son. But the captain was no fool. He was an experienced seaman. I'm willing to wager that he had survived worse conditions. He'd probably travelled these same waters many times and came away unscathed. It's this place, Sker. I don't know whether it's tainted because of all the tragedy, or whether the tragedies happen because it is tainted. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? I don't bloody know. But I'll tell you something else. Something I haven't told anyone in a very long time.”

“What?”

“I saw something else that night. I know I wasn't the only one, because it was the talk of the playground the next day.”

“What did you see?” Dale prompted.

There was a long pause, then the man said, “Lights. We saw lights on the beach.”

Dale frowned, unable to grasp the significance. Lights on the beach? What could that mean? He wanted to hear more. He wanted to hear everything. But the conversation was cut short when Old Rolly suddenly stood up, yawned, and without another word sauntered out of the room, leaving the fresh pint of dark ale untouched on the table next to his neatly-folded old newspaper. Dale watched him leave, wondering what to make of their exchange.

In some places, evil lurks...

Was he unhinged? Deliberately trying to scare the new guests? Or did he really believe that this little part of South Wales was some kind of breeding ground for bad luck and general nastiness? The old man had seemed so rational and sincere. Either he was an exceptional liar, or he really believed what he was saying.

Just then, Izzy appeared from the kitchen, accompanied by an older, stern-looking woman who was undoubtedly her mother. They both looked flustered and red-faced, and were still wiping their hands on paper towels even as they bustled around each other. “Right then, that's us done!” said the older woman.

“Okay ladies, drive safe.” Replied Machen, but he was too late. The door had already closed. Obviously, Izzy wasn't the only one in a hurry.

Dale took a large double swallow of beer and watched through the window as the two women practically ran to the little Nova in the car park and jumped inside. Mrs Watkins started the engine and pulled off so quickly that the passenger side door was still partially open forcing Izzy to reach out a skinny arm to pull it closed. He didn't know about evil, but paranoia and slightly bizarre behaviour definitely lurked in Sker House. Machen, Old Rolly, even Izzy and her mum were all on edge and permanently jumpy, as if just waiting for something terrible to happen. Every smile seemed forced, worn just to keep up appearances, yet beneath the façade everyone was falling to pieces.

But Dale had never met any of these people before. Maybe this was normal behaviour for them, and him being an outsider and not attuned to their living habits and mannerisms was causing him to misinterpret the whole situation. Perhaps he was the flaky one. It crossed his mind that he was making everyone nervous by asking too many questions. He should tone it down and not make his intentions so obvious. But isn't that what people do, ask questions? Isn't that how conversations start and relationships develop?

“I wouldn't take too much notice about whatever Old Rolly says.” Machen had evidently finished his work behind the bar and taken a seat right next to Dale. “He's a nice fella, really. But he's not playing with a full deck, that one. If you know what I mean, like. Don't let anything he says worry you.”

“I'm not worried,” Dale said, taking another large gulp of beer. “If he doesn't like Stephen King, that's his lookout.”

“Who?”

“Nothing,” Dale said. “What's the story with him, anyway?” Damn. There he goes asking questions again. It was a hard habit to break.

Machen seemed happy to answer that particular query. “A bit of a mystery is Old Rolly,” he said. “The guy will just sit in here reading old newspapers and supping his ale, not speaking a word to anyone. We just leave him to it. He pays his bills on time. Can't ask for much more that that.”

“No, I s'pose not. It's just a bit sad to see. Does he have any family around here?”

“I reckon with you being from the Valley's and that, you know all about what small towns are like for gossip.”

Dale nodded. He knew.

“Rolly comes from money, he does. So they say. Though you'd never think it to look at him. I don't know about any family. He never talks about them. But I know they've lived in the area for donkey's years. The day after we opened, he turned up on the doorstep with a suitcase and asked if he could stay here. Long term. Now me, I like the idea of live-in guests, I do. Even if it's only one. Gives you some regular income you can work into the budget, see. We offered him a discount, but the silly sod wouldn't have any of it. Said he'd always paid his way in life and wasn't going to stop now. I think he was a bit embarrassed 'cos we might have thought he was a charity case. Fair enough. Pay full price if it makes you feel better, I thought. We wasn't going to argue with him about it.”

“Who's we? You, Izzy and her mum?”

“No, me and the wife, Sandra. She was here then. Izzy and Mrs Watkins came later, after we advertised in the paper for staff. Had a hell of a problem finding people to work here, we did. Don't know why. Must be 'cos it's a bit out of the way. The wife was worried Old Rolly was going to come here and get sick. He's knocking on a bit, like. She didn't want the responsibility of looking after him. Said the place would turn into a nursing home if many more like him turned up, and she wasn't a nurse.” The landlord thirstily drained his glass.

Dale wanted to ask where Machen's wife was, but stopped himself. Hadn't he mentioned something about her earlier? Something about her being... away? But where could she be? Surely she wasn't away on business, her business was here. On holiday, perhaps? He didn't want to jump to conclusions. The absent wife could be anywhere. But something about the landlord's demeanour and downcast eyes suggested that wherever she was, she wouldn't be coming back in a hurry.

“More beer, is it?” Asked Machen as he lumbered off toward the bar.

“I shouldn't. Lucy's on her own upstairs”

“We're all on our own, son. Don't worry, she'll be fast asleep by now, I reckon. Go on, one for the road, eh? Or the stairs. One for the stairs? It's my round.”

That was the clincher. Nobody in their right mind ever walked away when it was someone else's round. It was also a subtle indication that the landlord didn't find Dale quite as annoying as he'd first feared. Realizing that it could be in his best interests, Dale agreed to stay.

Even on Saturday nights at the Saint when things got rowdy, with the football crowd either celebrating or drowning their sorrows, Dale had never seen anyone drink so much in such a short space of time as Machen did that night. When he poured Dale's pint of beer he poured himself two, and finished them both before Dale could finish even half of his. When his two pints of beer were dispensed with, Machen went behind the bar and helped himself to a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses. That was Dale's cue to leave. Whisky didn't agree with him. When he said good night and slipped quietly out of the bar, he noticed the landlord was already busy pouring himself another drink.

Chapter 8:

All The Eggs in One Basket

Sandra, Sandra, Sandra. The name of his absent wife repeated in Machen's head over and over again, as if caught on some broken tape loop. Scowling, he threw back his head and drained the last of the JD from his glass, then coughed and winced as he swallowed back the sour-tasting bile that filled his mouth.

She's gone. Get over it.

But it wasn't that easy. The sense of loss he felt was an almost physical yearning, a huge dimensionless void deep inside him. Every moment was a struggle to keep from being drawn in. He would give anything to go back to the way things were, before they came to Sker House, knowing all the while that it was impossible.

They had first met in 1976, the year Wales won the Grand Slam with the group of players known as the 'Entertainers,'
who would become the benchmark for all future Welsh national rugby teams. By the time Wales won their next Grand Slam two years later (which would be their last for a while) Machen and Sandra were married and living in a two-bedroom terraced house in Bridgend. In those days they had a happy and stable life, with barely a crossed word. After a short stint down the pits, Machen worked for a succession of breweries that sent him to different pubs all over South Wales, never staying in any one place longer then two or three years. This was the lifestyle they enjoyed for the next thirty-odd years. But then people started buying their booze in supermarkets rather than the pub, and Machen was astute enough to realize that their days in the publican trade were numbered. He and Sandra discussed their next move at length, and decided to finally put their dream of running their own guesthouse into motion. After that, it was simply a case of consolidating their savings and waiting for the right opportunity.

Not long afterwards, Sker House went on the market and Machen and Sandra bought it at auction. There wasn't much in the way of rival bidders, which should have been a red flag, and they ended up with a fairly good deal. Even then it was a huge financial undertaking, but between their savings, a council grant, and a small business loan, they could just about scrape together enough. However, having put all their eggs in one basket, Sker House then represented the entire sum of their wealth. It was the embodiment of their dreams. They didn't know at that early stage that those dreams would soon turned to nightmares.

Things changed the moment they moved in. Though 'moved in' wasn't exactly the right term. Sker House was in such a decrepit state that they lived in a tiny two-berth caravan on the grounds for the first six months, while various contractors worked on the roof and structure in order to make the place liveable again. In those early days, there was a lot of stress. At the same time, however, Machen felt empowered with a sense of freedom he had never known before. In a roundabout way, he was finally fulfilling his childhood fantasy of becoming a gypsy, even if he didn't travel very far. Thinking about it, Machen realised that he had been a gypsy all his life. Never settling in one place, always restless, and dragging poor Sandra along for the ride. The only thing missing until then had been the caravan.

It's a cliché, but the moment they took the plunge, whatever could go wrong did go wrong. First, there was all the unforeseen legal stuff that Machen didn't fully understand, but paid blood-sucking solicitors ridiculous amounts of money to deal with on his behalf. On top of that, or maybe because of that, he and Sandra's relationship began to disintegrate and they started arguing over the smallest things. Their money was being frittered away, yet so much work still needed to be done. To save a few quid, Machen shopped around for the cheapest building firm, eventually settling on a group largely comprised of Eastern European immigrants and fronted by an unpleasant cockney geezer called Dave.

He should have known something was off with Dave from the start. He could talk his way out of a paper bag, that one. Is that the right saying? Anyway, hindsight is a wonderful thing, and being in the pub game for so long had taught Machen that you don't have to like someone to do business with them. The two parties agreed on a price and Dave put his crew to work, though he disappeared back to the Big Smoke the minute the cheque cleared leaving a foreman in charge who could barely speak English. Despite lacking communication skills (and possibly work visa's) the crew threw themselves into the job. At first, anyway. They opted to live on site, sleeping in what was now the bar area on the ground floor, which meant that early each morning Machen and Sandra were rudely awoken by the sounds of men at work. Not that it mattered. It was the sound of progress.

Not having much else to do, Machen and Sandra would regularly visit with the workmen. Trying to decipher their broken English was a challenge Sandra relished, and the visits allowed Machen to oversee the work. Or at least give that impression. The motley crew of workers actually seemed like a decent bunch of blokes when you got to know them. Not the kind you would want to meet in a dark alley, mind. In between ripping up floorboards and smashing down walls, they would smile and show off pictures of their families. In the first few weeks, they were actually running ahead of schedule. But then, something changed. Almost overnight, the smiling bunch of friendly ruffians turned into solemn caricatures of themselves. They stopped talking and laughing, instead going about their work methodically and without any measure of enthusiasm. The only verbal indication that something was amiss came when one of them once mumbled something about not being able to get enough sleep at night. At the time, Machen didn't pay it much thought but soon after, things really degenerated. Either because the men were overworked, inexperienced, or simply because they fell into some weird malaise, they started having accidents. One of the younger lads fell off a ladder on the fourth floor and broke both his legs, while another came out on the losing end after a run-in with a nail gun.