Rottenhouse

By Ian Dyer

Think you've got the in-laws from hell?
Guess again...

Simon has travelled to Rottenhouse because he wants to marry Lucy. To do so he must get permission from her father; a man neither of them have seen in years.

Rottenhouse, a village set deep in the valleys of North Yorkshire, is old and spoiled. A place where outsiders aren't welcome and secrets lay stagnant. The rolling green hills and sapphire blue rivers are a world away from the concrete maze of Simon's city life. In the centre of the village, nestled deep within the valley walls, stands the Working Mans Club where generations of men have sat and drank not caring what the outside world has to offer.

From the moment Simon steps foot into Rottenhouse and sees a dark red liquid seeping from behind a garage door, Simon's life will never be the same again and his dreams will become living nightmares.

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Dyer
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310634086

Ian Dyer

What to write here..... Well I am English, I am in my thirties, a child of the eighties, though I really grew up in the nineties. An inhaler of books from an early age, though my eyes were blinkered so that I only saw the main stream books and not the off piste works that I have come to love. European authors offer so much more, I quickly learned that books don't have to have starts and middles and ends and plots and twists and smoking guns and all that jazz. A good story, well written, is all a book needs. So that's what I try and do. I write what I enjoy, I do not conform to what the people want, what's the point in that? I have learnt that this world in which we live in, this authors world, is hard, unforgiving, and full of negativity. It is full of people telling you to change this and change that, to make it fit into this genre, or to that genre, and to write this type of book for these types of people. If, in the past, writers had undergone that type of scrutiny, then we wouldn't have the likes of Selby, Burroughs, Asimov, Palanuik, Steinbeck and many more. Anyway, that's my bio. Either read my stuff or don't. To me the joy comes from writing, not from reading peoples blinkered approach to what they think writing should be.

Book preview

Rottenhouse

Ian Dyer

This book is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. If you enjoyed this book then please encourage others to purchase their own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors work. ©

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