Rottenhouse (27 page)

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.