Rottenhouse (8 page)

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.