Free Rottenhouse by Ian Dyer Page A

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.
    But there was one thing that troubled
him and it only really occurred to him now when he had a moment to
get his thoughts back together. He turned to Mr Rowling and not
caring who he interrupted or what the conversation was actually
about he asked, ‘What the hell did Stevie do?’
    ‘ Broke rules.’ Mr
Rowling replied in that stone cold, flat tone, as he stared into
his pint and then taking a gulp he turned to Simon. ‘Break rules,
you pay the price round here. No time for trouble makers,
Simon.’
    ‘ So, what did he
do?’
    The pint glass was placed on the table,
the other men that sat around were paying no attention to Simon nor
Mr Rowling; they were much to pre-occupied with a rather tall and
skinny man that had just walked into the club.
    ‘ Just the folly of
youth, is all, Simon. Now leave it be, you aint gonna understand,
not until you have spent some more time here.’
    The tall and skinny man, wearing blue
jeans and a long wax jacket greeted each of the men around the
table with a handshake and a nod. When he reached Mr Rowling he
shook his hand with both of his, cupping them as if it was a goblet
of the finest red wine.
    ‘ Good tasee ya, Bob.
How’s it been?’ The skinny man’s voice was soft and he was well
spoken. It belied his age.
    ‘ Can’t complain, Phil.
Can’t complain. Its good tasee yatoo. Looking well.’
    Their hands separated.
    Phil continued, ‘Feeling good to. The
Mrs has me fed well and the Doc’s pills are doin the trick. Can’t
say that for Stevie Johnson though. Just saw him stumbling through
square. Needed another lesson, did he?’
    ‘ Aye.’
    ‘ What fer?’
    ‘ What it’s always fer
when they get too big fer their boots.’
    Phil nodded and continued to pay Simon
no attention what so ever.
    ‘ Hopefully though,’ Mr
Rowling continued, ‘that’s the last time he forgets his place.
Anyways, tell barkeep to put beer on me tab; yours and his. I know
you aint had a good crop.’
    ‘ It’s not crop that’s
the problem, Bob, it me blinking cattle. Got some kind a scratching
bug, they have. Riddled weit they is. Vets gonna give em a jab
wisomink or other but none will be fit fer market. Not this
year.’
    Mr Rowling offered a consoling shake of
his head. ‘Probably that bloody factory over in Brook. Since that
been there all sorts of folk been falling ill. And now yer
cattle.’
    ‘ Probably, Bob. But
what can we do?’
    ‘ Nowt. For now at
least. Anyway, go get yer drink and have a night.’
    Phil headed off towards the bar.
    ‘ Now there’s a good
man, Simon. One of the best.’ Mr Rowling took up his pint and in
one large, world consuming gulp, drained it, leaving a white frothy
residue on the sides of the glass.
    Simon nodded and for the rest of the
night, until he said his farewells to the men of the Rottenhouse
Working Man’s Club, he was as silent as the grave.
     
    6
     
    Mr Rowling was the better side of
drunk. He had consumed around six pints of the finest ale known to
the folks of Rottenhouse and he wobbled out of the club saying his
goodbyes as he went.
    Simon was sober. Stone cold sober.
Since poor Stevie had been beaten half near to death he hadn’t felt
the urge to drink. The pint he had gotten himself just after the
episode was the last he had drunk and even though he could feel the
eyes of the men in the club upon him, judging him, wondering why
this bloke isn’t draining pint after pint as if there was no
tomorrow (and probably confirming what they all thought – that all
southerners are softies and can’t handle their beer) he made it
last the rest of the night.
    Simon couldn’t get the image of Stevie
stood up, waiting for his punishment like a boy stood waiting in
the line for a penalty,