Rottenhouse by Ian Dyer

you end up rolled in a ditch
wondering how the hell you got there. Worse still, you end up
ploughing into someone, or someone’s. Surely, Mr Rowling, even
here, you know that it’s illegal. Please see some sense would
ya.’
    Mr Rowling’s head jerked a little and
even though he was in shadow, Simon could tell that his face was
wrinkled into a snarl.
    Quickly, as if to take back what he had
said, Simon whispered, ‘Not sense, Mr…’
    ‘ Sense?’ Mr Rowling
interrupted with, ‘Sense? Sense is you getting into the car and
keeping quiet. Against law. Ha! I’ll show ya Simon. There aint no
amount of beer that can hinder me at madriving.’
    Since when did this become a
challenge?
    ‘ Let me drive.
Please.’
    ‘ Just get in car.’ Mr
Rowling put the key into the door lock and there was a clunk as all
the doors unlocked and he opened his driver’s door and calmly got
into the Cortina.
    Simon took a deep breath, regretting
that he opened his stupid mouth, and got into the car making sure
he put on his seatbelt; checking that it was locked into place and
tight; three times over.
    ‘ Against the law.’ Mr
Rowling whispered and shook his head in utter disgust. ‘Wait till
the guys here that one, shit themselves with laughter they
will.’
     
    7
     
    So, on that chilly summer night, under
a creamy gossamer moonlit glow, Mr Rowling drove his car home with
a look of complete smugness etched upon his face as he guided the
car from bend to bend, crest to crest. He even dipped his lights as
he reached the junctions, like he had on the journey up to the
club, and each time he did this he turned to Simon, a wry grin on
his face and he rolled his eyes in a comical over the top
gesture.
    ‘ Drink driving, my
arse.’ He would mutter to himself.
    Simon had expected a running commentary
from the old soak but he was quiet; apart from an odd chuckle here
and there. Only the roar of the engine and the wind blowing over
the car could be heard. Simon wished that he could lean forward and
rip that chuckle right out of Mr Rowling’s throat. Probably best
that he didn’t though.
     
    8
     
    With a bump over the curb and a squeal
from the brakes Mr Rowling brought the car to a complete stop in
exactly the same place it had been prior to them leaving. Simon
took off his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Mr Rowling
followed suit and locked the car checking each door was tightly
shut and locked before heading toward his stony cottage.
    Before opening the front door he turned
to Simon. ‘Made it home safe and sound. Didn’t plough into anyone
or end up in a ditch.’
    You mocking twat. Fuck you. And fuck
your stupid smug face.
    Simon nodded but didn’t say anything; a
fake grin taints his features.
    Mr Rowling stepped forward. Placed his
hands by his side and leant into Simon. He was close enough so that
Simon could smell the beer on his breath; see the whites of his
eyes as they bore into his own, down into his mind and then further
down into what felt like was his soul and they looked about there
for something. They tore away at his innards, tossing them aside
without care. Memories of Simons past, his loves, what he lost, his
faults and his dreams flew past his eyes in a second; each one
bringing a new set of emotions be they good or bad and Mr Rowling’s
eyes searched, hunted, wanted for something in Simon.
    But they found nothing.
    ‘ Aye, thought so.’ Mr
Rowling said and shook his head, turned, opened the door and walked
into the glow of his hallway.

 
    Like a Limp
Rag

    1
     
    Mr Rowling had hung his coat up and
headed off upstairs to bed leaving Simon alone in the kitchen.
Simon poured himself a cup of water and drank it. The water was
different up here, it tasted better than that bottled water stuff
and he poured another cup of it and drank deeply. The liquid was
cold; really cold, but good. He took in a few deep breaths leaning
heavily on the worktop.
    Sleep called for him.
Begged for him to come and play. So Simon