Sker House by C.M. Saunders Page B

out his little chief, which was usually quite sweaty by that time, and rub it on the rim of their glass. Then he would fill it with their chosen brew, and hand it over to them with a big smile. Only the truly stupid upset those in charge of their food and drink. That's just common sense.
    Turning on his heels, Dale went back to the bar for a second pint, this one full of whatever Old Rolly was drinking. Luckily, Machen knew what it was. After a moment's thought, he reconsidered and told the landlord to pull one for himself too. Machen obliged, his face lighting up. The transaction complete, Dale carried Old Rolly's drink over to where the old man sat and put it on the table in front of him. “This is for you, sir.”
    Old Rolly's nostrils flared and a pair of piercing blue eyes flicked up at Dale from beneath overgrown eyebrows, the same shade of speckled white as his long unkempt mane of hair and beard. For a moment he looked wary. Then, just as the silence was heading into uncomfortable territory, the old man's wrinkled, withered face crumpled into a wide smile. “Thank you, son.”
    Judging by how grateful he was, it must have been a long time since anyone had bought Old Rolly a drink. Not wanting to impose any further, Dale then did a slow walking tour of the bar, looking at the ornaments and various decorations that hung on the walls. He stopped at the dusty framed picture that he had seen Lucy looking at so intently. The photograph showed a group of men standing in front of a small boat. Dale peered closer. It was called
Edward, Prince of Wales
. The inscription beneath the photograph said:
Mumbles RNLI, 1947.
    RNLI? Royal Navy Lifeboat Institution? Dale didn't know how he knew that, but he did. One of those useless scraps of information your brain gets hold of and never gives up, storing it away in some deep, dark recess until such a time as it comes in useful.
    “You like that photograph, son?” It was Old Rolly, speaking from his seat. Calm and deep, his voice resonated around the four walls.
    Without turning around Dale replied, “I don't know about liking it, but its certainly interesting. Who are those men?”
    There was a pause that lasted so long Dale began to think that Old Rolly had already grown bored of their budding conversation and nipped it in the bud. When the old man spoke again, he completely ignored the question and instead asked one of his own. “Do you read books, boy?”
    Dale was taken aback, “Erm, yes.”
    “Which kind?”
    Dale took a swig of his beer, “I read text books for uni, you know, books about journalistic theory, media models, public relations and all that stuff. And I when I have time I read novels. Contemporary fiction, mostly. I like Tony Parsons and Nick Hornby, 'man books' Lucy calls them. My favourite writer of all time is Stephen King. The Master.”
    “The horror writer?”
    “Well, that's a bit unfair. He writes in lots of genres; fantasy, crime, thriller, noir. Horror is just one of them.” It crossed Dale's mind that he should return the question and ask Old Rolly what kind of books
he
read, but he sensed that the old man didn't really want to have a conversation about books. This was leading somewhere else.
    “Do you know what you are looking at there?”
    “I know its an old picture of some men and a boat, but I don't know the significance of it if that's what you mean.”
    “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than dreamt of in your philosophy.”
    It took Dale a few moments to place the quote. English literature wasn't his strong point. “Is that from Hamlet?”
    “Indeed it is. Top marks. Do you understand what the phrase means?”
    “I think so. Truth is stranger than fiction, right?”
    “Exactly. And not only stranger, but more terrifying than you could ever imagine. What you are looking at there is a painful reminder, a slice of real life horror. And I don't mean vampires and werewolves and all that other make-believe Hollywood