Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘So if you don’t nod …’ Ransom’s finally catching on.

‘You become the Alpha Male. It’s just basic dominance behaviour.’

‘I like it!’ Ransom’s impressed.

‘There’s always been a close relationship between rap music and business,’ Nimrod expands, airily. ‘It’s a street music. It’s all about the hustle. I mean Fiddy was a drug dealer way before he ever laid down a beat. Business is very much “his thing”.’

‘The Lion in the Room,’ Ransom muses, nodding approvingly.

‘So anyway,’ Nimrod gets back to his story, ‘it’s in the context of all these hard-boiled, no-nonsense, Alpha-style business theories that we suddenly start thinking: Wouldn’t it be funny to get the Lion — Fiddy — to lie down on this red chaise longue ?’

‘Why?’ Ransom demands.

‘Why?’ Nimrod seems slightly irritated by this question. ‘Because we just didn’t see how he would agree to do it, obviously.’

‘You wanted to humiliate him?’ Ransom speculates.

‘We just wanted to have a little pull on the Lion’s tail, that’s all.’ Nimrod grins. ‘Make him growl — see how he’d react.’

‘Fair enough,’ Ransom concedes. ‘Did he do it?’

‘Kenny and his PR actually had a bet on it. The PR said there’s absolutely no way on God’s good earth that Fiddy will agree to lie down on the chaise longue — he’s a rapper, been shot nine times — it’d be way too compromising, too emasculating to stretch out on that thing …’

‘Emasculating,’ Ransom echoes, half under his breath.

‘But then Kenny says, “Well if I can even get him to sit on it — let alone lie on it — just to sit on it and have his picture taken, then I win … uh …”’ Nimrod waves his hand, imperiously. ‘I forget the precise amount — a tenner — whatever …’

‘Did he sit on it?’ Ransom asks.

‘Well that’s the weird thing.’ Nimrod chuckles. ‘Fiddy finally comes into the room — very gracious, very polite, very …’

‘Buff,’ Ransom fills in, throwing the last segment of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it underfoot.

‘Exactly — buff — and Kenny takes a few photos in the window-seat, a couple standing against the drapes, then he turns and looks over at the red chaise longue … As you can imagine, we’re all in an advanced state of hysteria by this stage …’

Ransom peers around the pillar again. The desk clerk is talking to the housekeeper.

‘… and he says, “How about a couple of shots lying down on that chaise longue ?’ He points to it. Then Fiddy — ever the gentleman, really polite — clocks the chaise longue , registers the issues, raises one brow, then just shrugs his shoulders and goes, “Sure.” He walks over to the chaise longue — prowls over there all smooth-jointed, like a panther — and he throws himself down on it! No bother!’

‘Fiddy lay down on the chaise longue ?’ Ransom’s fully engaged now.

‘He lay down on it!’ Nimrod confirms. ‘And I swear to God, he was a fucking Lion when he lay down on that thing! He lay down on it like a fucking Lion ! Almost like he knew ! Like he sensed we all had this secret, little bet going on, and he wasn’t in the slightest bit bothered or intimidated by it, because he was the Lion. Fiddy was the Lion! He just didn’t give a shit! He pretty much Alpha-ed us all out of the building!’

Nimrod grins, remembering. ‘Amazing! Absolutely bloody amazing!’

‘I was chatting to Andy Helmsley the other week’ — Ransom (not to be outdone — by Nimrod or Fiddy, for that matter) snatches up the Lion mantle and promptly runs with it — ‘he’s one of South Africa’s most promising up-and-coming faces on the golfing scene …’ He peeks around the pillar (the desk clerk has — much to Ransom’s satisfaction — dispatched an assistant desk clerk to bring Ransom Esther’s spare key). ‘And he’s telling me about this bush-walk he did in one of the big African game reserves recently. They were heading home through the veld at sunset, about four miles from base camp, just the three of them with a ranger — who’s armed with a small rifle — and while they’re walking they can hear this constant groaning sound …’

‘Groaning?’ Nimrod echoes.

‘A weird groaning’ — Ransom nods — ‘fairly close by. Follows them wherever they go. So after a while Andy turns to the ranger and says, “What’s making that strange groaning noise?” The ranger says, “It’s a lion. It’s a dominant male. He’s escorting us through his territory.” Well as soon as they hear this they’re all just cacking themselves — can’t walk fast enough — can’t get close enough to the ranger and his rifle, basically …’

The assistant clerk arrives with the spare key and the two of them duly plod after him around the side of the main building to a less flashy area just between the bins and the car park.

‘So after the best part of an hour of hiking and groaning,’ Ransom continues his story while they walk, ‘Andy finally asks the question that’s weighing on everyone’s minds. He says, “If the lion attacks, what are the chances of you killing it with the first shot of your rifle?” The ranger shrugs and says …’ — Ransom adopts a generic, ‘African’ accent — ‘“None, sir. We’d be screwed. The rifle’s only good for making a commotion, aside from that it’s of no practical use at all. He’s way too big and too fast and too powerful — a trained assassin, a killer …” So they all walk on, literally shitting themselves, for a few minutes longer, then the ranger adds, “But don’t stress out about it, man. It’s fine — it’s all good. If this guy wanted to kill you he would’ve done so over an hour ago.”’

‘Bloody hell!’ Nimrod’s shaken.

‘Yup.’ Ransom chuckles (pleased with this response) as they draw to a halt in front of the door to Esther’s room. The clerk proceeds to shove the key into the lock, twist it and push the door wide. Both men pause for a moment on the threshold, surprised by the warm, slightly unhealthy, Vicks Vapour Rub-tinged fug that greets them as they prepare to enter. They immediately apprehend that this part of the hotel complex is far less well finished and maintained than the areas they’ve grown accustomed to.

Ransom steps inside, frowning. It’s a small, cramped room. There are no proper curtains at the lone window which faces out on to a series of large, metal bins, brightly illuminated by an external light which floods, unremittingly, into the room. Esther has hung a large petticoat — blotched with stains and ripped down one side — from one of the plastic window fitments, to try and block it out.

The bed is small and has no proper linen. Hanging over the back of a broken chair are several pieces of Esther’s underwear — a bra, two huge pairs of pants — which have been hung up to dry. There is no shade covering the bulb on the bedside light and no light-fitment whatsoever up above, just a series of wires dangling from the pelmet.

Ransom turns to look at the assistant clerk.

‘This is a shit-hole,’ he mutters. ‘Why’s she staying here?’

‘Staff accommodation.’ The clerk shrugs.

Nimrod scratches his head and gazes around him. ‘Does she normally stay in rooms like this?’ he asks.

‘Dunno,’ Ransom admits, ‘I’ve never been to her room before.’

‘Never?’ Nimrod’s surprised. ‘In fifteen years?’

‘Nope.’

Ransom walks to the bedside table and inspects the three, cheaply framed photos on display there. One is of Esther’s mother sitting on her porch in Trenchtown, cradling Esther’s daughter in her arms. A second features Esther’s son and a boy who Ransom now knows to be Israel posing proudly in new school uniforms. The third is of Esther and Ransom, taken many years ago. Ransom picks it up, surprised. In it a long-haired Ransom celebrates winning second place at the Spanish Open while a thinner, younger, grinning Esther stands behind him — in her caddie’s uniform — holding aloft the winning ball.