Nicola Barker - The Yips

Ransom shudders and places the photo down, his eye returning, nervously, to Israel in his uniform. He grimaces and reaches out to pick it up, but his hand starts shaking so violently that he rapidly withdraws it again.

To cover his confusion he steps forward to open a door into what he presumes will be the bathroom. Instead he discovers a tiny cupboard. Inside it are two shirts, two dresses and — folded up on the floor — a jumper and a single pair of trousers. Underwear aside, these appear to be the sum total of Esther’s clothes. Another shirt lies neatly folded on the bed where Esther has been sewing on a mis-matching replacement button.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ he asks.

‘Down the corridor,’ the clerk answers. ‘It’s shared.’

Ransom nods. He is gazing down at an old, worn-out pair of carpet slippers.

‘Can you find what you’re looking for?’ Nimrod asks. Ransom shakes his head. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, he’s certain that he won’t find it here, in this shabby room. He walks over to a battered suitcase that leans up against the wall, opens it and exclaims as a pile of sugar and coffee sachets, tiny soaps, bags of tea and mini packets of biscuits fall out. Nimrod comes over to take a look.

‘In all the time I’ve known Esther,’ he murmurs, ‘we’ve never shared a proper meal together. She never seems to eat …’

He bends down and starts gathering the supplies together. Also inside the case are an old Bible (the paper cover worn almost to nothing from overuse) and a grey box file. Ransom opens the box file. It’s crammed with newspaper cuttings from the entire length of his career, each one carefully folded, dated and preserved in plastic.

‘She scoffed those three pains au chocolat the other day,’ he volunteers.

‘She scavenged them from me and Tobe,’ Nimrod admits, then scowls. ‘I mean I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, it’s just …’ He peers around him, shaking his head, depressed. ‘How long since her last pay cheque?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ Ransom admits (possibly not as ashamed by this admission as he might be). ‘She pays herself.’

He straightens up and reappraises the room.

‘This is like …’ He pulls on his chin, mystified by the alien scene he surveys. ‘I saw a documentary on TV the other night about this Indian guy who had a huge stomach tumour. Had it for years — since he was a kid, but he was always too poor to do anything about it. It just kept growing bigger and bigger. Eventually it grows so massive that it’s endangering his life — pressing down on his vital organs. He gets referred by some charity to a specialist who agrees to get his team to operate. When they do, they realize that it isn’t a tumour at all, it’s a lost twin.’

‘A twin?’ Nimrod echoes.

‘Yeah. Somehow or other this guy’s twin brother had ended up forming inside of him — inside his own stomach.’

‘ What?! Is that a true story?’ Nimrod clutches his own capacious gut, horrified.

‘Yeah. They had an interview with the actual surgeon and everything. For some reason the twin had been trapped inside this guy’s belly but — get this — it was still alive ! Had no brain, but it was alive. And when they cut open his stomach a nasty little hand shot out.’

‘ Fuck! ’ Nimrod exclaims. Even the waiting clerk looks appalled.

‘Disgusting!’ Ransom nods, peering around him. ‘And that’s what this reminds me of. Can’t quite put my finger on it …’ He frowns. ‘It’s almost like Esther is that little trapped twin, that messed-up little twin living a sordid, closed-off life, feeding on …’

He doesn’t utter the word ‘me’, but it’s clear that this is how his mind is working.

‘Sordid,’ he repeats. ‘And just …’ he sighs, ‘a real, friggin’ downer, basically.’

Nimrod doesn’t seem quite able to amass an immediate response to this theory. He just closes the suitcase and straightens up, with a grunt.

‘Let’s get the hell out of this shit-hole,’ Ransom murmurs, ‘before I get angry.’

She looks so beautiful when she answers the door to him that it almost feels like an ambush: a kidnap attempt — a sudden punch to the stomach — a sack over the head. He is winded by her — incapacitated. She is all in red: a tight-fitting red satin dress, red gloves stretching way beyond her elbows, high, red heels, her red fringe hanging straight over her eyes (catching in her delirious lashes), her hair in several, ornate plaits which are twisted into a neat, little bun and covered with a flat, red bow at the back.

Her eyes are black-lined. Her lips are like cherries. He just gazes at her for a few seconds, astonished, then the next thing he knows they are pressed up against the sitting room wall having sex.

He knows her body now, even tightly sheathed and slippery as it is; a ripe, red plum, its yellow flesh pressing out against the smooth arc of its cool, fragrant skin. He understands the basic groundwork, has visited the orchard like a hungry finch, has gorged on the fruit and rejected the pips, has explored the geography.

She smells of almonds, like a plump Bakewell pudding; and he is the spoon, the whipped cream, the helpless dollop of warm custard. She steams. He applauds, his tongue hanging out (like a bloodhound espying a raw chop in a cartoon).

She is topped with melted apricot jam. It makes her shine. Beneath that: the spongy gold, the give, the softness. Then still further down, the firmer butteriness of a thin-baked layer of crumbling shortcrust.

‘Pardon?’

‘The leg — Sheila’s leg — was it as bad as it looked?’

She closes the front door behind him and leads him through to the kitchen. He stands facing the window, hands braced against the sink. He is staring at the red glimmer of her reflection — red and white — a squirt of chili sauce in a dish of thick, Greek yoghurt. It’s not yet dark, but there are candles flickering away on the table, which confuse him.

‘Jamaica?’ she mutters. ‘But why?’

He turns. A cat slithers around his legs. His mouth is dry.

‘There was a chance meeting at the hospital with …’ He scowls. ‘It’s complicated.’

He glances down at his watch. Jen is late. He takes out his phone and tries to ring her. His call goes straight to message bank.

‘How complicated?’ she asks. She is standing right in front of him, reaching out her hand and touching his fringe. He stops breathing. Minutes advance then retreat. Somebody is speaking. It is him. What is he saying? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He is a stuck second hand on a railway station clock ticking forward, then back, forward, then back.

‘And you’re just going to let her go?’ she asks, frowning, lounging against the table — her hip jinking like a bright lozenge of cough candy. ‘Let her leave? Just like that?’

He inhales. He tries to phone Jen again.

‘What do the children think?’

They are standing by the little, hallway cupboard, inspecting the broken meter.

‘Almost set fire to the fence,’ she’s saying, ‘but I burned them all. Noel went mad — said he was negotiating a deal with a museum. I don’t know if I even believe him. Will you tell her for me, though? Please?’

He nods. His phone rings.

‘Jen?’

‘Gene?’

‘Toby? Where are you?’

‘In a cab, heading back to the hotel. Ransom just phoned. Seems Del Renzio’s on the warpath. Management’s dead set against the tattoo happening on the premises.’

‘So what now?’

‘Well you know Ransom — he’s so pig-headed that if anything it’s made him more determined. Del Renzio’s hiked up Security, but the photographer’s already on site. Nimrod’s worked out a cunning back route into the room. I’ve given him your number. You’ll need to convene in the car park …’