Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘So here’s the deal,’ he explains. ‘We’ll keep playing the music at a reasonable volume for the duration of the tattoo. Meanwhile, someone needs to stand guard in the hallway. If Del Renzio — or one of his punks — approaches the room then this person needs to rap on the door — as if they’re waiting to gain access — at which point Ransom will wrap himself up in a towel and come to the door with this razor buzzing at his chin as a diversion while the rest of us make ourselves scarce — I dunno — maybe hide in the bathroom.’

‘But what about the bench,’ Gene wonders, ‘and the inks, and the gun?’

‘Ransom only needs to open the door by a few inches,’ Nimrod suggests, ‘be belligerent. Act like he’s pissed. Then the guard needs to lead the way — come up with some kind of urgent message to serve as a distraction — like — uh — Esther’s taken a turn for the worse in hospital … God forbid,’ he adds, with a wince, ‘or there’s been a call from American Nike about a sponsorship deal.’ He grins. ‘We’ll just befuddle them — distract them — blind them with science — then the next thing they know — after a measure of kerfuffle — the door will’ve slammed shut again. End of.’

Everybody nods.

‘So who stands guard?’ Ransom wonders, removing his shirt and rotating his shoulders (gingerly preparing his back for an imminent, physical assault).

‘Well I’m writing the piece so I’ll definitely need to hang about.’ Nimrod glances around him. ‘And Kenny’s taking the shots …’ His eyes fall on Duke. ‘Can we spare Duke for the job?’

‘Not possible.’ Kenny shakes his head. ‘Duke is my assistant. He’s on fifteen quid an hour. He really needs to assist me for that kind of money.’

A short, somewhat quizzical silence follows.

‘Well how about Gene?’ Nimrod suggests.

‘I’m easy.’ Gene shrugs. He glances over at Valentine who immediately looks panicked.

‘I’ll just be on the other side of the door,’ he tries to console her.

She continues to look anxious. Her hand rises to her throat.

‘How about I pop out there now, while you finish setting up, so you can grow accustomed to the idea?’ Gene suggests. ‘And if at any time you start to feel like you’re losing control or getting too stressed then just yell and I’ll dash straight back inside again.’

Valentine finally relents, nods, and recommences unpacking and arranging her inks. Gene disappears into the corridor, breathing a deep sigh of relief. Ransom promptly follows.

‘So what’s that all about?’ he demands, as soon as the door’s been yanked shut behind him.

‘Sorry?’

‘This weird power you have over these girls. It’s kind of creepy. What is it? What’s your technique?’

‘There’s no technique,’ Gene demurs.

‘No technique? That’s your technique. Good call.’ Ransom nods. He suddenly starts running on the spot, the ice and whisky sloshing around in his glass.

‘You feel okay about the tattoo?’ Gene promptly relieves him of it for the sake of the carpet.

‘Nope. Scared stupid. Shitting myself.’

Ransom continues to jog.

‘Shaking like a friggin’ leaf.’

Gene gazes down the corridor.

‘I dug out the cornet,’ he volunteers.

‘Really?’ Ransom stops jogging.

‘It’s in the car.’

Ransom starts jogging again.

‘Valentine was telling me earlier how a lot of her clients actually get tattooed for the pain not in spite of it,’ Gene volunteers.

‘Friggin’ masochists!’ Ransom snorts.

‘They see it as a kind of rite of passage,’ Gene persists. ‘I mean look at Maori culture — there’s almost a spiritual aspect to it. Their tattoos are a symbol of endurance, of strength, representing a journey into manhood.’

‘Fuck pain,’ Ransom pants, ‘I mean fuck pain. Seriously. Fuck it. It’s over-rated. I friggin’ hate it. I hate pain.’

‘No point resisting,’ Gene counsels. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned about pain during my various bad health experiences, it’s that you’ve got to try and work with it. I’m not saying embrace it, but don’t resist it. Just let it be what it is. Accept it. And keep loose. Don’t tense the muscles. Always try and breathe through it.’

‘Fuck pain.’

Ransom stops jogging, snatches his glass, swallows the remainder of his drink in a single gulp and then gasps.

‘You’ll need to keep up your blood-sugar levels,’ Gene warns him.

‘Don’t people ever get bored of all the cancer shit?’ Ransom wonders, handing back the glass and then leaning forward, hands pressed on to his knees, trying to catch his breath. ‘Just the constant harping on about it the whole time? I mean it’s gotta wear a bit thin, hasn’t it? I bet your wife’s sick to the back teeth of it. I bet she’s like, “Fuck it, Gino, can we just talk about the friggin’ weather for once?”’

‘Sheila’s incredibly tolerant.’ Gene smiles, wryly.

‘I wonder where Jen’s got to,’ Ransom muses, peering down the corridor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You’d think she’d be here with bells on, man, if only to friggin’ gloat.’

‘Jen’s gone AWOL,’ Gene murmurs, ‘which is probably no bad thing under the circumstances.’

‘You better believe it!’ Ransom harrumphs, hand pressing down on the door handle. ‘The girl’s nothing but a friggin’ pest. She’s toxic.’

‘She could certainly be considered an acquired taste,’ Gene concurs.

‘ Acquired?! That’s a polite way of putting it!’ Ransom snorts, pulling wide the door. ‘She’s like that fucked-up Italian cheese with maggots running through it.’

‘ Casu Marzu ,’ Gene volunteers. ‘It’s Sardinian.’

‘Yeah yeah — whatever.’

The golfer steps into the hotel room and slams the door shut behind him.

Gene leans back against the wall with a wan smile. He inspects Ransom’s empty glass, then jiggles the ice around in it. He closes his eyes for a second. He feels exhausted. He opens his eyes again, places the glass next to the skirting and takes out his phone. He starts going through his messages. There’s one from the blood donation people, two from work, five from Jen (consisting of a series of vague, squawking sounds, but with no actual message attached) and most recently (ten past eight to be precise), there’s a missed call from Sheila.

‘ Gene — you need to ring me as soon as you get this. It’s ten past eight. Something very odd has happened. It might be really serious. You need to ring me — ring my mobile, not the house. Just as soon as you get this …’

(brief pause)

‘ It’s not Mallory. Mallory’s fine. I’m fine. Just ring me. ’

Gene scratches his head, scowling, then quickly connects his phone to Sheila’s mobile. After two rings she answers it.

‘Gene? Thank God it’s finally you! What took you so long? I’ve been staring at the phone just willing it to ring! I’m a nervous wreck!’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve only just —’

‘Did you hear from Jen?’ Sheila interrupts.

‘Jen?’

‘I thought you mentioned something earlier about getting Jen to …’

‘She didn’t show up,’ Gene mutters.

‘Okay. Okay . Well did she get in contact? Make her excuses?’

Gene frowns. ‘There were a couple of messages but they weren’t really …’

‘What did she say?’

‘Nothing. They were mainly just interference.’

‘Fine. Okay. Okay. Okay …’ Sheila’s plainly very agitated.

‘Just calm down,’ Gene cautions her, concerned, ‘take a deep breath.’