Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Okay. So there’s no simple way of putting this,’ Sheila runs on, oblivious, ‘and it may sound really weird to you because it is really weird, but I think Jen’s been kidnapped.’

Brief pause.

‘Kidnapped?’

‘Yes. There was a garbled message on our answer-phone. She rang this afternoon, shortly after you came home with Mallory. It was really difficult to decipher. She sounded extremely distressed. She said something about “Israel’s mother — Vicki”. Putting two and two together I’m guessing that she might’ve been referring to Vicki Wilson — Ransom’s manager’s activist sister — the woman who wants me to help her with the book.’

‘Hang on, just …’ Gene turns to face the wall. ‘The woman who wants you to help her with the book is …?’

‘Ransom’s manager’s sister.’

Gene’s brows shoot up. ‘And you didn’t think to mention that little piece of information earlier?’

‘There are a series of … uh …’ — Sheila’s plainly discomforted — ‘let’s just say “special circumstances”.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Gene nods.

‘Sorry?’

‘I know about …’ Gene glances towards the door. ‘Jen told me.’

‘I just didn’t want to over-complicate matters. It was all getting a bit …’

‘Convoluted.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So you’re telling me that Jen left a message on our answer-phone, earlier this afternoon, actually stating that she’d been …?’

‘Like I say, it’s quite hard to decipher. I’ve listened to it about a hundred times. I should probably just play it to you — that’s why I got you to ring me on my mobile. I’ll hold the phone up close to the machine. Hang on a minute …’

A brief scrabbling sound is followed by a mechanical click , then the message commences to play.

‘Gene — bmuff me — please li mun — my ph mumn is nearly numf of … Vick wuffon Israel’s mun ther just shoved me nefoo the … I don’t knuff where … if f you numf this … please …’

The line falls dead.

‘Did you get that?’ Sheila demands. ‘Shall I play it again?’

‘What makes you think …?’ Gene starts off, bemused.

‘She sounds scared — really scared — and her voice is strangely muffled — like she’s in a tunnel or some kind of confined space.’

‘It could just be a bad line,’ Gene argues.

‘But she does sound scared.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s been kidnapped. She simply said that someone called Vicki shoved her’ — Gene grimaces — ‘and to be perfectly honest, Sheila, knowing Jen as I do …’

‘Okay, so you’re going to have to suspend your … uh …’ Sheila struggles to find the right word.

‘D’you feel all right?’ Gene interjects. ‘How’s the leg?’

‘Of course I don’t feel all right!’ Sheila exclaims, exasperated. ‘I’m in a complete, bloody state! What’s that word? … Credulity? Cynicism? It’s a “c” word — it’s definitely a “c” word.’

‘Whatever it is, I’ll suspend it,’ Gene promises.

‘It’s just that …’ — Sheila clears her throat — ‘… this is going to sound a bit strange, okay, but I climbed inside my suitcase earlier.’

‘Your suitcase?’ Gene echoes.

‘Yes. I climbed inside my suitcase. The phone was ringing. I was on the computer. I walked out on to the upstairs landing and I found myself gazing down at my suitcase — being really … really drawn to it. I opened it up and then the next thing I know I’m climbing into it — climbing inside my suitcase and closing the lid. I know it sounds odd. It is odd. And even as I was doing it I was thinking, What the hell are you playing at, Sheila? This is completely ridiculous!’

‘What were you playing at?’ Gene cordially enquires.

‘I don’t know. But it was like … I can’t explain it. It was like this powerful urge to be in a confined space. Kind of the same, basic impulse that made me go up into the attic, earlier.’

‘But I thought you went into the attic to fetch your case?’

A brief silence follows.

‘It’s kind of like I’m having a … a sort of melt down,’ Sheila continues, ‘like there’s this new, slightly uncontrolled me who keeps doing all this really arbitrary stuff … But I’m not — obviously,’ she rapidly assures him, ‘not melting. I basically feel okay. A little tired, maybe — over-wrought — drained — cynical — empty — directionless — frustrated — exhausted, but not melted. Definitely not melted.’

‘Well that’s … that’s very reassuring.’ Gene suddenly has the curious sensation that his head might be about to explode.

‘I just feel like it’s the culmination of something,’ Sheila continues, ‘something … I … I don’t know what it is. You joked the other day about it being a crisis of faith but I still have faith — in abundance! I mean my faith is one of the few things I remain completely certain of — although I’m not sure quite how … how sustaining it is at this particular point in time.’

She pauses, speculatively. Gene glances down at his watch. Even as he does so he realizes that the time is irrelevant. What was that poem … (he finds himself idly pondering), or was it just a trashy song lyric? ‘ All we have is time until the end of time ’?

‘So then I started to speculate,’ (Sheila is talking again), ‘that it might be about a journey, about my leaving — you know, this … this “culmination” — that it might be about my doing something utterly ego-driven and selfish for once, but at the same time something utterly elevated and generous and philanthropic — like going to Jamaica to work on the book. But the more I’ve sat here thinking about it, the more convinced I feel that this isn’t about me at all. It’s not about me, Gene! I’ve been so focused on myself — so self-absorbed — and what I really needed was to be …’

‘So you think God might be a guiding presence in this … this “culmination” of yours?’ Gene asks, barely keeping the exhaustion out of his voice.

‘It’s like my almost turning away has actually been a turning towards …’ Sheila runs on, amazed. ‘It’s like … I’m sorry, Gene,’ she groans, ‘but I simply can’t explain this to you — a cynic, a non-believer — in human words.’

‘Human words?’ Gene echoes.

‘That sounds crazy — I know it does, but the life of faith, the sense of grace or no grace, the relationship a person establishes with God doesn’t always tally with rational ideas and language. That’s been my mistake. That’s why when I came across the kitten poem by Anne Sexton in the garage the other day …’

‘Kitten?’ Gene murmurs (growing more disheartened by the second).

‘“ Maybe I have plugged up my sockets

to keep the gods in? ”’ she quotes,

‘“ Maybe, although my heart

is a kitten of butter …” I forget the last line … hang on …

‘“ Maybe, although my heart

is a kitten of butter …’ she repeats, haltingly,

‘“ I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. ”’

Short pause.

‘Blowing up. The kitten of butter. Nothing making sense.’

‘I don’t remember you mentioning this poem before —’ Gene starts off.

‘It’s like I’ve been trying to fill in a crossword, you know — with letters ,’ she interrupts, ‘when I should’ve been doing a jigsaw puzzle. Making sense out of images. Because it’s not linguistic, it’s visual. I’ve finally realized that my intellectual life and my religious life are completely at odds with each other. I think I may have a kind of … of visual faith — heart faith, gut faith — and I’ve been making the stupid mistake of …’