Nicola Barker - The Yips

There’s a car parked on its own — slightly removed from all the others — adjacent to the fence in the far reaches of the lot. He trots towards it, ears pricked, not sure if it’s just random, peripheral noises he’s hearing or a more regular but muffled banging sound originating from somewhere closer to hand. The car — he immediately notes as he draws abreast of it — has been left unlocked. The banging continues. He walks to the back end and deftly presses the lock. The boot springs open. Jen unfurls like a jack-in-a-box.

‘I’ve shat myself!’ She grins, holding out her arms so he can help to lift her out.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, astonished.

‘Fine.’ She nods. ‘I knew you’d come in the end!’

She delivers him a giant, wet kiss on the cheek. ‘ I wuv vu! ’ she baby-talks. ‘You’re my hero, Geney-boo!’

Her legs wobble a little and he quickly tightens his grip to support her.

‘How long have you been trapped in there?’ he asks.

‘Dunno.’ She shrugs, shivering, peering around her, blearily. ‘Few hours, I guess. Is this the hospital car park?’

‘Couldn’t you hear the sirens?’ Gene pulls off his jacket and hangs it over her skinny shoulders.

‘Yeah …’

She glances down at herself, slightly dazed. ‘Look!’ She gingerly lifts up a leg. ‘I got lickle brown testicles!’

‘This is Vicki Wilson’s car?’ Gene demands, the anger rising within him.

‘Hire car’ — Jen nods — ‘and I could tell when she got out that she’d left it unlocked — probably thought I’d have the basic nous to escape under my own steam. But could I? Could I heck! It’s been like a bad episode of The bloody Krypton Factor ! Feels like I’ve been picking at that sodding mechanism for ever.’

She holds out her hands. The nails are all bleeding.

‘Bloody hell, Jen!’ Gene’s appalled. ‘You must’ve been terrified!’

He starts gently leading her towards his own car, which is parked fifty or so yards away.

‘As luck would have it I happen to feel very comfortable in confined spaces.’ Jen hikes up her leotard and waddles. ‘As a kid I spent all my free time under tables and in boxes. You know, sometimes it’s great to be able to shut everything out and just … just focus . My head feels all light and clear and un-mangled.’

‘Shall we ring the police?’ Gene wonders.

‘Nah! I just want to get home and have a wash — change my clothes …’ She waddles on, breathing heavily. ‘Pinch your nose if you need to — I won’t be offended. The burn in my regions is incredible — the squelch and the itch! I mean I waited a couple of hours, but then I just thought: Screw it — what’s to lose?’

‘D’you have any idea why she did this?’ Gene shakes his head, horrified.

‘Oh yeah’ — Jen chuckles — ‘my enforced period of reflection has been very fruitful in that regard …’ She grins up at him. ‘She was probably just pissed off. In fact I probably kind of deserved it.’

‘That’s still no excuse for what she’s put you through,’ Gene snaps.

‘But if she hadn’t locked me up then you wouldn’t have got to play the hero!’ Jen teases. ‘And you do it with such vim! Such gusto!’

She play-punches him in the ribs.

‘Sheila actually deserves most of the credit.’ Gene recoils, confused by this fond assault. ‘She deciphered the answer-phone message.’

‘Then high-fives to Sheila!’ Jen grins, still shivering but patently enjoying his confusion.

They draw up to the car and Gene takes out his keys.

‘Well I can’t sit in the front,’ Jen murmurs, peering down at herself, concerned. ‘I’d hate to leave a permanent record of this embarrassing little interlude on your clean upholstery.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Gene insists, unlocking the front door and pulling it wide then trotting around to the boot in search of a blanket.

Jen peers through the back window where she espies an old newspaper and something with a passing resemblance to a bugle case.

‘Is that an old newspaper on the seat, there?’

She opens the back door and leans inside. It’s a recent edition of the local paper (featuring a leading article on the threatened closure of the allotments). She quickly unfurls it, spreads it out and then hops in, lying down on her belly, legs kicked up. Gene returns without the blanket.

‘Are you sure you’ll be okay like that?’

He’s understandably quizzical.

‘I’m jolly!’ she insists, waving over her shoulder. ‘I’m joyous! Beatific!’

Gene gently closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, putting on his seat belt and adjusting the rear-view mirror before reaching for the ignition. As he re-angles it he sees Jen (thinking she’s out of eye-shot) irritably batting away a tear from her cheek.

‘She’s not going to get away with this,’ he murmurs, ‘even if you do refuse to get the police involved.’

‘Revenge is a dish best served with chips,’ Jen mutters, ‘in newspaper. No cutlery. Generous sprinkling of salt.’

Gene doesn’t respond. He starts up the car, indicates and pulls off.

Three minutes later:

‘How on earth will you go about explaining the state you’re in to your parents?’ he demands, pulling on to the Dunstable road (following a series of complex, logistical manoeuvres to bypass the M1).

‘I won’t explain it. I’ll try and sneak in through my bedroom window.’

She pauses. ‘Although I should probably come up with a story just in case,’ she muses, ‘like I got locked in the big storeroom at work and the batteries died on my phone …’

‘This isn’t right, Jen,’ Gene mutters. ‘They deserve to know the truth. What she did to you tonight was really wrong.’

‘I know that!’ Jen clucks. ‘But fair do’s to the woman,’ she persists, her jovial tone returning. ‘Shaka Zulu’s Martian wife snatched her son and took him to see his dad without asking her say-so. It was provocative. She was pissed. This was pure tit for tat. A symbolic act of revenge.’

‘Symbolic at what level?’ Gene scoffs. ‘The woman locked you in her trunk!’

‘The boot was unlocked,’ Jen persists. ‘Could you wind down your window? The smell back here is making me want to puke.’

Gene does as she asks. They are quiet again for a few minutes, then, ‘Can I ask you something, Gene?’ Jen wonders, ‘It’s kind of personal.’

‘Of course.’ Gene nods.

‘Are you happy?’

‘Happy?’ he echoes, slightly shocked.

‘Yeah. Would you say that you were basically content, overall, with your lot in life?’

Gene considers his answer for a few seconds.

‘For the record, a long pause before answering isn’t traditionally an especially positive indicator,’ Jen gently chides him.

‘I guess I’m just a little bit suspicious of the word “happy”,’ Gene responds.

‘You think the CIA are behind it?’ Jen grins.

‘It’s a very simple, very uncomplicated word but life isn’t generally either simple or uncomplicated.’ Gene shrugs.

‘You know sometimes I’m sitting on the sofa at home watching a film, cuddled up with Sinclair, and I’ll suddenly think, Am I happy? and I won’t be able to answer. It’s like my heart just freezes. I get all panicky. Or I’ll be pissed and doing a mad conga on the dance-floor with a few of my friends — having a wild, old time — and then the same thing — same question — not even a fully-formed question — one word — pops into my head: “Happy?” And it’s like — ka-pow! — all the joy just melts away — completely evaporates. It’s really weird.’