Nicola Barker: The Yips

He starts, glances down at his sleeve (almost panicked), then realizes — a fraction of a second later — that it’s just the false eyelash and grimaces.

‘ Gotcha! ’

She slams the back door, beaming, baby-waves and off she trots.

Gene peers after her, fondly, as she retreats, then plucks the lash from his arm, shakes his head, places it into the ashtray, sighs, rubs his cheek, checks his watch and curses.

Sheila has been struggling to pray. She has tried several locations: her bedroom (where she keeps half-opening her eyes and peering at her new haircut in the dressing table mirror), Stan’s bedroom (oh, the maddening lure of the computer!), the kitchen (that infernal buzz of the fridge!), the living room …

In the living room, she’s asking God to guide her — to fill her with gentle light instead of rage — to allow her to become more patient, more open, more humble like his only son, Jesus Christ, her saviour — when she suddenly finds that her eyes are open and she’s staring, blankly, at the bookshelves. She closes her eyes: ‘Dear Father, please help me to be still, to be more focused …’

Her eyes are open again. The bookshelves again. She frowns. She shuffles forward on her knees, wincing. She reaches out her hand and removes a copy of Cheiro’s Palmistry For All from the shelves.

Her eyes scan the line of books. She shuffles to the right a little — more wincing — and is replacing the book back in its usual position when the doorbell rings. She scowls, looks down at her watch, stands up (with some difficulty), winces, tightens the belt on her dressing gown and hobbles off to answer it.

Two people are standing on the front porch: a man and a woman. The woman is slight and young and wearing the full veil. The man is short and rotund with curly hair and a cheerful face. ‘Good evening,’ he says, ‘I do apologize for calling at your home at such a late hour, but I’m afraid we have something of a crisis on our hands.’

‘Is this church business?’ Sheila enquires, slightly stiff.

‘It’s very …’ He frowns. ‘I hate to be indelicate … It’s a personal matter. Is your husband at home? Perhaps I might have a quiet word with him?’

‘My husband is out,’ Sheila all but snaps (irritated).

‘Then maybe my sister-in-law, Farhana …’ He indicates towards the woman. The woman — Farhana — steps forward. She holds out her hand. She has smiling eyes.

‘May we talk in private?’ she asks. ‘It’s about Valentine — Valentine Tucker.’

‘Valentine Wickers,’ Sheila corrects her.

The woman turns and indicates towards the road. There is a beautiful car parked just the other side of the driveway. Inside the car are three figures: another woman dressed entirely in black, a small child, dozing on her lap, and a second figure, hunched over, covered by what looks like a towel or a blanket, their head in their hands, sobbing.

‘Beautiful car,’ Sheila says, slightly spooked.

‘It’s a Tatra. It’s Czechoslovakian. Very rare.’ The man nods.

The woman rolls her eyes, sardonically.

‘I’ve never seen one before.’ Sheila can’t help smiling. ‘Are you local?’

‘Yes we are.’ The man nods again, then indicates towards his female companion, his expression almost pained, and politely withdraws. He goes to stand over by the wall. He removes a string of prayer beads from his waistcoat pocket and proceeds to run them, distractedly, through his fingers.

Sheila peers down at the woman.

‘Perhaps we could go inside for a moment, Sheila?’ the woman suggests.

‘Okay.’

Sheila steps back and lets the woman walk past her, into the hallway. She then closes the door and guides her into the kitchen. The woman perches herself on a kitchen stool and draws a deep breath. Sheila stands before her.

‘I have momentous news,’ the woman starts off, her eyes still smiling, ‘wonderful, exciting news: Valentine has just testified her faith!’

Sheila frowns, struggling to understand. She takes the weight off her bad leg.

‘Valentine is reverting back to Islam,’ the woman further elucidates.

‘She’s …’ Sheila’s confused. ‘Reverting back …?’

‘And an important stage in this process is that she repents all her sins and performs good deeds,’ the woman sweeps on.

‘She’s reverting back …?’ Sheila repeats, still not making any sense of it.

‘Which means asking third parties for forgiveness.’

‘Is this about the leg?’ Sheila asks, vaguely indicating.

‘The leg?’ The woman tips her head slightly.

‘When I was visiting her at home earlier …’

‘She has something she needs to get off her chest. She wants to speak with you in private, but she’s very afraid, and the last thing on earth she wants to do is hurt your feelings.’

‘Of course’ — Sheila frowns — ‘but I thought Valentine was …’

‘I just want to prepare you,’ the woman continues, ‘to ask you to be gentle with her. She’s had a terrible evening. She’s in a very vulnerable state but she’s extremely determined. She insisted we come over here. She longs to make amends so that she can offer her first prayer with a clear conscience and an open heart.’

‘Sorry — so that’s … that’s actually her ? Outside? In the car?’

Sheila finally makes sense of the situation. The woman nods, gravely.

‘But I thought …?’

Sheila limps over to the front window, her heart beating faster. ‘Bloody hell. Who are you people?’

She turns, her face draining of colour.

‘All will be well, Inshallah ,’ the woman murmurs.

Gene checks his phone. He has ten missed calls. He can’t bear to hear them, just shakes his head, shoves the phone into his trouser pocket and peers over on to the back seat. He grabs his jacket, frowns, cranes his neck, removes his keys from the ignition, jumps out of the car, pulls open the back door and peers inside again. No bugle case. No bugle.

He scratches his head. He sniffs his jacket. He pulls on his jacket, mystified, slams both doors shut, secures the car and heads off.

He takes the back route to Ransom’s room. When he arrives at the door he tries the handle and finds it locked. He frowns. He knocks. Nothing. He knocks again. After several seconds Ransom pulls the door open. He is shirtless, holding a glass of whisky — no ice this time — and seems drunk and belligerent.

‘Where the fuck’ve you been?’ he demands. Gene looks past him, into the room. The tattoo bench is still set up. The gun lies on the bed, and a small tray holding dozens of little plastic thimbles full of ink.

‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.

‘Gone.’

Ransom staggers over to the bed — a trail of blood dripping down his back — and collapses on to it. ‘All buggered off.’

‘Everyone?’

Gene shuts the door.

‘Let’s see …’ Ransom tries to shape his thoughts into some kind of order.

‘Terry — twinky little photo dude — went out for a fag. Never came back. Then his assistant goes — forget his name — same thing. Nimrod gets a call from the front desk. Seems they’ve been appre —’ Ransom hiccups; ‘hendy —’ he hiccups again; ‘hendy — appre —’ He blinks.

‘Apprehended.’

‘By Security.’ Ransom nods. ‘So Nimrod goes on a mission to try and get ’em back again. Valentine — tattoo girl — is in the bathroom —’

‘What’s she doing in the bathroom?’ Gene interrupts.

‘Having a friggin’ meltdown because poor old Tobe is …’

He turns his face away and inhales, sharply.

‘Tobe?’ Gene echoes. ‘Toby?’