Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Crow-bait,’ Ransom squeaks.

‘Crow …?’

‘Kicked in,’ he groans. ‘Checked out. Popped off. Belly-up. Crow -bait.’

Gene stands where he is, momentarily incapable of movement or speech. Then:

‘Toby’s dead ?’

‘I mean this was my moment!’ Ransom protests. ‘I was being so, friggin’ brave . I was sucking it all up, man! I was growing ! I was learning all this shit about myself — all this profound, fucking shit about myself. I was confronting my fear, Gino! It was like … it was friggin’ magical . Friggin’ magical , man! I was so strong. So alive . Then all of a sudden …’ Ransom gestures. ‘Phone rings. Tobe’s dead. Toby’s friggin’ dead . The friggin’ … the stupid, friggin’ prick ! The idiot !’

He shakes his head, disbelieving. Gene opens his mouth to speak.

‘I mean there you are,’ Ransom gestures, dismissively, struggling to hold back the tears, ‘ten times with cancer. All that friggin’ fuss , all that friggin’ drama . All the ladies lapping it up. Wearing the badge — selling the friggin’ T -shirt. And there’s old Tobe …’ — he shakes his head — ‘stupid, boring, dusty old Tobe who can’t even friggin’ drive …’

He falls backwards on the bed, drink held aloft, upsetting several of the little pots of ink. Most tip on to the tray, but a couple fall clear. Gene watches, horrified, as their contents slowly spread across the counterpane.

‘… and he just gently ups and pops his little clogs.’

‘But I was with him only a couple of hours ago …’ Gene murmurs, still not quite believing it.

‘You think your presence is enough to shield him from death ?!’ Ransom sneers, struggling to pull himself straight again. Gene goes over to give him a hand.

‘I saw him a couple of hours ago and he was fine,’ Gene insists. ‘He fixed the electricity meter. He seemed really …’ Gene frowns. ‘He seemed really fine, really cheerful.’

‘Well he wasn’t fine,’ Ransom corrects him, drolly, ‘he was dying. We are all dying, Gino. We are all slowly dying. But Tobe did it quicker. Tobe cut to the chase. He got in there first. Tobe beat me and he beat you — beat you , Gino,’ Ransom emphasizes. ‘How d’you feel about that, eh?’ He grins. ‘Tobe did it first. He paid a debt we all must pay. He beat you . Came first. Won the death trophy. Held it high. Attaboy , Tobe!’

Ransom clumsily applauds an invisible, triumphant Toby, his drink sloshing everywhere, then slowly shakes his head (plainly deeply moved by his own gripping summation).

‘How did you find out?’

Gene gathers up the spilt ink pots (as if keeping his hands busy will preclude a sudden descent into jabbering insanity).

‘Tattoo girl got a call from her brother …’ Ransom sighs. ‘Noel rang her. Said he got home and the whole friggin’ kitchen was full of water. He left the tap on — Tobe. Getting himself a drink. I dunno …’ Ransom waves his arm. ‘Washing up. I dunno. Anyway, he was sitting in a chair — rocker — dead as a dodo. Dead as a doornail.’

‘But what about …?’ Gene starts off — a thousand questions springing to mind.

‘He called the police,’ Ransom continues, oblivious. ‘They were on their way over. His mum was curled up on the sofa with the kid. Happy as Larry they were! TV blaring. Hadn’t noticed a thing. Fucking amazing! Didn’t even know there was a corpse in the kitchen. Fucking amazing!’

Ransom salutes this astonishing fact with his glass.

‘So Valentine went straight home?’ Gene asks. ‘Did she get a cab?’

‘Nope. She locked herself in the bathroom. She was already in the bathroom — that’s why I took the call.’

‘Sorry?’ Gene interrupts his frenzied tidying. ‘You took the call?’

‘From Noel.’ Ransom nods. ‘She was locked in the bathroom.’

‘But when did …?’

‘Uh … after photo-twink went outside. Saw you weren’t there. She did her nut, pretty much.’

Ransom shakes his head, mournfully. ‘Not good. Definitely not a good look, Gino — leaving that poor mental-case in the lurch like that. You let us down badly, there, Gino. You fucked up, man. You let down the tattoo girl. You let me down. I mean fuck only knows what I’ve got on my back right now …’

He tries to peer over his shoulder then gives up. ‘Hurts like friggin’ hell, I know that much.’

‘So she got a cab home?’

Gene starts to pack up the tattoo bench, realizes that his fingers are all inky and goes to pull a couple of tissues from a box on the bedside table.

‘Nope. No cab. She called in the Gestapo.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Friggin’ …’ Ransom gesticulates, inarticulately. ‘Said she was giving up tattooing. Said it was a sign. All wrapped up in a towel, she was. Nuts! Mascara down her cheeks. Zombie eyes. Burning! Demented! Comes barrelling out of the bathroom, snatches her phone, makes a call. Next thing I know there’s two women banging on the door like the secret police. Cover her up in a shroud and carry her off. Kidnap her. Can’t see their faces. They won’t meet my eyes — ’s like I’m friggin’ invisible or something! Completely shat me up! I mean I’m still in a state of grief ! I’ve got blood and shit running down my back! This isn’t finished! I’m a work in progress!’

‘Did she seem frightened of these women?’ Gene demands, heart thumping. ‘Did they introduce themselves?’

‘Kept calling her “Hammer! Hammer!”’

‘Hammer?’

‘Yeah. She’s going, “I can’t go home! I can’t go back there! My sanctuary was my prison! My mother was my jailor!” Crazy, dramatic shit like in a really bad film. Craaazy shit! And they’re wrapped around her like two jackdaws, squawking. He just looks at me, like, “This is fucked.” I’m like, “You’re telling me, mate! This is some crazy, screwed-up shit, man.”’

‘He?’ Gene interrupts.

‘Eh?’

Ransom momentarily loses his flow.

‘He? There was a man?’

‘Yeah, with the kid — looking after the kid. It’s like a family outing! He goes, “What can I do?” Shrugs. Seemed a nice enough bloke. I’m like, “Can’t you control your women? You got ’em wrapped up like friggin’ … friggin’ … black … Like friggin’” …’

Words fail him. He knocks back the rest of his glass.

Gene quickly finishes folding up the bench. He throws everything else into Valentine’s holdall, closes it and straightens up.

‘What are you doing?’ Ransom wonders, watching him, blearily.

‘I should probably head over to the house. Take this equipment back. See what’s going on. See if everyone’s all right.’

‘What about me?’ Ransom demands. ‘What do I do now? There’s no one here! I’m in grief! Tobe’s dead! I’ve not had any dinner! I got blood all down my friggin’ back!’

Gene re-opens the holdall and removes a plastic roll of sterilized wipes.

‘I’ll clean it up. Just turn around.’

Ransom turns, like an obliging child, arms raised.

‘ Fuuuck! ’ he gasps. ‘Hurts like hell when I move my arms. Fuuuck. That stings, man.’

Gene removes a handful of wipes from the container and gently dabs away at the streaks of blood. The purple felt-tip doesn’t shift too readily. There is a measure of swelling. After a minute or so the tattoo-work becomes more visible. There’s a little ring of exquisitely drawn grass, a fairy-ring, a wreath , almost. Gene shudders.