Nicola Barker - The Yips

She lifts Sheila’s hand to her lips and kisses it through her veil.

‘I hope your leg gets better soon. Fi Amanullah! May God love and protect you.’

She places Sheila on the doormat inside the hallway, gently closes the door and silently retreats. Sheila stands there for several minutes, before, ‘He slept with her?’

She remains exactly where she is for another couple of minutes then performs a rapid, 180-degree turn.

‘He slept with her?’ she demands, scowling (of the opposite wall, now), perhaps hoping — somewhat naively — for a different response.

Jen happens across Nimrod in the car park having a crafty fag. He looks up, scowling, as she approaches. She is heavily burdened by luggage — a hefty travel-bag slung over one shoulder and an instrument case in either hand.

‘D’you hear about Toby?’ he asks.

‘Nope.’ Jen shakes her head. ‘What about him?’

‘He was doing your baby-sitting gig last night and suffered a massive aneurysm — brain haemorrhage — or that’s what they’re saying.’

‘Toby’s dead?!’ Jen’s jaw drops. She promptly dumps her luggage.

‘Yup.’ Nimrod nods.

‘Bloody hell!’ She gazes at him, amazed. ‘How’s Ransom doing?’

She reaches for Nimrod’s cigarette.

‘He’s great. Got up at sunrise — sheet glued to his back. Spewed his guts out. Had a shower. Ate a huge breakfast. Went over to the driving range. Tried a few shots. Realized that his back was all tight and scabbed up. Modified his swing. Headed out on to the course and hit three eagles in a row. Burst into tears. Is still out there, celebrating. Keeps saying, “Pain is the answer! Need more pain! Pain is the solution! Life is pain! Pain is life!” Crap like that.’

‘Wow.’ Jen takes a quick puff of Nimrod’s smoke.

‘Business as usual,’ Nimrod grins, weakly.

‘Wow.’ Jen takes a second puff. ‘That’s so fucked up.’

‘I was very fond of old Tobe,’ he sighs.

‘He still had so much to give.’ Jen nods. ‘What future nine-hole?’

‘Turbo Golf?’ Nimrod shrugs.

‘Tragic.’

‘The economic arguments for it were certainly always fairly persuasive,’ Nimrod loyally opines.

‘Not to mention the environmental ones. I said as much to him myself.’

‘I mean just on logistical grounds alone, his position was virtually unassailable.’

‘Maybe Ransom should really get behind the idea,’ Jen suggests. ‘Build a nine-hole foundation — use his celebrity to create a proper legacy, as a tribute.’

‘Yeah.’ Nimrod nods, reaching out for his cigarette. ‘Sweet thought.’

Jen surveys the car park.

‘Gene here yet?’

‘Nope.’

‘I saw the piece you did …’ Jen winces.

‘Like it?’

‘It was very well-constructed,’ Jen concedes. ‘Nicely punctuated. Great use of the semi-colon in the second paragraph. Interesting mixture of nouns and adjectives.’

‘Aw, thanks, Jen,’ Nimrod mugs.

‘Although I’m not sure how happy Gene’ll be with it.’

‘I’ve had about thirty texts already.’ Nimrod pulls out his phone. ‘People are loving the whole cancer/palmist angle. Chat want a two page spread. Take-a-Break have me on redial.’

‘This is your Woodward and Bernstein moment!’ Jen baby-claps.

‘Yeah. So proud!’ Nimrod gushes.

‘Nothing so strange as the truth, I guess,’ Jen muses.

‘You reckon?’ Nimrod doesn’t look convinced.

‘I mean he lost the ball, he lost his balls … great hook.’ She pauses. ‘ Did he lose his balls, though?’

‘I believe one still remains intact, the other is silicone.’

‘Really? He told you that?’

‘No, I think you told me that.’

‘Wow.’ Jen takes back the cigarette. ‘I swear to God the man’s my hero. He’s my rock. I just … I just completely and utterly adore him.’

She blinks back faux -tears, then inhales.

‘One of the good guys.’ Nimrod nods, slightly confused.

‘Like Tobe,’ she exhales.

‘Yeah. Like Tobe.’

‘Good old Tobe.’

‘Yeah. Good old Tobe. God bless him.’

Nimrod reaches out for his cigarette. Jen passes it over and picks up her bags. ‘We move on!’ she trills, tripping off in her heels.

Nimrod nods, grimacing, fag dangling from the corner of his lip, already distracted, his finger jabbing out a text.

Sheila is completing last night’s washing-up as Gene enters the kitchen. Mallory is sitting at the breakfast bar, hunched over a bowl of burned porridge.

‘Mum burned the porridge,’ she groans, ‘ again .’

‘Yum!’ Gene smiles.

‘Enjoy your shower?’ Sheila glances over her shoulder, smiling.

‘Uh … Yes. Thanks.’

Gene pulls out a stool and sits down. He notices that Sheila is wearing her old, college-era red and black mohair jumper over her standard religious garb and that her hair has been washed and … Was that actually gel ? In the fringe?

He removes an orange from a nearby fruit bowl and tosses it, slightly anxious, from hand to hand.

‘She’s changed her mind about going away,’ Mallory tells him with an exaggerated eye-roll.

‘Has she, indeed?’

Gene looks over at his wife –

A hint of lightly tinted lip salve?

Sheila is wiping down the draining-board.

‘I’m leaving the pan in to soak,’ she says.

‘Then I suppose I should lug the case back up into the loft again,’ he tells Mallory.

‘Good!’ Mallory’s obviously still smarting from the whole Jamaica interlude. ‘Before some idiot breaks their neck on it.’

‘Right. If you’ve eaten all you want then you’d better finish off getting ready for school,’ Sheila tells her, reaching for the bowl. Mallory happily submits. She stomps out of the kitchen.

‘She’s delighted, really.’ Gene smiles.

‘I know.’ Sheila nods.

Gene digs his fingers into the orange and starts to peel it. He feels stuck for words.

‘I know ,’ Sheila repeats, more emphatically. Gene continues peeling. Sheila returns to the sink.

‘And I’m actually fine about it,’ she adds.

‘How’s the leg?’ Gene changes the subject (although he isn’t entirely sure what the subject currently is).

‘I retied the bandage. It came loose overnight.’

Sheila carefully lifts up her trouser to demonstrate what a great job she’s done.

Gene tries to focus on the bandage, but he suddenly finds it hard to look at her, as if she’s bathed in a bright light or standing above him, looking down, the sun at her back, smiling, in a park, on a picnic, like in the old days.

‘It actually feels a lot better this morning than I thought it would.’

She rolls the trouser down again. ‘So what time did you finally get in last night?’

‘I can’t look at you,’ he says.

She doesn’t respond. He can’t look at her. He wonders if he’s about to burst into tears. Scream. Fall off his chair as though hit by a sudden burst of mortar fire.

‘Just after four,’ he eventually grinds out. ‘I must’ve fallen asleep over the steering wheel for an hour or so.’

‘Yes.’ Sheila nods. ‘I saw you through the window — dead to the world.’

He finishes peeling the orange and stares at it, helplessly. He supposes that he is now obliged to eat the damn thing.

‘You were still up?’ he asks, pulling off a segment.

She nods again.

‘Is there something …?’ he asks, then finds it impossible to finish his sentence so pops the segment into his mouth and chews.

‘Valentine’s converting to Islam,’ Sheila informs him, her tone studiedly casual. ‘She came over last night with a couple of friends. I was completely …’ She struggles to find the right word. ‘Banjaxed. It really was extraordinary — completely extraordinary —’