Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Third person, Stu,’ Esther warns him, sharply.

Ransom drops the Post-it into the toilet and flushes. ‘That sucks, man,’ he mutters, watching its frenetic progress around the bowl with a distinctly martyred air. ‘That stinks. That just really fuckin’ …’

He yanks, aimlessly, at the sagging belt on his robe as the offending, yellow scrap finally disappears from view. ‘… that smarts .’

‘Why fret?’ she demands. ‘Why all this pointless fretting? You can entertain who you like in here. It’s not the men’s toilet per se — it’s your own, private room. It’s your cubby. It’s your special little watchtower …’

Jen pulls out a stool, sits down on it, tosses a blonde pigtail over her shoulder, bends forward, pushes her two thumbs into the diamanté-lined elasticated tops of her pink knee-high socks and yanks them both up by a couple of extra centimetres.

‘My “watchtower”?’ Gene echoes, bemused.

‘It’s kinda weird, though, don’t you reckon?’ Jen peers around her, frowning. ‘I mean having an office with a large window looking straight out on to the latrines?’

She twists sideways, presses her hands on to the wide shelf that runs below the window and gazes through it. At this precise moment the door into the toilet opens, a man enters, sees Jen at the window, does a rapid 180-degree turn and leaves.

‘God. I bet you see some extraordinary sights in here,’ she sighs.

‘Strange as this may seem, Jen’ — Gene struggles to control the edge of sarcasm in his voice — ‘I’m in the toilets to work’ — he motions towards the mop — ‘not to perve on the poor clients all day.’

‘But why else would there be a window if you weren’t meant to look out of it?’ Jen demands.

‘So people can look in? ’ Gene hazards a guess. ‘Ask for help, maybe?’

‘But why would they want to do that?’

‘I’ve no idea …’ Gene shrugs. ‘For reassurance. Or if there’s a blockage in one of the toilets, or if they’ve run out of —’

‘Hi there!’

Jen waves through the window at a teenage boy who has just entered. He blushes, apologizes, and leaves.

‘Bless him!’ Jen coos. ‘He thinks he came into the Ladies by mistake!’

‘Perhaps you could move back a little?’ Gene suggests.

‘I see you’ve won three awards!’ Jen jumps up and goes to inspect a series of certificates on the wall. ‘You’re such a clever boy! Such a powerhouse! Is there anything you’re not brilliant at, Eugene?’

She turns and bats her lashes at him.

‘Oh, I can think of a few things,’ Gene murmurs, scowling.

‘I love this place!’ Jen skips around the office, baby-clapping. ‘It’s just wonderful! I’m perfectly at home! Are you hiring at the moment?’

‘No.’

‘Aw.’

Jen sticks out her lower lip and pretends to look traumatized.

An elderly man enters the toilet, spots Jen, exclaims loudly, then dashes for a cubicle. He slams his way inside and shoots the bolt.

‘Oh dear.’ Jen presses her nose against the window and peers out (leaving a large smudge of make-up in her stead). ‘I think we might’ve given that old boy a bit of a turn …’

The toilet door swings open again. Before she can instigate any further chaos, Gene grabs Jen by the arm and frog-marches her into an extensive broom cupboard to the rear of the room.

‘Gene, you old devil!’ Jen squeals as he gently prods her inside.

He holds the door ajar with his body, maintaining a careful gap of at least two feet between them.

‘So what exactly can I do for you, Jen?’ he asks. He sounds careworn.

‘Ooh! Now there’s a question!’ Jen camps it up for all she’s worth.

‘I’m serious.’ (He’s having none of it.)

Jen leans her elbow against the wall, curls a pigtail around her finger and assesses him, coolly. ‘Was Sheila really pissed off yesterday?’ she wonders. Gene takes a moment to consider his answer, but before he can respond: ‘Because she’s quite scary when she’s angry, don’t you reckon?’ Jen runs on. ‘She actually quite scared me when I rang. Does she scare you too, sometimes?’

She blinks up at him, tremulously.

‘No. Sheila doesn’t scare me.’ Gene almost smiles in spite of himself.

‘Then why didn’t you tell her about Stan half-inching the jeep?’ Jen enquires, with killer precision.

‘Why?’ Gene echoes, unnerved (and not a little indignant). ‘That’s none of your business, quite frankly.’

He delivers her what he imagines is a reproving look. Jen appears signally unmoved by it. He quickly relents. ‘I was just biding my time if you must know,’ he backtracks. ‘I planned to tell her after dinner, but then you rang and beat me to it …’

His attention is momentarily diverted by a brief commotion in the toilets (the rattling of a plastic toilet roll holder as it jumps clear of its metal supports and clatters down on to the stone tiles below). Gene scowls over towards the stalls, then returns his focus back to Jen again. ‘Peerless timing, by the way,’ he adds.

‘I aim to please!’ Jen bats her lashes, unrepentant. ‘So did Ransom get back in contact?’ she wonders, almost as an afterthought.

‘Ransom?’ Gene reaches up and pulls the tiniest remnant of a spider’s web from the corner of the doorframe. ‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Nope.’ Gene shakes his head. ‘Why would he?’

‘Why?’ Jen’s astonished. ‘To apologize, you idiot! For ditching poor Stan like that.’

‘Oh. Uh, no.’ Gene wipes the remnant of web on to a clean piece of shammy which protrudes from one of several pockets in the front of his uniform (a baggy, synthetic jumpsuit with questionable design attributes). ‘He didn’t, as it happens.’

‘What a worm!’ Jen’s appalled. ‘Well it’s extra lucky I turned up when I did, then, eh?’

She beams at him, proudly, ruthlessly pressing home her advantage.

‘You saved the day,’ Gene affirms, somewhat mechanically, ‘like I said in my message —’

‘Stan was shitting himself,’ she interrupts, ‘he begged me not to ring you — pleaded with me. Did he mention that?’

‘Uh …’ Gene pushes an uneasy hand through his auburn hair.

‘He said Ransom wanted him to head back to the rectory and pretend like a gang of local hoodies had ’jacked the vehicle. I swear to God he was seriously considering it! He thought you’d cancel his trip. He was going frantic about it. Then the nausea kicked in, obviously …’

‘We were just happy to get him home in one piece …’ Gene does his best to head her off.

‘I guess this means you kinda owe me.’ Jen sighs, inspecting her nails then glancing up, coquettishly. Gene meets her gaze, somewhat guardedly. Jen promptly misreads his expression. ‘Are you cross with me because I had to run off before you could make it home yourself?’ she demands.

‘Not at all.’ Gene’s shocked. ‘You were late for your shift. You’d already gone way beyond the call of duty …’

Jen inspects the split-ends at the tip of her pigtail for a while, mollified. ‘I can’t believe he never rang to apologize.’ She grimaces. ‘What a spineless little shit! I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind the next time we meet up.’

Pause.

‘You think there’ll be a next time?’

Gene’s understandably quizzical.

‘Sure. Why not?’ Jen shrugs. ‘We need to seek retribution. I mean it’s not personal or anything,’ she smirks. ‘Heaven forbid! It’s just karmic.’

It takes a full second for Gene to digest this information, then another to muster his response to it.