Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘A big fat old lard-arse, that’s what!’ Ransom sniggers, nudging Nimrod in the ribs and then picking up his coffee cup to take a sip.

‘I am generously proportioned’ — Nimrod fondly pats his significant girth — ‘principally because I wrecked my knee in competition. But I was a force to be reckoned with in my day. Spent eighteen months in Japan on a scholarship studying with the best: a former pupil of the Yip Man, no less.’

On the word ‘yip’, Ransom’s hand suddenly goes into spasm, spilling coffee on to the tablecloth. He curses under his breath.

‘The Yip Man?’ Toby echoes, intrigued, helping to blot up the spill with a couple of stray napkins.

‘ Professor Yip Man to the likes of you,’ Nimrod teases him. ‘Bruce Lee’s old Master …’ He reaches towards the book. ‘There’s probably a photograph …’

Ransom struggles to return his cup to its saucer as Nimrod opens the book and starts paging through it.

‘Talking of the yips …’ Toby observes, directing a significant look towards Ransom’s cack-handed manoeuvrings.

‘It’s a trapped nerve,’ Ransom quickly brushes him off, rotating his shoulder. ‘I fucked it up yesterday jump-starting this old Hummer …’

‘Here we go.’ Nimrod finds what he’s looking for. ‘Page fifteen.’

The caption under the photo reads: ‘ Bruce Lee (right) and his only formal martial arts instructor, Yip Man. ’

Both men inspect the photo for a second, impressed by Yip Man’s look of serene austerity.

‘Bruce Lee.’ Nimrod chuckles, pointing.

‘Some random nine-hole fan I was chatting to online the other day was telling me how there’s this entire site dedicated to the condition on the net,’ Toby volunteers. ‘It’s got a warning sign that flashes up discouraging people from reading the contents unless they’re already a sufferer. Apparently the human mind is so suggestible, so fragile — so … well, persuadable — that if you even try and engage with the yips on a purely intellectual level then you’re much more likely to fall victim to it.’

‘It’s a trapped nerve, Tobe,’ Ransom repeats.

‘You’re still using the belly putter, though?’ Toby persists.

‘So what if I am?’ Ransom’s starting to bridle. ‘If it’s good enough for Sergio …’

Esther glances up from her puzzle book.

‘An old Hummer, eh?’ Nimrod neatly interjects, with a grin. ‘Takes me back to the glory days …’

‘Yeah. Yeah .’ Toby finally detects the sudden atmosphere. ‘Well, I guess it’s just a question of mind over matter …’

Ransom grimaces. His hand is hidden from view, shoved firmly into his pocket under the table.

‘… and now that you’ve finally managed to put that nasty case of shingles behind you —’ Toby expands.

‘Glandular fever,’ Ransom curtly corrects him.

‘My youngest daughter had it,’ Nimrod sighs. ‘Completely destroyed her GCSE year …’

‘I met this guy the other day who survived terminal cancer.’ Ransom’s keen to change the subject. ‘Not just once or twice, but on seven separate occasions.’

‘But if the condition was terminal …’ Toby’s frowning. ‘I mean isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’

‘Seven times?’ Nimrod’s intrigued. ‘How the hell’d he manage that?’

‘Uh …’ Ransom’s stuck for an answer. ‘Force of will,’ he eventually suggests.

‘That’s phenomenal.’ Nimrod’s visibly moved. ‘What type of cancer?’

‘I dunno. Every type. All types. Take your pick.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘He came from a family of fortune-tellers …’

‘Witches?’ Nimrod’s reaching for his notebook. ‘Was there a black magic element to the story?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. They were palm-readers. He’s related to some famous palm-reader — Cheerie … Charley … I don’t remember the name, off-hand …’

‘Cheiro,’ Toby suggests.

‘Got it in one!’ Ransom’s impressed.

‘Cheiro’s a legend.’ Toby shrugs.

‘Well this guy was apparently born without a lifeline.’ Ransom struggles to remember the basic details. ‘The cards were totally stacked against him. I mean it was pretty much predestined that he would die from the outset. Everybody thought so. But he didn’t. He conquered it and he survived it — time and time again. He blew a huge, wet raspberry in the face of Destiny.’

‘ Lord give me strength! ’ Esther snorts (she’s put aside the puzzle book). ‘The man taken you for a damn fool, Stu!’

Ransom considers his response for a second. ‘Nah’ — he shakes his head — ‘it wasn’t like that. He had a kind of …’ He frowns, plainly conflicted (as if battling with the prospect of even pronouncing the word out loud). ‘… a kind of quiet integrity . Very modest and unassuming. Looks a little like Tom Watson …’

‘How old?’ Nimrod demands.

‘Mid-thirties, but very old-fashioned. Has this … this timeless quality about him. Remember those kids at school who were raised by their grandparents? Clean tank top? Lightly greased-back hair? Nicely polished shoes?’

‘Does he still read palms?’ Toby interrupts.

‘Not sure. Yeah. Maybe.’

‘D’you think he’d consider doing it professionally?’ Nimrod follows up. ‘For a tabloid?’

‘But the cancer’s not even the half of it.’ Ransom returns to the story (which is coming back to him, now, in neat, bite-size chunks). ‘After it went into remission for a while — and he finally thought the whole, shitty ordeal was over with — he was involved in a serious car smash. Not his fault — his aunt or someone was driving. Everybody died except him. Oh, and his niece, Mallory, who he adopted. Her whole face was torn apart — her jaw shattered, her tongue bitten half off. His legs were totally mashed. He had to have them pinned back together again. He was stuck in a wheelchair. It was years before he could walk. But now he competes in all these triathlons to raise money so’s he can take the kid to America for groundbreaking plastic surgery …’

‘Where’d you find this guy?’ Toby’s awestruck. ‘Does he write a blog?’

‘What’s his name?’ Nimrod adds. ‘D’you have his number?’

‘We got chatting in a bar.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘I stayed over at his house the other night. He’s a massive fan. Said he’d taken huge amounts of inspiration from my career over the years …’

‘ There we are!’ Esther snorts.

‘Sorry?’ Ransom glares over at her.

‘If the man takin’ inspiration from your career, he plainly delusional!’

‘Or just his email address …’ Nimrod persists.

‘Delusional?’ Ransom echoes. ‘Fuck you!’

‘I’m fascinated by palm-reading,’ Toby muses. ‘I’d love to get my palm read by a real professional. Find out if nine-hole’s got a future — whether Turbo Golf’s actually a goer. God knows I could do with the encouragement as things stand …’

‘If he got him no lifeline and he still survive,’ Esther reasons, ‘just think about it: a lifeline don’t mean shit! Either way, the man a sure-fire liar.’

Toby scowls, confused.

‘By your way of thinking, Esther,’ Nimrod interjects, ‘if I always drive at fifty on a road with a thirty limit, then ergo , the road doesn’t actually exist.’

‘Crazy logic!’ Esther snorts.

Nimrod turns to Ransom. ‘Is this guy local by any chance?’

‘What’s with you and the fucking attitude?!’ Ransom suddenly confronts Esther across the tables. ‘You’re Stuart Ransom’s manager for Christsakes! Start acting like it!’

‘Watch your mouth!’ Esther is trenchant.