Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘I’d blame it on the hormones if you weren’t always such a friggin’ bitch,’ Ransom mutters.

‘You want hormones …?’ Esther growls.

Ransom turns to Toby. ‘I call her the Black Widow,’ he confides.

Toby smiles, agonized, not daring to respond.

‘This is her third bub on my watch an’ I’ve never yet shaken hands with a dad.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘I think she kills the poor bastards and eats ’em.’

‘Go to hell!’ Esther hisses.

Toby looks mortified.

‘Here’s an interesting fact for you.’ Ransom seems enlivened — even cheered — by the horribly strained atmosphere he’s engineered. ‘Did you know that we inherited our aggressive impulses from our spider ancestors?’

‘Spider ancestors?’

Toby blanches. He’s mildly arachnophobic.

‘Yeah, spiders,’ Ransom reiterates. ‘We share a genetic background. Why else d’you reckon Nimrod’s got such hairy shoulders?’

Nimrod smiles wanly as Ransom slaps him, jovially, on the back.

‘Spiders are naturally aggressive,’ Ransom expands, ‘same as we humans are …’

He tips his head, disparagingly, towards Esther (who is sending an SMS on her phone, jabbing away at the keypad with a face like thunder).

‘But most other animals in the world seek to actively avoid conflict,’ Ransom continues, ‘by resorting to various strategies. A pecking order, for instance …’

‘Like hens?’ Toby’s quick to catch on.

‘Yeah, like hens. And take the piranha, for example. Piranhas are completely lethal. They’re these bona fide little killing machines, but because they’re so dangerous — and they’re fully keyed into this fact about themselves — they choose to fight each other with their tails, not their teeth.’

‘They slap each other around?’ Toby grins.

‘Like Laurel and Hardy’ — Ransom chuckles — ‘but with fins!’

Esther’s looking up from her phone now, gazing at Ransom through slitted eyes.

Nimrod grabs his notebook and primes his pencil. ‘So this fortune-telling guy …’ he starts off.

‘Hold on a sec …’ Ransom focuses in on Toby with a sudden — almost bewildering — level of intensity. ‘What was it you said the I stood for again?’

‘Sorry?’

Toby’s in a completely different head space.

‘The I. In S.P.I.C.E.’

‘Oh. Right . Yeah. The I. The I stands for incongruity.’

‘Seven times, though?’ Nimrod mutters, scribbling frantically. ‘Surely that’s gotta be a record of some kind?’

‘Incongruity …’ Ransom echoes (apparently riveted).

‘You’re much more likely to be able to persuade someone of something if there’s an unpredictable element to the set-up,’ Toby expands. ‘Something strange. Something out of the ordinary — like if there’s a song written in a major key and then the composer sticks in a minor chord when you’re least expecting it …’

‘Something unpredictable …’ Ransom repeats, a distant look in his eye.

‘Like if you see a really beautiful woman but she has … I dunno …’ Toby can’t think of a suitable example.

‘Stupid, blonde ponytails,’ Ransom finishes off.

‘A small gap between her front teeth,’ Nimrod suggests, glancing over towards Esther, fondly. Esther peers down at her phone again, fighting back a smile.

‘So we’ve got simplicity, perceived self-interest, incongruity …’ Ransom counts them off on to his fingers.

‘Then C for confidence — which is pretty self-explanatory — and the E …’

‘Energy,’ Ransom tries to pre-empt him, bouncing to his feet.

‘Empathy,’ Toby corrects him. ‘People need to be able to “relate” at some level, to find you sympathetic …’

‘Right. Good. Brilliant . Well I’m off to the range.’ Ransom grabs his baseball cap from the table and prepares to leave.

‘Don’t forget your book.’

Nimrod nudges Artist of Life towards him.

‘Toby can have it.’ Ransom checks for the phone in his pocket.

‘Really?’ Toby’s touched. He reaches out for the paperback as Ransom applies his cap, touches the brim — by way of farewell — and casually saunters off.

‘We not gone through the itinerary!’ Esther yells after him.

Ransom doesn’t turn to answer, simply makes a little hand signal while he walks, as if to imply — much to his profound regret — that she is no longer fully audible.

‘I’ll be literally thirty seconds,’ he pants, ‘that’s all, I promise.’

Valentine stares at the proffered identification badge, almost disbelieving. She has a dozy, thumb-sucking Nessa on her hip. Her hair is swept back into a ponytail. Her fringe is drawn up into a single curler. She’s wearing a wrap-around housecoat (red, covered with tiny, white dots) and a pair of fancy, white satin slippers with red bows, peep-toes and cute, wooden-look kitten heels. Her make-up is immaculate but her nail-polish — he immediately notices — is chipped.

‘My brother said you work at the hotel,’ she mutters, an edge of accusation in her voice.

Gene uses his sleeve to pat a light film of perspiration from his forehead. ‘I do the odd shift there, yes,’ he admits.

‘Is that the uniform?’

He peers down at his green jumpsuit. ‘No. This is …’

For some reason he resists telling her about the Arndale.

‘I work in a couple of places …’ He inspects his watch. ‘In fact I’m currently on my lunch-break —’

‘When Noel saw you here yesterday he thought Ransom might’ve sent you …’ she interrupts, looking over her shoulder, nervously (as if Noel could be hiding behind the door — possibly wielding a sledge-hammer). ‘He got all stupid and paranoid about it.’

‘But why would I be …?’ Gene finds this idea difficult to process.

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She shrugs. ‘To spy on us, I suppose.’

She laughs, self-consciously.

‘Well Ransom didn’t send me,’ Gene maintains.

‘I already knew that.’

She gazes at him for a moment, her expression softening.

‘Oh.’

His colour rises. ‘Good.’ He glances down at his clipboard. ‘Thanks.’

‘You want to read our meter again?’

She pushes back the door to reveal the hallway. ‘Is there a problem? Didn’t the numbers add up or something?’

‘No, no, no. No problem …’ Gene clears his throat, self-consciously. ‘I just didn’t get around to reading it on my last visit. I must’ve got distracted …’

‘Can’t imagine why.’ She lifts her eyebrow, suggestively.

Gene quickly shifts his focus from the immaculately raised brow to the lone curler in her fringe. It is large, white, plastic and filled with tan-coloured foam.

‘You dig my retro-curler?’ Valentine grins.

‘Sorry?’

Gene drags his eyes away from the curler.

‘My curler …?’

She points. ‘Of course it’s not remotely functional,’ she avers, drolly, ‘just an accessory — part of my “forties housewife” look …’

She performs a neat, little twirl, holding out the fabric of her housecoat. As she lifts the material she unwittingly reveals the span of soft, bare flesh inside her knee.

Gene’s eyes shoot straight up to the curler again. They take refuge in the curler.

‘You know how it is …’ she sighs, ‘“at home, doing the chores, still gorgeous, preparing to head out on a visit to the aerodrome …”’

Gene’s eyes remain glued to the curler. ‘Well it looks real enough …’ he mutters.

She scans his face for a second, smiling but slightly perplexed. ‘I’m just teasing.’ She reaches up a tentative hand to touch the curler herself.

‘Oh.’ Gene nods. His stomach sinks. He adjusts his grip on his clipboard.