Nicola Barker - The Yips

A brief silence follows, then, two seconds later, ‘Jen? Jen?! The little minx with the ponytails? The chippy blonde? What the heck’s she got to do with the price of fish?’

A sightly longer pause. ‘Well Sheila’s barking up the wrong tree. Stan’s a good kid, a solid kid. Very discreet. Very mature. You’ve got absolutely no worries on that score …’

As Ransom talks, the two men rapidly cover the thirty or so yards’ distance between the hotel and the chessboard, drawing to a sharp halt on its outer margins, from whence they commence to address him, at volume.

‘A game is still in progress!’ the blue-blazered man honks.

‘This board is fully booked until three!’ Arty-glasses adds (officiously inspecting his watch — it’s half past twelve).

‘Well I guess we’re just gonna have to agree to disagree …’ Ransom shrugs, blanking the two men completely. ‘ Comme ci comme ça , as the French like to say. Did he get off to Krakow okay?’

‘It’s booked. This board is fully booked until three,’ the blue-blazered man repeats (some of the aggression leaving his voice as the true identity — and eminent stature — of the personage he’s currently addressing slowly starts to register), ‘by Knott/Beevers Holdings plc — chief sponsors of this week’s event. My name’s Chris Padgett,’ he adds (with a soupçon of swank), ‘I’m the company MD.’

Ransom merely swishes a peremptory hand at him, indicates, self-importantly, towards his phone and turns away so that he might better concentrate. ‘Well that’s gotta be a good result by any calculation, eh?’ he observes (with a generous — if profoundly unconvincing — measure of faux -jocularity).

He then listens intently for a second, scowling. ‘The Hummer?’

He winces. ‘I dunno. It’s all a bit of a blur … And if I can be completely honest with you, Gene’ — he winces again — ‘I don’t actually have the luxury of dwelling on all this stuff right now. It’s old history — kinda “surplus to requirements”, if you know what I mean. The crud’s really hitting the fan at this end. I’m up the proverbial gum tree. I’ve found myself short of a caddie. That’s partly why I’m ringing. There’s five per cent of my overall fee in the offing, five per cent of any prize money … And let’s not forget the work I’m hoping to do for local charities while I’m in situ — the oxygen of publicity and all that …’

He pauses for a second, listening. ‘No. No. I don’t think you’re quite grasping what I …’

He listens again, frowning. ‘I’m offering you the opportunity …’ he interrupts. Another pause. ‘Aw, come on , Gino! It’s not rocket science! It’s just lugging a friggin’ bag around …’

The blue-blazered man gawps at the artily bespectacled man, as though perfectly astonished by Ransom’s arrogance. The artily bespectacled man promptly strides to the other side of the chessboard to engage with Ransom himself.

‘My name’s Charles Del Renzio,’ he starts off, ‘Head of PR for this week’s event. I’m afraid there seems to be some kind of confusion here …’

‘Then sort it out, will ya?’ Ransom snaps, glancing up. ‘Isn’t it obvious I’m in the middle of something?’

The artily bespectacled man is momentarily flummoxed by Ransom’s high-handed approach.

‘You’re in the middle of something all right!’ the blue-blazered man harrumphs. ‘You’re in the middle of our game, you bloody imbecile!’

Ransom turns to appraise Blue-blazer, incensed. ‘That’s arrant, friggin’ bullshit! The board was abandoned when I arrived here. The game was clearly over.’

‘The board had been temporarily vacated,’ Artily-bespectacled corrects him. ‘A gull messed on Mr Padgett’s jacket, so we were obliged to step back into the hotel for a second …’

‘A gull shat on your jacket?!’ Ransom guffaws (his voice getting louder — and more northern — in a bid to attract the attention of a random couple of passers-by). ‘It takes two, grown men to clean off …’ (he falls into insulting baby-talk), ‘… an ’ickle-wickle smudge of bird poop, now, does it?’ He pouts out his lower lip. ‘Aw, Diddums!’

‘I actually popped up to my room to fetch a hat,’ Artily-bespectacled explains, indicating (slightly embarrassed) towards his trilby. ‘It was brighter outside than I’d anticipated …’

‘Good God!’ Ransom expostulates (thrilled as his new audience — a father and son golfing combo — realize who he is and are thus compelled to draw closer). ‘I got clawed on the neck by a broody gannet once, up at the Nairn Dunbar course — third hole, needed five stitches — and still I played on! Had a jab of penicillin on the ninth and managed to finish third — four under par — in a low friggin’ gale! That’s competitive edge for you.’ He swings out his arm, dramatically. ‘ That’s sportsmanship in action. Call yourselves contenders? A little fleck of bird shit and you’re running for the hills? It’s a scandal! What are you, men or friggin’ mice?!’

Ransom turns and poses for a photograph (the father snaps away, delightedly, the boy is beaming), then returns to his phone call, disgusted. ‘Nah. Nothing important,’ he mutters, ‘just a couple of MOP’s, arguing the toss. If I ignore them for long enough they might just …’

He clicks his fingers. Nothing happens.

‘Either you vacate the board now, Mr Ransom, or you’ll leave us with no option but to call in Security,’ Artily-bespectacled informs him, eyes darting back and forth, nervously, between the golfer and his new audience.

‘Bring it on, Dick-weed!’ Ransom tenses his muscles, exultant. ‘Yeah! Bring it friggin’ on! Make the call! Let’s do this!’

‘Yeah! Make the call!’ the kid echoes.

‘ Woo- hoo!’ The dad punches the air.

Artily-bespectacled loses his momentum, somewhat.

Ransom dutifully returns to his phone conversation. ‘Experience isn’t necessary,’ he insists, ‘in fact experience is actively un welcome. Experience is exactly what got me into this friggin’ mess. Ignorance is bliss, Gene. I’m getting back to basics. I’m getting back to what’s real; tuning into my “awareness continuum” …’

‘That’s it! I’ve had a gut-ful of this idiot!’ Blue-blazer turns to Artily-bespectacled, imperiously. ‘Call Security!’

Artily-bespectacled takes his phone from his pocket, but hesitates.

‘What’re you waiting for?’ Blue-blazer demands, irate. ‘Make the call!’

‘Well I’m very sorry you feel that way,’ Ransom’s muttering. ‘It’s a great opportunity. I mean it’s … Hang on a second …’

Ransom removes the phone from his ear and starts inspecting the chessboard, critically.

‘Who’s white?’ he asks, after a short pause.

‘White?’ Blue-blazer squawks, paranoid. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Oh-ho!’ Ransom chuckles. ‘On the defensive, now, are we?’

He turns and mugs at his small audience.

‘I’ll say he is!’ the father promptly volunteers.

‘Look at him! He’s shitting his pants!’ the boy crows (and receives a sharp cuff around the ear for his trouble).

Ransom guffaws, delighted.

‘Defensive? That’s ridiculous — absolute rubbish! I’m not remotely defensive!’ Blue-blazer’s huffing. ‘The game’s patently still in the balance. You kicked over my pawn. I’ve still got …’

‘Playing for cash?’ Ransom turns to Artily-bespectacled, brow cocked.

‘A small pot,’ Artily-bespectacled concedes. ‘I mean just to keep things interesting …’

‘What business is it of yours?’ Blue-blazer brusquely interjects.