Nicola Barker - The Yips

Valentine returns the piece of shell to its original place, rises to her feet and picks up the print again.

‘So when she found out about the work I was doing she spent virtually every penny she had to fund her trip over here. Aside from the cutting, she felt like the tattoo was her first, real act of self-determination. And once it was complete, she presented me with the shell as a thank you. She said the tattoo made her feel whole. And it wasn’t the tattoo itself so much as submitting, voluntarily, to the pain of the needle. It was the journey of the tattoo, if you like, which is basically what this photo represents. I mean it’s not beautiful or glamorous …’

‘Is it enjoyable?’ Gene asks, sensing that he should contribute something, yet feeling unable to commit — wholeheartedly — to the stark image itself.

‘Enjoyable?’

She bursts out laughing. ‘How d’you mean? In a kinky, Readers’ Wives kind of way?’

‘No!’ Gene’s horrified. ‘I mean the process — the actual tattooing …’

‘It’s hard work’ — she shrugs — ‘a lot of bending over and craning. I get a certain amount of neck pain, twinges in my lower back, eye strain, cramping in the hand …’

She tenses and un-tenses her right hand. As she does so he notices that three of her finger pads are an odd, purplish-blue colour.

‘But you get used to it after a while …’

She carefully covers the print with the tracing paper. ‘And obviously it depends — to a large extent — on the attitude of the individual client. Most of my customers are from the Far East. They’re generally really excited about the process — scared but excited …’ She grins, going over to place the print back into the folder. ‘They’ve waited a long time for the work. It’s a transformative act — the culmination of many years of stress and many months of planning —’

‘How long would it take?’ Gene interrupts. ‘I mean a tattoo of this size …’

He points to the photo on the wall.

‘Four or five hours. And I generally have to turn the tattoo around in one, long session, which can be fairly challenging …’ — she grimaces — ‘both for me and the client. There’s no margin for error in this line of work. Then there’s the weight of their expectation — which is huge …’

She walks over to the wall and straightens the painting on its hook. ‘The work’s compressed into this tiny, little area’ — she points — ‘but it’s very, very detailed, and the needle needs to go in deep enough or the ink comes away with the scab …’

Gene winces.

‘The skin over the pubic bone is especially delicate,’ she continues. ‘I mean it’s always harder to tattoo over bone — the hands, the ribs, the foot … You have to be really, really careful or the ink can bleed and the overall effect is —’

‘I wasn’t snooping around,’ Gene interrupts her, suddenly anxious. ‘I saw a wisp of smoke through the open doorway, so I came in to investigate. But it was only …’

He points at the shrine where a stick of incense has recently burned out, leaving a powder-fine trail of grey ash in its wake.

‘I chant,’ she explains, adjusting one of her braces. ‘Chanting with beads. Mischa taught me. He was really into Kali. It’s his old shrine. I do it to relieve stress, sometimes.’

As she speaks her eyes travel from the sleeping child on the sofa to the crazy image of Kali, to the tattooed vagina above.

‘I suppose this must all look a little … uh …’ She bites her lip, self-consciously. ‘… nuts.’

‘Not at all,’ he insists, slightly too loudly, before frowning down at his clipboard, uncomfortably, as if preparing himself to say something, then not saying it and turning to inspect the azure-cloaked Virgin Mary that stands, close to his elbow, on the bookcase.

‘My mother’s a Catholic,’ she explains. ‘At least she was a Catholic,’ she corrects herself, ‘before the accident.’

In the brief, awkward silence that follows, they both listen out, instinctively, for the distant strains of the piano, but it is no longer audible. Neither of them has the slightest notion of when the playing actually stopped.

‘Is she fully recovered now?’ Gene asks.

‘Hang on a second …’ Valentine cocks her head, still listening, ‘D’you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘A crackling sound … kind of like …’ She gestures with her hand.

‘Uh …’

Gene’s eyes move from her face, to her hand, to her brace (which is now applying the lightest of pressures to her right breast), then over to the shrine, panicked.

‘D’you have a phone?’ she wonders.

Gene pats at his pocket, feeling for his phone, then pulls it out, looks down at it, aghast, and quickly shoves it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

He listens for a moment.

‘Yeah. No. Sorry. I didn’t … I must’ve …’

As he speaks he winces at Valentine, apologetically. She shrugs.

He listens again.

‘No. No. It’s not …’

He scratches his head, embarrassed. ‘Could we talk about this later? I’m actually out on a …’

He listens again, perplexed. ‘Generous as the offer is, I really don’t think Sheila would … I mean she’s still furious about …’

He inhales, sharply.

‘ Pussy -whipped?’ he echoes, affronted, then glances over towards Valentine (who is covering her sleeping niece with a crocheted, patchwork blanket). ‘That’s hardly fair …’ he murmurs, hurt.

A brief silence follows.

‘Okay. Okay ,’ he finally concedes, his resolve palpably weakening. ‘So where …?’

He removes a pencil from the front pocket of his overalls, bends over and scribbles something on to his clipboard, whilst balancing it, unsteadily, on his knee.

‘I’ve a fair idea …’ he mutters, ‘… just past the Lea Valley walk, then Someries Castle, and it’s … Yeah. Fine. Six o’clock, sharp. But please don’t …’

A long pause. Valentine stands by the sofa, watching him from behind. As he leans forward, the collar on his overalls moves back and is pulled askew. On the area of skin just below his neck she sees the upper region of a bruise. She stares at it, fascinated, then looks down at her hand.

‘Well it’s big of you to admit that.’ Gene scratches his head again, suddenly disarmed. ‘And I suppose no real lasting damage was …’

An extended pause.

‘The Hummer?’

He straightens up again. ‘I don’t think …’

He gazes up at the ceiling.

‘I mean the cost of petrol alone …’

He stares down at the floor, frowning. ‘What kind of a uniform?’

He slowly shakes his head as he listens, ‘No. The hat’s too big and the jacket has this huge tear under the … Hello? ’

He gazes at his phone for a second, confused, puts it to his ear again, removes it and stares at it, then shoves it, grimacing, into his pocket.

‘Good. Right ,’ he says, turning back to face Valentine, a slight sheen of perspiration glowing on his forehead. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Look,’ Valentine says, taking a couple of steps towards him and reaching out her hand. He inspects the hand for a second, cautiously.

‘The bruise,’ she directs him, ‘on the index finger. Circling the index finger …’

She points to an angry bruise on her index finger.

‘It’s where I tried on your ring yesterday — Cheiro’s ring. The whole area is bruised. And see here …’

She turns over her hand and shows him her finger pads. Three of these are also bruised.

‘Don’t you think that’s weird?’ she asks, glancing up.

‘I should probably have a quick word with you about the reading,’ Gene answers, plainly unnerved by how close she’s standing. ‘One of the screws came loose …’