Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘“What if it’s a family heirloom?” Sinclair demands.

‘“Hard cheese,” I scoff.’

‘Finders keepers,’ Israel confirms.

‘But then before I can say anything else,’ Jen continues, piqued, ‘Sinclair is waving at the woman and beckoning her over. “Are you missing a Claddagh ring by any chance?” he asks. “A what?” The woman scowls. “A Claddagh ring.” “What’s that?” the woman demands. “A special kind of Irish friendship ring,” Sinclair says. “Why d’you ask?” the woman wonders. “Because your dog just shat one out,” I say and hold it up. She comes over to take a look, pinching her nose as a precaution against the smell. “Is it gold?” she wonders. “Strange as this may sound,” I say, “I haven’t had the opportunity to check the hallmark.”

‘“It isn’t yours, then?” Sinclair’s straight to the heart of the matter.

‘“I’ve never seen it before,” she says, “but I suppose it must be mine if my dog just shat it out.”’

‘ Hmmn . Interesting logic,’ Israel ruminates, plucking at an imaginary beard.

‘Yeah. Socrates’ Crito has nothing on this,’ Jen smirks.

‘So what happened?’

‘I held out the hairy, shitty Wagon Wheel wrapper with the ring in the middle of it and I said, “Well, if you want it, go ahead and take it.”’

‘Good call!’ Israel grins. ‘Did she?’

‘Uh, nope,’ Jen chuckles. ‘She tried. She gagged. Then she demanded I clean the ring off in the snow.’

‘And …?’

‘And naturally I refused.’

‘You kept it?’ Israel’s impressed.

‘Hell yeah!’ Jen’s cheerfully unrepentant.

‘Where’s it now?’

‘I gave it to Sinclair. I had to: he’s Irish. Although he’s never actually worn it …’

‘Too fastidious?’ Israel wonders.

‘It’s ridiculous!’ Jen scowls. ‘I told him about this brand of coffee in South America which is especially prized because the beans have been pre-digested by a civet cat …’

‘How’d he react?’

‘He thought I was lying.’

‘Were you?’

‘Nope.’

The phone starts ringing behind the bar. Jen turns, lackadaisically, to apprehend it.

‘Anyway, that’s basically the story of how a constipated pooch almost ruined my love life,’ she concludes, adjusting her bra-strap. She then pauses for a moment, frowning. ‘How’d we get on to that whole subject in the first place?’ she wonders, mystified.

‘Uh …’ Israel struggles to remember. ‘Didn’t I ask for extra ice in my Coke at some point?’

‘Oh. Yeah … of course.’ Jen nods, distractedly, then returns to the bar (honour fully satisfied) where she rapidly devours ten Rowntree’s Tooty Frooties, half a Twix, a dried, reconstituted beef sausage snack and three out-of-date packets of prawn cocktail flavour crisps.

‘ Awareness continuum?! Are you serious?’

Sheila leans back against the sink with a loud snort of derision.

‘Afraid so.’ Gene nods. ‘And no experience is necessary. In fact he said it’d be an active disadvantage …’

‘Who needs experience?’ Sheila throws up her hands, dismissively. ‘Experience is old hat! Boo shucks to experience! I mean why bother hiring a professional when there’s an enthusiastic amateur up for grabs, eh?’

‘Yours truly.’ Gene bows, smiling crookedly. ‘Although I’m a little thin on the enthusiasm front.’

‘Sorry …’ — Sheila simply can’t let this one go — ‘but he actually used the phrase, “ Awareness continuum ”?!’

‘Fearlessly.’ Gene chuckles (evidently delighted to have captured her interest). ‘And with no hint of irony.’

‘Incredible!’

‘I think his exact words were, “I’m ‘tuning in’ to my awareness continuum.”’

He shakes his head, despairingly.

‘God forgive me for saying this,’ Sheila mutters, ‘but that man truly is an intergalactic ass.’

As she speaks she turns and throws the dregs of her mug of tea into the sink, then checks her watch (it’s only ten minutes until Evening Service), opens a nearby cupboard, removes a large bottle of indigestion tablets, tips one out on to her hand, tosses it into her mouth and chews, violently.

‘He’s certainly a little self-involved,’ Gene concedes.

‘A little ?!’ she expostulates, swallowing with some difficulty, then rinsing out her mug and slamming it down on to the draining-board. ‘The man’s a sociopath, Gene! An irresponsible egomaniac. You can’t seriously be thinking about accepting his offer, surely?’

‘Of course not. It’s just … I dunno …’ Gene looks hunted. ‘Beneath all the arrogance and the bluster there’s something …’ — he thinks hard for a second — ‘… an awkwardness, a feeling of … it’s like he’s all at sea — completely rudderless. When we arrived at the Leaside the other night he just … he fell to pieces. He was petrified.’

‘He was drunk,’ Sheila interrupts.

‘He just seems incredibly lonely.’

‘This man smoked drugs with our teenage son, remember?’ she curtly reminds him. ‘He encouraged Stan to steal the Hummer, then cheerfully abandoned him when the damn thing broke down …’

‘Ran out of petrol,’ Gene corrects her.

‘Oh, and let’s not forget how he put that poor, local woman into a coma and then calmly refused to pay the family any kind of compensation. It was splashed all over the local papers again this morning …’

‘That was an accident.’ Gene automatically rallies to Ransom’s defence. ‘He’d recently been declared bankrupt. His insurance had lapsed …’

‘You’re a soft touch,’ she grumbles.

‘I just feel sorry for him, Sheila.’

‘Here’s a suggestion,’ she volunteers, brightly. ‘Why not conserve your sympathy for someone who actually deserves it? A Somalian refugee. A Prisoner of Conscience. The poor woman whose life he destroyed with that stupid, stray golf ball …’

‘Or her crazy daughter,’ Gene muses, thoughtfully, then stiffens, involuntarily, once the words leave his mouth.

‘Her crazy daughter?’ Sheila frowns. ‘She has a crazy daughter?’

‘ No . Not crazy exactly …’ Gene rapidly starts to backtrack.

‘Then why call her crazy?’ Sheila persists.

‘It’s just …’ Gene bites his lip. ‘Remember that weird incident on my rounds the other day with the little girl and the trampoline?’

‘Nope.’ Sheila shakes her head.

‘There was a little girl jumping on a trampoline without any pants on and the neighbour asked me to have a word with the mother about it. Well the mother’s the crazy daughter. In fact she’s the aunt. The real mother’s in rehab. The child is the crazy daughter’s niece. Although she isn’t crazy. She’s just —’

‘Does this bizarre-sounding scenario have anything to do with your dear friend Jen, by any chance?’ Sheila interrupts, her eyes slitting.

‘Jen?’ Gene appears puzzled by the mention of Jen. ‘Uh. No. Although …’ He pauses. ‘Although I was at the neighbour’s house collecting the child when Jen rang me on my mobile …’

Sheila stares at him for a moment, confused. ‘So … so you were running an errand for this woman?’

‘Which woman?’

‘The crazy daughter.’

‘Yes. Although she isn’t crazy. She’s just …’ He thinks for a moment, and the only word to pop into his head is ‘beautiful’.

‘But you were actually at their house?’ she interjects, alarmed. ‘You were in their house?’

‘Whose house?’ Gene scowls, irritated at himself.

‘The Tuckers? Isn’t that their name?’