Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘If it ain’t broke why fix it?’ Ransom shrugs.

‘I mean who really has the time for an eighteen-hole game in this day and age?’ Toby persists. ‘If your average game was nine holes it’d totally transform the sport on countless levels. It’d democratize it for a start. It’d dramatically reduce the average age of the golfing demographic. It’d halve waiting times on popular courses. And think of the environmental benefits! I’m basically re-thinking golf for a new, techno-savvy generation. I’ve invented several variations on the game: Punk Golf, Target Golf … They basically turn the traditional game inside out. You can play Target Golf by downloading a special program on to your phone. It sounds really high-tech, but it’s actually —’

‘Let’s not bore Gino to death with all of that,’ Ransom groans.

‘I’m not remotely bored,’ Gene maintains.

‘Well I am,’ Ransom grumbles, ‘so if it’s … oh bollocks !’

He suddenly slips down in his chair.

Toby automatically snaps to attention. He scans the bar and rapidly locates the problem: ‘Twenty to four and approaching,’ he mutters. ‘Pushy Dad with kid in tow.’

Ransom turns to Gene, panicked. ‘Start talking about something important,’ he hisses, ‘quick!’

‘Uh …’ Gene’s caught on the hop.

‘Go on,’ he prompts him, ‘tell Toby about your preacher wife — or your car accident — or your cancer.’

‘What?’ Gene’s disconcerted.

‘Gino here had terminal cancer over seven times but he cured himself with crystals,’ Ransom helpfully informs Toby.

‘I had terminal cancer once,’ Gene corrects him, irritated, ‘and I’ve never knowingly used —’

‘Only the once?!’ Ransom’s appalled. ‘But that skanky little blonde barmaid at the Thistle —’

‘I’ve had cancer eight times, in total, but only once was it terminal. The other times it was just …’ — Gene shrugs, determined to underplay it — ‘just your standard small lumps and inflamed moles and stuff.’

‘Hang on a sec!’ Toby suddenly pipes up, excited. ‘So you’re the man with no lifeline? The son of Cheiro? But that’s incredible! Why the hell didn’t you mention it in the first place?’

He springs to his feet and proffers Gene his hand.

‘I’m not Cheiro’s son.’ Gene shakes Toby’s hand, somewhat overwhelmed. ‘And Jen isn’t skanky,’ he adds, as an afterthought, glancing sideways at Ransom, ‘just a little bit wayward, sometimes …’

As he speaks, the Wolf and his father draw closer to the table.

‘So whereabouts in your body was this cancer?’ Ransom butts in (ignoring the Jen reprimand). ‘The brain? The foot? In one, main area or spread all over the shop?’

‘Uh …’ Gene pauses before he musters up an answer (patently startled — even disarmed — by the golfer’s direct approach). ‘Well it actually started off in the breast,’ he confesses, his right hand automatically drifting to the area just below his left nipple, ‘and then there was a problem with the throat …’

His hand moves to the base of his throat, near the collar bone. ‘Then a tumour in one of the lymph glands under my left armpit — that was the really bad one …’

His hand moves to his armpit. ‘It spread down to my stomach … uh …’

He briefly loses focus, glancing down at himself, frowning, before quickly retracing the short series of movements for a second time:

Breast, throat, armpit, stomach …

— then a third –

Breast, throat …

The Wolf and his father are now standing next to the table.

‘I just wanted to take this opportunity to say another, quick thank you for helping us out this afternoon …’

The Wolf’s father takes full advantage of the brief lull in their conversation.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Ransom pooh-poohs him, suddenly all smiles. ‘You’ve got nothing to thank me for! What I did was pure instinct! A natural reflex! It wasn’t remotely grand or brave or heroic …’

‘What did you do?’ Toby demands, intrigued.

‘He saved our bacon, that’s what!’ the Wolf’s father exclaims. ‘He’s a miracle worker! A Godsend! I’m Brendan Dick, by the way, and this is my very lucky, very grateful, very gifted son, Alfie, aka Little Dickie, aka the Dickster, aka the Wolf.’

The Wolf bays, to order (much to the evident dismay of the waitress, who is returning to the table with Ransom’s drinks order).

‘In fact while we’re here I wondered whether we might just take this opportunity to bend your ear about the kids’ comp. Alfie’s not had the chance to play the course before —’

‘That’s a very tempting offer,’ Ransom interrupts, gratefully snatching his Scotch from the waitress’s tray and knocking back a quick mouthful, ‘and under normal circumstances I’d like nothing better, but this gentleman here was just filling me in on some rather painful and sensitive details about his lifelong battle with cancer.’

‘Oh.’

The Wolf’s father’s eyes turn to Gene, his expression an odd combination of irritation, pity and fear. The Wolf steps behind his father as if seeking shelter.

‘Don’t worry’ — Gene smiles at the child — ‘it’s not contagious.’

‘Not so far as we’re aware.’ Ransom shrugs, widening his eyes at the cowering Wolf, somewhat mischievously.

‘Well maybe later, eh?’ The Wolf’s father turns to leave, somewhat deflated.

‘Just by the by …’ Ransom stops him in his tracks. ‘You didn’t happen to see a big, blond bugger in the foyer on your way through to the bar? Burgundy waistcoat? Huge fat white hands? Sweating like a rapist? Crouched over a laptop?’

‘Uh …’ The Wolf’s father ponders this for a second. ‘That description does ring a small bell, now you come to mention it.’

‘Thought as much.’ Ransom nods appreciatively, turning to Gene. ‘Terence Nimrod,’ he informs him, conversationally, ‘the journalist. I was pretty sure I spotted him out there earlier.’

The Wolf’s father prepares to leave again.

‘Now I come to think of it …’ Ransom stops him for a second time. ‘I don’t suppose it could do you any harm to wander over and get yourself officially acquainted. Throw my name into the mix if you think it’ll help. Offer to buy him a drink. Keep him up to speed on any recent developments in the kid’s game.’

‘That’s not a half-bad idea!’ The Wolf’s father’s suddenly beaming.

‘Happy to be of service!’ Ransom cheerfully rejoins, then turns straight back to Gene again. ‘So this cancer of yours,’ he mutters, grabbing a large cube of ice from his whisky glass, popping it into his mouth and crunching it — with a spine-tingling recklessness — between his molars. ‘Did it fetch up in yer knackers, or what?’

* * *

There’s no room in the garage for a car. It’s full of bikes and filing cabinets and old tyres and rusty swing sets and stacks and stacks of over-filled boxes. Sheila has lifted several of these from the pile and is halfway through emptying out the first of them which has The Rag, 1996 written on its side (circled, twice) in a heavy, black marker pen.

Sheila sits cross-legged on the dusty, concrete floor, relying on the last of the natural light — which filters in through the open garage door, tinged with a gentle, ethereal pink — as she squints down at an open poetry book:

‘ Maybe I have plugged up my sockets

to keep the gods in? ’ she reads.

‘ Maybe, although my heart

is a kitten of butter,

I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. ’

She closes her eyes for a second, smiling, the skin on her arms goose-bumping, her nostrils flaring, revelling in the feeling of pure, undiluted pleasure these few, simple lines afford her. When she opens her eyes again, she unexpectedly catches her reflection in a nearby hubcap. Her face is joyous — illuminated. A rosy nimbus surrounds her head like a foggy halo of mustard gas.