Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘A letter?’

Sheila’s struggling to keep up.

‘Yes. From their bank, threatening to foreclose on the house. And when I pulled it out to take a quick look, the digits on the meter all miraculously turned to nought.’

Sheila stares at him, saying nothing.

‘I felt a little responsible, obviously,’ he runs on, ‘and there’s no real evidence of foul play, but I’ll definitely need to mention it in my report …’

He rubs his eyes, tiredly. ‘Although if there is foul play, then I seriously doubt that she’s involved. She seems a nice enough kid. Genuine. Straightforward.’

Gene uses the word ‘kid’ with a measure of care. He glances over at Sheila to see how she receives it. Sheila is deep in thought.

‘But what’ll happen to the mother if they lose their home?’ she wonders.

‘God only knows’ — he shrugs — ‘maybe the council will step in.’

‘Doesn’t the son work?’

‘I’ve no idea. His girlfriend’s in rehab. He’s a bit of a mess. Then there’s his daughter and several dozen cats …’

‘And you say this … this “V” is agoraphobic?’

‘Apparently so.’ Gene nods.

‘Poor kid!’

Gene feels a slight sense of satisfaction, then a corresponding sense of shame, at the apparent efficacy of his little linguistic scam.

‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ Sheila muses, ‘an opportunity for Ransom to finally set things right. I mean his arriving in the area like this — apparently at random — then the argument in the hotel, then your meeting with this “V” girl, his employing you as his caddie, the discovery of the letter …’

‘All part of God’s great plan?’ Gene snorts, mirthlessly.

‘Maybe you’re to be an “agent” of some kind?’ She smiles, mischievously. ‘A mediator, an arbitrator, a modern-day Pandarus …’

‘Pandarus?’

‘From Homer’s Iliad . He breaks the fragile truce between the Trojans and the Greeks by an act of despicable treachery …’

‘Strange kind of arbitrator,’ Gene mutters, uneasily.

‘But he reappears as a go-between in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida ,’ she adds, ‘brings together the two lovers.’

‘Does it end well?’ Gene’s suspicious.

‘Nope. Not especially,’ she admits, still smiling, ‘but then meddling so rarely does. That’s partly what makes it so seductive.’

‘I know you’re only joking,’ Gene says, suddenly nervous, ‘but there’s a worrying look in your eye.’

‘ Perhaps God is only a deep voice ,’ she sighs, half under her breath,

‘ heard by the deaf …’

‘Pardon?’

‘Anne Sexton.’

‘Anne …? The woman you were quoting this afternoon?’

‘The poet. Yes.’

She grabs the book from the arm of the chair, turns to the dedication page and passes it to him.

‘ Women marry houses ,’ Gene reads. ‘ It’s another kind of skin .’

‘Your “V” has married a house,’ Sheila observes, almost smugly.

‘She’s built herself into a kind of fortress,’ Gene partially concedes, ‘with all the make-up and the period clothing and the brick tattoo …’

‘It’s actually quite a fascinating book.’ Sheila grabs it back again. ‘The basic premise of the thing is that agoraphobics aren’t so much victims as unyielding feminists, women refusing to comply to the rules of gender, the rules of society. It’s like they’re unable to compromise. They’re passive at one level …’ She frowns. ‘If a refusal can ever be considered passive, which, quite frankly, I doubt …’

‘It seems they often have an overbearing father-figure,’ Gene volunteers.

‘I marked out some interesting paragraphs. There’s a chapter called …’ She starts paging through the book. ‘Here it is: A Most Unlikely Radical Feminist and an Artist … page sixty-nine, and I quote: She became a daddy’s girl and was frequently the only one in the family that could talk back to him, but only about inconsequential matters. She was solicitous of her brother and sought to protect him from the wrath of their father on his infrequent occasions of rebelliousness. Towards her mother she was similarly solicitous, but felt neither awe nor affection …’

She turns the page. ‘And see here …’

She points: ‘ Her neurosis, developing as it did, was her rebellion .’

She looks up at him, her eyes glinting, then glances down again. ‘ There are many kinds of death ,’ she proclaims, portentously, ‘ the biological is but one .’

‘So you think …’ Gene starts off.

‘And listen to this …’ Sheila turns on a few extra pages. ‘ Those who want to organize or even reorganize knowledge or beauty must do so alone .’

She shakes her head, fascinated. ‘I’d never really thought about art in that way before, as a reorganization of knowledge or beauty … Those who want to organize or even reorganize knowledge or beauty …’ she slowly re-reads, ‘true artists, in other words, great innovators, must do so alone .’ She ponders this for a second. ‘Genius, inspiration, art … they’re rarely communal. They’re intrinsically solitary.’

Gene watches her intently as she talks.

‘You’re really enjoying this,’ he says, surprised — even alarmed — by the extent to which this is true.

‘Sorry?’

She frowns up at him.

‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you looking so excited — so engaged by something — in ages …’

Months, years , he thinks.

‘It just reminded me …’ she starts off, then stops, abruptly.

‘How everything was before,’ he says, ‘before …’ — he indicates around him, loosely — ‘… all this.’

‘Before God,’ she interjects, baldly, just in case he thinks she hasn’t fully understood.

‘You were Called.’ He shrugs, resigned (if not exactly enthusiastic).

‘I brokered a deal,’ she mutters (not even allowing herself the grandeur of a Calling).

‘You were Called,’ he reiterates, firmly, ‘and you answered. You knew it was never going to be easy.’

‘If it were easy …’ she starts off, then can’t be bothered to complete her thought.

‘ Perhaps God is only a harsh voice,

Heard by the deaf …’ he quotes, inanely.

‘ A deep voice ,’ she corrects him, scowling, then puts down the book and turns off the television. ‘Time for bed,’ she sighs, false-yawning, ‘the alarm’s set for five.’

She clambers to her feet.

‘Thanks for waiting up,’ he murmurs, ‘it’s much appreciated.’

He reaches out a hand and touches her shoulder. She glances down at his hand and softly, briefly, covers it with her own. They stand there for a moment, at peace, then Gene’s phone begins to ring.

‘Bloody hell!’ Gene expostulates, with a start.

‘Bloody Jen , more like!’ Sheila mutters, snatching back her hand and heading for the door, her gait slightly bow-legged and beleaguered in her oversized pyjamas, like a cowboy after a long, hard ride, or a tragic toddler, gamely waddling to the bathroom after a small yet catastrophic bed-wetting incident.

Jen’s legs are up and resting, lackadaisically, on the desk (both feet neatly crossed at the heel). She has carefully taken off her work skirt (perhaps to avoid creasing it) and is leaning back on the chair in just her shirt, some salmon-pink-coloured low-rise pants, and a pair of tan-coloured pop-socks.

‘I’m still at work …’

She’s chatting away on her mobile, twiddling a ponytail with her spare hand. ‘I’ve been messing around on the computers, and guess what I just found …?’