Nicola Barker - The Yips

Ransom comes out of the bathroom and throws himself down on to the bed again. ‘My nerves are completely fuckin’ shot …’

He holds both hands out in front of him. They’re shaking uncontrollably.

‘First it’s the friggin’ Tucker kid,’ he mutters, appalled, ‘next it’s the West Indies’ answer to Lorena friggin’ Bobbitt !’

He shakes his head, uncomprehending. ‘Michael bloody Moore with a tan an’ a fanny …’

Ransom’s hand disappears inside his robe for a second.

‘I swear to God,’ he gasps, ‘my balls have disappeared inside my body cavity!’

‘You gotta listen, now, Stu.’ Esther’s gazing down at her clipboard. ‘Nimrod tell me there gonna be a big piece runnin’ in the Daily Sport tomorrow …’

‘Right here in Luton of all places!’ Ransom jabbers on, regardless. ‘What the heck did Luton ever do to deserve this?’

‘… some crazy bullcrap sayin’ ya had a bust-up on the club outdoor chessboard with this week tournament event sponsor …’

‘Sorry?’

Ransom withdraws his hand and looks up, sharply.

‘Full mark for imagination!’ she concedes, smiling to herself, wryly.

‘An article in the Sport ?’ he echoes.

‘Don’t worry,’ Esther promptly reassures him. ‘You was practisin’ on the range when it all happen …’

‘Ah.’

Ransom gently cups the back of his head with his hand in a classic gesture of self-comfort.

‘I already phone the lawyer …’ Esther continues.

‘The outdoor chessboard …’ Ransom softly reiterates (as if struggling to call this architectural landmark to mind). ‘There was a bit of playful rough-housin’ with some fans at one point — on my way over to the range this’d be … A young fan …’ He frowns. ‘I guess you could say it was in the general vicinity of the chessboard …’

‘No mention of a kid.’ Esther reappraises her notes. ‘They sayin’ you assault the event sponsor after he thrash you in a game …’ She turns over the page. ‘Mr Chris Padgett, MD for Knott/Beevers Holdings plc,’ she reads.

‘Thrashed me?! Are you havin’ a laugh or what?!’ Ransom’s outraged. ‘That’s friggin’ libellous! I wasn’t even playing! I was just having a quick …’

‘Of course ya not playin’!’ Esther snorts. ‘How ya gonna play chess? Game of Kings! Domino more your style — quick hand of rummy …’

‘I resent that!’ Ransom’s riled.

Esther shrugs, indifferent.

‘I resent that!’ Ransom repeats — for want of anything more fruitful to contribute (aside from pure — and patently groundless — indignation).

‘Then a couple hour later,’ Esther continues, returning to her former subject, ‘followin’ “a long, liquid lunch”,’ she reads, diligently, ‘you was spotted in the club bar …’ — she clears her throat — ‘“offerin’ a grovelin’ apology to Mr Padgett after he threaten to press assault charges an’ pull you from the tournament.”’

She gazes up at him, one brow slightly raised.

‘Complete bloody hokum!’ Ransom squeaks. He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them again. ‘Is there a photo by any chance?’

‘Photo?!’ Esther demands, her eyes slitting. ‘Photo of what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ransom’s jumpy. ‘An artist’s impression — something hashed-up on a computer …’

‘A cartoon, maybe …’ Esther gamely hypothesizes. ‘ Alice in Wonderland theme …’ She rubs her chin, thoughtfully. ‘Stuart Ransom playin’ Alice, wid his long, blond hair an’ his frilly, blue-checker dress. Mr Padgett playin’ a fat Cheshire Cat, guardin’ him a nice sack of cash … Big, banner headline: “No Cheque, Mate!” an’ a small puff underneath sayin’ …’ She holds up her clipboard and reads directly from it: ‘“Yet more humiliation for troubled ex-golden boy of British golf …”’

It takes a few seconds before Ransom gets wise to the fact that this neatly posited scenario isn’t just a baroque flight of fancy on Esther’s part.

‘ Call that panty-waist Del Renzio! ’ he yells, springing to his feet, incensed. ‘ We gotta tear the little bitch a new arsehole! ’

‘Call him?’ she snaps, withering. ‘Why me do that when he already phone this afternoon an’ tell me all about it?’

Pause.

‘ Huh?! ’ Esther juts out her chin, combatively.

‘The slimy, little grass!’ Ransom mutters, somewhat cowed.

‘ME LEAVE YOU FOR HALF ONE HOUR, STU,’ Esther bellows, ‘AN’ NOW LOOK WHA’ HAPPEN!!’

‘YOU’RE HAVIN’ A BABY, ESTHER!’ Ransom bellows right back. ‘I DIDN’T WANNA STRESS YOU OUT!’

‘BULLSHIT!’ Esther yells.

Nano-pause.

‘What the hell ya thinkin’ ?!’ she groans, dismayed, hand pressing her brow. ‘The event sponsor , Stu! The event sponsor of all people!’

‘You reckon that vindictive, little dwarf Padgett leaked the story?’ Ransom wonders.

‘HOW YOU EXPECT ME TO KNOW?!’ Esther explodes again. ‘WHEN YA NEVER TELL ME NOTHIN’ WHAT’S GOIN’ ON?!’

‘Fuck off !’ Ransom squawks, his voice fluting, schoolboyishly.

‘YOU MAKE ME LOOK A DAMN FOOL, STU!’

Esther squares up to him, steaming, brandishing her clipboard.

‘ THINK ABOUT THE BLOODY BABY! ’

Ransom takes a quick step back, hits the bed, sits down and curls his top half into a defensive ball (using both arms to shield his head) while Esther repeatedly smacks his upper back with the clipboard, her hugely distended belly banging into his face from down below.

Although patently tempted, Ransom neglects to register any further comment at this stage.

Esther finally pauses for breath. ‘Me know you does foolish thing, Stu,’ she reasons (as much for her own benefit as the golfer’s). ‘It your nature to do foolish thing. You are a damn fool! And God knows, me well accustom’ to chargin’ about the place cleanin’ up all your ignorant mess. But the event sponsor , Stu? The sponsor ?!’

‘I didn’t lay a finger on him, Est.’ Ransom lifts his head slightly, wincing.

Esther clouts him in the face with the clipboard and then drops it on to the bed, leaning over him, still breathing heavily, her hand resting on his shoulder for support.

‘Me suppose to be ya manager, Stu,’ she pants, ‘for God’s sake jus’ let a girl manage , will you?’

Ransom slowly lifts his hand to feel his nose for any evidence of permanent damage (the hand — as a matter of pure, scientific interest — is no longer shaking).

‘“A grovellin’ apology in the bar”?!’ he grumbles, while she shifts her weight from his shoulder and slowly straightens up (grimacing as she does so and massaging her hip). ‘I’d eat my own liver first. Wait till the next time I see the little twerp. I’m gonna screw his head off like it’s the lid on a kid’s-size bottle of friggin’ ketchup!’

‘Unbelievable!’ Esther steps back with a derisory snort.‘An’ ya wonder why Poulter warmin’ himself up for the British Open in Illinois — John Deere Classic; seven hundred grand up for the takin’ — an’ where Stuart Ransom? Huh? Right here! Luton! Stony broke! Wid his precious swing, an’ him stinkin’ feet an’ him belly putter!’

‘Lighten up, will you?’ Ransom’s indignant. ‘What happened to your infernal, bloody mantra of “all publicity’s good publicity”, eh?!’

He stares at her suspiciously. ‘Had a sudden change of heart, have we? Or maybe …’ — a sly look enters his eye — ‘maybe you’re just a teensy-weensy bit miffed because you didn’t get to painstakingly stage-manage every detail of this sordid, little scenario for yourself?’