Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Pah!’

Ransom returns to his posing.

‘ Gol-ol-olfff ,’ Jen belches.

‘From what I’ve read,’ Toby continues, ‘it’s generally held that the word “golf” is a derivation of two medieval words that were used to describe various stick and ball games current at around that time … I can’t remember them both, off-hand, but one was definitely “ kolf ” which relates to the Germanic “ kolbe ” or “club”, and is probably also related to the Dutch game “ kolven ” …’

‘When’s Gene planning to turn up?’ Ransom grumbles (still posing).

‘Cricket’s another quite interesting one,’ Toby notes (pleased to see Israel listening, intently, to his brief explication). ‘It’s thought the Old French for “stick” is “ criquet ”, although they aren’t really sure whether the term refers to the actual bat or the wickets.’

The photographer strolls over (as he deftly changes the reel of film in his camera). ‘We should probably move on to a new location while the weather’s still holding up,’ he suggests.

‘I’ve got someone bringing a Hummer,’ Ransom tells him. ‘I’m very keen to project this certain “look”.’

‘Great — a theme!’ the photographer notes, dourly.

‘Kind of pared down. Uncompromising. Mean. Mysterious,’ the golfer persists. ‘Me in black. Very enigmatic — I might swap the cap for a bandanna at some point …’

(Jen snorts.)

‘My caddie’s in military gear. Antique. Then there’s this old Hummer — like I said — which we’ll definitely use as part of the backdrop.’

‘Of course you’re free to do what you like,’ the photographer concedes (plainly riled), ‘but it’s probably worth bearing in mind that in the general brief the client was very specific about needing a certain amount of …’

‘Post-apocalyptic. Mad Max meets The Matrix meets something they haven’t even invented yet,’ Ransom continues, describing it with his hands. ‘I’ll be holding my club like a weapon — a crazy fusion of old-fashioned sporting hero and futuristic Ninja …’

‘The all-black gear does tend to gobble up the light,’ the photographer interjects, ‘and Mr Del Renzio —’

‘Screw Del Renzio!’ Ransom snorts. ‘What’s Del Renzio know about anything? He isn’t even here! Del Renzio can go suck eggs for all I care.’

As Ransom holds forth, Toby is taking the opportunity to check his texts.

‘Anything from Gene?’ Ransom demands, mid-flow.

‘Uh, no. I’m actually just getting an update from the hospital.’

‘Did you ever meet Gene’s wife?’ Ransom automatically turns to Jen.

‘Why?’

‘She rang me this morning. I was still half-asleep. Got my number off the kid’s phone, apparently. Started bangin’ on at me about getting myself a tattoo.’

‘Sheila?’

Jen’s immediately suspicious. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely. The stroppy priest. What’s she called again — Sandra, Sylvia …?’

‘Sheila,’ Jen repeats.

‘That’s the one.’

Ransom practises his swing a couple of times. ‘Sheila. Yeah. The priest wants to get me inked.’

‘But why would Sheila …?’ Jen’s befuddled.

‘Because of the Tucker girl. There’s a daughter. She’s a tattooist. Sheila thinks it could be an act of “public reconciliation” with benefits on either side. Said she was “just putting it out there”.’

‘But how …?’

Jen’s still struggling to make sense of this.

‘Dunno.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Bottom line is, I’m terrified of friggin’ needles.’

‘What’s Gene think?’

As Jen asks this question, she’s grabbing Israel by the arm, pulling him to his feet, frog-marching him over to Ransom and positioning him by his side. She then removes her camera phone from her pocket, steps back and takes a quick photograph of the two of them with it.

‘No idea.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t have a clue. I’ll happily ask him if he ever bothers turning up …’ He pauses. ‘What’re you doing?’

Jen takes another photo. In this one Israel is pulling an especially unenthusiastic expression.

‘Say “prunes”,’ Jen tells them, and takes a third shot. She then inspects the battery count — it’s low — grimaces, and slips her phone back into her apron pocket.

‘Well from what I know of Vee’ — she escorts Israel back to his stool — ‘she normally tattoos twinkles.’

‘Vee?’

Ransom’s picking, surreptitiously, at his chin spot. Israel returns, sullenly, to his book.

‘Vee. Vee . The Tucker girl. She specializes in twinkles.’

Jen points down at her own twinkle to illustrate. ‘You know, twinkles … minnies … Lady Gardens.’

Ransom’s jaw drops.

‘She’s kind of all arty and abstract. Dresses like a forties pin-up. Really girly. Does this ultra-ultra realist stuff — remember Noel’s wicker? On his chest? And the snake?’

‘The baby’s absolutely fine!’ Toby suddenly interjects, delighted, ‘and they’ve finally got Esther’s haemorrhaging under control …’

Israel looks up from his novel, frowning.

‘They’ve called her Prudence.’

‘Baby Prudence!’ Jen coos. ‘So cute! So retro!’ She turns to Israel. ‘I guess that makes you an uncle for the …’ She squints up into the sky. ‘What’ll it be, Izzie? The third time?’

‘Aunt Esther was haemorrhaging?!’ Israel mutters, glowering. ‘Why’s nobody ever tell me anything?!’

Toby looks to Ransom (clearly anticipating a response of some kind), but Ransom simply practises his swing again, very cleanly, very precisely, then shoves his club into his bag, pulls down the brim of his cap and walks off, at speed, whistling maniacally.

Gene is leaning on the wall outside the rectory, talking on his phone.

‘Just … just … just back up a second …’

He looks pale and exhausted. His shirt is knotted, carelessly, around his hips, his T-shirt is soaked in sweat. A lock of his hair hangs over his forehead. There’s a new, blue tinge in the taut skin of his eye sockets.

‘You’re with …? But how …?’

He stares down at his free hand as he speaks, abstractly registering a couple of bloodied bramble scratches across his knuckle, and then — completely without warning — suddenly falls prey to an astonishingly intense recollection (a cinematic still, writ bold, but with the back-up of an additional tactile reel — a sensual 3D effect — which tinkles along his spine like a soft, yellow dusting cloth sliding across the cool, black and ivory keys of a baby grand piano). He vividly remembers that hand — that same, scratched and bloodied knuckle — shoving Valentine’s naked hips down on to his own naked hips — midst a tangle of grass cuttings and ivy fronds and wrenched-aside clothing — pushing those keen hips wide, peeling them open — greedily, mercilessly — like a deliciously ripe pomegranate, manipulating them, feeling them hike and splurge and resist and buckle, feeling his fingers clenching and controlling the soft flesh on her thighs, grinding himself into her, pulsing and throbbing, utterly ruthless, utterly brutal …

He blinks, horrified, his nipples tautening.

‘Sorry?’

He blinks again.

‘Sorry — I didn’t …’

He struggles to refocus.

‘Which kid? Where …? At the club? But …?’

He shakes his head.

‘In hospital?’

Pause.

‘Last night?’

Pause.

‘But she said …’

Pause.

‘I don’t know, Jen. I’m not sure. Things are a little …’

He winces, scratching at the slight auburn stubble of overnight growth on his neck.