Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘ What? ’

Hand drops. Look of gaping astonishment.

‘Would you … Could you just repeat that?’

Listens, incredulous.

‘ My Sheila? Are you serious?’

Listens intently.

‘But … But why …?’

Slowly shakes his head. Mouth tightens.

‘Are you sure this isn’t just a wind-up, Jen?’

Anxious pause.

‘Okay. Okay … Fine.’

Rubs his eyes.

‘No. No I haven’t, actually. Not today … I’ve been …’ Gene peers down, mournfully, at his running shoes. ‘I’ve been charging around the place all morning …’

He glances back over towards the house, almost fearful now.

‘Well I’ll definitely have a word with her … I just can’t …’

Pushes back fringe, irritated.

‘I mean I’ll speak to her about it …’

Shakes head.

‘But this is definitely news to me.’

Pause.

‘Okay. Yeah … Fine … As soon as I’ve … Okay. Bye.’

Gene snatches the phone from his ear — grim-faced — and quickly accesses his contacts file. He runs down the names until he reaches Valentine’s. His thumb twitches over ‘dial’ and then freezes as his mind is overrun by the extraordinary memory of the tangling silk of her hair strung between his fingers. She is below him — gasping — on her back. He is thrusting into her. The force of his hips is pushing her away, so he tightens his fingers into fists (his hands resting either side of her head, just behind her ears, his knuckles up close against her scalp) and he yanks her back towards him by her hair.

Her eyes spring open and she gazes up at him, shocked. His heart somersaults, but then she smiles — a slow, lazy smile, a delirious smile — emits a groan — her irises starting to roll, her lashes fluttering — so he pulls still harder, still tighter, and finds himself the master — the tyrannical despot — the helm-less helmsman — of a pounding, elephant stampede of bellowing, trumpeting, galloping pleasure.

His ecstasy is blind and fierce and thundering — limitless — coarse — savage — volatile. He is pumped full of air — is an infinite inhalation — and yet is asphyxiated; throttled; smothered by a billowing cloud of red African dust. His pleasure is all-hearing (could detect a pin drop) and yet is deafened — blasted, rent — by the all-consuming blare. He is at once utterly joined-up, immersed and connected, yet impeccably isolated and alone. He is a still centre, hidden, like a tiny, happy ant, inside an immense, scorching grassland of pure, clean, unadulterated fear.

As suddenly as this vision comes, it goes.

Oh God!

Gene turns off his phone, with a silent groan –

What the fuck have I done?

He is possessed by the violent urge to flee — to run. He shoves his phone into his pocket and turns, but before he’s taken half a dozen steps he hears the front door slam and Sheila calling.

‘Gene!’ she yells, then, ‘ Eugene! ’

He stops. He turns. He can feel his knees creaking.

‘Where are you going?’

She’s smiling, trotting gamely towards him. She seems unusually exuberant. Almost — he blinks — radiant .

‘Nowhere!’ Gene unties the shirt from around his waist (simply for something to do with his hands). ‘I wasn’t going anywhere … I was just …’

He pauses.

‘I mean I was running. I was going for a run. I’ve been for a run. I was … I was … cooling down. I was getting a cramp. I was winding down.’

‘Where’ve you been?’ Sheila interrupts. ‘I haven’t seen you all morning. Did you come up to bed last night?’

Gene is staring at her hair, confused. ‘Has something happened to your fringe?’ he asks.

‘We missed you at breakfast.’ Sheila ignores his question. ‘Mallory wanted you to help her with that biology assignment.’

‘Geography,’ Gene corrects her.

‘Exactly.’

Sheila nods.

‘Sorry …’ Gene pulls on his shirt and begins doing up the buttons, although just matching each button to its individual hole, honing in on them with his clumsy fingers, manipulating them appropriately — opening and pushing — seems almost beyond him.

‘I’ve been … I’ve been running — training,’ he mutters.

‘In jeans and a good shirt?’

Sheila’s consternated.

‘Uh … No … Yeah … I … I must’ve nodded off on the sofa. Then I didn’t want to wake you by barging into the bedroom.’

‘Oh.’

Sheila nods (a ‘well that’s obviously just stupid’ kind of a nod).

‘So why’d you decide to take your phone?’ she idly follows up.

‘Uh …’ Gene’s stumped. ‘I don’t honestly remember,’ he answers, flatly.

‘I saw you through the window, leaning against the wall, having this long, intense conversation …’ Sheila glances up at the church roof as she speaks. ‘D’you think it might rain later?’

‘It wasn’t especially long.’ Gene scowls. ‘A minute? Two minutes at most.’

‘Well why didn’t you just come inside?’ she demands, her eyes still following the roof-line.

‘I was catching my breath.’ He shrugs.

‘So who were you talking to?’

Sheila focuses in on his face again.

‘Nobody.’ Gene’s jumpy. ‘I mean nobody important. Just Jen. She rang from the golf club. She’s over there with Ransom and some kid she picked up at the hotel …’

‘Jen again?’ Sheila grimaces.

‘I know,’ Gene acknowledges. ‘It’s insane.’

‘She has the hugest crush on you,’ Sheila sighs, world-weary.

‘ Jen? ’ Gene almost laughs out loud at the notion. ‘No. Not Jen — she’s like that with everyone.’

‘It’s like she feels she has some special claim on your time,’ Sheila muses.

‘I think she sees me as a father-figure’ — Gene’s eager to turn back the tide of Sheila’s rising paranoia — ‘or a trusty, older brother.’

‘Are you having an affair with her?’

Sheila asks this in the sweetest of tones, almost sympathetically.

‘What?!’ Gene’s astonished.

‘Are you having an affair with Jen?’ Sheila cheerfully repeats (although not quite so sympathetic the second time around).

‘D’you think I’m having an affair with Jen?’

Gene looks disgusted. He is disgusted. He’s outraged (and the sense of his own rank hypocrisy only serves to exacerbate it).

Sheila squints up at him. ‘Nope. Not really,’ she eventually decides, ‘although I guess I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t have my doubts.’

‘ Jen?! ’ Gene almost bursts out laughing again. ‘She’s still in school — a kid. How could you possibly think …?’

‘An atmosphere.’ Sheila shrugs. ‘An instinct. Call it female intuition. And she’s so obviously infatuated …’

‘That’s just ridiculous!’ Gene mutters, embarrassed.

‘Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed,’ Sheila snorts, wryly.

‘It’s not just me,’ Gene insists, ‘she’s like that with everyone. She has this … this hyperactive personality — this crazy energy. She’s a born flirt. In fact the more she flirts the clearer it becomes that she’s just taking the piss.’

‘Ha!’ Sheila laughs.

‘What’s so funny?’ Gene’s offended.

‘Your total naivety about women.’ Sheila shakes her head. ‘You’re an emotional caveman!’ she teases, slapping his arm, delighted. ‘It’s actually quite hilarious.’

Gene scowls, wounded. ‘You almost make me wish I was having an affair with her,’ he mutters, ‘to prove that I’m not just some insensitive lunk.’