Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘ Hmmn. Acting against character,’ Sheila smirks, ‘not a recommended course. Could prove a little dangerous.’

‘And if I had been?’ he wonders, still more piqued (principally at himself). ‘Then what?’

‘Good heavens,’ she snorts, suddenly finding the whole discussion a source of unbridled merriment, ‘I’d be crushed! My whole world would explode into a million tiny pieces! I’d be torn apart! I’d be devastated!’

She’s joking, but not entirely.

‘But then I’d pick myself up,’ she continues, somewhat more thoughtfully, ‘shake myself down, dust myself off, and be free to reinvent myself all over again, from scratch.’

As Gene struggles to process the wider implications of this statement, Sheila leans forward and plucks something from his ear. It’s a tiny blade of grass. She plucks another from his fringe, then a third from his sideburn. She holds them out to him on her palm, quizzically. He focuses in on them, his throat constricting, his mind temporarily overwhelmed by the sense-memory of the pungent smell of a compost heap; that heady, green dampness; that clammy moistness; that rich, mulchy steaminess.

He suddenly finds himself supine — lying flat on his back — a careless Puck — cushioned — buoyed-up — by a billion tiny, green blades, and he is kissing Valentine — loose, wet kisses, dog kisses. Their faces are covered in grass cuttings, their tongues, their lips. They are play-fighting in a messy, grassy blancmange. She is grabbing handfuls and pummelling him with them, laughing. She is spreading them over his chest. Her hands are green — her obliging thighs, the delirious fissure between her breasts — made tactile with the stickiness of sweat and cum.

He feels the energy of that grass — its pungent vitality — seeping into his skin. He feels a kaleidoscope of verdant emotions: innocence, freshness, newness, sourness, jealousy, immaturity, virility. He embraces everything green — everything it represents — all in one go; bolts it back, swallows it like a tequila shot, devours it like an oyster. He places his hand behind her neck and pulls her throat to his lips. He sucks, he licks. He knows that her blood, if she should bleed, would be flavoured with spearmint.

Down below he feels her green hands hard at work. Those careful, competent, horticultural fingers are finding his hardening cock, manipulating it, squeezing it, angling it, and then planting it, greedily, deep back inside of her.

‘Oh bloody hell!’ he exclaims, returning to himself, with a shudder.

‘What?’

Sheila’s nonplussed.

‘Sorry?’ he blinks, his cheeks reddening.

‘Oh bloody hell!’ Sheila mimics.

‘I … I … I think I might’ve lost my keys.’

Gene starts slapping at his pockets. He quickly locates them.

‘Panic over!’ he announces, holding them up, victorious, and then striding, decisively, towards the house. Sheila follows him, frowning. He keeps one step ahead of her until they’re through the door.

‘Jen said you’d been in contact with Ransom,’ he says, trying his best to sound unflustered, directing his words up into the stairwell. ‘Early this morning. She said you suggested he get himself a tattoo.’

‘Yeah …’ Sheila disappears into the kitchen. ‘It came to me this morning, in a flash.’

Gene continues to gaze up into the stairwell.

‘A moment of divine inspiration!’ he mutters, his stomach churning.

‘I guess you could call it that,’ Sheila calls back.

Gene scratches his head (yet more grass cuttings).

‘Although turns out he’s terrified of needles,’ she adds.

He hears her clearing cups and plates from the kitchen table.

‘Are you still there?’ she calls through, after thirty or so seconds.

‘Yes.’

He feels glued to the spot.

‘I thought you might have a private word with him about it, later,’ she tentatively suggests, ‘see if you can persuade him.’

‘I wasn’t really planning on going back,’ Gene confesses.

Sheila pops her head into the hallway. ‘But I thought you’d made up your mind to help him out?’

She looks disappointed.

‘Seems his manager wasn’t too keen on the idea.’ Gene shrugs.

‘Lucky for you he just sacked her.’ Sheila grins. ‘Didn’t Jen mention it earlier?’

‘How’d you find out about that?’

Gene neatly sidesteps the question.

‘Online. Anyway, it’s Ransom’s call, surely?’

‘Uh. Yeah.’ Gene grimaces. ‘I dunno. I suppose so.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’ Sheila demands.

Gene walks past her and into the kitchen. He goes to the sink and pours himself a glass of water.

‘Then what’s the problem?’

Sheila follows him. Gene takes several, large mouthfuls from the glass as she stands behind him, waiting.

‘The whole place just felt …’ He places the glass down on to the work surface. ‘I dunno. Everything was just so …’

‘What?’

Sheila sounds impatient. She glances at her watch.

‘Expensive. Luxurious. I mean the way people live in those places …’ Gene shakes his head, appalled. ‘The way they behave. The casual extravagance. The waste. The sense of entitlement …’

‘It’s a golf club, you big idiot!’ Sheila snorts.

‘It felt uncomfortable …’ Gene persists. ‘Stupidly decadent. The plush upholstery, the over-attentive service, the raked gravel, the landscaped gardens … I suppose I just don’t feel especially at ease in that kind of an environment.’

Sheila is silent for a minute, then, ‘Decadent?’

Gene says nothing.

‘Decadent? Seriously?! ’

Gene picks up the glass again.

‘Maybe you were right about Ransom,’ he forges on, determinedly, ‘I mean all the bad publicity and the endless bullshit and the dressing up …’

‘Of course I was right about Ransom!’ Sheila exclaims.

‘Then there’s the situation with the Tuckers,’ Gene continues. ‘It’s combustible. The girl’s plainly unstable. The brother’s a loose cannon. I’m just not in any hurry to get more involved in all of that.’

Sheila pulls out a chair and sits down.

‘The girl has an incredible talent,’ she says, her brown eyes glowing with an almost evangelical zeal. ‘I mean she really has an incredible talent. I went to her website this morning — just thought I’d have a quick look around out of idle interest — and I was absolutely blown away. I was just completely overwhelmed. It’s conceptual dynamite, Gene. A fraction sloppy and incoherent as things stand — in need of a little tidying up — but the basic building-blocks are all in place.’

Gene says nothing, just stares at her, appalled.

‘I don’t think she has the slightest clue how universal some of her ideas actually are,’ Sheila runs on, ‘how well they’d travel into the realm of High Art. It’s incredibly exciting. I mean it’s all there . Just needs to be re-jigged a little. Which is where I come in, obviously.’

Gene slowly places down his water glass with an almost inordinate level of care.

‘I dashed her off an email. She got back to me within the hour. Then I sent one to Pammy Sullivan …’

Gene turns to face the window. He suddenly feels overwhelmed by the urge to burst out laughing — or burst into tears — or both.

‘Pammy’s that girl from college I co-founded the magazine with,’ Sheila explains. ‘Remember? She runs this huge gallery space in Spitalfields. She was on the Turner Prize panel a couple of years back.’

Sheila quickly inspects her watch again.

‘I sent her a little teaser. Didn’t give too much away. It’s just a question of organizing things — you know: presenting them coherently. And on a purely psychological level — in terms of her agoraphobia and other emotional issues — if we can somehow connive to get Ransom on board it’ll bring in the added bonus of a whole extra element of healing …’