Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Thank God you’re finally here!’ Toby yanks open the Hummer’s door, his face flushed, his glasses slightly awry, visibly stressed. ‘Ransom’s gone to ground. There’s a photographer halfway through a shoot, a publicist having a meltdown and a weirdly argumentative, freelance beautician in war-paint and a skin-tight, white jumpsuit …’

Gene opens his mouth to answer. He’s barely had a chance to unfasten his seat belt.

‘Oh, and Esther’s had the baby,’ Toby runs on, oblivious, ‘a girl — ten pounds, green eyes — but she haemorrhaged during the delivery and has this ridiculously rare blood type …’

‘AB negative?’ Gene jerks to attention (both hands instinctively returning to the wheel).

‘Uh. No … Yeah … I’m not sure …’ Toby blinks. ‘She’ll be fine. They texted earlier to say she’s stable.’

Gene reaches for his phone and starts scanning through his contact details. ‘I’m actually O negative,’ he confides, ‘which means my blood is compatible for transfusion to all other blood types.’

‘Promiscuous blood, eh?’ Toby grins, intrigued.

‘I have a close relationship with the local blood donor group,’ Gene murmurs, somewhat stiffly. ‘You start to feel a certain responsibility …’

‘Stonking wheels, by the way.’ Toby takes an appreciative step back, straightens his glasses and inspects the jeep.

‘Yeah. I’ve got it on a kind of permanent loan.’ Gene finds the number he’s searching for and presses ‘dial’. ‘It belonged to my son’s dad — my wife’s ex. He bought it to promote his war games shop.’

‘Esther’s called the new baby Prudence — Prue …’ Toby flattens his palms against his cheeks, frowning. ‘That was my grandmother’s name. She died last year …’ His frown deepens. ‘My face feels really hot. D’you think I might’ve contracted something on the ward?’

‘You said Ransom’d gone to ground?’

(Gene niftily changes the subject.)

‘He’s locked in a toilet cubicle,’ Toby elucidates. ‘Been in there almost an hour, now. He’s refusing to speak to anyone but you.’

‘Me?’ Gene starts (as his call is finally connected).

‘Yeah. Every time I try and whisper something encouraging through the door he activates the flush to drown me out.’

Toby pauses, embarrassed. ‘I’m just the stupid Joe Bloggs who manages his website,’ he adds, ‘I’m not really equipped to deal with this kind of stuff.’

‘Hello? Lillian?’ Gene promptly leaves a message for his blood donation contact: ‘It’s Gene — hope you’re well. Uh … a little bird tells me there’s been a sudden run on AB negative. It’s only a couple of months since my last donation, but you’ve got my number if you need it. Give me a ring or text or whatever … Thanks.’

He hangs up.

‘Esther’d know how to handle it,’ Toby mutters, kicking one of the front wheels, speculatively. ‘That woman’s a bloody marvel — has the patience of a saint.’

‘Sounds like Esther has her hands pretty full right now …’ Gene pockets his phone and jumps down from the jeep. His knee creaks as he lands.

‘D’you hear he’s given her the old heave-ho?’ Toby asks, indignant.

‘Is it true?’ Gene suppresses a wince as he slams the jeep’s door and then locks it.

‘Yup. Although I doubt it’ll stick. Never does. The more I hang around them, the more I’m starting to see this as one of the all-time great sporting romances …’

Toby’s expression is one of inexplicable wistfulness as he delivers this pronouncement.

‘You reckon?’ Gene doesn’t appear entirely convinced as he pockets his keys and they start off across the gravel together.

‘They’re like golf’s Taylor and Burton,’ Toby expands.

‘Not the most functional of role models,’ Gene avers.

‘She has all the strategy, he has all the spunk.’ Toby shrugs.

They walk on in silence for a while.

‘Although if it actually comes down to taking sides,’ Toby mutters (with uncharacteristic militance as they stride into the foyer), ‘then I’m definitely batting for Esther. I’m on Esther’s team. Ransom might be a genius, but Esther’s the glue that holds his career together’ — he scowls — ‘and he’s a bloody fool if he thinks otherwise.’

‘So what’s the SP on today’s drama?’

(Gene seamlessly shifts their conversational focus from the general to the particular as they draw up outside the Men’s.)

‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ Toby snorts. ‘He was happy as Larry one minute, then the next: Armageddon. Par for the course, really …’ — he winces — ‘if you can forgive the chronically cheesy golfing metaphor.’

Gene grants him immediate absolution (a kindly pat on the shoulder) and leaves him standing a nervous guard at the toilet entrance. Five seconds later, he is dutifully stationed outside the pertinent cubicle –

‘Hello? Ransom?’

( Gentle knuckle-rap. )

‘It’s Gene, here.’

No answer.

Gene peers around him, taking a brief moment of respite from the blaring sirens of anxiety sounding inside his head to enjoy the state-of-the-art porcelain and plumbing.

‘This place is pristine,’ he murmurs, awed, ‘Italian marble. Foot pumps for the sinks — even the soap dispensers are like pieces of —’

The toilet door is thrown open. Ransom grabs Gene by the arm, yanks him into the cubicle, slams the door shut and then rapidly shoots the bolt again.

‘Why no uniform?’ he demands, giving him the once-over, with a scowl. His eyes are red-rimmed. His hands are shaking. His breath smells of cigarette smoke.

‘Uh …’ Gene peers down at himself. ‘I’m in khaki. The jacket was slightly constricting in the heat. The cap’s in the back of the Hummer.’

‘So have a little punt on who just turned up,’ Ransom interrupts, flattening both palms against the cubicle wall, straightening his back and his arms, transferring his body-weight to his heels, relaxing his neck and dropping his head between his elbows (a latter-day James Dean but with male-pattern-balding issues). His voice sounds hoarse.

‘Sorry?’

Gene tries (and rapidly fails) to re-establish his own, inviolable sense of personal space. A black baseball cap is hung on the peg behind the door. His shoulder nudges against it. There are four cigarette stubs floating in the bowl.

‘Friggin’ Jen!’ Ransom’s head pops back up. ‘Jen’s here! Skanky Jen! Done up like some kind of weird Albino Cherokee! Moonlighting as a beautician!’

‘Jen?’

Gene tries to sound surprised and fails.

‘I mean what is it with that girl?’ Ransom drops his arms. ‘What’s the deal? Huh? Is she off her hinges? Has she some kind of fucked-up agenda? Is she a genius? A maniac?’

‘I don’t think she’s —’ Gene starts off.

‘What’s she want ?’ Ransom interrupts. ‘You’re closer to the kid than anybody …’

‘I’d hardly …’ Gene demurs.

‘I mean she’s plainly besotted with you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Gene’s horrified.

‘The way she follows you around making goo-goo eyes like some sad, little, blonde puppy … “ Oh I love Gene! He’s so brave! So wise! So emotionally friggin’ intelligent! ”’

‘Are we talking about the same Jen, here?’ Gene snorts, amused.

‘What does she want ? Eh?’ Ransom scowls, plainly bewildered. ‘Is this some kind of a set-up? Is she being hired by the tabloids? Are the two of you in cahoots?’

He slowly starts working himself up into a lather. ‘Is this whole thing some kind of sick joke being played out at my expense? Huh? Is friggin’ Esther behind it? Or Jimmie Mack? Or that buck-toothed, big-eared retard, Micky Dwight?’