Nicola Barker - The Yips

He rubs his forehead with his palm. ‘Or is it one of the big boys? Portman Enterprises? The Omar Consortium? Lincoln friggin’ Insurance? Has their fixer gone feral? Tandy? Tandy Lane? Has Tandy decided to start playing by her own, fucked-up rules again? Has Tandy started getting greedy? Eyes bigger than her friggin’ belly?’

Ransom pauses, gazing deep into Gene’s eyes, the colour draining from his face. ‘Who are you? You look different — something’s changed. What’s changed? Did you even have cancer? Is your wife a priest? Why’d a priest want me to get a friggin’ tattoo ? It doesn’t make any sense! That tiny, pink room … The photo of the girl with her head between her ankles … the Shredded Wheat … Is it all just a lie? Tell me!’ He grabs Gene by the shoulders. ‘D’you even work at the hotel? Was it just some elaborate stage set with you playing a barman and me playing myself, but not playing myself because I never really play myself because I’m always too busy playing Stuart Ransom playing the friggin’ super-hero, playing golf, playing … Aw fuck , man!’

Ransom drops his hands.

‘Did you have any breakfast yet?’ Gene wonders.

Ransom gazes at him, blankly.

‘Did you have any breakfast?’ Gene repeats.

‘What is this?’ Ransom demands. ‘Some kind of low-level psychological device to throw me off track?’

‘I’m concerned about your blood-sugar levels.’ Gene lowers his voice as he hears a third party entering the toilets and using the latrine. ‘You seem very stressed out. The whites of your eyes are bright red.’

Pause.

‘Have you eaten anything today, yet?’

Ransom flips over the toilet lid and sits down on it.

‘I can never fully relax on these things when they stick out from the wall,’ he grumbles. ‘No proper base, no foundations, no root .’

‘Hygienic though’ — Gene rallies to the porcelain’s defence — ‘and from a purely practical perspective, really easy to keep clean.’

‘A man needs something to press his heels against!’ Ransom bleats. ‘Is that too much to friggin’ ask for nowadays?!’

‘How about we go and get a muffin?’ Gene whispers, placing a cautionary finger to his lips as the user of the urinal draws yet closer, washes his hands at a sink and then places them under the dryer. ‘Or a sandwich? A glass of orange juice? You look exhausted.’

‘ Exhausted?! ’ Ransom bellows (much to Gene’s evident disquiet — even though the dryer still gamely blows). ‘You don’t even know the half of it! I live out of a friggin’ suitcase, Gino! My swing’s gone to shit! My hands won’t stop shaking! I’m using a belly putter! A belly putter! That’s like announcing to the world that you can’t get a hard-on! A belly putter for Christ’s sake! It’s humiliating!’

Gene listens, intently, as footsteps echo across the tiles in the general direction of the exit.

‘And on top of that, I’m friggin’ broke!’ Ransom whimpers (Gene is profoundly relieved — and grateful — to hear the door slam). ‘I’m lonely! I’m permanently constipated! I never see my kid! I’m surrounded by haters! My dad’s mouldering away in a care home! Bloody Fleur has rheumatoid friggin’ arthritis! I’m up to here with it, Gino …’ He measures halfway up his forehead with a flattened hand. ‘Up to friggin’ here …’

Ransom’s voice suddenly breaks, he covers his eyes with his palms, rests his elbows on his knees and breaks down in tears.

‘Fleur?’ Gene’s totally at sea.

‘Fleur. Fleur! ’ the golfer snaps, glancing up (the tip of his nose playing host to a majestic string of snot). ‘Stuart Ransom’s wife , you friggin’ idiot !’

‘God, yes. Of course.’

Gene’s suitably apologetic.

‘It affects her joints — knees, elbows, hips, fingers …’

Ransom forms dramatic claws out of his own hands to illustrate. ‘I mean it’s pretty bad …’

‘But isn’t it a condition they can medicate quite successfully?’ Gene leans over to pluck a couple of tissues from the square, toilet-tissue dispenser on the wall and passes them across. ‘People can live perfectly normal lives …’

‘Yeah. Yeah . I know that.’ Ransom grabs the tissues, irritably. ‘It’s just that ever since she was diagnosed I haven’t felt … you know …’

He blows his nose, noisily, then puts his head in his hands again, traumatized.

‘Your feelings have changed?’ Gene takes a shot in the dark.

‘I can’t bear to be around her.’

‘Okay’ — Gene nods — ‘well that’s a perfectly normal … I mean it always takes a while to adjust …’

‘It scares me. It disgusts me. It’s just this bloody great …’

‘Challenge,’ Gene prompts.

‘Downer,’ Ransom corrects him.

‘D’you still love her?’ Gene cuts to the chase.

‘Nope.’

Ransom’s dead-eyed.

‘Not at all?’ Gene’s surprised.

‘Nope. She bores the fuck out of me.’

‘Not even …?’

‘And on top of that I find her repulsive,’ Ransom adds. ‘She gained weight since the kid. She’s a dim-wit. Thick as shit. The sound of her whining, American voice turns my blood to ice.’

‘Oh.’

Gene pushes back his fringe. His forehead is peppered with tiny specks of perspiration.

‘And she likes a drink,’ Ransom continues, really getting into the swing of things. ‘She’s pure poison when she drinks. She’s deadly friggin’ nightshade when she drinks. An ugly, overweight, witch-fingered troll with a stupid voice and a filthy, friggin’ attitude.’

Pause.

‘White trash. Beautiful vagina, though — credit where credit’s due. She got it tightened after the birth.’

Further pause.

‘Could do with the same friggin’ procedure on her fat friggin’ mouth …’

Further pause.

‘I hate her.’

Further pause.

‘I friggin’ hate her.’

Gene grimaces. He is unsure what more he can helpfully contribute to the discussion at this stage.

‘The kid’s fine,’ Ransom generously concedes. ‘Cute. I don’t have a problem with the kid.’

‘Have you considered —’

‘Divorce?’ Ransom butts in.

‘Counselling?’ Gene modifies. ‘For the sake of …’

‘That bitch will fleece me for every penny I’ve got,’ Ransom growls. ‘Where’s the incentive to do well — to win — if that ignorant bitch is gonna fleece me for every penny I make?’

Gene opens his mouth and then closes it again.

‘Where’s the psychological incentive? I mean every time I pick up a club, the friggin’ … the friggin’ pressure …’ Ransom shakes his head, inarticulate with frustration.

‘Doesn’t sound like much fun,’ Gene admits.

‘You know what it’s like?’ Ransom hisses. ‘It’s like getting a daily friggin’ enema — getting your back-end sluiced out — in front of the general public.’

‘No fun at all,’ Gene concedes.

‘It’s like being violated — brain-fucked. It’s like you’re heading off on a lovely, family picnic — everyone’s all happy and excited — but before you leave the house you catch a sudden, sidelong glimpse of Dad, holed up in the bathroom, peeing into the lemonade bottle.’

A short silence follows as both men take a moment to digest the weird implications of this stark, familial simile. Then, ‘So you sacked your manager …’

‘Esther. Yeah.’ Ransom nods.

‘D’you not think — under the circumstances — that might’ve been a little bit … well … rash?’