Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Esther’s lost the faith.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘I was just keeping her on for old times’ sake. And that’s me to a T, Gino! That’s me all over: golf’s Mr Nice. Golf’s Mr Approachable. Golf’s Mr Total friggin’ Push-over …’

‘But wasn’t she —’

‘Feeding the papers information behind my back?’ Ransom interrupts. ‘Yeah. Making me look ridiculous? Absolutely. Diminishing my brand? Yup. One hundred friggin’ per cent she was.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Gene’s evidently not convinced. ‘Because when we chatted last night she seemed very protective of your —’

‘Did she warn you off?’ Ransom grins, delighted.

‘I honestly believe she has your best interests at heart,’ Gene persists.

‘Oh she can put on an impressive front all right,’ Ransom interrupts, with a snort, ‘but underneath all that cack — below the glossy exterior — lies a mangy, flea-bitten old Den Mother; a lactating she-wolf defending her territory. I’m an asset to Esther, remember, so she guards me very carefully. Keeps people at a distance. Undermines my confidence. Poisons my relationships. Controls every, little detail of my life. It’s like she’s running a cult. The Cult of Stuart Ransom. But I’m just the figurehead, the puppet. Esther’s pulling all the strings. She’s brutal. I’m simply an object to her — fodder — a commodity.’ Ransom shakes his head, disgusted. ‘Esther has no confidence in my playing ability so she feeds the press stories about me, sets up little “scenarios” to get me into all kinds of trouble, then feeds off the notoriety.’

Gene takes a while to grapple with this notion, intellectually.

‘Like the situation with the hotel and the Tucker kid,’ Ransom kindly elucidates. ‘A perfect case in point. We were due to meet at the Leaside — at Noel Tucker’s behest. And I’m hunky-dory. I’m good with that. Then I get a last-minute text from Esther saying the kid’s demanding a sudden change of venue. I’m like, fine — whatever. So I turn up at the Thistle — like a friggin’ lamb to slaughter — with absolutely no idea that it was the hotel the kid’s mother worked in before her head injury …

Fuuuuck! ’

Ransom gesticulates, wildly. ‘I’m left wide open, Gino! I’m hog-tied, gelded . The Tucker kid insists that the venue change was my idea. I know for a fact that it friggin’ wasn’t. An argument develops. Someone — naming no names: Esther — has helpfully alerted the press. There’s this huge, plate-glass window …’ He mimes the giant dimensions of the window. ‘And the rest, as they say, is history.’

He sighs, forlornly. ‘But that’s Esther for you. That’s how she operates. That’s what she does. Esther’s the power behind the throne, the Kingmaker. She made that bad shit happen. She set that situation up, then swore black is blue she didn’t. But her grubby little prints were all over it, man.’

‘Hasn’t she been with you for years, though?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Ransom nods. ‘Started off as my caddie, way back in “Yard”. She’s like family. Closer than family. I love her to friggin’ pieces. I’d die for that manipulative bitch. Seriously ,’ he emphasizes (perhaps detecting a small measure of incredulity in Gene’s expression). ‘But just because you’re close to someone doesn’t mean they aren’t extremely capable of being a twat,’ he persists. ‘The general rule is: the closer they get, the more they end up taking you for friggin’ granted. They grow arrogant — complacent. Somewhere along the line you lose your mystique. They start thinking they’re indispensable.’

Ransom snorts, humourlessly, at the sheer idiocy and wrongheadedness of this concept. ‘Bottom line: the only truly indispensable person in this set-up is Stuart Ransom. End of. Everything rests on these two, broad shoulders …’ Ransom pats his own shoulder. ‘It’s a huge, friggin’ responsibility, Gino, believe me. A massive strain. And the last thing I need — the last thing these two, broad shoulders need — is haters in my troupe. I don’t need people on my journey worrying about their journey. The truth about Esther is that she’s only really interested in one person: Esther. It’s like Stuart Ransom is a big fish surrounded by swarms of tiny, little parasites; little sprats with rows of nasty, little teeth nibbling away at his flanks, devouring his living flesh as he glides about in the ocean of life. And he can sustain that pressure in times of plenty — natch! ’ Ransom swipes his hand through the air, dismissively. ‘But when times are lean, these mangy little critters don’t let up — if anything they get worse. They grow bold and start taking proper bites, yeah? They’re like: “just trim the tip off his tail!”, “just nab a couple of his scales!” … They think he won’t notice, but he notices every, tiny friggin’ detail. He’s wired to notice, see? He’s ultra-aware. He’s like … He’s like …’ — Ransom’s eyes start to de-focus — ‘like this majestic antelope at a dried-up watering hole. He’s tensed and ready to run. He’s ultra -ultra aware. He feels the tick on his rump burrowing its filthy head into his skin. He feels the flea skipping around like a little bastard behind his ear. He feels the cattle egret gently landing on his shoulder … He feels it all. He feels everything. He sees everything —’

‘Until this gigantic crocodile suddenly erupts from its hidey-hole in the mud, grabs his leg and yanks him into a filthy oblivion,’ Gene interrupts, with a grin (perhaps not taking Ransom’s vainglorious panegyric quite as seriously as he ought).

‘A crocodile?’ Ransom’s confused. ‘What’s the friggin’ crocodile meant to represent?’

‘Nothing.’ Gene shrugs. ‘It’s an actual crocodile. It’s real life.’

‘It represents “real life”?’ Ransom’s still confused.

‘No. It just is . It’s random.’

‘Then it represents the “randomness” of “real life”?’

‘No. No . It was a joke — a bad joke,’ Gene qualifies, flatly.

‘Oh …’ Ransom ponders this for a while, patently unsettled. ‘What you plainly haven’t grasped,’ he gently confides, ‘is that I was actually using the antelope as symbol of something else — as a metaphor.’

‘A simile,’ Ransom automatically corrects him, ‘and I did realize.’ He shrugs, apologetically.

‘I generally find it helps if I re-imagine myself as an animal,’ Ransom elucidates, ‘something wild, uncompromised, powerful, living on its wits, driven purely by its gut instincts.’

‘Have you ever considered re-imagining yourself as a human being?’ Gene wonders (unable to resist playing devil’s advocate). ‘I mean someone with a different psychological outlook, perhaps? Someone less competitive, someone more … more open, more vulnerable?’

‘No’ — Ransom is signally unimpressed with this idea — ‘why the fuck would I want to do that?’

‘Because it might prove beneficial,’ Gene persists. ‘It might actually —’

‘Bottom line: the life of a professional sportsman is all about the spiel,’ Ransom explains. ‘It’s about talking yourself into the right head-space, yeah? On an average day I don’t take more than thirty per cent of what I say seriously.’

‘Thirty per cent?’ Gene’s shocked. ‘So seventy per cent —’

‘… of what I say is bullshit. Exactly!’ Ransom concludes, proudly, then ponders this admission for a second. ‘Yeah. Roughly seventy per cent is pure bullshit.’

‘Seventy per cent?’ Gene repeats, incredulous. ‘Seventy per cent of everything you say …’