Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Whadda you think?’ Ransom turns to Gene.

‘I dunno.’ Gene shakes his head, somewhat torn.

‘You got any ink yourself, Gene?’ Nimrod wonders.

‘None. You?’

‘Big back piece. Kuniyoshi tribute — “Hatsuhana Prays under Waterfall”. Got it done in Brighton about seven years ago. Took over sixty hours.’

‘You’ve got a big tattoo?’ Toby’s fascinated. ‘I had no idea you were into all that.’

‘Big back, big tattoo,’ Nimrod confirms, smugly. ‘Fortieth birthday gift from my wife. Never regretted it,’ he adds.

‘Although I do think that when a man reaches a certain age …’ — Jen winces — ‘what with the loose texture of the skin — the tags — the sun spots — the moles …’

‘So this Tucker girl’s a bit of a looker, then?’ Nimrod persists.

‘Utterly gorgeous’ — Jen nods — ‘but barmy. Mad as a box of frogs — think Kelloggs Fruit Loops with extra nuts.’

‘Perhaps you need to sleep on it,’ Gene volunteers, darting Jen a warning look.

‘Good idea,’ Toby agrees.

‘Yeah. Take your time — think it over.’ Jen nods. ‘Be careful. This is a big decision. Tattoos are permanent, remember? The very last thing you want is to come over looking like some sad, old publicity hound desperately trying to recapture their long-distant youth.’

‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?!’ Nimrod murmurs, with a husky chortle, then stops chortling, in an instant, as Ransom shoots him a killer scowl.

‘Before this goes any further’ — Del Renzio tries to instil yet a further note of caution — ‘I’m definitely going to need to have a quick word with our lawyers about the various legal ramifications of —’

‘Fuck it!’ Ransom yanks off his bandanna and slams it to the ground. ‘Let’s do this! Let’s make this shit happen! Right here! Right now! Before I change my friggin’ mind! Ring the mad bitch!’

He throws Gene his club, then drags the paint down his cheeks with both palms.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Jen trills.

‘Best decision you ever made!’ Nimrod counters.

‘Sorry — who exactly are you expecting me to call?’ Gene’s bemused.

‘C’mon! Let’s do this!’ Ransom repeats, clapping his hands together, trying to get enthused. ‘This shit is fated , yeah? History in the making! It’s Destiny! Woo-hoo! ’ he hollers, pumping the air with his fist. ‘Let’s embrace the Power of Now! Let’s jump into the abyss!’

Terence Nimrod springs to his feet. Gene dumps the golf bag, scowling, and rips off his cap. Toby Whittaker reaches for his phone. Jen pops a stick of gum into her mouth, with a smirk, then casually proffers a dumbstruck Del Renzio the rest of the pack.

Sheila is standing on the small landing at the top of the stairs peering up at the hatch that leads into the rectory’s attic space. She is wearing a towel (having recently indulged in a quick — but extremely necessary — flannel wash at the bathroom sink), has a light bandage around her bad leg and an old pair of leather Clarks sandals (buckles loosely jangling, unfastened) on her feet.

After a few seconds’ indecision she sighs, mutters something indecipherable under her breath and hobbles into Stan’s room to fetch the chair from behind his desk. While she’s there, she turns on the computer — simply out of habit — waits for it to power up and then accesses the inbox. A selection of emails appears. Some are for Stan. Several are from various church bodies. One is from Valentine, sent (she checks the time) not long after her hasty exit. She grits her teeth and opens it.

‘i don’t know what to do to make this all better,’ it says (no capitals, no formal introduction to speak of), ‘just tell me what to do and i’ll do it. anything you want. i’ll tattoo r. if you like. i’m sitting here, researching some images. i have some ideas — good ideas (grass — images of). did you hear back from your friend with the gallery yet? i’m so sorry about what happened to your leg, sheila. i’m so sorry about, well, everything . I mean that from the very bottom of my idiotic heart. you’re a good person. i’m sorry I got so stroppy before (very ignorant — weak). just tell me what you need me to do and i’ll do it,

xx

valentine (wickers).

ps. please forgive my spelling. i can’t get the spellcheck to work for some reason.

x’

Sheila bites her lip. Her hand shifts the mouse to the ‘reply’ box and she clicks it:

‘Dear Valentine,’ she writes, ‘I’ve still not heard back from my friend with the gallery or from Ransom, yet — for that matter — but it’s early days and Gene’s on the case with Ransom even as we speak. Love the grass idea! Brings to mind (bit random — forgive me — a quote from Isaiah: All flesh is grass

And all its loveliness is like the flower of the field …

(Seems very appropriate under the circs.)

By the way — I’m so sorry I rushed off like that, earlier. I honestly did have a baptism at two (The hair was a sensation! They all absolutely loved it)!

re. the other problem: have you considered calling the police? Entrust them with your father’s collection for ‘safekeeping’. Say that you had no idea about the meter or the private store (Kill two birds with one stone).

Of course it goes without saying that I’ll back up your story if needs be … I just had oh sod it sod it sod it the strangest hospital bleugh brainstupidcauliflower …’

Sheila stops typing, draws a deep breath, and re-reads her response. She grimaces and deletes the last sentence. She re-reads it again, and when she reaches the sentence starting ‘Of course it goes without saying’, she repeats the phrase, out loud, in a light, posh, mocking voice, then tuts with frustration, straightens up, grabs the chair and drags it, unsteadily, into the hallway.

Once she’s positioned it to her satisfaction she clambers on to it, wincing, and pushes up the hatch into the attic (blinking rapidly as a small army of tiny, dead black beetles and spiders’ webs fall into her upturned face). She feels around inside the hatch for the metal ladder which she carefully unfolds, then clambers off the chair — using the ladder for support — tests that it’s secure and begins climbing the rungs, very slowly, one at a time, muttering ow ow ow ow under her breath with every successive step she takes.

Halfway up, her towel starts to fall off. She snatches at it but then finds herself unable to retie it with only one free arm (and the weight gingerly held off her injured leg), so grimaces, drops it, and continues her ascent, naked.

‘Ridiculous!’ she mutters, as her head accesses the dark of the roof-space. ‘Completely ridiculous!’

She waits patiently for her eyes to adjust to the light.

‘Where are you, old buddy?’ she murmurs glancing around, squinting slightly. She then continues to climb until she’s able to press her palms flat on to the floor, transfer her weight on to them, twizzle around and sit down.

She catches her breath for a minute, then pulls her legs through the hatch, centres herself and stands up. On the wall to her right is a light switch. She flicks it. Nothing.

‘Typical!’ she grumbles, then peers down at the floor (to make sure she’s walking on solid boards) and inches her way forward, reaching out, blindly, for the cluster of objects that quickly crowd into the void of space around her.

Soon her eager fingers are grappling with the unsympathetic corners and edges of a series of crates and boxes, then pushing (even worse) into the doughy, dusty plastic of sacks and bin-bags full of clothes and fabric. Eventually (a gasp of recognition!) she finds what she’s looking for: a large, old leather suitcase from her Oxford days (a gift from her grandparents).