Nicola Barker - Small Holdings

‘I’m sorry Doug couldn’t make it,’ I added. ‘I’m a poor second best but he has the flu and didn’t want to risk spreading it.’

Two of them nodded, the third one stared out of the window (in a world of his own), the fourth was inspecting the files.

‘Things have been tight,’ I said, preparing to mention the deficit, to discuss the privet, the insurance.

‘Actually,’ the man with the folder looked up, ‘actually, Phil, there’s something we need to talk about.’

My heart sank and then, miraculously, it rallied. I resolved, that instant, in a flash of fizzy sweetness, of white-blindness, to tell them about Doug’s maze. To tell them. Was it insanity? Doug’s crazy plan. I owe d him, I decided.

I opened my mouth to speak but someone else spoke first.

‘We’ve had an idea,’ the second man said, ‘and we aren’t sure how you’ll take to it, or Doug either for that matter.’

I wanted to tell them so badly. I needed to tell them. I wanted them to see how beautiful Doug’s vision was, how complete.

‘Crazy golf,’ the first man said, and then nudged the third man who was still looking out of the window.

‘Crazy golf,’ the third man parroted, ‘Nine holes. Nothing too big. Family fun and all that.’

The fourth man closed the folder. ‘Crazy golf,’ he said. ‘That’s what we’v e been planning.’

He unfolded a detailed map of the park and laid it out on the table in front of me. He opened up my heart on the table and performed careless surgery on it with the tip of his pencil. ‘Right there,’ he pointed, ‘in that little gap. What do you think?’

HERE’S THE STRANGE PART. I felt odd before, like I was weird and my weirdness was an awful secret just waiting to be discovered. And yet now that I was actually weird — shaved and hairless, bald and bare — now that I was actually weird I found that I didn’t really care. No point thinking about it. I was that thing I’d most dreaded being. I was that thing. And frankly, it didn’t matter. Not an iota.

I climbed off the bus and walked down Green Lanes, took a right turn on to Aldermans Hill, took a left through the park gates. I was home. I looked around me. What did I see?

I saw litter, I saw weeds, I saw dogshit. If I squinted, in the distance, I could see the crazy golf course. It was there already. Families putting, children dripping their cornets on to the artificial turf, the rubber flooring a bright synthetic colour. I could see it already, a clot in the centre of this little green heart.

I walked towards the house. On the way I passed Ray, securing some climbing roses on to their trellis. He didn’t see me. I walked on further and I saw Nancy. She was reversing her truck into the courtyard, her face drawn-up and hung-over. She didn’t see me. I turned and headed up the steps, pushed open the door, walked inside the house, into the kitchen.

Doug sat at the kitchen table cradling a mug of Lemsip between his two hands. We stared at each other. I shrivelled.

‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, finally, his voice as deep as the lowest note on a fine, French horn, ‘don’t ask me how I got here.’

I said nothing. I didn’t dare ask.

‘So, Phil,’ he said, quite affable, ‘you went to my meeting.’

I gulped down some air. I nodded.

Doug gazed ruminatively into his mug of Lemsip. ‘I suppose,’ he said, slowly, ‘I suppose I let you down baldie.’

‘Pardon?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose I let you down badly.’

I put my hand up to my bare face, to my forehead where the hair had been hacked.

‘No, ‘ I stuttered, ‘You didn’t let me down.’

Doug gritted his teeth, ‘I should’ve been there.’ He paused. ‘I appreciate you stepping in, though. Stepping into the breach. Because things are very tight at the moment.’ He paused for a second, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. ‘Very tight,’ he repeated.

I nodded stupidly. I’d have agreed to anything. The truth. Lies. ‘I know,’ I said. Doug pulled his hands away and stared at me.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, somewhat gratuitously, and carried on staring. My hackles rose. Than k you, ‘ he said again, his voice all honey. My hackles rose even higher. They were ridiculously high, so high I was almost floating, suspended and smarting up close to the ceiling. Doug, I knew, was at his most dangerous when he oozed.

He spread out his hands on to the table.

‘You know, life can be a bitch, Phil. And you find yourself tiptoeing through it, barely knowing where to put your feet down, and you hold on to these tiny little things, these tiny little places where you’v e rested your feet, these spaces. And then sometimes you start to look at these spaces, these places, to really look, and you see how tight they are. Really tight. And you begin to wonder. .’

I gazed at him, hypnotized.

‘How’ d that meeting go, Phil?’

‘Uh. . fine.’ I couldn’t bear to tell him how this space was getting smaller. I couldn’t bear to tell him about the nine holes and the artificial turf and the nominal charge and the soft-soled shoes.

‘How’ d it go, Phil? Did it go well or did it go baldie?’

My hand flew back to my face. ‘It went OK, I think.’ ‘We’ll talk about it later, huh?’

I nodded.

Doug’s eyes were very gentle, suddenly. I was almost sick with fear. He said, ‘I’ve had the worst head-cold, Phil. And it’s been hanging around above my nose for a good while now. And I’ve been waiting for it to break. Just waiting. .’ Doug paused and stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. ‘And then finally it broke.’

I nodded.

‘It broke.’

‘Right.’

‘Still feel rough, though, Phil. Phil?’

‘Yes?’

‘Still feel rough.’

It was then that I noticed that Doug had a pair of shears on the table, right next to him, and he had been sharpening them. The blades were a bright silver. Doug took hold of the shears. He passed them from one hand to the other. He stood up, still holding them.

‘Phil?’

‘Yes?’

‘Want a cuddle, Phil?’

He was saccharine-voiced. He was smiling. He never smiled, not Doug, not ever. He was going to kill me. I was certain. He would kill me. The shears were sharp enough. I deserved it. He held out his arms. The shears were high and steady in his right hand.

Slowly, stiffly, I approached him. I drew close and then closer. I tucked myself, wincing, into his arms. He chuckled and clucked and then he patted me on the back. He held me.

‘The tractor,’ he said eventually, ‘is it still in the barn?’

I choked as I spoke. ‘The tractor? I think so.’

‘Good. Good.’

He was as gentle as snow. He squeezed me. I waited for the stab of the blade. He squeezed me again and then let go. Without another word, he drained his Lemsip and then calmly padded out. Out of the kitchen, out of the house.

I was shaking. I took a deep breath and I followed him. Saleem was on the doorstep. She grinned. ‘You’re pale as pastry. How was he?’

I shuddered, ‘I don’t really know.’

‘And the meeting?’

‘The meeting?’ I struggled to remember.

The tractor’s engine burst into life, its roar reverberated inside the barn. The gears were hacked from neutral and into reverse. Saleem, I realized, was staring up at me. My mind was in the barn. My brain was vibrating.

‘You won’t shake him, Phil,’ she said, gently, ‘And you won’t shake me.’

What did she mean? She always meant something. She didn’t waste words. She was purposeful.

The tractor swung out of the barn, indicated right and then left, straight after.

I said, ‘He had some shears on him and I think he picked up a length of hose. Maybe he’s thinking about cutting back the big border on the east side.’