‘“What’s that?” I ask, still reaching.
‘“He can sometimes be a little bit …”
‘The dog spins around and nips me! On the chin! I swear to God! The cheeky bastard turns and takes a lovely bite out of my chin! Draws blood! You can see the scar under my make-up …’
She lifts her chin to demonstrate, but nothing is visible bar an impressive watermark where her foundation finishes on her jawline.
‘Did you scream?’ Israel wonders.
‘Did I hell! I was in shock! And I was determined the little fucker wasn’t going to get the best of me, so I quickly scrambled to my feet, grabbed his collar, spun him around, clamped his scraggy neck between my calves …’
‘Thereby cunningly disabling his front end …’ Israel interjects.
‘Leaving both hands free to engage with the rear,’ Jen confirms.
‘Ah yes, the rear …’ Israel’s visibly traumatized. ‘How was it looking by this stage?’
‘Dire. But I took my courage in my hands, rearranged the Wagon Wheel wrapper …’
‘We don’t have Wagon Wheels in Jamaica,’ Israel informs her.
‘It’s basically a large, round, slightly soggy chocolate biscuit with a marshmallow centre,’ Jen explains, ‘although that’s a completely irrelevant detail at this super-charged point in the narrative …’
‘Sorry,’ Israel apologizes.
‘Apology accepted,’ Jen graciously allows. ‘So I rearrange the wrapper, and then I bend down and pinch on to the necklace at about its halfway point,’ she explains. ‘I guess it’d be around four inches long at this stage – which translates as approximately seven or eight centimetres …’ She pauses, drolly. ‘Just in case you still feel like you’re short on detail …’
‘Thanks,’ Israel nods, submissive, now.
‘Of course as soon as I start to yank, the dog’s owner is hysterically cautioning me against exerting too much pressure, so I gently tug at it, then release, then tug, then release …’
Jen performs a little pantomime of the process: ‘Sort of like milking a cow; and the necklace gradually extends to about six or seven inches …’ She pauses. ‘I inherited this doll off my mother when I was a kid. If you tugged on its blonde ponytail the hair would grow …’
Israel receives this bonus piece of information without comment.
‘Anyhow, after it reaches around the eight-inch stage the necklace stops coming,’ Jen continues, ‘it’s plugged. The poor dog really starts straining. The owner’s telling me to just “pinch it off …”’ She shudders. ‘But I’m determined to dislodge the remaining clump of whatever it is that’s causing the blockage, so I give it a final, sharp, little tug – the owner’s pretty much hysterical by this stage – and then Bingo! Out it plops!’
‘Thank the Lord!’ Israel exclaims.
‘I automatically release the pressure in my calves and the dog virtually explodes from between my legs and careers off across the park, the owner running after it in hot pursuit.
Naturally I try and gather up the necklace between my fingers so I can place it into a nearby rubbish bin …’
‘Brave, bold and public-spirited!’ Israel commends her.
‘… but it’s then that I notice something hard and round through the mass of hair and poo in what was the final, plug-y, clump-y section. I press at it, gingerly, through the Wagon Wheel wrapper and realize that it’s a piece of metal! As I do this, leaning forward, a drop of blood splashes into the snow from my chin, but I’m so intrigued that I barely even notice. I press at the clump more forcefully, detach the piece of metal and hold it up closer to my face to inspect it. Believe it or not, it’s actually a Claddagh ring …’
‘A …?’
‘A special kind of traditional, Irish friendship ring. Two hands – one on each side – cradling a central heart. I hold it out to Sinclair – who’s Irish. “You won’t believe this,” I say, suddenly almost tearful. “It’s a Claddagh ring. The dog was corked up by a Claddagh ring! Looks like it’s gold, too!”’
‘Incredible!’ Israel exclaims.
‘Even as I’m talking, though, the dog and its owner are strolling back towards us, the dog on its lead again. “Should you tell her?” Sinclair asks. “No,” I say, automatically, “that little fucker bit my chin. I’m owed.”
‘“What if it’s a family heirloom?” Sinclair demands.
‘“Hard cheese,” I scoff.’
‘Finders keepers,’ Israel confirms.
‘But then before I can say anything else,’ Jen continues, piqued, ‘Sinclair is waving at the woman and beckoning her over. “Are you missing a Claddagh ring by any chance?” he asks. “A what?” The woman scowls. “A Claddagh ring.” “What’s that?” the woman demands. “A special kind of Irish friendship ring,” Sinclair says. “Why d’you ask?” the woman wonders. “Because your dog just shat one out,” I say and hold it up. She comes over to take a look, pinching her nose as a precaution against the smell. “Is it gold?” she wonders. “Strange as this may sound,” I say, “I haven’t had the opportunity to check the hallmark.”
‘“It isn’t yours, then?” Sinclair’s straight to the heart of the matter.
‘“I’ve never seen it before,” she says, “but I suppose it must be mine if my dog just shat it out.”’
‘Hmmn. Interesting logic,’ Israel ruminates, plucking at an imaginary beard.
‘Yeah. Socrates’ Crito has nothing on this,’ Jen smirks.
‘So what happened?’
‘I held out the hairy, shitty Wagon Wheel wrapper with the ring in the middle of it and I said, “Well, if you want it, go ahead and take it.”’
‘Good call!’ Israel grins. ‘Did she?’
‘Uh, nope,’ Jen chuckles. ‘She tried. She gagged. Then she demanded I clean the ring off in the snow.’
‘And …?’
‘And naturally I refused.’
‘You kept it?’ Israel’s impressed.
‘Hell yeah!’ Jen’s cheerfully unrepentant.
‘Where’s it now?’
‘I gave it to Sinclair. I had to: he’s Irish. Although he’s never actually worn it …’
‘Too fastidious?’ Israel wonders.
‘It’s ridiculous!’ Jen scowls. ‘I told him about this brand of coffee in South America which is especially prized because the beans have been pre-digested by a civet cat …’
‘How’d he react?’
‘He thought I was lying.’
‘Were you?’
‘Nope.’
The phone starts ringing behind the bar. Jen turns, lackadaisically, to apprehend it.
‘Anyway, that’s basically the story of how a constipated pooch almost ruined my love life,’ she concludes, adjusting her bra-strap. She then pauses for a moment, frowning. ‘How’d we get on to that whole subject in the first place?’ she wonders, mystified.
‘Uh …’ Israel struggles to remember. ‘Didn’t I ask for extra ice in my Coke at some point?’
‘Oh. Yeah … of course.’ Jen nods, distractedly, then returns to the bar (honour fully satisfied) where she rapidly devours ten Rowntree’s Tooty Frooties, half a Twix, a dried, reconstituted beef sausage snack and three out-of-date packets of prawn cocktail flavour crisps.
Chapter 5
‘Awareness continuum?! Are you serious?’
Sheila leans back against the sink with a loud snort of derision.
‘Afraid so.’ Gene nods. ‘And no experience is necessary. In fact he said it’d be an active disadvantage …’
‘Who needs experience?’ Sheila throws up her hands, dismissively. ‘Experience is old hat! Boo shucks to experience! I mean why bother hiring a professional when there’s an enthusiastic amateur up for grabs, eh?’
‘Yours truly.’ Gene bows, smiling crookedly. ‘Although I’m a little thin on the enthusiasm front.’
‘Sorry …’ – Sheila simply can’t let this one go – ‘but he actually used the phrase, “Awareness continuum”?!’<
br />
‘Fearlessly.’ Gene chuckles (evidently delighted to have captured her interest). ‘And with no hint of irony.’
‘Incredible!’
‘I think his exact words were, “I’m ‘tuning in’ to my awareness continuum.”’
He shakes his head, despairingly.
‘God forgive me for saying this,’ Sheila mutters, ‘but that man truly is an intergalactic ass.’
As she speaks she turns and throws the dregs of her mug of tea into the sink, then checks her watch (it’s only ten minutes until Evening Service), opens a nearby cupboard, removes a large bottle of indigestion tablets, tips one out on to her hand, tosses it into her mouth and chews, violently.
‘He’s certainly a little self-involved,’ Gene concedes.
‘A little?!’ she expostulates, swallowing with some difficulty, then rinsing out her mug and slamming it down on to the draining-board. ‘The man’s a sociopath, Gene! An irresponsible egomaniac. You can’t seriously be thinking about accepting his offer, surely?’
‘Of course not. It’s just … I dunno …’ Gene looks hunted. ‘Beneath all the arrogance and the bluster there’s something …’ – he thinks hard for a second – ‘… an awkwardness, a feeling of … it’s like he’s all at sea – completely rudderless. When we arrived at the Leaside the other night he just … he fell to pieces. He was petrified.’
‘He was drunk,’ Sheila interrupts.
‘He just seems incredibly lonely.’
‘This man smoked drugs with our teenage son, remember?’ she curtly reminds him. ‘He encouraged Stan to steal the Hummer, then cheerfully abandoned him when the damn thing broke down …’
‘Ran out of petrol,’ Gene corrects her.
‘Oh, and let’s not forget how he put that poor, local woman into a coma and then calmly refused to pay the family any kind of compensation. It was splashed all over the local papers again this morning …’
‘That was an accident.’ Gene automatically rallies to Ransom’s defence. ‘He’d recently been declared bankrupt. His insurance had lapsed …’
‘You’re a soft touch,’ she grumbles.
‘I just feel sorry for him, Sheila.’
‘Here’s a suggestion,’ she volunteers, brightly. ‘Why not conserve your sympathy for someone who actually deserves it? A Somalian refugee. A Prisoner of Conscience. The poor woman whose life he destroyed with that stupid, stray golf ball …’
‘Or her crazy daughter,’ Gene muses, thoughtfully, then stiffens, involuntarily, once the words leave his mouth.
‘Her crazy daughter?’ Sheila frowns. ‘She has a crazy daughter?’
‘No. Not crazy exactly …’ Gene rapidly starts to backtrack.
‘Then why call her crazy?’ Sheila persists.
‘It’s just …’ Gene bites his lip. ‘Remember that weird incident on my rounds the other day with the little girl and the trampoline?’
‘Nope.’ Sheila shakes her head.
‘There was a little girl jumping on a trampoline without any pants on and the neighbour asked me to have a word with the mother about it. Well the mother’s the crazy daughter. In fact she’s the aunt. The real mother’s in rehab. The child is the crazy daughter’s niece. Although she isn’t crazy. She’s just –’
‘Does this bizarre-sounding scenario have anything to do with your dear friend Jen, by any chance?’ Sheila interrupts, her eyes slitting.
‘Jen?’ Gene appears puzzled by the mention of Jen. ‘Uh. No. Although …’ He pauses. ‘Although I was at the neighbour’s house collecting the child when Jen rang me on my mobile …’
Sheila stares at him for a moment, confused. ‘So … so you were running an errand for this woman?’
‘Which woman?’
‘The crazy daughter.’
‘Yes. Although she isn’t crazy. She’s just …’ He thinks for a moment, and the only word to pop into his head is ‘beautiful’.
‘But you were actually at their house?’ she interjects, alarmed. ‘You were in their house?’
‘Whose house?’ Gene scowls, irritated at himself.
‘The Tuckers? Isn’t that their name?’
‘Unofficially, yes. But they’re actually down on the register as –’
‘Yesterday,’ Sheila interrupts, impatiently. ‘This was yesterday, the day after the incident at the hotel?’
‘Uh …’
Gene nods, flushing slightly under the intensity of her gaze.
‘Well you definitely didn’t mention that before.’
Sheila’s certain.
‘Really?’ Gene frowns, defensive. ‘I’m pretty sure I did.’
‘Nope. I’d have remembered. I mean it’s such an odd coincidence, don’t you think? In a town this size? The next day?! I would definitely have remembered something like that.’
‘You were somewhat preoccupied by the whole Stan situation at the time,’ Gene reminds her.
‘And with good reason,’ she insists.
‘Absolutely.’
They stare at each other for a second, neither giving way, and then, ‘Lost!’ she snorts. ‘Lonely?!’
‘I’ll drop Mallory off at speech therapy,’ Gene promises (refusing to get embroiled), ‘but she’ll need collecting just after seven thirty …’
‘You think by using loaded words like “lonely” and “awkward” you’ll tug on my Christian heartstrings and then I’ll miraculously relent, is that it?’ she demands, her eyes shining, combatively.
‘Well what would Jesus do?’ Gene asks, trying not to laugh.
‘Lost!’ she snorts again. ‘Like some innocent, little lamb strayed off the path of righteousness? You’re unbelievable!’
He shrugs, self-deprecatingly.
‘Unbelievable,’ she repeats. ‘But d’you know what the most maddening part of it all is?’
The light in her eyes fades ever so slightly.
‘What?’ Gene’s suddenly wary.
‘You’re completely right!’
‘I am?’
‘Of course you are. And I know it. Why else do you think my stomach’s perpetually cramping up into knots’ – she rattles the indigestion tablet bottle, vengefully – ‘and I’ve no sodding fingernails left to speak of?’
‘Please don’t think I’m just shifting the blame here,’ Gene mutters, ‘but from where I’m currently standing the PCC aren’t helping matters much, either.’
‘Urgh. The PCC,’ she echoes, wincing. ‘Why not throw in the threatened closure of the allotments while you’re at it?’
‘The Samuel Wright-Todd Memorial Window?’ he suggests, grinning.
She closes her eyes for a second. ‘I never thought it’d be a walk in the park, Gene,’ she grumbles, her shoulders slumping forward, ‘but the constant, niggling criticisms, the petty infighting, the complete lack of support from above …’
Words temporarily fail her.
‘The woodworm problem in the vestry,’ Gene cheerfully takes over from where she’s left off, ‘the loose tiles on the church roof, the persistent tagging on the back wall …’
‘That sneaky, little Humanist, William Tuttle, stealing all the funeral work right from under my nose!’ Sheila fumes.
‘Damn the man!’ Gene grins. ‘With his ridiculously low fees and his comprehensive service plan!’
‘This infernal, sodding kitchen!’ Sheila squawks, her eyes flying open. ‘Not even room for a dishwasher or a decent-sized washing machine! The malfunctioning cooker! No proper freezer! And now they’re seriously expecting me to help cater church events from over here?’
‘The old reverend’s wife used to manage it,’ Gene gently fans the flames of her ire. ‘I hear Mrs Noble’s mini bacon quiches were second to none.’
‘Francine bloody Noble!’ Sheila slams down both her hands on to the yellow, laminated breakfast bar. ‘The woman was a bloody saint!’
‘Stalwart of the choir – unbelievable soprano voice – made all the kid’s clothes herself, by hand …’ Gene provoke
s her still further.
‘Fine! All right! Enough!’
Sheila laughingly concedes defeat, turning to place the indigestion tablets back into the cupboard, before – seconds later – withdrawing a stray pair of tweezers, sticky with dried cereal. ‘How on earth …?’
‘I dread to think,’ Gene mutters, his hand creeping around to the bruise on his shoulder.
‘Will you make an appointment with the doctor?’ she asks, not missing a beat.
‘Nuh-uh.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got my six-monthly check-up in a couple of weeks. May as well sit it out.’
‘Ah.’
She nods, her eyes briefly scanning his face, then she turns and peers through the tiny window above the sink and out into the back yard beyond.
‘You’re so bloody stoical,’ she muses (as if commenting, dispassionately, on a tree or a cloud). ‘It’s amazing. It makes me want to hug you and slap you, all at once.’
‘Thanks.’
He smiles, stiffly.
‘Don’t take it amiss.’ She turns to face him again. ‘It’s a blessing, a kind of a … a gift, almost. I’ve always found it truly enviable …’ She makes a half-cocked attempt to mollify him. ‘And I know it’s just your personality – your character – something you take entirely for granted – hardly even give a second thought to …’ She shrugs. ‘I mean it’s just what it is. It’s just who you are. There’s no support network – no faith – no gratitude …’
Gene scowls. ‘I hope I’m not ungrateful,’ he murmurs, hurt.
‘It’s enviable,’ she repeats, ‘it’s effortless. It’s wonderful. And yet here I am, in my sanctimonious, little dog collar’ – she tugs at her collar, balefully – ‘supposedly representing everything that’s good and just and decent, but actually consumed by bile and rage and frustration, finding everything so ridiculously bloody hard …’ Her mouth twists into a mordant smile. ‘Then I look at you, all free and unencumbered, without care, without faith, and I see this … this … this easiness, this earnestness, this gentle acceptance of things … this sense of infinite patience … this … this infuriating piety …’
She throws up her hands. There are tears in her eyes.
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