As she barks, the boy in the passenger seat receives an SMS on his phone. ‘Musa’s at the Galaxy!’ he yells. The kids on the pavement dive into the back of the car.
‘Woof woof!’ Sheila barks, waving jauntily as the car U-turns and roars off.
From the corner of her eye she sees an elderly neighbour walking down the opposite pavement towards her.
‘Bye bye!’ she effortlessly translates into English, still waving. ‘God bless! Have fun at the Galaxy!’
She beams at the neighbour. ‘Good evening, Mrs Malmouth!’ she trills. ‘Beautiful weather! Incredibly balmy!’
Then she turns and scuttles off, eyes rolling, horrified, poetry book clutched – like a piece of defensive armour – against her breast.
Valentine is carefully transporting a glass of warm, malted-chocolate milk along the softly lit, blue and brown-tiled hallway to her niece, upstairs. She is wearing a pair of men’s silk boxer shorts (in mint green) and a tight, black, cotton vest with a tiny, black and green silk kimono thrown over the top. On her feet are a pair of black flip-flops with strange, three-inch-thick rubber soles. Her hair is swept up into a ponytail and the fringe into a quiff. Virtually her entire face (excluding eyes, lips and nostrils) is smothered in a smooth, gently browning paste of crushed avocado.
As she passes the electricity meter her eyes flick, distractedly, towards it. She walks on, then pauses, then walks back again, nudging the tip of her nose with the back of her free hand before pulling the door open and peering inside. She squints up at the dial, then scowls and withdraws, noticing, as she does so, a fleck of the avocado face-mask smudged on to her hand. She licks it off and heads upstairs.
Two minutes later and she is back again, sans milk, but with her tiny, green torch clutched expertly between her fingers. She peers into the little cupboard, stands on her tippy-toes and directs the light from the torch towards the dial. On it she sees a clean and unapologetically homogenous line of zeros.
She blinks and looks again. Still the zeros. She frowns. She gently pats the meter with her spare hand (in much the same way a hard-pressed Victorian husband might gently pat the cheek of a swooning wife following a monumental loss at the racetrack).
The zeros doggedly persist, but the meter itself shifts under her touch. Valentine takes a quick step back as a small quantity of red brick dust cascades down on to her bare toes. She scratches her head, confused, then shakes the dust from her feet, leans down and peers underneath the body of the meter, shining her torch up into what appears to be a small crevice below it.
‘Valentine!’
A call from upstairs.
Valentine jumps, startled, then quickly composes herself. ‘Just a minute, Mum …’
She continues her inspection, eventually spotting a folded-up piece of paper which she carefully removes and then drops (without much thought), on to the tiles below. Next she kneels down and shines her torch into the small gap between the meter and the wall. After a brief, speculative hiatus she shoves in a couple of exploratory fingers.
‘Valentine!’
This time Valentine ignores her mother’s call.
Beyond the gap she feels a deep crevice of approximately seven or so inches wide by (at the very least) three or more inches deep, which has – to all intents and purposes – been gouged out, by hand.
Valentine’s confidence – and sense of intrigue – grows, exponentially. She gently starts to lift up the body of the meter and is easily able (with the billowing extrusion of a little extra dust) to lift the bottom section of it several inches clear of the wall, revealing, hidden behind it, a neatly made storage space, a secret shelf; a small safe, of sorts.
Neatly piled inside this compact area are approximately twenty small boxes of varying dimensions – the kind you might store rare coins in – some are plastic, some are wooden, some are tin, some are sheathed in worn, plush velvet. Each is wrapped in clear polythene with a white, sticky label attached to the top.
In one corner of the shelf is a small file for storing papers. Just above it is something (approximately the size of a sandwich) wrapped up in tissue. To the side of it, another object, also wrapped in tissue, the size of a large wand.
Valentine quietly inspects the contents of the shelf, initially with a look of complete bewilderment, then, with an overwhelming sense of dismay. Her mind turns to Gene and his earlier meter reading.
‘VALENTINE!’
She drops the meter (like she’s been delivered a sharp shock) and it clanks back – somewhat wonkily – into its original position. She rubs her eye with her free hand, appalled, then withdraws the hand, with a gasp, revolted by the slimy layer of goo on her cheek.
The stupid face-mask …
‘VALENTINE! VALENTINE! MERDE!’
‘IN A MINUTE, MUM!’ she yells, frustrated, bending down to retrieve the dropped wad of paper and starting to unfold it (perhaps half-intending to wipe her avocado-besmirched fingers on it).
‘VALENTIIIIINE!!!!’
She curses under her breath, quickly re-folds the thing and shoves it back under the meter, grimacing.
‘Damn you, Noel,’ she hisses, clenching her fists, incensed. ‘Damn you, damn you, damn you!’
Then she slams the door shut, her eyes prickling with angry tears, her expression defiant, her fingers leaving an incriminating, greasy, brown-green slick on the paintwork.
‘I’d be very happy to pay you,’ Toby Whittaker insists, ‘I mean whatever rate you normally charge. We could book an appointment …’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ Gene repeats, exasperated, feeling in his pocket for his car keys. ‘I’ve not read palms professionally since I was a kid. It just isn’t something I feel comfortable with …’
They are standing together in the car park. It’s almost dark.
‘I thought you drove a Hummer,’ Toby murmurs, inspecting Sheila’s beat-up old Renault Megane with an air of vague disappointment.
‘I do drive a Hummer,’ Gene maintains, squinting down at his watch. ‘I mean I own a Hummer, but filling the tank these days costs something like the annual average income of a third world state …’
‘Is there a special line for the career?’ Toby persists, holding out his hand. ‘It’s all very hush-hush’ – he lowers his voice, conspiratorially – ‘but I’ve recently been made an offer by this crazy, Chilean entrepreneur.’
‘Uh … there’s a Line of Head and a Line of Life.’ Gene takes the proffered hand and gives the palm a cursory inspection. ‘I suppose both could be interpreted as having some basic relevance in career matters.’
He peers down at Toby’s palm in the semi-darkness. It’s virtually impossible for him to delineate one line from another in such poor light.
‘Although the plain truth is’ – he drops the hand – ‘some idiot reading your palm isn’t going to have the slightest impact on how your career pans out. To succeed at work – or in any field of endeavour: your health, your relationships – all that’s really required is plenty of stamina, a level head, a thick skin, the occasional burst of inspiration and, if all else fails, a ridiculously – even stupidly – positive outlook.’
‘You think it’s all just mumbo-jumbo, then?’ Toby grimaces, gazing down at his own palm, deflated.
‘I think people are the masters of their own destiny,’ Gene responds, then falters, loathing how trite this sounds. ‘I mean we’re all constrained by the hands we’re dealt,’ he continues, ‘by the straitjackets of biology and gender and geography – but above and beyond that …’
He shrugs.
‘You beat the cancer, though,’ Toby interjects, hopefully. ‘No lifeline, the cards completely stacked against you, but you beat the bloody cancer.’
‘I’m not …’ Gene scowls, confused, his train of thought momentarily disrupted by the sudden appearance of a heavily pregnant West Indian woman, wearing only a shower cap and a bathrobe. She’s kicking up the gravel as she strides towards them in a pair of oversized moc
casins.
‘I simply made the best of it.’ He focuses in on Toby again (almost rueful at what he perceives as his own signal lack of insight). ‘That’s pretty much the most any of us can do, surely? Just go to bed at night thinking, I screwed stuff up, but I tried. Things may’ve gone haywire, but I did the best I possibly could.’
He locates the car key on his ring and pushes it, clumsily, into the lock. The bathrobed woman is now shouting distance away from them.
‘Me want sleep, but some pesky badger diggin’ around in an overturn bin out back!’ she yells over. ‘Had a word with Security and the man jus’ shrug at me: “Screw you!” basically. So I say, “Ain’t them thing full of TB?” He just shrug another time. So I go, “You speak English? Eng-lish?” An’ he say, “Sure, I speak English.” The man a Pole – some big, ugly, flat-face Pole. Head like a damn steam-iron! I say, “You even know what a badger is?” “Sure I do,” he say. Nasty look in his eye! “Well tell me then,” I say. An’ he jus’ shrug again, like I some nasty smell under his nose. Make as if to turn away. Me go, “They got no badger in Poland or something?” He just flap his hand and start to walk. I swear I hear him say: “I know what we don’t got in Poland …’
She grimaces, enraged. ‘Got him a real attitude. A real, nasty attitude.’
As she finishes speaking she draws to a halt in front of them. She is out of breath. She supports her massively low and distended stomach with her free hand. The other hand holds a mobile phone.
‘Perhaps you frightened him,’ Toby ventures, slightly nervous.
‘How so?’ She glowers.
‘With your … in your …’ He gestures, lamely, towards the bathrobe.
‘You think he ain’t seen no woman in a robe before?’ she snorts, incredulous.
‘Possibly not wandering around the car park …’
‘Wanderin’ around the car park?’ Esther squawks, livid. ‘Me not wanderin’ around the car park!’
All three of them are silent for a second as they jointly mull over the patent illogicality of this statement.
‘Me not “wander”,’ Esther grumbles, quickly honing in on Toby’s sloppy choice of verb as the root of the problem. ‘Me not “wanderin’” around.’
‘Rampaging, then,’ Toby volunteers, unhelpfully.
‘Did you try ringing reception?’ Gene quickly interjects.
‘Say what?!’ Esther turns to appraise him, haughtily.
‘About the badgers,’ Gene persists. ‘Did you try and ring …?’
‘Good God!’ Esther expostulates. ‘What wrong with you people? Of course me rang reception! Three time, no less! Of course me rang reception! You think me want to be out here in me bathrobe? I nine month pregnant! Eight and a half month …’ she quickly corrects herself, glancing towards Toby. ‘Hair in a shower-cap! You think me want to be “wanderin’” around the car park this hour?!’
‘Of course you don’t.’ Toby places a calming hand on her arm. She promptly shakes it off.
‘The man jus’ plain rude!’ she mutters, pursing her lips. ‘Me done nothin’ to deserve that attitude.’
‘Perhaps his English wasn’t too great.’ Gene tries to mollify her.
‘Who you work for?’ Esther snorts, her eyes focusing in on Gene’s military headwear. ‘International Peace Corps?’
‘This is Gene,’ Toby promptly steps in to oversee formal introductions. ‘Nephew of Cheiro, remember? Stu’s new caddie?’
Esther just scowls into the distance, ignoring Gene’s proffered hand.
‘Gene, this is Esther, Ransom’s manager,’ Toby continues, ‘and just for the record,’ he adds, somewhat punctiliously, ‘the International Peace Corps are generally to be found sporting a rather fetching pale blue helmet.’
He nudges Gene, surreptitiously. ‘After a couple of days around Ransom you may consider upgrading to something bulletproof,’ he murmurs.
‘Red helmet, blue helmet,’ Esther mutters, ‘me work in this industry long enough to know what that look of his all about.’
‘You could always lodge an official complaint,’ Gene suggests, dropping his hand and returning it to the Megane’s door handle.
‘I’ll come with you if you like’ – Toby nods – ‘for moral support. Or, better still,’ he adds, ‘we could go and deal with those pesky badgers ourselves.’
He looks to Gene for back-up.
‘You serious?’ Esther’s suddenly wreathed in smiles. ‘Me try earlier but the bin way too heavy …’ She puts a hand to her hip. ‘My back killin’ me now …’
‘No trouble!’ Toby nods. ‘Gene?’ he repeats.
‘Sure.’ Gene lets go of the handle, somewhat regretfully.
‘Jus’ there …’ Esther all but coos, broadly indicating in the approximate direction with her phone, ‘side of the main kitchen block.’
‘It’s as good as done.’
Toby promptly starts off and Gene turns to follow, but Esther grabs a hold of his arm before he’s two steps away from her. Toby glances over his shoulder, disgruntled.
‘No problem, Tobe.’ She genially waves him on. ‘Me jus’ borrow him for one minute.’
Her grip (Gene immediately discerns, alarmed) has a surprisingly tenacious and implacable feel to it.
‘Sorry – just hold on a second …’ Sheila swaps the phone from one ear to the other. ‘This number is for “V”, you say, and “V” is one of Gene’s …?’
She listens again, frowning. She is dressed for bed in an old, oversized pair of men’s paisley, silk-mix pyjamas which have been darned on the front and are frayed at the heel.
‘A problem with her meter …’
She pushes up her sleeve, quickly scribbling down ‘V’ and a number on to the pad next to the phone with a heavily chewed, two-inch-long pencil stub.
‘A tattooist?’
She pauses for a moment, her eyes focusing, blankly, on a damp-stained patch of Artexed ceiling just to the left of the dusty, seventies-era wicker light shade.
‘Uh … that does ring a vague bell,’ she concedes. ‘He mentioned something about a tattooist while we were chatting this afternoon …’
Sheila glances down at the pad again, perplexed, trying to meld things together in her mind.
‘But how would she have known to contact the hotel …’ she wonders, ‘unless …?’
Something odd suddenly strikes her.
‘Hang on … this … this “V” person – this tattooist – she wouldn’t also happen to be the Turner girl, would she?’
A short pause.
‘Wickers?’
A longer pause followed by a mirthless snort.
‘Incredible as this may seem, Jen, the stars on your collar bones weren’t entirely at the forefront of our conversation …’
A further pause.
‘Sorry?’
A look of vague alarm.
‘You broke into the office?’
Another pause.
‘Oh. Okay. So you have a duplicate key …’
Sheila shakes her head, grimacing, then continues to listen, somewhat long-sufferingly.
‘Well that’s very … yes … that’s … that’s … that’s …’
Nodding. Bored.
‘… I fully understand how important this is. You’ve made that point very clearly. I …’
Another pause.
‘I promise to tell him just as soon as he gets …’
Sheila checks her watch (it’s a quarter to eleven), ‘… yes … right … fine. Well if I’ve gone up to bed by then, everything’s written down on the pad by the phone.’
Short pause.
‘I’m afraid I have no control over whether he chooses to answer his mobile or not.’
Look of slight irritation.
‘I’ve no idea. He’s at a business meeting.’
Pause. Exasperated eye-rolling.
‘… with Stuart Ransom, if you must know, at some exclusive new golf club over towards … Sorry?’
Blinks.
Taken aback.
‘But how …?’
Listens, head slightly cocked, plainly annoyed.
‘Yes, I’m perfectly well-acquainted with the layout of the men’s toilets, Jen …’
Infuriated grimace.
‘Well nothing’s set in stone … I mean there was talk …’
Sheila holds the phone away from her ear for a couple of seconds, rolls her eyes then returns the phone to her ear again, wincing.
‘… there was talk of him caddying for a few days, but I don’t seriously imagine …’
Two haughtily raised eyebrows.
‘D’you think you might manage to hold on until morning?’
(Delivered with an almost saccharine sweetness.)
‘Oh. You don’t. Okay …’
Dangerously polite.
‘Well I’ll be certain to tell him that.’
Still dangerously polite.
‘I’m not being scary.’
Sheila inspects the ceiling again, her nostrils flaring.
‘I’m not being scary, Jen!’
Mutters silent incantation.
‘Loafers?’
Look of utter bemusement.
‘Uh … no …’
Sheila slowly shakes her head. ‘No, he didn’t …’
Dismissive.
‘But I hardly think a few drops of coffee will prove fatal to the …’
Sheila hears the front door opening, turns and lifts a quick hand to forestall Gene from speaking as he appears in the hallway.
‘Yes. Well that’s lovely. Oh dear, I think …’
Unconvincing.
‘… I think Mallory might be calling me from upstairs. I should probably …’
Angry grimace at Gene, followed by a brusque ‘winding-up’ gesture with her free hand.
‘Thank you, Jennifer. I’m sure it’ll be very much appreciated. Lovely …’
Icily professional.
‘You be sure to enjoy the rest of your evening, now …’
Pause.
‘Goodnight. Yes. Goodnight. Yes I will. I’ve written down the number. Yes, he knows how to reach you. Thank you. Take care, Jennifer. Goodnight.’
Sheila places down the receiver, closes her eyes for a moment, draws a deep breath, and manages (with considerable effort) to suppress the worst of her feelings of irritation. When she opens her eyes again Gene is standing before her. He has the military jacket slung over his arm but is still wearing the cap.
The Yips Page 24