‘Of course you’re free to do what you like,’ the photographer concedes (plainly riled), ‘but it’s probably worth bearing in mind that in the general brief the client was very specific about needing a certain amount of …’
‘Post-apocalyptic. Mad Max meets The Matrix meets something they haven’t even invented yet,’ Ransom continues, describing it with his hands. ‘I’ll be holding my club like a weapon – a crazy fusion of old-fashioned sporting hero and futuristic Ninja …’
‘The all-black gear does tend to gobble up the light,’ the photographer interjects, ‘and Mr Del Renzio –’
‘Screw Del Renzio!’ Ransom snorts. ‘What’s Del Renzio know about anything? He isn’t even here! Del Renzio can go suck eggs for all I care.’
As Ransom holds forth, Toby is taking the opportunity to check his texts.
‘Anything from Gene?’ Ransom demands, mid-flow.
‘Uh, no. I’m actually just getting an update from the hospital.’
‘Did you ever meet Gene’s wife?’ Ransom automatically turns to Jen.
‘Why?’
‘She rang me this morning. I was still half-asleep. Got my number off the kid’s phone, apparently. Started bangin’ on at me about getting myself a tattoo.’
‘Sheila?’
Jen’s immediately suspicious. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely. The stroppy priest. What’s she called again – Sandra, Sylvia …?’
‘Sheila,’ Jen repeats.
‘That’s the one.’
Ransom practises his swing a couple of times. ‘Sheila. Yeah. The priest wants to get me inked.’
‘But why would Sheila …?’ Jen’s befuddled.
‘Because of the Tucker girl. There’s a daughter. She’s a tattooist. Sheila thinks it could be an act of “public reconciliation” with benefits on either side. Said she was “just putting it out there”.’
‘But how …?’
Jen’s still struggling to make sense of this.
‘Dunno.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Bottom line is, I’m terrified of friggin’ needles.’
‘What’s Gene think?’
As Jen asks this question, she’s grabbing Israel by the arm, pulling him to his feet, frog-marching him over to Ransom and positioning him by his side. She then removes her camera phone from her pocket, steps back and takes a quick photograph of the two of them with it.
‘No idea.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t have a clue. I’ll happily ask him if he ever bothers turning up …’ He pauses. ‘What’re you doing?’
Jen takes another photo. In this one Israel is pulling an especially unenthusiastic expression.
‘Say “prunes”,’ Jen tells them, and takes a third shot. She then inspects the battery count – it’s low – grimaces, and slips her phone back into her apron pocket.
‘Well from what I know of Vee’ – she escorts Israel back to his stool – ‘she normally tattoos twinkles.’
‘Vee?’
Ransom’s picking, surreptitiously, at his chin spot. Israel returns, sullenly, to his book.
‘Vee. Vee. The Tucker girl. She specializes in twinkles.’
Jen points down at her own twinkle to illustrate. ‘You know, twinkles … minnies … Lady Gardens.’
Ransom’s jaw drops.
‘She’s kind of all arty and abstract. Dresses like a forties pin-up. Really girly. Does this ultra-ultra realist stuff – remember Noel’s wicker? On his chest? And the snake?’
‘The baby’s absolutely fine!’ Toby suddenly interjects, delighted, ‘and they’ve finally got Esther’s haemorrhaging under control …’
Israel looks up from his novel, frowning.
‘They’ve called her Prudence.’
‘Baby Prudence!’ Jen coos. ‘So cute! So retro!’ She turns to Israel. ‘I guess that makes you an uncle for the …’ She squints up into the sky. ‘What’ll it be, Izzie? The third time?’
‘Aunt Esther was haemorrhaging?!’ Israel mutters, glowering. ‘Why’s nobody ever tell me anything?!’
Toby looks to Ransom (clearly anticipating a response of some kind), but Ransom simply practises his swing again, very cleanly, very precisely, then shoves his club into his bag, pulls down the brim of his cap and walks off, at speed, whistling maniacally.
Gene is leaning on the wall outside the rectory, talking on his phone.
‘Just … just … just back up a second …’
He looks pale and exhausted. His shirt is knotted, carelessly, around his hips, his T-shirt is soaked in sweat. A lock of his hair hangs over his forehead. There’s a new, blue tinge in the taut skin of his eye sockets.
‘You’re with …? But how …?’
He stares down at his free hand as he speaks, abstractly registering a couple of bloodied bramble scratches across his knuckle, and then – completely without warning – suddenly falls prey to an astonishingly intense recollection (a cinematic still, writ bold, but with the back-up of an additional tactile reel – a sensual 3D effect – which tinkles along his spine like a soft, yellow dusting cloth sliding across the cool, black and ivory keys of a baby grand piano). He vividly remembers that hand – that same, scratched and bloodied knuckle – shoving Valentine’s naked hips down on to his own naked hips – midst a tangle of grass cuttings and ivy fronds and wrenched-aside clothing – pushing those keen hips wide, peeling them open – greedily, mercilessly – like a deliciously ripe pomegranate, manipulating them, feeling them hike and splurge and resist and buckle, feeling his fingers clenching and controlling the soft flesh on her thighs, grinding himself into her, pulsing and throbbing, utterly ruthless, utterly brutal …
He blinks, horrified, his nipples tautening.
‘Sorry?’
He blinks again.
‘Sorry – I didn’t …’
He struggles to refocus.
‘Which kid? Where …? At the club? But …?’
He shakes his head.
‘In hospital?’
Pause.
‘Last night?’
Pause.
‘But she said …’
Pause.
‘I don’t know, Jen. I’m not sure. Things are a little …’
He winces, scratching at the slight auburn stubble of overnight growth on his neck.
‘What?’
Hand drops. Look of gaping astonishment.
‘Would you … Could you just repeat that?’
Listens, incredulous.
‘My Sheila? Are you serious?’
Listens intently.
‘But … But why …?’
Slowly shakes his head. Mouth tightens.
‘Are you sure this isn’t just a wind-up, Jen?’
Anxious pause.
‘Okay. Okay … Fine.’
Rubs his eyes.
‘No. No I haven’t, actually. Not today … I’ve been …’ Gene peers down, mournfully, at his running shoes. ‘I’ve been charging around the place all morning …’
He glances back over towards the house, almost fearful now.
‘Well I’ll definitely have a word with her … I just can’t …’
Pushes back fringe, irritated.
‘I mean I’ll speak to her about it …’
Shakes head.
‘But this is definitely news to me.’
Pause.
‘Okay. Yeah … Fine … As soon as I’ve … Okay. Bye.’
Gene snatches the phone from his ear – grim-faced – and quickly accesses his contacts file. He runs down the names until he reaches Valentine’s. His thumb twitches over ‘dial’ and then freezes as his mind is overrun by the extraordinary memory of the tangling silk of her hair strung between his fingers. She is below him – gasping – on her back. He is thrusting into her. The force of his hips is pushing her away, so he tightens his fingers into fists (his hands resting either side of her head, just behind her ears, his knuckles up close against her scalp) and he yanks her back towards him by her hair.
Her eyes sp
ring open and she gazes up at him, shocked. His heart somersaults, but then she smiles – a slow, lazy smile, a delirious smile – emits a groan – her irises starting to roll, her lashes fluttering – so he pulls still harder, still tighter, and finds himself the master – the tyrannical despot – the helm-less helmsman – of a pounding, elephant stampede of bellowing, trumpeting, galloping pleasure.
His ecstasy is blind and fierce and thundering – limitless – coarse – savage – volatile. He is pumped full of air – is an infinite inhalation – and yet is asphyxiated; throttled; smothered by a billowing cloud of red African dust. His pleasure is all-hearing (could detect a pin drop) and yet is deafened – blasted, rent – by the all-consuming blare. He is at once utterly joined-up, immersed and connected, yet impeccably isolated and alone. He is a still centre, hidden, like a tiny, happy ant, inside an immense, scorching grassland of pure, clean, unadulterated fear.
As suddenly as this vision comes, it goes.
Oh God!
Gene turns off his phone, with a silent groan –
What the fuck have I done?
He is possessed by the violent urge to flee – to run. He shoves his phone into his pocket and turns, but before he’s taken half a dozen steps he hears the front door slam and Sheila calling.
‘Gene!’ she yells, then, ‘Eugene!’
He stops. He turns. He can feel his knees creaking.
‘Where are you going?’
She’s smiling, trotting gamely towards him. She seems unusually exuberant. Almost – he blinks – radiant.
‘Nowhere!’ Gene unties the shirt from around his waist (simply for something to do with his hands). ‘I wasn’t going anywhere … I was just …’
He pauses.
‘I mean I was running. I was going for a run. I’ve been for a run. I was … I was … cooling down. I was getting a cramp. I was winding down.’
‘Where’ve you been?’ Sheila interrupts. ‘I haven’t seen you all morning. Did you come up to bed last night?’
Gene is staring at her hair, confused. ‘Has something happened to your fringe?’ he asks.
‘We missed you at breakfast.’ Sheila ignores his question. ‘Mallory wanted you to help her with that biology assignment.’
‘Geography,’ Gene corrects her.
‘Exactly.’
Sheila nods.
‘Sorry …’ Gene pulls on his shirt and begins doing up the buttons, although just matching each button to its individual hole, honing in on them with his clumsy fingers, manipulating them appropriately – opening and pushing – seems almost beyond him.
‘I’ve been … I’ve been running – training,’ he mutters.
‘In jeans and a good shirt?’
Sheila’s consternated.
‘Uh … No … Yeah … I … I must’ve nodded off on the sofa. Then I didn’t want to wake you by barging into the bedroom.’
‘Oh.’
Sheila nods (a ‘well that’s obviously just stupid’ kind of a nod).
‘So why’d you decide to take your phone?’ she idly follows up.
‘Uh …’ Gene’s stumped. ‘I don’t honestly remember,’ he answers, flatly.
‘I saw you through the window, leaning against the wall, having this long, intense conversation …’ Sheila glances up at the church roof as she speaks. ‘D’you think it might rain later?’
‘It wasn’t especially long.’ Gene scowls. ‘A minute? Two minutes at most.’
‘Well why didn’t you just come inside?’ she demands, her eyes still following the roof-line.
‘I was catching my breath.’ He shrugs.
‘So who were you talking to?’
Sheila focuses in on his face again.
‘Nobody.’ Gene’s jumpy. ‘I mean nobody important. Just Jen. She rang from the golf club. She’s over there with Ransom and some kid she picked up at the hotel …’
‘Jen again?’ Sheila grimaces.
‘I know,’ Gene acknowledges. ‘It’s insane.’
‘She has the hugest crush on you,’ Sheila sighs, world-weary.
‘Jen?’ Gene almost laughs out loud at the notion. ‘No. Not Jen – she’s like that with everyone.’
‘It’s like she feels she has some special claim on your time,’ Sheila muses.
‘I think she sees me as a father-figure’ – Gene’s eager to turn back the tide of Sheila’s rising paranoia – ‘or a trusty, older brother.’
‘Are you having an affair with her?’
Sheila asks this in the sweetest of tones, almost sympathetically.
‘What?!’ Gene’s astonished.
‘Are you having an affair with Jen?’ Sheila cheerfully repeats (although not quite so sympathetic the second time around).
‘D’you think I’m having an affair with Jen?’
Gene looks disgusted. He is disgusted. He’s outraged (and the sense of his own rank hypocrisy only serves to exacerbate it).
Sheila squints up at him. ‘Nope. Not really,’ she eventually decides, ‘although I guess I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t have my doubts.’
‘Jen?!’ Gene almost bursts out laughing again. ‘She’s still in school – a kid. How could you possibly think …?’
‘An atmosphere.’ Sheila shrugs. ‘An instinct. Call it female intuition. And she’s so obviously infatuated …’
‘That’s just ridiculous!’ Gene mutters, embarrassed.
‘Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed,’ Sheila snorts, wryly.
‘It’s not just me,’ Gene insists, ‘she’s like that with everyone. She has this … this hyperactive personality – this crazy energy. She’s a born flirt. In fact the more she flirts the clearer it becomes that she’s just taking the piss.’
‘Ha!’ Sheila laughs.
‘What’s so funny?’ Gene’s offended.
‘Your total naivety about women.’ Sheila shakes her head. ‘You’re an emotional caveman!’ she teases, slapping his arm, delighted. ‘It’s actually quite hilarious.’
Gene scowls, wounded. ‘You almost make me wish I was having an affair with her,’ he mutters, ‘to prove that I’m not just some insensitive lunk.’
‘Hmmn. Acting against character,’ Sheila smirks, ‘not a recommended course. Could prove a little dangerous.’
‘And if I had been?’ he wonders, still more piqued (principally at himself). ‘Then what?’
‘Good heavens,’ she snorts, suddenly finding the whole discussion a source of unbridled merriment, ‘I’d be crushed! My whole world would explode into a million tiny pieces! I’d be torn apart! I’d be devastated!’
She’s joking, but not entirely.
‘But then I’d pick myself up,’ she continues, somewhat more thoughtfully, ‘shake myself down, dust myself off, and be free to reinvent myself all over again, from scratch.’
As Gene struggles to process the wider implications of this statement, Sheila leans forward and plucks something from his ear. It’s a tiny blade of grass. She plucks another from his fringe, then a third from his sideburn. She holds them out to him on her palm, quizzically. He focuses in on them, his throat constricting, his mind temporarily overwhelmed by the sense-memory of the pungent smell of a compost heap; that heady, green dampness; that clammy moistness; that rich, mulchy steaminess.
He suddenly finds himself supine – lying flat on his back – a careless Puck – cushioned – buoyed-up – by a billion tiny, green blades, and he is kissing Valentine – loose, wet kisses, dog kisses. Their faces are covered in grass cuttings, their tongues, their lips. They are play-fighting in a messy, grassy blancmange. She is grabbing handfuls and pummelling him with them, laughing. She is spreading them over his chest. Her hands are green – her obliging thighs, the delirious fissure between her breasts – made tactile with the stickiness of sweat and cum.
He feels the energy of that grass – its pungent vitality – seeping into his skin. He feels a kaleidoscope of verdant emotions: innocence, freshness, newness, sourness, jealousy, immaturi
ty, virility. He embraces everything green – everything it represents – all in one go; bolts it back, swallows it like a tequila shot, devours it like an oyster. He places his hand behind her neck and pulls her throat to his lips. He sucks, he licks. He knows that her blood, if she should bleed, would be flavoured with spearmint.
Down below he feels her green hands hard at work. Those careful, competent, horticultural fingers are finding his hardening cock, manipulating it, squeezing it, angling it, and then planting it, greedily, deep back inside of her.
‘Oh bloody hell!’ he exclaims, returning to himself, with a shudder.
‘What?’
Sheila’s nonplussed.
‘Sorry?’ he blinks, his cheeks reddening.
‘Oh bloody hell!’ Sheila mimics.
‘I … I … I think I might’ve lost my keys.’
Gene starts slapping at his pockets. He quickly locates them.
‘Panic over!’ he announces, holding them up, victorious, and then striding, decisively, towards the house. Sheila follows him, frowning. He keeps one step ahead of her until they’re through the door.
‘Jen said you’d been in contact with Ransom,’ he says, trying his best to sound unflustered, directing his words up into the stairwell. ‘Early this morning. She said you suggested he get himself a tattoo.’
‘Yeah …’ Sheila disappears into the kitchen. ‘It came to me this morning, in a flash.’
Gene continues to gaze up into the stairwell.
‘A moment of divine inspiration!’ he mutters, his stomach churning.
‘I guess you could call it that,’ Sheila calls back.
Gene scratches his head (yet more grass cuttings).
‘Although turns out he’s terrified of needles,’ she adds.
He hears her clearing cups and plates from the kitchen table.
‘Are you still there?’ she calls through, after thirty or so seconds.
‘Yes.’
He feels glued to the spot.
‘I thought you might have a private word with him about it, later,’ she tentatively suggests, ‘see if you can persuade him.’
‘I wasn’t really planning on going back,’ Gene confesses.
Sheila pops her head into the hallway. ‘But I thought you’d made up your mind to help him out?’
She looks disappointed.
The Yips Page 31