‘Esther’s called the new baby Prudence – Prue …’ Toby flattens his palms against his cheeks, frowning. ‘That was my grandmother’s name. She died last year …’ His frown deepens. ‘My face feels really hot. D’you think I might’ve contracted something on the ward?’
‘You said Ransom’d gone to ground?’
(Gene niftily changes the subject.)
‘He’s locked in a toilet cubicle,’ Toby elucidates. ‘Been in there almost an hour, now. He’s refusing to speak to anyone but you.’
‘Me?’ Gene starts (as his call is finally connected).
‘Yeah. Every time I try and whisper something encouraging through the door he activates the flush to drown me out.’
Toby pauses, embarrassed. ‘I’m just the stupid Joe Bloggs who manages his website,’ he adds, ‘I’m not really equipped to deal with this kind of stuff.’
‘Hello? Lillian?’ Gene promptly leaves a message for his blood donation contact: ‘It’s Gene – hope you’re well. Uh … a little bird tells me there’s been a sudden run on AB negative. It’s only a couple of months since my last donation, but you’ve got my number if you need it. Give me a ring or text or whatever … Thanks.’
He hangs up.
‘Esther’d know how to handle it,’ Toby mutters, kicking one of the front wheels, speculatively. ‘That woman’s a bloody marvel – has the patience of a saint.’
‘Sounds like Esther has her hands pretty full right now …’ Gene pockets his phone and jumps down from the jeep. His knee creaks as he lands.
‘D’you hear he’s given her the old heave-ho?’ Toby asks, indignant.
‘Is it true?’ Gene suppresses a wince as he slams the jeep’s door and then locks it.
‘Yup. Although I doubt it’ll stick. Never does. The more I hang around them, the more I’m starting to see this as one of the all-time great sporting romances …’
Toby’s expression is one of inexplicable wistfulness as he delivers this pronouncement.
‘You reckon?’ Gene doesn’t appear entirely convinced as he pockets his keys and they start off across the gravel together.
‘They’re like golf’s Taylor and Burton,’ Toby expands.
‘Not the most functional of role models,’ Gene avers.
‘She has all the strategy, he has all the spunk.’ Toby shrugs.
They walk on in silence for a while.
‘Although if it actually comes down to taking sides,’ Toby mutters (with uncharacteristic militance as they stride into the foyer), ‘then I’m definitely batting for Esther. I’m on Esther’s team. Ransom might be a genius, but Esther’s the glue that holds his career together’ – he scowls – ‘and he’s a bloody fool if he thinks otherwise.’
‘So what’s the SP on today’s drama?’
(Gene seamlessly shifts their conversational focus from the general to the particular as they draw up outside the Men’s.)
‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ Toby snorts. ‘He was happy as Larry one minute, then the next: Armageddon. Par for the course, really …’ – he winces – ‘if you can forgive the chronically cheesy golfing metaphor.’
Gene grants him immediate absolution (a kindly pat on the shoulder) and leaves him standing a nervous guard at the toilet entrance. Five seconds later, he is dutifully stationed outside the pertinent cubicle –
‘Hello? Ransom?’
(Gentle knuckle-rap.)
‘It’s Gene, here.’
No answer.
Gene peers around him, taking a brief moment of respite from the blaring sirens of anxiety sounding inside his head to enjoy the state-of-the-art porcelain and plumbing.
‘This place is pristine,’ he murmurs, awed, ‘Italian marble. Foot pumps for the sinks – even the soap dispensers are like pieces of –’
The toilet door is thrown open. Ransom grabs Gene by the arm, yanks him into the cubicle, slams the door shut and then rapidly shoots the bolt again.
‘Why no uniform?’ he demands, giving him the once-over, with a scowl. His eyes are red-rimmed. His hands are shaking. His breath smells of cigarette smoke.
‘Uh …’ Gene peers down at himself. ‘I’m in khaki. The jacket was slightly constricting in the heat. The cap’s in the back of the Hummer.’
‘So have a little punt on who just turned up,’ Ransom interrupts, flattening both palms against the cubicle wall, straightening his back and his arms, transferring his body-weight to his heels, relaxing his neck and dropping his head between his elbows (a latter-day James Dean but with male-pattern-balding issues). His voice sounds hoarse.
‘Sorry?’
Gene tries (and rapidly fails) to re-establish his own, inviolable sense of personal space. A black baseball cap is hung on the peg behind the door. His shoulder nudges against it. There are four cigarette stubs floating in the bowl.
‘Friggin’ Jen!’ Ransom’s head pops back up. ‘Jen’s here! Skanky Jen! Done up like some kind of weird Albino Cherokee! Moonlighting as a beautician!’
‘Jen?’
Gene tries to sound surprised and fails.
‘I mean what is it with that girl?’ Ransom drops his arms. ‘What’s the deal? Huh? Is she off her hinges? Has she some kind of fucked-up agenda? Is she a genius? A maniac?’
‘I don’t think she’s –’ Gene starts off.
‘What’s she want?’ Ransom interrupts. ‘You’re closer to the kid than anybody …’
‘I’d hardly …’ Gene demurs.
‘I mean she’s plainly besotted with you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Gene’s horrified.
‘The way she follows you around making goo-goo eyes like some sad, little, blonde puppy … “Oh I love Gene! He’s so brave! So wise! So emotionally friggin’ intelligent!”’
‘Are we talking about the same Jen, here?’ Gene snorts, amused.
‘What does she want ? Eh?’ Ransom scowls, plainly bewildered. ‘Is this some kind of a set-up? Is she being hired by the tabloids? Are the two of you in cahoots?’
He slowly starts working himself up into a lather. ‘Is this whole thing some kind of sick joke being played out at my expense? Huh? Is friggin’ Esther behind it? Or Jimmie Mack? Or that buck-toothed, big-eared retard, Micky Dwight?’
He rubs his forehead with his palm. ‘Or is it one of the big boys? Portman Enterprises? The Omar Consortium? Lincoln friggin’ Insurance? Has their fixer gone feral? Tandy? Tandy Lane? Has Tandy decided to start playing by her own, fucked-up rules again? Has Tandy started getting greedy? Eyes bigger than her friggin’ belly?’
Ransom pauses, gazing deep into Gene’s eyes, the colour draining from his face. ‘Who are you? You look different – something’s changed. What’s changed? Did you even have cancer? Is your wife a priest? Why’d a priest want me to get a friggin’ tattoo? It doesn’t make any sense! That tiny, pink room … The photo of the girl with her head between her ankles … the Shredded Wheat … Is it all just a lie? Tell me!’ He grabs Gene by the shoulders. ‘D’you even work at the hotel? Was it just some elaborate stage set with you playing a barman and me playing myself, but not playing myself because I never really play myself because I’m always too busy playing Stuart Ransom playing the friggin’ super-hero, playing golf, playing … Aw fuck, man!’
Ransom drops his hands.
‘Did you have any breakfast yet?’ Gene wonders.
Ransom gazes at him, blankly.
‘Did you have any breakfast?’ Gene repeats.
‘What is this?’ Ransom demands. ‘Some kind of low-level psychological device to throw me off track?’
‘I’m concerned about your blood-sugar levels.’ Gene lowers his voice as he hears a third party entering the toilets and using the latrine. ‘You seem very stressed out. The whites of your eyes are bright red.’
Pause.
‘Have you eaten anything today, yet?’
Ransom flips over the toilet lid and sits down on it.
‘I can never fully relax on these things when they stick
out from the wall,’ he grumbles. ‘No proper base, no foundations, no root.’
‘Hygienic though’ – Gene rallies to the porcelain’s defence – ‘and from a purely practical perspective, really easy to keep clean.’
‘A man needs something to press his heels against!’ Ransom bleats. ‘Is that too much to friggin’ ask for nowadays?!’
‘How about we go and get a muffin?’ Gene whispers, placing a cautionary finger to his lips as the user of the urinal draws yet closer, washes his hands at a sink and then places them under the dryer. ‘Or a sandwich? A glass of orange juice? You look exhausted.’
‘Exhausted?!’ Ransom bellows (much to Gene’s evident disquiet – even though the dryer still gamely blows). ‘You don’t even know the half of it! I live out of a friggin’ suitcase, Gino! My swing’s gone to shit! My hands won’t stop shaking! I’m using a belly putter! A belly putter! That’s like announcing to the world that you can’t get a hard-on! A belly putter for Christ’s sake! It’s humiliating!’
Gene listens, intently, as footsteps echo across the tiles in the general direction of the exit.
‘And on top of that, I’m friggin’ broke!’ Ransom whimpers (Gene is profoundly relieved – and grateful – to hear the door slam). ‘I’m lonely! I’m permanently constipated! I never see my kid! I’m surrounded by haters! My dad’s mouldering away in a care home! Bloody Fleur has rheumatoid friggin’ arthritis! I’m up to here with it, Gino …’ He measures halfway up his forehead with a flattened hand. ‘Up to friggin’ here …’
Ransom’s voice suddenly breaks, he covers his eyes with his palms, rests his elbows on his knees and breaks down in tears.
‘Fleur?’ Gene’s totally at sea.
‘Fleur. Fleur!’ the golfer snaps, glancing up (the tip of his nose playing host to a majestic string of snot). ‘Stuart Ransom’s wife, you friggin’ idiot!’
‘God, yes. Of course.’
Gene’s suitably apologetic.
‘It affects her joints – knees, elbows, hips, fingers …’
Ransom forms dramatic claws out of his own hands to illustrate. ‘I mean it’s pretty bad …’
‘But isn’t it a condition they can medicate quite successfully?’ Gene leans over to pluck a couple of tissues from the square, toilet-tissue dispenser on the wall and passes them across. ‘People can live perfectly normal lives …’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I know that.’ Ransom grabs the tissues, irritably. ‘It’s just that ever since she was diagnosed I haven’t felt … you know …’
He blows his nose, noisily, then puts his head in his hands again, traumatized.
‘Your feelings have changed?’ Gene takes a shot in the dark.
‘I can’t bear to be around her.’
‘Okay’ – Gene nods – ‘well that’s a perfectly normal … I mean it always takes a while to adjust …’
‘It scares me. It disgusts me. It’s just this bloody great …’
‘Challenge,’ Gene prompts.
‘Downer,’ Ransom corrects him.
‘D’you still love her?’ Gene cuts to the chase.
‘Nope.’
Ransom’s dead-eyed.
‘Not at all?’ Gene’s surprised.
‘Nope. She bores the fuck out of me.’
‘Not even …?’
‘And on top of that I find her repulsive,’ Ransom adds. ‘She gained weight since the kid. She’s a dim-wit. Thick as shit. The sound of her whining, American voice turns my blood to ice.’
‘Oh.’
Gene pushes back his fringe. His forehead is peppered with tiny specks of perspiration.
‘And she likes a drink,’ Ransom continues, really getting into the swing of things. ‘She’s pure poison when she drinks. She’s deadly friggin’ nightshade when she drinks. An ugly, overweight, witch-fingered troll with a stupid voice and a filthy, friggin’ attitude.’
Pause.
‘White trash. Beautiful vagina, though – credit where credit’s due. She got it tightened after the birth.’
Further pause.
‘Could do with the same friggin’ procedure on her fat friggin’ mouth …’
Further pause.
‘I hate her.’
Further pause.
‘I friggin’ hate her.’
Gene grimaces. He is unsure what more he can helpfully contribute to the discussion at this stage.
‘The kid’s fine,’ Ransom generously concedes. ‘Cute. I don’t have a problem with the kid.’
‘Have you considered –’
‘Divorce?’ Ransom butts in.
‘Counselling?’ Gene modifies. ‘For the sake of …’
‘That bitch will fleece me for every penny I’ve got,’ Ransom growls. ‘Where’s the incentive to do well – to win – if that ignorant bitch is gonna fleece me for every penny I make?’
Gene opens his mouth and then closes it again.
‘Where’s the psychological incentive? I mean every time I pick up a club, the friggin’ … the friggin’ pressure …’ Ransom shakes his head, inarticulate with frustration.
‘Doesn’t sound like much fun,’ Gene admits.
‘You know what it’s like?’ Ransom hisses. ‘It’s like getting a daily friggin’ enema – getting your back-end sluiced out – in front of the general public.’
‘No fun at all,’ Gene concedes.
‘It’s like being violated – brain-fucked. It’s like you’re heading off on a lovely, family picnic – everyone’s all happy and excited – but before you leave the house you catch a sudden, sidelong glimpse of Dad, holed up in the bathroom, peeing into the lemonade bottle.’
A short silence follows as both men take a moment to digest the weird implications of this stark, familial simile. Then, ‘So you sacked your manager …’
‘Esther. Yeah.’ Ransom nods.
‘D’you not think – under the circumstances – that might’ve been a little bit … well … rash?’
‘Esther’s lost the faith.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘I was just keeping her on for old times’ sake. And that’s me to a T, Gino! That’s me all over: golf’s Mr Nice. Golf’s Mr Approachable. Golf’s Mr Total friggin’ Push-over …’
‘But wasn’t she –’
‘Feeding the papers information behind my back?’ Ransom interrupts. ‘Yeah. Making me look ridiculous? Absolutely. Diminishing my brand? Yup. One hundred friggin’ per cent she was.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Gene’s evidently not convinced. ‘Because when we chatted last night she seemed very protective of your –’
‘Did she warn you off?’ Ransom grins, delighted.
‘I honestly believe she has your best interests at heart,’ Gene persists.
‘Oh she can put on an impressive front all right,’ Ransom interrupts, with a snort, ‘but underneath all that cack – below the glossy exterior – lies a mangy, flea-bitten old Den Mother; a lactating she-wolf defending her territory. I’m an asset to Esther, remember, so she guards me very carefully. Keeps people at a distance. Undermines my confidence. Poisons my relationships. Controls every, little detail of my life. It’s like she’s running a cult. The Cult of Stuart Ransom. But I’m just the figurehead, the puppet. Esther’s pulling all the strings. She’s brutal. I’m simply an object to her – fodder – a commodity.’ Ransom shakes his head, disgusted. ‘Esther has no confidence in my playing ability so she feeds the press stories about me, sets up little “scenarios” to get me into all kinds of trouble, then feeds off the notoriety.’
Gene takes a while to grapple with this notion, intellectually.
‘Like the situation with the hotel and the Tucker kid,’ Ransom kindly elucidates. ‘A perfect case in point. We were due to meet at the Leaside – at Noel Tucker’s behest. And I’m hunky-dory. I’m good with that. Then I get a last-minute text from Esther saying the kid’s demanding a sudden change of venue. I’m like, fine – whatever. So I turn up at the Thistle – like a friggin’ lamb to slaughter – with absolutely no idea tha
t it was the hotel the kid’s mother worked in before her head injury …
Fuuuuck!’
Ransom gesticulates, wildly. ‘I’m left wide open, Gino! I’m hog-tied, gelded. The Tucker kid insists that the venue change was my idea. I know for a fact that it friggin’ wasn’t. An argument develops. Someone – naming no names: Esther – has helpfully alerted the press. There’s this huge, plate-glass window …’ He mimes the giant dimensions of the window. ‘And the rest, as they say, is history.’
He sighs, forlornly. ‘But that’s Esther for you. That’s how she operates. That’s what she does. Esther’s the power behind the throne, the Kingmaker. She made that bad shit happen. She set that situation up, then swore black is blue she didn’t. But her grubby little prints were all over it, man.’
‘Hasn’t she been with you for years, though?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Ransom nods. ‘Started off as my caddie, way back in “Yard”. She’s like family. Closer than family. I love her to friggin’ pieces. I’d die for that manipulative bitch. Seriously,’ he emphasizes (perhaps detecting a small measure of incredulity in Gene’s expression). ‘But just because you’re close to someone doesn’t mean they aren’t extremely capable of being a twat,’ he persists. ‘The general rule is: the closer they get, the more they end up taking you for friggin’ granted. They grow arrogant – complacent. Somewhere along the line you lose your mystique. They start thinking they’re indispensable.’
Ransom snorts, humourlessly, at the sheer idiocy and wrongheadedness of this concept. ‘Bottom line: the only truly indispensable person in this set-up is Stuart Ransom. End of. Everything rests on these two, broad shoulders …’ Ransom pats his own shoulder. ‘It’s a huge, friggin’ responsibility, Gino, believe me. A massive strain. And the last thing I need – the last thing these two, broad shoulders need – is haters in my troupe. I don’t need people on my journey worrying about their journey. The truth about Esther is that she’s only really interested in one person: Esther. It’s like Stuart Ransom is a big fish surrounded by swarms of tiny, little parasites; little sprats with rows of nasty, little teeth nibbling away at his flanks, devouring his living flesh as he glides about in the ocean of life. And he can sustain that pressure in times of plenty – natch!’ Ransom swipes his hand through the air, dismissively. ‘But when times are lean, these mangy little critters don’t let up – if anything they get worse. They grow bold and start taking proper bites, yeah? They’re like: “just trim the tip off his tail!”, “just nab a couple of his scales!” … They think he won’t notice, but he notices every, tiny friggin’ detail. He’s wired to notice, see? He’s ultra-aware. He’s like … He’s like …’ – Ransom’s eyes start to de-focus – ‘like this majestic antelope at a dried-up watering hole. He’s tensed and ready to run. He’s ultra-ultra aware. He feels the tick on his rump burrowing its filthy head into his skin. He feels the flea skipping around like a little bastard behind his ear. He feels the cattle egret gently landing on his shoulder … He feels it all. He feels everything. He sees everything –’
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