‘Until this gigantic crocodile suddenly erupts from its hidey-hole in the mud, grabs his leg and yanks him into a filthy oblivion,’ Gene interrupts, with a grin (perhaps not taking Ransom’s vainglorious panegyric quite as seriously as he ought).
‘A crocodile?’ Ransom’s confused. ‘What’s the friggin’ crocodile meant to represent?’
‘Nothing.’ Gene shrugs. ‘It’s an actual crocodile. It’s real life.’
‘It represents “real life”?’ Ransom’s still confused.
‘No. It just is. It’s random.’
‘Then it represents the “randomness” of “real life”?’
‘No. No. It was a joke – a bad joke,’ Gene qualifies, flatly.
‘Oh …’ Ransom ponders this for a while, patently unsettled. ‘What you plainly haven’t grasped,’ he gently confides, ‘is that I was actually using the antelope as symbol of something else – as a metaphor.’
‘A simile,’ Ransom automatically corrects him, ‘and I did realize.’ He shrugs, apologetically.
‘I generally find it helps if I re-imagine myself as an animal,’ Ransom elucidates, ‘something wild, uncompromised, powerful, living on its wits, driven purely by its gut instincts.’
‘Have you ever considered re-imagining yourself as a human being?’ Gene wonders (unable to resist playing devil’s advocate). ‘I mean someone with a different psychological outlook, perhaps? Someone less competitive, someone more … more open, more vulnerable?’
‘No’ – Ransom is signally unimpressed with this idea – ‘why the fuck would I want to do that?’
‘Because it might prove beneficial,’ Gene persists. ‘It might actually –’
‘Bottom line: the life of a professional sportsman is all about the spiel,’ Ransom explains. ‘It’s about talking yourself into the right head-space, yeah? On an average day I don’t take more than thirty per cent of what I say seriously.’
‘Thirty per cent?’ Gene’s shocked. ‘So seventy per cent –’
‘… of what I say is bullshit. Exactly!’ Ransom concludes, proudly, then ponders this admission for a second. ‘Yeah. Roughly seventy per cent is pure bullshit.’
‘Seventy per cent?’ Gene repeats, incredulous. ‘Seventy per cent of everything you say …’
‘It’s like self-hypnosis. CBT. Call it what you will.’
‘But seventy per cent?’ Gene’s appalled.
‘Okay, maybe fifty,’ Ransom concedes.
‘And the rest?’
‘Hustle. Hype. Pep-talks. Mind games.’
Brief pause.
‘Bloody hell!’ Gene’s profoundly moved by this revelation. ‘But that must just be really … I dunno … exhausting …’ He struggles to get his head around it. ‘Not to mention demoralizing.’
‘Nah.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘It’s easy – it’s like second nature to me now. It’s the daily diddle, the bunco, the racket – the thing that gets your arse out of the clubhouse and on to the green. It’s just the spiel.’
‘Okay,’ Gene interjects, ‘so that’s all well and good for Stuart Ransom “the sportsman”. But what about Stuart Ransom the person – the living entity – the soul? What about the individual inside all the spiel? How’s he feel? What’s he thinking?’
‘Uh …’ Ransom tries – momentarily – to enter this foreign person’s headspace. ‘My feet stink. My shirt’s too tight. I need a crap. The air-con’s on too low … Wow – that pretty masseur’s got amazing jugs, will she jack me off if I give her a big enough tip?’
‘Good. Great. I get the picture …’ Gene lifts a hand, sickened.
‘Some guys go in for all the humility stuff.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Beckham’s made a friggin’ career out of it. You know, the whole: “I’m so lucky to be here right now”; the whole: “I don’t actually have an ego”; the whole: “Tiger Woods is golf’s greatest ambassador – he’s brought the game to a whole new friggin’ fanbase” malarkey; but the way I see it, that’s just another kind of spiel – part of the Big Sporting Lie. An’ I’m too friggin’ real for that, man – got way too much self-respect.’
‘So you don’t believe those people are being honest when they say that stuff?’
‘Hell no!’ Ransom chuckles. ‘Are you crazy?! They’re professional arse-lickers! It’s totally agenda-driven – just a different kind of bullshit.’
‘Maybe they’ve realized that it’s actually better for them,’ Gene volunteers, ‘I mean psychologically, emotionally – to look out at the world with … without cynicism? Without the spiel? With humility? With an open heart?’
Ransom stares up at Gene, appalled. ‘Please assure me that you didn’t just use the phrase “with an open heart”?’
‘I know it sounds a bit corny – a bit lame, even,’ Gene concedes, ‘but I do generally like to try and find the positives in any given situation.’
‘And that’s your spiel,’ Ransom allows.
‘But I don’t think it is a spiel.’ Gene’s duly niggled. ‘It’s not rehearsed or calculated. It’s more of a … a life philosophy – a general outlook – an instinct.’
(The word ‘faith’ almost tips his tongue but he easily shuns it.)
‘Philosophy?!’ Ransom splutters. ‘Philosophy-shmilosophy! Philosophy’s just spiel with A-levels!’
‘It’s way bigger than that,’ Gene persists. ‘It’s about who you are. It’s about what’s inside. It’s about this strong feeling of …’
He puts a hand to his ribs and then suddenly – unexpectedly – loses all momentum. The word ‘well-being’ dies on his lips.
‘Of what?’ Ransom gazes up at him, quizzically.
Gene frowns, confused. The saliva in his mouth has turned to sawdust. He feels a burning sensation in his chest – a sudden, lurching indigestion – and while he’s all too familiar with the lesser gradations of this feeling (embarrassment, unease, discomfiture), this goes way beyond all those. It’s a fiery worm burrowing through his gut. It’s a carousel ride after a bucket of toffee-coated Butterkist. It’s a ripe cheese, confined within its sheath of claustrophobic plastic, left way too long on a sunny countertop. It is strong and mean and queasy. It consumes him entirely. He finally apprehends – his heart sounding with a deadening thud from deep within him – that this extraordinary feeling is nothing more – and nothing less – than a crippling, paralysing, asphyxiating sense of shame.
And it is biblical in its proportions. It is a plague of locusts devouring every, living thing – every stray shoot of grass, every flower, every leaf – with their ferociously active and merciless mandibles. It is the incapacitating roar of the Tower of Babel (the aural incomprehensibility of the jet engine in take-off). But it is quiet, too – it is intimate: it is St Peter, steadfastly denying Jesus before the third cock starts to crow.
Shame. An emotional caustic soda that is systematically gnawing into everything that’s good and calm and true within him. A poison that – he realizes, to his profound horror – may only be expelled by the telling. A boil – a sickening pustule – that can only be cured by the lancing.
‘Well, whatever works for you,’ Ransom blithely opines (moving on, with typical efficiency). ‘Although from where I’m standing that sounds dangerously like the kind of shit people come up with when they’ve lost all remaining shreds of self-respect and ambition. It’s the philosophy of a loser – someone who’s run out of options.’
‘Pragmatic rather than idealistic,’ Gene murmurs (still – even as he’s cruelly pole-axed by this whirling, emotional maelstrom – unable to resist the urge to classify).
‘Think about it this way,’ Ransom volunteers, ‘the piranha chooses to fight other, hostile piranha with its tail, not its teeth. It’s Darwinian – any other approach would be counter-productive for the species as a whole. It’s a basic survival mechanism, yeah? You just do what works in your particular circumstances. Some people are perfectly happy to eat shit. These are the people who work in electricity sub-stations, on the buses, in IT, in cater
ing – your Regular Joes. Other people like to kick against the pricks, stand out from the crowd, reject second-best, despise compromise …’
‘And a piranha …?’
(Gene’s struggling to keep up. His hand presses against his ribs. He still looks stricken.)
‘The piranha’s a realist. It knows that if it fights another piranha with its teeth then it’ll probably end up screwed, so it does what it needs to do.’
‘Piranhas are pragmatists, at root.’ Gene nods, not really sure whose argument this furthers (in fact he’s not sure of much as things currently stand).
‘I was in the dentist’s the other week getting my veneers bleached,’ Ransom recalls. ‘I picked up this magazine – science magazine – and there was an article in it all about how the brain is just a machine which works by staging a series of “neuro-battles” …’
‘Neuro-battles?’ Gene echoes.
‘Yeah. Different parts of the brain compete with each other to control the body. They stage these little neuro-battles and the strongest part of the brain wins. It’s like a permanent, ongoing competition – a game. Which means it really doesn’t matter a toss how you like to package it: “Oooh, I don’t have an ego”, “I’m all spiritual and shit”, “I’m really modest and humble” … It doesn’t friggin’ matter, because – bottom line – conflict is natural. It’s written into our DNA. We are conflict. Just like the spider is …’
‘The …?’
(Gene finds himself utterly incapable of fully encompassing this latest – and perhaps most startling – of Ransom’s many hypotheses.)
‘And d’you know what really freaks me out about the whole thing?’ Ransom demands, irate.
Gene shakes his head. He honestly hasn’t got a clue.
‘These so-called “boffins” are planning to use this piece of knowledge to build a whole new generation of robots. Can you believe that?’
(Ransom doesn’t actually wait for Gene to respond.)
‘They’re gonna build a whole, new generation of robots with two-tiered brains, yeah? The conscious brain and the unconscious brain. They’re gonna establish this same level of competition within the robot’s mechanical bonce, and when they do, trust me, those evil metal fuckers are gonna take over the world. They’re gonna take over the friggin’ world. Simple as.’
‘But surely …?’ Gene’s starts off.
‘Did your schizo-grandad happen to play the trumpet?’ Ransom wonders.
‘Sorry? My …? Uh …’ Gene’s all at sea. ‘My schizo …?’
‘The trumpet?’ Ransom repeats, miming a trumpet.
Gene finally catches up. ‘Not the trumpet, no.’
‘Oh.’ Ransom looks vaguely disappointed.
‘If I remember correctly it was actually …’
‘A fife?’ Ransom prompts, his red eyes suddenly very focused.
‘Not a fife, no, more of a …’
Gene battles to describe the instrument’s special curves with his hands.
‘A horn?’ Ransom interrupts, struggling to contain his excitement.
‘No, no, not a horn, but something very …’
‘A bugle?’ Ransom springs to his feet (as if having been physically jolted forward by an unexpected parp from exactly such an instrument).
‘Yeah,’ Gene confirms, ‘a bugle, but with …’
Gene twiddles his fingers.
‘A keyed bugle?’ Ransom grabs Gene’s twiddling hand and grips on to it, emphatically.
‘I’ve still got it somewhere, up in the attic.’ Gene tries – within the boundaries of polite behaviour – to free himself (and fails).
A peculiarly uncomfortable five-second hiatus follows before Ransom says, ‘Well that’s exactly what we need to finish off the outfit.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Gene shrugs.
‘You know, now I actually come to think about it’ – Ransom releases his grip and leans over to grab his hat from its hook – ‘maybe a Club Sandwich wouldn’t be too far off the mark: granary bread, extra bacon, extra avocado. Mango power shake. Packet of parsnip crisps. Banana. Nectarine. Handful of cashews …’
He pushes the cap down on to his head, un-shoots the latch, saunters out of the cubicle and appraises himself for a second in the mirror.
‘Bloody hell!’ he murmurs, applying a moistened thumb to each of his eyebrows. ‘Beware the heavy-handed blonde with the foundation bottle!’
‘Sorry’ – Gene pops his head around the door, confused – ‘are you actually expecting me to go and fetch that for you?’
Sheila gazes at herself in the mirror, draws a sharp breath and bursts into wild peals of maniacal laughter. She then stops – just as abruptly – steps in closer to her reflection, scowls, blinks, raises a tentative hand to her head, then reaches out – with the same hand – to touch her image (like an incredulous primate on first encountering its reflection in a clear, mountain pool).
Valentine stands at her shoulder, saying nothing.
Finally: ‘It’s just that I hadn’t actually realized …’ Sheila whispers (unusually emotional – feminine – girlish, almost), ‘I mean the transformation – it’s extraordinary! It’s like … it’s like I just …’
She gestures, ineffectually.
‘Like you just hatched,’ Valentine fills in, nodding. ‘Like you’re fresh out of the egg. Like you’re brand-new.’
Sheila closes her eyes and shakes her head (as if this profound feeling of joy she’s experiencing must be deeply inappropriate at some level – transgressing a fundamental Commandment, at the very least). When she opens them again she glances down, surprised. Nessa is clinging to her legs, her pink cheek pushed into the fabric of Sheila’s trouser, her blonde halo of curls bobbing against Sheila’s priestly uniform’s ineffable black like a spume of heavenly foam.
The child cuddles with an unexpected intensity. Sheila finds it impossible (in her heightened state) not to be moved. She turns her head to make direct eye contact with Valentine, her hand indicating, her brows raised. She mouths the word ‘Ow!’ and grins.
‘You like it, though?’ Valentine steps forward and fluffs Sheila’s tiny fringe. ‘I mean it’s quite radical, but you can definitely carry it.’
‘Not much left to hide behind.’ Sheila stares at herself again, in wonder.
‘Will Gene approve?’ Valentine murmurs, suddenly anxious.
‘Gene?’ Sheila seems confused – almost startled – by this question. ‘Hmmn … Will Gene like it?’ she ponders, gazing at her reflection for a second, then shrugging. ‘Yeah, of course – I’m sure he will.’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, I think you look amazing.’ Valentine bends down and gently prises Nessa’s arms away. ‘It’s taken years off you. The strong eyebrows work a treat – that powerful jawline – those wonderful, angular cheekbones …’
‘Look at me!’ Sheila marvels, twirling around, buoyed up by all the compliments. ‘Dowdy old Sheila Phillips sporting a Valentine Wickers Original!’
She beams at her, delighted. ‘I’m just so incredibly grateful.’
‘It was nothing,’ Valentine insists – almost ashamed – removing a tissue from her pocket and wiping Nessa’s nose with it.
‘It was extremely kind of you,’ Sheila persists, ‘and bloody brave, come to that. The effortless way you handled those scissors! You really must have nerves of steel.’
‘Brave?’ Valentine scoffs.
‘Although I guess once you’ve etched a deep line of permanent ink into a total stranger’s skin,’ Sheila reasons, admiring, ‘everything else must feel like a walk in the park by comparison.’
‘Walks in the park aren’t really my forte,’ Valentine avows, grimacing.
‘Gene did mention something about that.’ Sheila nods, sympathetic. ‘How long since you last ventured out?’
Valentine gazes, anxiously, into Sheila’s shining face, looking for any evidence of aside. There is none.
‘This morning,’ she finally murmurs. ‘Mum’s new therapist b
rought his wife over to the house. She was wearing a full-length black robe. I tried it on and stepped outside in it, just to see how it would feel.’
‘Really?’ Sheila’s fascinated. ‘A burqa?’
‘If I’m with someone I trust – I mean if they make me feel safe and I’m in the right kind of mood …’ She pauses. ‘But that’s incredibly rare. It hardly ever happens. And even then sometimes this sudden feeling of panic … I mean the thought of being in wide open spaces or – worse still – in crowds …’
She puts a hand up to her throat. ‘So much for the nerves of steel, eh?’ she mutters.
Sheila thinks hard for a moment. ‘Did you ever stop and think that your problem with the outside world might be completely rational?’ she asks.
‘My agoraphobia?’ Valentine lifts up Nessa and slings her over her hip.
‘Well your mother went for “a walk in a park”,’ Sheila logically expands, ‘and she ended up in a coma.’
‘But the odds on that happening again …’ Valentine’s plainly wary of this approach. ‘I mean it was just a random accident.’
‘So there’s no ill-feeling on your part?’ Sheila persists.
‘Ill-feeling?’ Valentine echoes.
‘Towards Ransom? Your brother? Your mother, even?’
‘My mother?’ Valentine’s confused.
‘For clipping your wings. For imposing this huge duty – this awful burden – of care. For stifling your independence.’
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