‘The hospital’s a good twenty-minute drive from here!’ Gene’s outraged.
‘That’s a wild exaggeration!’
‘No it isn’t!’
‘Look – I’d go myself but you’ve got the Megane. I’m looking after Mallory, and above and beyond all that I can hardly walk let alone drive. My head’s completely fugged up from too many painkillers.’
‘Under any other circumstances –’ Gene starts off.
‘You have to go, Gene,’ Sheila interrupts, ‘or I’ll go crazy. I’ll explode. I mean I really will lose the plot.’
‘Well perhaps you should try and get a grip on yourself!’ Gene snaps.
‘Gene, I know that Jen is trapped!’ Sheila howls. ‘This is serious! Think about it from her perspective! She’ll be completely and utterly petrified!’
‘Okay.’ Gene’s finally had enough. ‘I’m not for a minute suggesting that what you’ve experienced isn’t of great significance, but from where I’m standing you’ve had a bit of a scare, you’re completely exhausted and over-wrought, you’ve taken a shit-load of prescription drugs …’
‘Don’t do this to me, Gene!’ Sheila warns him.
‘Earlier this afternoon you were cheerfully deserting us – your entire family, not to mention your congregation – apparently on a whim, to go and spend six months halfway across the world with this Vicki Wilson woman. Now you suddenly think she’s a dangerous felon – a kidnapper.’
‘She’s not dangerous!’ Sheila scoffs. ‘She just might end up doing something … something extreme – unexpected – if push comes to shove. No pun intended. She’s an activist – a live-wire – a bit of a lunatic.’
‘Now she’s a lunatic!’ Gene exclaims, exasperated.
‘Yes. Yes. She’s a lunatic! And that’s precisely what I like about her. She’s brave but slightly deranged. She’s very loyal, very driven, possibly slightly paranoid, very protective, very passionate …’
‘More words,’ Gene murmurs, dryly (before he can stop himself), ‘I thought it was all about the visuals from here on in.’
‘Ow,’ Sheila mutters.
‘Sorry,’ Gene promptly apologizes.
‘I don’t know why, but you just seem really … I don’t know … angry today,’ Sheila muses.
‘Great.’ Gene rolls his eyes.
‘Defensive. Preoccupied. And maybe you have good reason to be. That’s fine. I accept that. But this isn’t about you or me. This is about Jen and Vicki. They need our help.’
Gene starts walking down the corridor.
‘What if I phone Jen’s dad and tell him what you’ve told me?’
‘He’ll think you’ve taken leave of your senses!’
‘Exactly! There’s your answer!’
‘Gene’ – Sheila’s voice is suddenly as dark and smooth as a bar of Swiss chocolate made from seventy per cent cocoa mass – ‘I don’t have the time or the energy to play games with you right now. I want you to drive to the hospital. I don’t know how much more adamant – more emphatic – I can be about this. You need to get in your car and drive to the hospital. I mean it. If you don’t do it … actually, no. I’m not going to make threats. I’m just telling you. I’m saying to you that if our marriage or my faith or our life together stand for anything then you need to do as I’ve asked. I can’t add anything to that. In fact I’m going to ring off. And if – or when – you ring me back, I want you to have Jen with you. I need to know that she’s okay. Right. I’m going to hang up now.’
Slight pause.
‘But before I do, please understand that I am in a state of acute, emotional turmoil and your job, your responsibility is to make it stop.’
Another slight pause.
‘That’s all I have to say. Good luck. God bless you.’
Sheila hangs up.
Gene stands in the hallway, immobile, for several minutes, then he turns, walks back to Ransom’s hotel room and opens the door. Inside he finds the golfer – now lying prone on the tattoo bench – chatting away, amiably (Nimrod writing, the camera flashing) while Valentine carefully applies a large, purple stencil between the centre of his shoulders. She seems calm, he notes, perfectly at her ease and completely engrossed.
Esther finds her sister sitting on an empty bench by the large, push-button snack-dispensing machine. The helpful Irish nurse (who has been kind enough to push her there in the ward’s only wheelchair) tactfully retreats, although not without first indicating, warningly, towards her watch.
‘Five minutes, all right Esther? Then straight back to baby!’
Esther readily acquiesces.
The sisters sit in silence for four minutes, at least, then Vicki finally rouses herself – blinking, stretching, yawning – as if from a light slumber.
‘Say yes?’ she eventually wonders, with a smirk.
‘Say what?’ Esther scowls.
‘To your fool?’
Esther sucks her tongue.
‘Tell me!’
‘Me not say yes, me not say no.’ She shrugs.
‘He the poor pickney father?’
Esther merely grimaces, then, ‘Gonna let that girl out from the boot of your car?’
‘Soon enough!’
‘Vicki!’ Esther reprimands. ‘You get put away for that!’
Vicki sucks her tongue, in response. ‘Me don’t care!’
‘Your son – he’ll care!’ Esther reminds her.
They both stare – with a measure of interest and indifference – at an elderly man struggling to operate the snack machine. After several, clumsy attempts he manages to acquire himself a small packet of biscuits. He removes them from the slot and then inspects them, astonished.
‘Me could never come back home an’ not feel like shit,’ Esther confides. ‘Every time I see your boy I feel a wrench in my belly. Hurt so bad,’ she clucks, watching on, idly, as the old man tries, and fails – all fingers and thumbs – to gain access to the biscuit packet.
‘You want me to lie?’ Vicki asks. ‘Say me know all along? Even if Izzy never forgive me for it?’
Esther scowls, unsure quite how to respond to this generous offer.
‘’Cause I will’ – Vicki shrugs – ‘for my one an’ only sister.’
Esther shakes her head, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
‘Me got nothing here, Vicki, I swear!’ she sniffs. ‘No life, no man, no work – me own pickneys don’t even know who their mammy is.’
‘Boo-hoo!’
Vicki cordially offers her condolences.
‘Me deserve worse.’ Esther grimaces.
‘Well none of us been angels,’ Vicki concedes.
‘You gonna let Israel see his daddy now?’ Esther wonders.
‘You gonna let baby Prue see hers?’ Vicki snorts.
‘Me got a whole lot of things to ponder on,’ Esther ruminates, then, ‘Here!’
She reaches over and snatches the biscuits from the old man’s hands, deftly tears the packet open and passes them back again.
‘Now get away with you!’ she harangues him. ‘Go on! Enjoy!’
The man takes the biscuits and slowly shuffles off, plainly terrified.
‘You a long time gone,’ Vicki observes, watching his gradual progress, almost sympathetic.
‘’Specially if you starve to death!’ Esther concurs.
A thirty-second silence follows, then Vicki starts to chuckle, disproportionately, almost hysterically, her hands clasped together, her thin shoulders jerking up and down like a mass-produced cardboard skeleton cut-out at Halloween.
‘What you got to laugh about?’ Esther demands, smiling herself.
‘Not a thing!’
Vicki commences upon another, violent paroxysm. ‘Not a damn thing!’
‘Me neither!’ Esther cackles, clutching on to her belly and laughing till her round cheeks are soaked with tears, half in sheer delight, half in complete agony.
The three of them are sitting – like the three wise monkeys – squashed tog
ether on the sitting room sofa. There’s a party atmosphere. A video of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang plays on the TV. They’re drinking tea (milk in Nessa’s case) and sharing a packet of lemon puff biscuits.
‘I prefer to pull off the top layer first, dip the side without cream on it into my mug,’ Toby explains, ‘eat it, then follow up with the crunchy, creamy bottom layer.’
He proceeds to illustrate this technique, somehow conniving to over-dip the biscuit so that the soggy end breaks off as he tries to withdraw it.
‘Mon Dieu! Tu es vraiment enfant,’ Frédérique exclaims, observing the soggy biscuit floating like a pastry raft in his tea mug, enchanted. ‘Such a baby! See! Even Nessa has more sense than this!’
Toby tries to retrieve the soggy wedge with his fingers but it promptly breaks into several, smaller pieces. Nessa, meanwhile, has split her biscuit in half (following Toby’s example) and is delicately lapping off the lemon filling – a tiny remnant of it decorating the tip of her nose.
Frédérique fastidiously dips her biscuit – whole – into her mug of tea, then places the soggy end between her lips and sucks.
‘Oh that’s good – that’s clever.’ Toby chuckles. ‘Liquidizing the middle and then sucking it all out, en masse. Extremely creative!’
He’s still remarking, in awe, on Frédérique’s innovative biscuit-dipping techniques when a nearby cat decides to get in on the action – leaping up on to his lap, knocking his arm, and sloshing his mug of tea straight down his shirt front. He clambers to his feet, cursing, disgruntled, then quickly reaches up his spare hand to apply pressure to his temples (his head is suddenly throbbing – perhaps jolted by the sudden movement).
On screen, the famous, green car is driving along a hilly pass and – if the swelling music is anything to go by – is just about to grow mechanical wings and take flight.
‘You’ve got to rewind if I miss the song!’ he exclaims, piqued. ‘It’s not fair! I don’t want to miss the song!’
He dashes off down the hallway towards the kitchen, still clutching his temples, holding his mug aloft, and arrives at the sink just in time to hear the others commence yelling and cooing as the car leaves the road and takes to the air.
‘I don’t believe this!’ he yells, slamming his mug down on to the draining-board, pushing in the plug and turning on the tap. ‘Press pause! Press pause!’
In the other room he can hear laughter and sporadic applause. He reaches towards a cleaning cloth then stiffens, inhales sharply, takes several, rolling steps to the side (still grinning his dismay at missing the flying car), half-turns, sees the rocking chair directly behind him, feels himself collapsing, and somehow, miraculously, throws himself into it.
The chair nearly rocks over at the swift violence of his descent. It hurtles backwards, then forwards, but is quickly stopped by the dead weight of his legs (stretched out, knees locked) and by his heels, which press firmly – like two, trusty, leather brakes – into the antique linoleum.
It’s on his third circuit (he’s yelling her name, furiously – a feeling in his gut that goes way beyond embarrassment/exasperation/frustration/disbelief giving his voice a strange, extra quality of unrestraint) that Gene finally thinks he might detect a response. He grinds to a sudden halt and turns – head down, shoulders hunched, scowling – furtive as a city fox.
There’s a car parked on its own – slightly removed from all the others – adjacent to the fence in the far reaches of the lot. He trots towards it, ears pricked, not sure if it’s just random, peripheral noises he’s hearing or a more regular but muffled banging sound originating from somewhere closer to hand. The car – he immediately notes as he draws abreast of it – has been left unlocked. The banging continues. He walks to the back end and deftly presses the lock. The boot springs open. Jen unfurls like a jack-in-a-box.
‘I’ve shat myself!’ She grins, holding out her arms so he can help to lift her out.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, astonished.
‘Fine.’ She nods. ‘I knew you’d come in the end!’
She delivers him a giant, wet kiss on the cheek. ‘I wuv vu!’ she baby-talks. ‘You’re my hero, Geney-boo!’
Her legs wobble a little and he quickly tightens his grip to support her.
‘How long have you been trapped in there?’ he asks.
‘Dunno.’ She shrugs, shivering, peering around her, blearily. ‘Few hours, I guess. Is this the hospital car park?’
‘Couldn’t you hear the sirens?’ Gene pulls off his jacket and hangs it over her skinny shoulders.
‘Yeah …’
She glances down at herself, slightly dazed. ‘Look!’ She gingerly lifts up a leg. ‘I got lickle brown testicles!’
‘This is Vicki Wilson’s car?’ Gene demands, the anger rising within him.
‘Hire car’ – Jen nods – ‘and I could tell when she got out that she’d left it unlocked – probably thought I’d have the basic nous to escape under my own steam. But could I? Could I heck! It’s been like a bad episode of The bloody Krypton Factor! Feels like I’ve been picking at that sodding mechanism for ever.’
She holds out her hands. The nails are all bleeding.
‘Bloody hell, Jen!’ Gene’s appalled. ‘You must’ve been terrified!’
He starts gently leading her towards his own car, which is parked fifty or so yards away.
‘As luck would have it I happen to feel very comfortable in confined spaces.’ Jen hikes up her leotard and waddles. ‘As a kid I spent all my free time under tables and in boxes. You know, sometimes it’s great to be able to shut everything out and just … just focus. My head feels all light and clear and un-mangled.’
‘Shall we ring the police?’ Gene wonders.
‘Nah! I just want to get home and have a wash – change my clothes …’ She waddles on, breathing heavily. ‘Pinch your nose if you need to – I won’t be offended. The burn in my regions is incredible – the squelch and the itch! I mean I waited a couple of hours, but then I just thought: Screw it – what’s to lose?’
‘D’you have any idea why she did this?’ Gene shakes his head, horrified.
‘Oh yeah’ – Jen chuckles – ‘my enforced period of reflection has been very fruitful in that regard …’ She grins up at him. ‘She was probably just pissed off. In fact I probably kind of deserved it.’
‘That’s still no excuse for what she’s put you through,’ Gene snaps.
‘But if she hadn’t locked me up then you wouldn’t have got to play the hero!’ Jen teases. ‘And you do it with such vim! Such gusto!’
She play-punches him in the ribs.
‘Sheila actually deserves most of the credit.’ Gene recoils, confused by this fond assault. ‘She deciphered the answer-phone message.’
‘Then high-fives to Sheila!’ Jen grins, still shivering but patently enjoying his confusion.
They draw up to the car and Gene takes out his keys.
‘Well I can’t sit in the front,’ Jen murmurs, peering down at herself, concerned. ‘I’d hate to leave a permanent record of this embarrassing little interlude on your clean upholstery.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Gene insists, unlocking the front door and pulling it wide then trotting around to the boot in search of a blanket.
Jen peers through the back window where she espies an old newspaper and something with a passing resemblance to a bugle case.
‘Is that an old newspaper on the seat, there?’
She opens the back door and leans inside. It’s a recent edition of the local paper (featuring a leading article on the threatened closure of the allotments). She quickly unfurls it, spreads it out and then hops in, lying down on her belly, legs kicked up. Gene returns without the blanket.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay like that?’
He’s understandably quizzical.
‘I’m jolly!’ she insists, waving over her shoulder. ‘I’m joyous! Beatific!’
Gene gently closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side
. He climbs in, putting on his seat belt and adjusting the rear-view mirror before reaching for the ignition. As he re-angles it he sees Jen (thinking she’s out of eye-shot) irritably batting away a tear from her cheek.
‘She’s not going to get away with this,’ he murmurs, ‘even if you do refuse to get the police involved.’
‘Revenge is a dish best served with chips,’ Jen mutters, ‘in newspaper. No cutlery. Generous sprinkling of salt.’
Gene doesn’t respond. He starts up the car, indicates and pulls off.
Three minutes later:
‘How on earth will you go about explaining the state you’re in to your parents?’ he demands, pulling on to the Dunstable road (following a series of complex, logistical manoeuvres to bypass the M1).
‘I won’t explain it. I’ll try and sneak in through my bedroom window.’
She pauses. ‘Although I should probably come up with a story just in case,’ she muses, ‘like I got locked in the big storeroom at work and the batteries died on my phone …’
‘This isn’t right, Jen,’ Gene mutters. ‘They deserve to know the truth. What she did to you tonight was really wrong.’
‘I know that!’ Jen clucks. ‘But fair do’s to the woman,’ she persists, her jovial tone returning. ‘Shaka Zulu’s Martian wife snatched her son and took him to see his dad without asking her say-so. It was provocative. She was pissed. This was pure tit for tat. A symbolic act of revenge.’
‘Symbolic at what level?’ Gene scoffs. ‘The woman locked you in her trunk!’
‘The boot was unlocked,’ Jen persists. ‘Could you wind down your window? The smell back here is making me want to puke.’
Gene does as she asks. They are quiet again for a few minutes, then, ‘Can I ask you something, Gene?’ Jen wonders, ‘It’s kind of personal.’
‘Of course.’ Gene nods.
‘Are you happy?’
‘Happy?’ he echoes, slightly shocked.
‘Yeah. Would you say that you were basically content, overall, with your lot in life?’
The Yips Page 50