The Yips

by Barker, Nicola

Gene considers his answer for a few seconds.

  ‘For the record, a long pause before answering isn’t traditionally an especially positive indicator,’ Jen gently chides him.

  ‘I guess I’m just a little bit suspicious of the word “happy”,’ Gene responds.

  ‘You think the CIA are behind it?’ Jen grins.

  ‘It’s a very simple, very uncomplicated word but life isn’t generally either simple or uncomplicated.’ Gene shrugs.

  ‘You know sometimes I’m sitting on the sofa at home watching a film, cuddled up with Sinclair, and I’ll suddenly think, Am I happy? and I won’t be able to answer. It’s like my heart just freezes. I get all panicky. Or I’ll be pissed and doing a mad conga on the dance-floor with a few of my friends – having a wild, old time – and then the same thing – same question – not even a fully-formed question – one word – pops into my head: “Happy?” And it’s like – ka-pow! – all the joy just melts away – completely evaporates. It’s really weird.’

  ‘Some people say that true happiness is all about giving, never about receiving.’ Gene nods. ‘That as soon as you try and hold on to something – to define it or grasp it too tightly – it automatically disappears. But when you give, on the other hand –’

  ‘It’s like I always used to drink tea with sugar in it as a kid,’ Jen interrupts, ‘three, heaped spoonfuls. Then one day I thought: I should give up sugar! Be more grown up! Protect my teeth! So I stopped taking sugar – wham! – just like that. And for the next couple of weeks every time I had a cup of tea it was absolutely, bloody disgusting. Eventually I got fed up with it – couldn’t take it any more. I was like: I’ll just bang in a couple of spoonfuls, you know, on the sly …’

  ‘I know exactly where this is heading!’ Gene grins.

  ‘It was revolting!’ Jen exclaims. ‘And I remember thinking: You gave up something you enjoyed and you suffered for it. Then you showed weakness and you suffered some more. This is fucked! Life is shit!’

  ‘But now you enjoy it without sugar?’ Gene checks.

  ‘Yeah. Now I don’t notice.’ Jen shrugs.

  ‘I don’t like to harp on about it,’ Gene volunteers, ‘but an awful tragedy or an illness tends to make you change your perspective on what happiness actually is. It’s a cliché, but bad experiences tend to make you grateful for small mercies, make you reappraise your priorities.’

  ‘So you think it’s all relative?’

  ‘To some extent.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve just lowered your expectations,’ Jen muses, ‘not given up so much as … I dunno … given in.’

  ‘That’s precisely what Ransom thinks.’ Gene laughs.

  ‘Then it must be true, Gene!’ Jen trills.

  ‘It’s more like …’ – he frowns – ‘sometimes to not want something is the greatest kind of happiness.’ His frown deepens as he struggles to explain. ‘To do without. To break a need. To accept rejection. Just to appreciate what you already have. To find joy in the really small, really insignificant things.’

  ‘Christ, that sounds tedious!’ Jen exclaims.

  ‘I suppose it depends on the nature of the person involved,’ Gene concedes, his mind turning to Sheila.

  ‘Like if God hands you the shitty end of the stick,’ Jen ruminates, ‘say – for argument’s sake – you’re stuck in the boot of a car for an extended duration, your theory is that the best way to survive it is to be thankful that you can still twiddle your toes, even if you’ve just shat your pants, can’t manipulate the lock and have an excruciating cramp in your neck?’

  ‘Ah, pearls of wisdom from the black annals of the boot,’ Gene teases. ‘I suppose it was only ever a matter of time …’

  ‘I’m going to write a self-help book,’ Jen jokes. ‘I’ll call it Boot Up.’

  ‘Or Get Booted !’ Gene suggests.

  ‘Trunk Calls!’ Jen cackles.

  ‘Be sure and put me down for a copy.’ Gene smiles.

  ‘It’ll all be very free-form …’ Jen expands.

  ‘A series of random, little Jen-style thoughts and aphorisms.’ Gene nods.

  ‘Like a very long Hallmark card but with more swearing.’

  ‘Great concept.’

  ‘Nothing too serious – mainly filler and make-up advice, very short on good sense, absolutely no rules.’

  ‘Just a light buffet of Jen wisdom.’ Gene chuckles.

  ‘Yeah. Something nice and easily digestible – finger-food for the internet generation. Maybe a little toy hidden away inside somewhere …’

  ‘Like a Christmas cracker or a self-help Kinder Egg.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Jen’s enthusiastic.

  ‘And the basic philosophy?’

  ‘No philosophy. No guidance. No structure. No pay-off. No real consequences. Just stuff and then more stuff.’

  ‘Stuff?’ Gene double-checks that he’s heard her correctly.

  ‘Yeah, stuff. Like, here’s some stuff, here’s some other stuff, here’s some more stuff. Just stuff – more and more stuff, different kinds of stuff which is really only the same stuff but in different colours and with different names; stuff stacked up on top of itself in these huge, messy piles …’

  ‘Sounds a little unstable.’ Gene frowns, concerned.

  ‘Oh yeah’ – Jen chuckles – ‘it’s all very precarious. That’s part of the fun. It’s constantly threatening to topple over – to crash.’

  ‘And when it does?’

  ‘Then it does! It topples! It crashes! The shit hits the fan for a while, then the fallen stuff just re-configures itself and everything pretty much goes back to normal.’

  ‘So this “stuff” is purely physical or …?’

  ‘It’s both. It’s hard and soft. Most of it’s just ideas, just chatter. This big, stupid, inane conversation blaring in your ear which is determined to draw you in. And either you despise it or you embrace it. That’s entirely up to you, of course.’

  ‘And which do you recommend?’

  Gene jinks on to the Leagrave Road.

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ Jen sighs. ‘Neither – either. Although you may as well join in because it’ll go on anyway, even if you don’t, so what the heck, eh?’

  ‘If you can’t beat ’em …’

  ‘You got it!’ Jen makes a brave attempt at a perky American accent.

  They are both silent again for a while.

  ‘I mean I know it’s stupid and kind of fatuous,’ Jen sighs, ‘but what’s wrong with just wanting to be a part of the glow – the energy – the buzz?’

  ‘The glow?’

  ‘Yeah. The stupid conversation – the hysteria – the bullshit. The big inside the small – the small inside the big – the riot – the party – that chemical they fill balloons with …’

  ‘Helium,’ Gene suggests.

  ‘Inhale the helium! Breathe it in! Hold on to the rose of delusion – yeah! – grip on to it as tightly as you can! Cling on to it, even as the blood trickles down your wrists!’

  Gene pulls into Jen’s road. ‘Perhaps I should come in with you,’ he murmurs, slightly disturbed.

  ‘Nope. It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. I’m all good.’

  He reverses the car into a space a couple of doors down from Jen’s house.

  ‘The lights are off,’ he observes.

  ‘Fab.’

  Jen doesn’t move.

  ‘How about …’ Gene half turns in his seat. ‘I mean just for the sake of argument, say, you consider abandoning the prickly rose of delusion concept – the whole Shaka Zulu’s Martian wife angle – re-sit your A-levels, go to university, become a vet, join a reputable practice, gain some valuable experience, raise some funds, travel, maybe volunteer at an animal refuge somewhere exotic … the kind of “stuff” – real stuff – you always dreamed of as a girl?’

  ‘Be good and kind’ – Jen beams – ‘cultivate my caring side.’

  ‘You’ll need a strong trowel and some secateurs.’ Gene chuckles (running with the gardening metaph
or).

  ‘More like a rotovator and three tons of chemical fertilizer!’ Jen snorts.

  ‘But it’d be worth all the effort in the end,’ Gene assures her.

  ‘Well I’ll certainly take that on board.’ Jen opens the door – before Gene even has a chance to unfasten his seat belt – and clambers out of the car, unaided. She straightens up, slightly creaky, and pops her head through the front window. He notices that one of her false eyelashes is coming loose from her eyelid.

  ‘You really are my hero,’ she repeats, yanking off the lash then patting him tenderly on the shoulder. ‘Massive thanks, Batman. Big hugs to Sheila.’

  She pauses. He thinks she’s going to add something – something heartfelt and meaningful, perhaps, relating to their former conversation. Instead she just points at his arm and squeals, ‘Wah! Huge spider!’

  He starts, glances down at his sleeve (almost panicked), then realizes – a fraction of a second later – that it’s just the false eyelash and grimaces.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  She slams the back door, beaming, baby-waves and off she trots.

  Gene peers after her, fondly, as she retreats, then plucks the lash from his arm, shakes his head, places it into the ashtray, sighs, rubs his cheek, checks his watch and curses.

  Chapter 13

  Sheila has been struggling to pray. She has tried several locations: her bedroom (where she keeps half-opening her eyes and peering at her new haircut in the dressing table mirror), Stan’s bedroom (oh, the maddening lure of the computer!), the kitchen (that infernal buzz of the fridge!), the living room …

  In the living room, she’s asking God to guide her – to fill her with gentle light instead of rage – to allow her to become more patient, more open, more humble like his only son, Jesus Christ, her saviour – when she suddenly finds that her eyes are open and she’s staring, blankly, at the bookshelves. She closes her eyes: ‘Dear Father, please help me to be still, to be more focused …’

  Her eyes are open again. The bookshelves again. She frowns. She shuffles forward on her knees, wincing. She reaches out her hand and removes a copy of Cheiro’s Palmistry For All from the shelves.

  Her eyes scan the line of books. She shuffles to the right a little – more wincing – and is replacing the book back in its usual position when the doorbell rings. She scowls, looks down at her watch, stands up (with some difficulty), winces, tightens the belt on her dressing gown and hobbles off to answer it.

  Two people are standing on the front porch: a man and a woman. The woman is slight and young and wearing the full veil. The man is short and rotund with curly hair and a cheerful face. ‘Good evening,’ he says, ‘I do apologize for calling at your home at such a late hour, but I’m afraid we have something of a crisis on our hands.’

  ‘Is this church business?’ Sheila enquires, slightly stiff.

  ‘It’s very …’ He frowns. ‘I hate to be indelicate … It’s a personal matter. Is your husband at home? Perhaps I might have a quiet word with him?’

  ‘My husband is out,’ Sheila all but snaps (irritated).

  ‘Then maybe my sister-in-law, Farhana …’ He indicates towards the woman. The woman – Farhana – steps forward. She holds out her hand. She has smiling eyes.

  ‘May we talk in private?’ she asks. ‘It’s about Valentine – Valentine Tucker.’

  ‘Valentine Wickers,’ Sheila corrects her.

  The woman turns and indicates towards the road. There is a beautiful car parked just the other side of the driveway. Inside the car are three figures: another woman dressed entirely in black, a small child, dozing on her lap, and a second figure, hunched over, covered by what looks like a towel or a blanket, their head in their hands, sobbing.

  ‘Beautiful car,’ Sheila says, slightly spooked.

  ‘It’s a Tatra. It’s Czechoslovakian. Very rare.’ The man nods.

  The woman rolls her eyes, sardonically.

  ‘I’ve never seen one before.’ Sheila can’t help smiling. ‘Are you local?’

  ‘Yes we are.’ The man nods again, then indicates towards his female companion, his expression almost pained, and politely withdraws. He goes to stand over by the wall. He removes a string of prayer beads from his waistcoat pocket and proceeds to run them, distractedly, through his fingers.

  Sheila peers down at the woman.

  ‘Perhaps we could go inside for a moment, Sheila?’ the woman suggests.

  ‘Okay.’

  Sheila steps back and lets the woman walk past her, into the hallway. She then closes the door and guides her into the kitchen. The woman perches herself on a kitchen stool and draws a deep breath. Sheila stands before her.

  ‘I have momentous news,’ the woman starts off, her eyes still smiling, ‘wonderful, exciting news: Valentine has just testified her faith!’

  Sheila frowns, struggling to understand. She takes the weight off her bad leg.

  ‘Valentine is reverting back to Islam,’ the woman further elucidates.

  ‘She’s …’ Sheila’s confused. ‘Reverting back …?’

  ‘And an important stage in this process is that she repents all her sins and performs good deeds,’ the woman sweeps on.

  ‘She’s reverting back …?’ Sheila repeats, still not making any sense of it.

  ‘Which means asking third parties for forgiveness.’

  ‘Is this about the leg?’ Sheila asks, vaguely indicating.

  ‘The leg?’ The woman tips her head slightly.

  ‘When I was visiting her at home earlier …’

  ‘She has something she needs to get off her chest. She wants to speak with you in private, but she’s very afraid, and the last thing on earth she wants to do is hurt your feelings.’

  ‘Of course’ – Sheila frowns – ‘but I thought Valentine was …’

  ‘I just want to prepare you,’ the woman continues, ‘to ask you to be gentle with her. She’s had a terrible evening. She’s in a very vulnerable state but she’s extremely determined. She insisted we come over here. She longs to make amends so that she can offer her first prayer with a clear conscience and an open heart.’

  ‘Sorry – so that’s … that’s actually her? Outside? In the car?’

  Sheila finally makes sense of the situation. The woman nods, gravely.

  ‘But I thought …?’

  Sheila limps over to the front window, her heart beating faster. ‘Bloody hell. Who are you people?’

  She turns, her face draining of colour.

  ‘All will be well, Inshallah,’ the woman murmurs.

  Gene checks his phone. He has ten missed calls. He can’t bear to hear them, just shakes his head, shoves the phone into his trouser pocket and peers over on to the back seat. He grabs his jacket, frowns, cranes his neck, removes his keys from the ignition, jumps out of the car, pulls open the back door and peers inside again. No bugle case. No bugle.

  He scratches his head. He sniffs his jacket. He pulls on his jacket, mystified, slams both doors shut, secures the car and heads off.

  He takes the back route to Ransom’s room. When he arrives at the door he tries the handle and finds it locked. He frowns. He knocks. Nothing. He knocks again. After several seconds Ransom pulls the door open. He is shirtless, holding a glass of whisky – no ice this time – and seems drunk and belligerent.

  ‘Where the fuck’ve you been?’ he demands. Gene looks past him, into the room. The tattoo bench is still set up. The gun lies on the bed, and a small tray holding dozens of little plastic thimbles full of ink.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.

  ‘Gone.’

  Ransom staggers over to the bed – a trail of blood dripping down his back – and collapses on to it. ‘All buggered off.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  Gene shuts the door.

  ‘Let’s see …’ Ransom tries to shape his thoughts into some kind of order.

  ‘Terry – twinky little photo dude – went out for a fag. Never came back. Then his assistant goes – f
orget his name – same thing. Nimrod gets a call from the front desk. Seems they’ve been appre –’ Ransom hiccups; ‘hendy –’ he hiccups again; ‘hendy – appre –’ He blinks.

  ‘Apprehended.’

  ‘By Security.’ Ransom nods. ‘So Nimrod goes on a mission to try and get ’em back again. Valentine – tattoo girl – is in the bathroom –’

  ‘What’s she doing in the bathroom?’ Gene interrupts.

  ‘Having a friggin’ meltdown because poor old Tobe is …’

  He turns his face away and inhales, sharply.

  ‘Tobe?’ Gene echoes. ‘Toby?’

  ‘Crow-bait,’ Ransom squeaks.

  ‘Crow …?’

  ‘Kicked in,’ he groans. ‘Checked out. Popped off. Belly-up. Crow-bait.’

  Gene stands where he is, momentarily incapable of movement or speech. Then:

  ‘Toby’s dead ?’

  ‘I mean this was my moment!’ Ransom protests. ‘I was being so, friggin’ brave. I was sucking it all up, man! I was growing ! I was learning all this shit about myself – all this profound, fucking shit about myself. I was confronting my fear, Gino! It was like … it was friggin’ magical. Friggin’ magical, man! I was so strong. So alive. Then all of a sudden …’ Ransom gestures. ‘Phone rings. Tobe’s dead. Toby’s friggin’ dead. The friggin’ … the stupid, friggin’ prick! The idiot !’

  He shakes his head, disbelieving. Gene opens his mouth to speak.

  ‘I mean there you are,’ Ransom gestures, dismissively, struggling to hold back the tears, ‘ten times with cancer. All that friggin’ fuss, all that friggin’ drama. All the ladies lapping it up. Wearing the badge – selling the friggin’ T-shirt. And there’s old Tobe …’ – he shakes his head – ‘stupid, boring, dusty old Tobe who can’t even friggin’ drive …’

  He falls backwards on the bed, drink held aloft, upsetting several of the little pots of ink. Most tip on to the tray, but a couple fall clear. Gene watches, horrified, as their contents slowly spread across the counterpane.

  ‘… and he just gently ups and pops his little clogs.’

  ‘But I was with him only a couple of hours ago …’ Gene murmurs, still not quite believing it.

  ‘You think your presence is enough to shield him from death?!’ Ransom sneers, struggling to pull himself straight again. Gene goes over to give him a hand.