‘I saw him a couple of hours ago and he was fine,’ Gene insists. ‘He fixed the electricity meter. He seemed really …’ Gene frowns. ‘He seemed really fine, really cheerful.’
‘Well he wasn’t fine,’ Ransom corrects him, drolly, ‘he was dying. We are all dying, Gino. We are all slowly dying. But Tobe did it quicker. Tobe cut to the chase. He got in there first. Tobe beat me and he beat you – beat you, Gino,’ Ransom emphasizes. ‘How d’you feel about that, eh?’ He grins. ‘Tobe did it first. He paid a debt we all must pay. He beat you. Came first. Won the death trophy. Held it high. Attaboy, Tobe!’
Ransom clumsily applauds an invisible, triumphant Toby, his drink sloshing everywhere, then slowly shakes his head (plainly deeply moved by his own gripping summation).
‘How did you find out?’
Gene gathers up the spilt ink pots (as if keeping his hands busy will preclude a sudden descent into jabbering insanity).
‘Tattoo girl got a call from her brother …’ Ransom sighs. ‘Noel rang her. Said he got home and the whole friggin’ kitchen was full of water. He left the tap on – Tobe. Getting himself a drink. I dunno …’ Ransom waves his arm. ‘Washing up. I dunno. Anyway, he was sitting in a chair – rocker – dead as a dodo. Dead as a doornail.’
‘But what about …?’ Gene starts off – a thousand questions springing to mind.
‘He called the police,’ Ransom continues, oblivious. ‘They were on their way over. His mum was curled up on the sofa with the kid. Happy as Larry they were! TV blaring. Hadn’t noticed a thing. Fucking amazing! Didn’t even know there was a corpse in the kitchen. Fucking amazing!’
Ransom salutes this astonishing fact with his glass.
‘So Valentine went straight home?’ Gene asks. ‘Did she get a cab?’
‘Nope. She locked herself in the bathroom. She was already in the bathroom – that’s why I took the call.’
‘Sorry?’ Gene interrupts his frenzied tidying. ‘You took the call?’
‘From Noel.’ Ransom nods. ‘She was locked in the bathroom.’
‘But when did …?’
‘Uh … after photo-twink went outside. Saw you weren’t there. She did her nut, pretty much.’
Ransom shakes his head, mournfully. ‘Not good. Definitely not a good look, Gino – leaving that poor mental-case in the lurch like that. You let us down badly, there, Gino. You fucked up, man. You let down the tattoo girl. You let me down. I mean fuck only knows what I’ve got on my back right now …’
He tries to peer over his shoulder then gives up. ‘Hurts like friggin’ hell, I know that much.’
‘So she got a cab home?’
Gene starts to pack up the tattoo bench, realizes that his fingers are all inky and goes to pull a couple of tissues from a box on the bedside table.
‘Nope. No cab. She called in the Gestapo.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Friggin’ …’ Ransom gesticulates, inarticulately. ‘Said she was giving up tattooing. Said it was a sign. All wrapped up in a towel, she was. Nuts! Mascara down her cheeks. Zombie eyes. Burning! Demented! Comes barrelling out of the bathroom, snatches her phone, makes a call. Next thing I know there’s two women banging on the door like the secret police. Cover her up in a shroud and carry her off. Kidnap her. Can’t see their faces. They won’t meet my eyes – ’s like I’m friggin’ invisible or something! Completely shat me up! I mean I’m still in a state of grief ! I’ve got blood and shit running down my back! This isn’t finished! I’m a work in progress!’
‘Did she seem frightened of these women?’ Gene demands, heart thumping. ‘Did they introduce themselves?’
‘Kept calling her “Hammer! Hammer!”’
‘Hammer?’
‘Yeah. She’s going, “I can’t go home! I can’t go back there! My sanctuary was my prison! My mother was my jailor!” Crazy, dramatic shit like in a really bad film. Craaazy shit! And they’re wrapped around her like two jackdaws, squawking. He just looks at me, like, “This is fucked.” I’m like, “You’re telling me, mate! This is some crazy, screwed-up shit, man.”’
‘He?’ Gene interrupts.
‘Eh?’
Ransom momentarily loses his flow.
‘He? There was a man?’
‘Yeah, with the kid – looking after the kid. It’s like a family outing! He goes, “What can I do?” Shrugs. Seemed a nice enough bloke. I’m like, “Can’t you control your women? You got ’em wrapped up like friggin’ … friggin’ … black … Like friggin’” …’
Words fail him. He knocks back the rest of his glass.
Gene quickly finishes folding up the bench. He throws everything else into Valentine’s holdall, closes it and straightens up.
‘What are you doing?’ Ransom wonders, watching him, blearily.
‘I should probably head over to the house. Take this equipment back. See what’s going on. See if everyone’s all right.’
‘What about me?’ Ransom demands. ‘What do I do now? There’s no one here! I’m in grief! Tobe’s dead! I’ve not had any dinner! I got blood all down my friggin’ back!’
Gene re-opens the holdall and removes a plastic roll of sterilized wipes.
‘I’ll clean it up. Just turn around.’
Ransom turns, like an obliging child, arms raised.
‘Fuuuck!’ he gasps. ‘Hurts like hell when I move my arms. Fuuuck. That stings, man.’
Gene removes a handful of wipes from the container and gently dabs away at the streaks of blood. The purple felt-tip doesn’t shift too readily. There is a measure of swelling. After a minute or so the tattoo-work becomes more visible. There’s a little ring of exquisitely drawn grass, a fairy-ring, a wreath, almost. Gene shudders.
‘How’s it look?’ Ransom demands.
‘Uh … Good. It’s like a perfect, little ring of grass. It looks great. Considering she’d only just started, it looks surprisingly finished – complete, almost.’
He reaches down to look inside Valentine’s holdall for some kind of cream or lubricant. He finds something he deems appropriate, opens the jar and dabs some on.
‘You should probably have a couple of glasses of water, order a sandwich from room-service then go to bed. Lie on your front. Try and keep the wound as clean as you possibly can … in fact …’
He is about to close the holdall and notices some large, plastic bandages.
‘I could put on one of these bandages if you like, just until the thing stops bleeding.’
‘It’s still bleeding?’ Ransom looks terrified.
‘Just slightly. Only because I cleaned it …’
Gene pulls out a bandage and inspects it, trying to work out how it should be applied. This simple task suddenly seems way beyond his reach. Ransom, meanwhile, collapses sideways, on to the bed and immediately starts to drift off. After thirty seconds he emits a gentle snore. Gene grimaces, abandons the bandage and clambers to his feet.
‘Get Esther to order me a big, meat pasty.’ Ransom’s eyes flicker open as the mattress shifts. ‘This was my night! My friggin’ night!’ He waggles a censorious finger. ‘Lazy, useless, good-for-nothin’ friggin’ … friggin’ slut !’
Sheila climbs into the back of the car. A woman – entirely veiled, who refuses all eye contact – softly introduces herself as Aamilah. She sits between the two of them – a young girl sleeping on her lap – representing a slight but indomitable human buffer. Valentine is dressed in a voluminous black robe. Her head is wrapped in a colourful shawl. She is gripping on to a grey towel.
‘Are you all right?’ Sheila asks in hushed tones, eager not to disturb the child, leaning over, trying to touch her hand. ‘I thought you were over at the golf club tonight?’
‘There’s so much …’ Valentine makes a tiny, frantic gesture, pulling her hand away. ‘I can’t.’
She covers her face and breaks down into sobs.
‘Hush! Hush!’ the woman cautions her. ‘Calm yourself! Remember your dignity! You’ll wake Badriya!’
&
nbsp; ‘Sorry!’
Valentine shakes her head.
‘She’s very confused,’ the other woman interprets. ‘It’s been an extremely stressful and upsetting night for her – but an important night, huh?’
She nudges Valentine’s arm. Valentine nods. ‘Yes. Yes,’ biting her lip.
‘And now there’s something she needs to get off her chest,’ the woman continues.
‘What is it?’ Sheila leans further forward. ‘Valentine?’
‘Please!’ The woman lifts a warning hand, making it clear that her space has been encroached upon. Sheila draws back again, riled.
‘I’ve given up tattooing,’ Valentine whispers, then, ‘Don’t say anything! It’s the only thing to do. It’s necessary. It’s …’
She looks to the veiled woman.
‘Haram,’ the woman fills in, gently rocking the child.
‘I don’t …’ Sheila frowns. ‘Look, we can’t talk properly like this. Why don’t you just come inside for a minute? I can make you a cup of tea.’
‘It was all leading here,’ Valentine doggedly persists. ‘To this place. To this sacrifice. Like you were saying this morning. About the train – what happened. That promise you made. It’s the only way I can feel right – shake the guilt – the fear – by giving up everything I care about.’
‘You’re obviously very tired.’ Sheila leans forward and tries to comfort her. ‘It’s been a long day …’
‘I burned the wallet and the other stuff. I … I … Noel said he was going to give it to a museum,’ Valentine stutters, overwhelmed.
‘Hamra,’ the second woman interrupts her, ‘you’re avoiding the issue. Come on, now. We haven’t got all night! Just tell her!’
‘I slept with Gene,’ Valentine continues, almost without pausing, gently rocking. ‘Last night. And I’m so sorry – so sorry. I know you must hate me and I don’t blame you. I hate myself. I just want to beg your forgiveness so that …’
‘She’s throwing herself on your mercy,’ the veiled woman interprets.
Sheila is silent for a minute, then, ‘There’s really no need for all of this,’ she murmurs (unsure whether she’s actually addressing herself or Valentine). ‘No need for all of this … this drama. It’s absolutely fine. You’re just scared. You’re just confused. It’s going to be absolutely –’
‘Do you forgive her?’ the veiled woman demands.
Sheila gazes at her for a moment, stunned by her insensitivity.
‘Of course I’ll forgive her!’ she hisses. ‘Of course I will, but on my own terms thank you very much!’
‘Don’t forgive me, Sheila!’ Valentine whispers. ‘Make it harder for me! Please!’
She clenches the towel with her fingers, rocking frenetically. The child stirs.
‘It’s time to get Badriya back to bed,’ the woman cordially informs them both.
Sheila sits in silence for a minute.
‘Don’t do anything rash because of me,’ she gently appeals, ‘let’s just …’
‘I’m not. I’m not.’ Valentine shakes her head, tears trickling down her cheeks.
Sheila leans forward again.
‘Remember, I’m here for you. I can support you. Nothing’s set in stone. This is all just a terrible mistake. I’m sure things will look better in the morning.’
‘Please try and calm yourself,’ the woman firmly counsels, raising a warning hand again.
‘I am calm.’ Sheila scowls.
‘There’s a child present,’ the woman adds.
‘I’m perfectly calm,’ Sheila repeats, through gritted teeth.
‘Good’ – the woman nods – ‘because you’re not the only person on earth whose husband has ever been unfaithful. Try and remember that. You’re not alone in all of this.’
Sheila glares at the woman.
‘I’m not sure how helpful your contribution is at this stage,’ she says.
‘You’re upset,’ the woman sighs, ‘you feel the need to lash out, BarakAllahu feekum – may Allah bless you.’
Sheila is seething with rage now.
‘How old are you?’ she asks.
‘Valentine knows what she’s doing.’ The woman ignores her question. ‘She’s made her decision. She’s done the right thing. She has repented. She feels a great peace. She knows that she is among friends.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sheila,’ Valentine murmurs.
‘You’ve apologized,’ the woman counsels her. ‘You’ve been very brave. You can’t do anything more than that. Remember, Allah willed this. It was pre-determined. Everything happens for a reason. I’m really, really proud of you, Hamra. Congratulations.’
She pats Valentine’s knee.
‘Well done.’
The woman finishes speaking and indicates towards the second, veiled woman – Farhana – through the car window.
Valentine puts her face in her hands and starts crying again. Sheila can’t tell whether these are now tears of fear, of guilt or of relief. The door on her side of the car is pulled open.
‘Can I help you out?’ Farhana asks, indicating towards Sheila’s injured leg, concerned. She offers Sheila her hand. Sheila doesn’t take it for a few seconds then finally relents.
‘Thank you.’
Farhana helps her from the car, then slowly leads her back to the house.
‘I can tell that there is a great need in you to do good, Sheila,’ she murmurs, ‘a powerful need. It’s so strong, so beautiful – it shines out of you. It surrounds everything you do. Remember: God loves you and blesses you with all your interior struggles. JazakAllah! May God reward you for all your kindness and understanding.’
She lifts Sheila’s hand to her lips and kisses it through her veil.
‘I hope your leg gets better soon. Fi Amanullah! May God love and protect you.’
She places Sheila on the doormat inside the hallway, gently closes the door and silently retreats. Sheila stands there for several minutes, before, ‘He slept with her?’
She remains exactly where she is for another couple of minutes then performs a rapid, 180-degree turn.
‘He slept with her?’ she demands, scowling (of the opposite wall, now), perhaps hoping – somewhat naively – for a different response.
Chapter 14
Jen happens across Nimrod in the car park having a crafty fag. He looks up, scowling, as she approaches. She is heavily burdened by luggage – a hefty travel-bag slung over one shoulder and an instrument case in either hand.
‘D’you hear about Toby?’ he asks.
‘Nope.’ Jen shakes her head. ‘What about him?’
‘He was doing your baby-sitting gig last night and suffered a massive aneurysm – brain haemorrhage – or that’s what they’re saying.’
‘Toby’s dead?!’ Jen’s jaw drops. She promptly dumps her luggage.
‘Yup.’ Nimrod nods.
‘Bloody hell!’ She gazes at him, amazed. ‘How’s Ransom doing?’
She reaches for Nimrod’s cigarette.
‘He’s great. Got up at sunrise – sheet glued to his back. Spewed his guts out. Had a shower. Ate a huge breakfast. Went over to the driving range. Tried a few shots. Realized that his back was all tight and scabbed up. Modified his swing. Headed out on to the course and hit three eagles in a row. Burst into tears. Is still out there, celebrating. Keeps saying, “Pain is the answer! Need more pain! Pain is the solution! Life is pain! Pain is life!” Crap like that.’
‘Wow.’ Jen takes a quick puff of Nimrod’s smoke.
‘Business as usual,’ Nimrod grins, weakly.
‘Wow.’ Jen takes a second puff. ‘That’s so fucked up.’
‘I was very fond of old Tobe,’ he sighs.
‘He still had so much to give.’ Jen nods. ‘What future nine-hole?’
‘Turbo Golf?’ Nimrod shrugs.
‘Tragic.’
‘The economic arguments for it were certainly always fairly persuasive,’ Nimrod loyally opines.
‘Not to mention the e
nvironmental ones. I said as much to him myself.’
‘I mean just on logistical grounds alone, his position was virtually unassailable.’
‘Maybe Ransom should really get behind the idea,’ Jen suggests. ‘Build a nine-hole foundation – use his celebrity to create a proper legacy, as a tribute.’
‘Yeah.’ Nimrod nods, reaching out for his cigarette. ‘Sweet thought.’
Jen surveys the car park.
‘Gene here yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘I saw the piece you did …’ Jen winces.
‘Like it?’
‘It was very well-constructed,’ Jen concedes. ‘Nicely punctuated. Great use of the semi-colon in the second paragraph. Interesting mixture of nouns and adjectives.’
‘Aw, thanks, Jen,’ Nimrod mugs.
‘Although I’m not sure how happy Gene’ll be with it.’
‘I’ve had about thirty texts already.’ Nimrod pulls out his phone. ‘People are loving the whole cancer/palmist angle. Chat want a two page spread. Take-a-Break have me on redial.’
‘This is your Woodward and Bernstein moment!’ Jen baby-claps.
‘Yeah. So proud!’ Nimrod gushes.
‘Nothing so strange as the truth, I guess,’ Jen muses.
‘You reckon?’ Nimrod doesn’t look convinced.
‘I mean he lost the ball, he lost his balls … great hook.’ She pauses. ‘Did he lose his balls, though?’
‘I believe one still remains intact, the other is silicone.’
‘Really? He told you that?’
‘No, I think you told me that.’
‘Wow.’ Jen takes back the cigarette. ‘I swear to God the man’s my hero. He’s my rock. I just … I just completely and utterly adore him.’
She blinks back faux-tears, then inhales.
‘One of the good guys.’ Nimrod nods, slightly confused.
‘Like Tobe,’ she exhales.
‘Yeah. Like Tobe.’
‘Good old Tobe.’
‘Yeah. Good old Tobe. God bless him.’
Nimrod reaches out for his cigarette. Jen passes it over and picks up her bags. ‘We move on!’ she trills, tripping off in her heels.
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