Brilliant!
Ransom chuckles to himself as he carefully turns over the corner of the page (for future reference), closes the book and shoves it under his elbow along with the Clausewitz.
His eye now settles on a tiny copy of Sun Tzus Art of War, which has been secreted, sideways, on top of a row. He pulls it out with a small, wry smile of recognition. Its a miniature hardback under three inches in width wrapped, like an expensive chocolate, in shiny black, red and silver foil-effect paper. He enjoys the sumptuous feel of it in his hand. He opens it up.
Simulated chaos is given birth from control, he reads. The illusion of fear is given birth from courage; feigned weakness is given birth from strength.
He muses on this for a moment, his attention briefly distracted by the sound of a phone ringing in a far corner of the house. He can tell from the distinctive ringtone (Queens We Are The Champions) that it is his phone. He scowls. The ringing stops. His eye returns to the Sun Tzu and he slowly re-reads the previous sentence: Simulated chaos is given birth from control; the illusion of fear is given birth from courage; feigned weakness is given birth from strength.
Ransom considers this for a while, then he smiles, almost sentimentally, closes the book, carefully slots it under his elbow (alongside the other two) and is about to grab his cereal and move away when his eye alights on a distinctive-looking beige and black hardback with an old-fashioned drawing of an open palm on its spine. He pauses. His mind turns very briefly to the previous evening and to Jen.
Ah yes, Jen. Jen with her pale arms, her chapped upper lip and her infinite lashes. Jen with her ponytails and her pierced and piercing tongue. Jen. He winces. He draws in closer. Written above the illustrated hand he reads: Cheiros Palmistry for All; 2/6 NET.
Cheiro? He pronounces the name out loud, as if trying it on for size.
Cheiro.
He pauses. Then, Goll-uff, he murmurs, quizzically. Gol-ol-ol-ol
He shakes his head. Cheiro! Cheiro! Cheiro!
He tweets the name like a canary, then snorts, pulls the book out and opens it up, randomly, to an autographed impression of Lord Kitcheners hand given to Cheiro
Eh?
on the 21st of July, 1894 (hitherto unpublished).
As he gazes down at the photograph, two important things happen. The first is that the boy the stroppy, dark-haired teenager enters the room, holding out a dripping mobile.
I just found this in the toilet bowl, hes saying. Is it yours by any chance?
The second is that a loose wad of papers falls down from within the pages of the palmistry book an old letter, a dried flower, a couple of photos, the order of service for a funeral
Ransom curses, loudly, as the order of service and the photo slide down on to the floor, but the dried flower and the letter plop into his cereal bowl. He instinctively snatches for the letter keen to preserve it but, in his panic, he clumsily knocks his knuckle into the fork and tips up the bowl, sending it (and all its contents) cascading down on to the carpet.
Ransom stares at the milky, wheaten mess, agog.
Wow! The boy is impressed (and Ransom can instantly deduce that it takes a fair amount to impress this kid): You really fucked up, he announces, delighted (like all teenagers, immeasurably enlivened by the prospect of a catastrophe), that stuff belonged to Mallorys dead mum.
Ransom stares at the milky, wheaten mess, agog.
Wow! The boy is impressed (and Ransom can instantly deduce that it takes a fair amount to impress this kid): You really fucked up, he announces, delighted (like all teenagers, immeasurably enlivened by the prospect of a catastrophe), that stuff belonged to Mallorys dead mum.
Ransoms already on his knees, yelping plaintively, plucking photos and dried flowers from the goo.
Kitchen roll, the boy announces, sagely, and then promptly abandons him.
I dont understand, the woman mutters, peering over Genes shoulder. Youve come to collect Nessa, but now that youre here youve decided to
Read the meter. Yeah. Gene tries to sound nonchalant as he straightens up, switches off his torch and scribbles the relevant digits on to his clipboard. Itll save me from bothering you twice, thats all.
I see.
The woman gives this some thought, and then, But you are actually friends with Valentine? she demands (she is short and heavy-hipped, with long, wavy, black hair, down to her waist, and a piercing, brown gaze). I mean you do actually know each other?
Uh Gene frowns. He senses trouble. Uh Yes. Yes. Of course I know Valentine, he insists. Of course I do.
Of course you do. The woman laughs, nervously, then smiles up at him, somewhat ruefully. God Im getting so cynical in my old age! I mean its hardly as if you just turned up at her house to read her meter and then the next thing you know shes railroading you into
Gene clears his throat and glances off, sideways.
The woman pauses, alarmed. I mean she wouldnt ?
Good gracious, no! Gene exclaims. That would be He struggles to find the right word, but cant; pathetic, he eventually manages.
Pathetic?
Yes. The womans keen, dark eyes search his face. Sorry, she eventually apologizes (plainly mollified by whatever it is that she finds there), you must think Im completely paranoid. She shakes her head, exasperated, then turns and guides him down the corridor. Its just that Ive known Vee since she was a teenager she glances over her shoulder, raising a single, deeply expressive, black brow and shes always had this incredible gift this this knack for making people feel
She suddenly checks herself. Have you been friends with Vee for long, then?
Long? Gene parrots, like the word is somehow incomprehensible to him.
Yeah. Long. Long She rolls her eyes, sardonically. As in howd the two of you first become acquainted?
Uh Gene tries to think on his feet. I work in a bar. At the Thistle. In town.
Okay
The woman nods, as if expecting something more.
Its not full-time, he elects, I just fill in when theyre short-staffed, sometimes.
Right. The woman sniffs, nonplussed. She is silent for a moment and then, Well it really has been incredibly tough on her, she confides (determined in spite of Genes best efforts to broaden the level of their interaction). I mean what happened to her mother She shudders. And to lose her dad like that. Then all the problems with her brother. Then her sister-in-law being carted off into
She points her finger to her temple and rotates it.
Awful, Gene confirms, in studied tones.
Devastating, the woman persists. And I do think shes coped extremely well she concedes (perhaps a little grudgingly), I mean under the circumstances. Although in some respects she barely copes at all just doesnt have the emotional She rotates her hands, struggling to find the correct adjective. Chutzpah! she eventually finishes off.
They arrive at the kitchen door. She pushes it open and waves him through.
I blame the parents, obviously
She grimaces, self-deprecatingly, after delivering this cliché. Dyou have kids of your own?
A couple. Gene nods. A boy and a girl He pauses. Both adopted, he qualifies.
I mean I love Vee, she insists (barely acknowledging his answer). Who doesnt love Vee? Shes a wonderful girl. Very sweet. Very creative. Very genuine. Just a bit of a lame duck, really She pauses, thoughtfully. Reggies at the root of it all. She sighs. Did you ever have the honour of meeting Vees dad?
Vees dad? Gene frowns. No. No. I dont believe we ever
He passes through the door and then waits, politely, at the other side. Directly ahead of him is a large, kitchen table (currently covered in piles of washing), and beyond that, an open door which leads out into a long, lush and meandering back garden where a gang of children mainly boys can be seen playing together on a trampoline.
So you work two jobs?
Pardon?
Gene drags his eyes away from the carefree scene outside. The woman has grabbed a pair of matching socks from a prodigious, cotton-mix hillock and is now deftly rolling them into a single ball.
Two jobs? she repeats, inclining her head towards his clipboard.
Uh
Of course Reg adored Vee, she interrupts him, identifying a second pair and grabbing them. She was the apple of his eye. Reg doted on the girl. Although he could be very strict with her quite domineering overbearing, even, on occasion. In fact I read this excellent article recently about how people with Vees she pauses, delicately, problem She pauses again. I mean I suppose you should call it an illness, really She looks to Gene for confirmation. Gene just gazes pointedly back out into the garden.
Well they normally have an overbearing father-figure, she persists, a controlling dad. Thats apparently very common
While shes speaking the woman is rolling up her shirtsleeve: Here take a look
She shows Gene a large, black and grey tattoo on her forearm which depicts a coffin lying on a bed of roses, inscribed with the words: MUM, RIP, 19461998.
Gene inspects the tattoo.
Its a Reggie T original.
She smiles up at him, proudly.
Gene re-examines the tattoo more closely. Its certainly a fine piece of work: delicately inked, distinctive, very traditional.
Dyou like it? she demands (possibly irritated by his protracted silence).
Its great, he answers, a little awkwardly. I mean its extremely he frowns accomplished.
She gazes down at the tattoo herself, somewhat mollified. He was a filthy old bigot, she grumbles, unrolling her sleeve again. A neighbour once told me how he developed his hatred of all foreigners after his mum had an affair with an American serviceman during the war. His dad went crazy when he found out. Did a hike. Reg was only a toddler at the time, but he never got over it.
Thats tough, Gene volunteers, blandly.
Although to Reggies credit hed never be rude to your face. Not directly. He was very charming in person. Very amiable. Always campaigned for the NF or the BNP at election time. Stood as the borough candidate every opportunity he got. Made no secret of his views, but was never nasty about it, never rude. I mean Im half Filipino. My dad was from the Philippines. Theyd play darts together down the