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
Her monologue is briefly interrupted by a sharp, girlish scream from the garden. She moves over towards the open doorway and blinks out into the bright sunlight.
Got any yourself? she wonders, after a short pause.
Sorry?
Her last man was covered in them. She turns, patting her forearm, by way of explanation, Hands, legs, feet. Had this massive, tangerine-coloured carp swimming across his neck its eye just she points to her throat just there. On his Adams apple. Itd bob up and down whenever he spoke. She grins. Russian, he was. Size of a house. But wouldnt say boo to a goose. Gentle as a mouse. Lovely boy. Ran off to live on an Indian commune with this woman they call The Hugging Saint. Very weird. Very weird. Did Vee ever tell you about all that?
Uh, no. No she didnt.
Gene frowns, uneasily, his cheeks reddening. And just for the record
As he speaks, another sharp, girlish scream resounds around the garden. The woman turns and peers outside again, shading her eyes with her hand this time.
Would you believe it? she mutters. The little devils climbed straight back on again after I clearly told her
Gene glances outside himself. In the garden he sees a small girl bouncing up and down on a trampoline wearing a short, white, cotton dress and no underwear. As she bounces, a group of older boys stand nearby in a furtive huddle, watching on.
Awful, isnt it? The woman turns and observes Genes slightly queasy look. Then, before he can answer, In fact Im glad youre here to see it for yourself, because now you can have a word with Vee about it. Ive tried to raise it with her before, but she always just fobs me off.
Gene watches, transfixed, as the small girl bounces higher and higher, kicking out her legs with joyous abandon, each time providing the assembled company with an exemplary view of her dimpled buttocks and tiny vagina.
I mean theyre good boys all of them, the woman insists. Its just that shes way too young to be playing with this crowd, but she tags along with little Natalie, there
She points to another child, an older girl, who is sitting in a deck chair picking out pebbles from between the tread in her sandals.
Natalies at that age where she enjoys playing the older sister
Perhaps we should think about calling her in, Gene prompts.
Good idea.
The woman pops her head through the open doorway.
Nessie? Nessa! she yells. Get down off there and come inside, pronto!
Pause.
NESSA!
Pause.
NOW!
The child finally stops bouncing.
Shes such a wilful little creature the woman tuts a terrible exhibitionist. Was your own daughter ever that way inclined?
Sorry?
Did your own daughter ?
Absolutely not!
Genes almost aggrieved at the mere suggestion.
So youll speak to Vee about it, then?
Uh
Before he can fashion a suitable answer, Genes phone starts to ring. He jumps, startled, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls it out.
Hello?
He turns to face the opposite wall (profoundly grateful for the temporary distraction).
Gene?
Sorry ?
It takes him a second to register the voice.
Jen?
Yeah, you goof! Dont sound so surprised. I bribed your number out of Nihal on reception.
(Gene makes a quick mental note to have a quiet word with Nihal.)
I just wanted to check if you got home all right. Things got pretty crazy last night after you left.
Oh. Yeah.
Gene hunches his shoulders, defensively.
So did you manage to bundle him into the cab or what? she prompts him.
No. Uh
Gene switches the phone to his other ear. Im actually in the middle of something right now, Jen, could I possibly
Theres this terrible photo in the Daily Star website
Is there?
And one in the Mirrors. Hes sprawled over a car bonnet. Its taken from the back, but its gruesome. In fact if you look really closely you can make out part of your arm youve got him in some weird kind of head-lock
I was simply trying to hold him up. Gene scowls, exasperated.
Hed had a good skinful. Jen sniggers.
He had his cap pulled down over his face. Didnt have a clue where he was going. Then someone knocked the thing askew in the scramble probably a photographer and he completely lost the plot. Started throwing punches, spitting, swearing ended up vomiting all over the bonnet of the cab. The cabbie was livid and promptly drove off
Oh my God.
so I ended up just piling him into the Megane and driving him myself.
As Gene speaks, the small girl enters the kitchen. He turns to look at her.
Where to? Back to the Leaside?
The child peers up at him and smiles. Shes a beautiful little thing with angelic blue eyes and short, white-blonde curls.
Back to the Leaside? Jen repeats.
Uh Gene frowns, struggling to focus. No. No.
He turns to face the wall again. When we got back to the Leaside he became convinced that he wouldnt be safe there, that wed been followed. He got all tearful and melodramatic
He rolls his eyes. It was quite a performance.
So what did you do?
What could I do? I just took him home and stuck him in Mallorys bed for the night.
Bloody hell! Jen chortles. Back to the rectory?!
It was fine. Mallory came in with Sheila and me. Hed virtually passed out by that point, anyhow
So wheres he now? Jen interrupts.
I havent a clue.
Wont he still be at your place?
I doubt it. Gene frowns, peering down at his watch.
Well give me your home phone number and Ill check, Jen suggests.
Sorry?
Genes patently not sold on the idea.
Your home phone number. So I can check.
But Im pretty sure
Just give it to me, Gene! Jen snaps.
Gene gives her the phone number.
Brilliant! Youre a star!
Jen hangs up.
Gene removes his phone from his ear and stares down at it for a second, scowling, then shoves it back into his pocket, draws a deep breath, carefully fixes his expression and turns.
So lets get this show on the road, shall we? he exclaims, holding out his hand to the child with what he hopes is an air of confident jocularity.
Is it salvageable?
They are hunched over the cracked and fissured lemon-coloured laminate of the breakfast bar in the rectorys rickety, L-shaped kitchen, inspecting the sodden letter.
I dont know. Stan scowls. I mean Ive done my best with the first page
He holds it up to the light, squinting. But its very blurred in places
A bare-chested Ransom snatches it from him, impatiently.
Its perfectly legible! he exclaims.
Yeah, well
Stan isnt convinced.
Youve done a brilliant job! Ransom enthuses, picking up the pressed flower. And the flowers still basically intact, which is great
Its a flowering clover, Stan mutters. A lucky clover. It had four leaves originally.
So?
Ransom refuses to be dispirited.
So one of the leaves is now completely
Stan grimaces as he points to it. Thats just mangled.
Even Ransom cant deny the harsh truth of this statement. Yeah. Yeah. But He blows softly on the clover (hoping to bulk it out with his breath, perhaps). But you still get the general idea
Stan picks up the damaged photo. Its an old, black and white publicity shot of a young, dark-haired, female contortionist in a harlequin-style leotard (with the obligatory white, frilled ruff) performing an exaggerated backbend. Her face smiles out from between her ankles (her chin resting, jauntily, on her hands). A quantity of the shredded wheat obscures one leg, knee and foot.
Her face is fine, Ransom mutters, peering, intrigued, at her sharply jutting pubic bone. If we could maybe just He leans over and starts prodding, clumsily, at a damp strand of the wheat with his forefinger.
Careful! Stan yelps, snatching it away. The photographic inks still really unstable.
Ransom withdraws his hand, jarred.
Perhaps we should use a hairdryer? he volunteers. See if it peels off more easily once the liquids all evaporated?
Yeah.
The kid doesnt seem especially enthused by this notion. He places down the photo (beyond the golfers reach) and picks up the Order of Service.
Hows that thing coming on? Ransom reaches over and grabs a hold of it. The paper on the bottom half has bubbled up and the print has become furry in several places. He gives it a tentative sniff.
Not too bad, he murmurs (wincing at the sour smell of the milk), I mean were definitely making progress here
As Ransom appraises all the artefacts, en masse, he suddenly feels curiously distended again. Swollen. Like a sheep bloated with methane. He puffs out his cheeks (as a physical expression of this odd, internal sensation) and then expels the air, violently (producing a loud, hollow, farting sound).
Stan glances up, startled. The golfer tosses down the Order of Service and picks up Stans copy of Bruce Lees Artist of Life. This thing any good? he asks, idly flipping through it.
Depends on your definition of good, Stan answers, somewhat inscrutably.
Ransom thinks for a few seconds. Gisele Bundchens baps, he eventually volunteers.
Stan carefully considers this suggestion. Im not sure if thats an appropriate frame of reference, he eventually concludes.
Ransom places down the book again. I actually had a brief correspondence with Linda Lee Cadwell
Lees wife?
Stans impressed. What about?
I dunno. Bruce. Fame. Mysticism. Sport. Competition. Life
Ransom commences picking, distractedly, at an ingrown hair on his forearm.
So once weve dried all this stuff off, he eventually mutters, abandoning the ingrown hair, gazing down at his naked torso, tensing his chest muscles and watching his generous, brown nipples jerk skyward, then what?
Stan frowns, focusing on the nipples himself (his dark brows automatically arching, in sync). How dyou mean?
Well dyou reckon it might be possible to just stick it all back into the book and uh Ransom shrugs.
What? Stan looks scandalized. Bang it back on to the shelf again like nothings happened?
Ransom shifts in his seat, quickly diverting his attention from Stans accusing gaze to a small window cut into the tiling above the stainless-steel sink. Beyond this window stands a large vehicle covered in tarpaulin.