Ransom throws out an irritated hand. fuckin Galvin Green, who spends his entire life nibbling on energy bars and doing bench presses in the fuckin gym. Its personal with me. Always has been. A pride thing. I need to be the big dog the biggest dog win or lose. And if Im gonna lose, then Ill piss all over the fairways. Ill leave divots a foot fuckin deep. Ill give the groundsman a fuckin coronary. Ill be filthy. Ill lose like a fucking pig. Ill lose worse than anyone ever lost before. Ill make an art out of it. Ill hit the ball through the clubhouse window. Ill play five shots from the car park. Because Im a wild-card, Stan, a headcase: Better to burn out than to fade away. Thats always been my motto.
Stan gazes at him, blankly.
Neil Young, dipstick! Its the lyric Kurt Cobain quoted in his suicide note. Youre a teenager you should know that. I quoted it at my coach the other day and he just stared at me, like duh? I go, Its Neil fuckin Young, Roger. He goes, Neil Young? Of course its Neil Young! I love Neil Young! Are you kidding me?! The Jazz Singers my favourite film of all time! I just looked down at myself and I thought, Ransom, youre on a hiding to friggin nowhere here. So I sacked the little turd, on the spot.
Seriously? Stans impressed.
Yeah. Ransom bridles. Of course Im fuckin serious. Although now the greedy twats suing me for unfair dismissal.
Ouch.
Stan looks pained.
The more I think about it, though, Ransom muses, adjusting his cap to a less rakish angle, the more I feel like Im I dunno like Im a man out of time He pauses, wistfully. Nah-ah, he promptly corrects himself, its worse than that. Sometimes when I walk into the locker room at the start of a tournament I feel like Ive just landed from another planet. Like Im extraterrestrial. An alien! And its not just that Im Old School, that Im Hardcore Its much more I dunno much more fundamental. Theres something different about me. A uniqueness. I have this this natural this basic this essential quality about me which marks me out from ninety-nine per cent of players in the professional game right now Ransom fixes Stanislav with an implacable stare. Dyou know what that quality is, Stan?
Stan shakes his head.
Stan shakes his head.
Shall I enlighten you?
Stan shrugs.
Personality! Ransom grins. Its personality, kiddo! I have character. Gallons of the stuff. And Im just too damn creative too much of a fuckin individual to turn myself into one of those gormless, brainwashed, Ledbetter-style automatons who only ever plays the next hole, the next shot, while spouting endless, turgid platitudes about their mental game and the arc of their fucking swing plane. Dyou know what I mean?
Stan just gazes at him, blankly (he has no idea).
Lemme put it this way. Ransom gamely attempts to re-state his position: I remember this shit-for-brains journo cornering John Daly outside the clubhouse at the start of a major tournament one time I forget which tournament it was, off-hand getting right up in his face and demanding to know what his golfing strategy was for the weeks play ahead. Dalys obviously really unimpressed by this half-wits attitude, not to say bored and pissed off by the question itself, but, as always, hes very friendly and courteous and listens to the journalist really politely before considering his reply. My strategy? he finally murmurs, plucking at his chin for a moment as if hes going to say something really deep, really significant. Yeah Well I guess that would probably be Ransom clears his throat and then attempts a (perfectly passable) impersonation of Dalys slow American drawl: Hit the ball, find the ball, then hit the ball again.
Ransom smiles at Stan, beatifically. Stan looks puzzled.
Hit the ball, find the ball Ransom repeats, slapping his hand against his thigh, snorting, like this is the most incredibly profound, fuckin insight: Hit the ball, find the ball Like this is the hugest fuckin revelation! Man! It was pure, undiluted genius! A defining moment in the history of the game! A two-finger salute to all the vultures and the bullshitters and the mind-wizards and the the (Ransom momentarily runs out of suitable targets for his mirthful ire, and flounders. His eyes fill with sudden, hot tears.) It was absolutely fuckin brilliant, he huffs, then turns blinking, self-consciously and gazes, impatiently, past the modern, slightly shabby rectory building, to the large, somewhat static and forbidding, Victorian, red-brick church beyond.
What was that phrase Dad always liked to use? Valentine wonders, indicating, somewhat wryly, towards her mother. Full of piss and vinegar?
Her mother who seems in unusually high spirits is singing Frère Jacques at the top of her lungs to a slightly bedraggled cat which is crouching, terrified, halfway up the stairs.
So whatre they trying to pin on me this time? Noel demands, slowly unwinding a grubby-looking keffiyeh scarf, while carefully ensuring that the sterile gauze dressings (which have been neatly applied to his neck beneath it) remain intact.
Pin on you? Valentines down on her knees, unfastening Nessas shoes. Who dyou mean?
Who?! Noel exclaims, thumbing over his shoulder, towards the front door. Who the fuck else, stupid?!
Watch your mouth, stupid!
Valentine glances up at him, indignant, as she removes the first shoe. And dont call me stupid, she adds (as a guilty afterthought), inclining her head, warningly, towards the child.
Yeah, stupid! Nessa immediately echoes, snatching her other foot from her aunts grip, jutting out her chin and boldly squaring up to him.
Oh great. Valentine rolls her eyes.
Yeah, stupid! Nessa repeats, grabbing a handful of the baggy fabric of her fathers jeans and yanking at it, hard.
Get the fuck off! Noel screeches, snatching for the belt on his trousers (which are already alarmingly low-slung), but his response is too slow, and the trousers slip down, with virtually no resistance, from his hip-bones to his knees.
Nessa clings on to the concertinaed fabric, giggling, delighted. Valentine struggles to contain a wan smile.
Enough! Noel hisses, raising the back of a warning hand to the child. Nessa promptly lets go and Noel yanks the trousers up again, cursing. Valentine pulls the toddler back towards her and embraces her, protectively.
MUM! Noel bellows effortlessly displacing his irritation (principally, admittedly, with himself). Could you put a bloody sock in it, please?
His mother sings if possible still louder.
I said could you put a sock in it? Noel repeats (an added edge of menace in his voice this time).
Shell carry on for hours at this rate, Valentine mutters (with a strong element of and I cant say Id blame her if she did ).
Shes been singing that damn thing, non-stop, since we left the day centre, Noel gripes. Its driving me round the twist.
Let it go, Bro, Valentine advises him, stifling a yawn.
I had to remove her filthy hand from my thigh, twice, in the car on the drive home, Noel hisses. Shes absolutely, bloody disgusting!
Ill have a word with her about it, later, Valentine promises, untangling one of Nessas bright, blonde curls with a distracted finger.
So wheres your client? Noel demands, suddenly glancing around him.
Gone. Valentine shrugs. I called her a cab.
Jeez. That was one hell of a turnaround, Noel murmurs (cheerfully ignoring the fact that hed promised, faithfully, to transport her himself). Was she happy with the end result?
I dunno Yeah Valentine nods so far as I could tell. She was shy. Her English wasnt great, but she cried when she saw it in the mirror.
Pause.
Did she pay in cash?
Her brother tries to appear disinterested.
By cheque
Valentine starts to remove Nessas other shoe.
I thought we had a strict rule about that, Noel grumbles.
We do
Longer pause.
but she needed some of the cash shed put aside to pay for her ride to the airport.
Noel turns to glower at his mother again (who is now banging along in time to her ditty on the wooden banister).
So howd it look? he demands, turning back to face her.
Fine. Nice. Good. Although I was so knackered by the end of it that I could hardly
But she was happy? he repeats.
Yeah. So far as I could tell. The skin was incredibly delicate unusually delicate. I really had to hammer away at it.
Did you get a photo? Noel demands.
For my portfolio? Valentine asks, fixing him with a dry look.
Why else? He shrugs, grinning.
Why else, she echoes, smiling back.
So did you? he persists.
Nope. Valentine shakes her head. It was difficult to get her to trust me and relax. I mean after all the fuss at the hotel
So did you? he persists.
Nope. Valentine shakes her head. It was difficult to get her to trust me and relax. I mean after all the fuss at the hotel
Noel raises a tentative hand to his throat.
And like I said her English wasnt all that great. She was really stressing out about making her flight in time. Shed lied to her husband about taking the trip. Shed told him she was visiting her sister in Osaka. She didnt want him getting suspicious. She was planning to surprise him for their anniversary Valentine pauses for a second, cradling Nessas tiny shoe in her hand. Then, just when I was about to take the plunge and ask her, this guy turned up to read the meter and walked in on us by mistake
Hang on a second, Noel interrupts, alarmed. Which guy? Not the hotel guy?
Hotel guy? Valentine echoes, confused.
He said hed come to read the meter?!
Noel snorts, derisively.
The hotel guy? Valentine repeats. Which hotel guy?
To read the meter?! Noel rolls his eyes. Are you having me on?
No. Valentine shakes her head, defensively, then she pauses. Although
She glances over towards the meter, frowning. Im not sure if he actually got around to
And you thought he was credible? Noel demands.
Credible? Valentines starting to look paranoid. Whats that supposed to mean?
Did he have all the official documentation and shit?
Documentation?! Valentine exclaims, almost irritated. He came to read the meter, Noel. He was perfectly nice and polite and professional
So you saw his badge? Noel jumps in.
His badge?
You checked his badge?