Great. Gene grins. Still living the life of an international playboy with no visible means of support. Dividing his time between London and Warsaw full of crazy schemes
Same old Marek, then. She chuckles.
Hes actually
Gene is going to say, my wifes ex, but he doesnt. Instead he says, dumped his old Hummer on me. Its leaking dangerous quantities of brake fluid on to my back patio as we speak.
That piece of junks still roadworthy?! She laughs in sheer disbelief.
Against all the odds. He nods.
Oh God Valentine shakes her head as she remembers. We hired it to use as a centrepiece for this rave once and it broke down on the M1 junction 12 just after the turn-off for Toddington
Leak in the water tank, Gene interjects, if I remember correctly.
Valentine looks startled.
Marek sent me to fix it, he explains.
Marek sent you ?
Valentines confused.
There was some lanky kid at the wheel with a thick Welsh accent, Gene recalls, fancied himself as something of a mechanic.
Thats Yorath. Valentine nods. Really tall. Ruby on his front tooth
Then this huge girl in a tiny, leather minidress
Glenna Ross. Bright green eyes. Amazing singing voice
And a crazy woman dressed up as a cat.
Tiger! Valentine yelps. Dressed up as a tiger! That was me! I was promoting this disgusting orange vodka drink
That was you?
Now its Genes turn to look spooked. But you were completely
Hes going to say, deranged, but stops himself, just in time, different, he compromises, smaller.
Id probably shrunk in the rain She chuckles, wryly. It was such a filthy night remember? I was out of my head on painkillers. Id sprained my thumb, like a bloody idiot, falling off a bus
Genes still looking incredulous.
I was going through this really clumsy phase, she expands, kept tripping over walking into stuff dropping things. Id bruised my coccyx, twisted my ankle She shakes her head, forlornly. Id just been dumped by my boyfriend, Mischa. Hed run away to become a monk she grimaces which was kind of stupid and embarrassing. My dad had died. My brother and his girlfriend were struggling with all these chronic, addiction problems. We were pretty much broke. Mum was about to leave hospital after her accident
She finally runs out of steam.
I made you stick your head between your knees, Gene recollects.
And I puked on to my favourite shoes. A pair of killer stilettos covered in orange sequins. I was completely livid
Not the greatest of nights out, Gene sympathizes.
You looked different, though. She inspects him, critically. Your hair was different, for starters short. Like a skinhead.
Id just finished a course of radiotherapy.
Her eyes widen. Oh God. And there was me, hyperventilating, totally self-involved, jabbering on at you like a lunatic
Shes appalled.
Youd wound your hair into these two, funny little buns He grins.
Tiger ears, she snorts. And you kept reciting that stupid tiger poem at me
William Blake, Gene interrupts.
Yeah. To try and shake me out of my blasted funk
Its the only poem I know by heart, Gene confesses. I learned it at school. If youd been dressed as a squirrel Idve been screwed.
It was Fated, then, Valentine declares.
They stare at each other for a second, both smiling, delightedly. Then, My wifes a vicar, Gene blurts out.
Really?
It takes Valentine a couple of seconds to process this statement.
I mean I know how weird it feels when someone youre in love with suddenly becomes
Church of England? she asks, her voice clipped, almost curt.
He nods.
She promptly lifts Nessas dress to reveal a neat pair of pants. We Tuckers arent all complete reprobates, you know, she mutters, then turns and heads off down the hallway, disappearing into a room on her left.
Gene remains where he stands for a moment, nonplussed, uncertain whether to follow her or not. After thirty or so seconds he decides that he should and enters the hallway himself, instantly detecting after a couple of steps that slight but pervasive smell of sandalwood incense. His eyes alight on the large aspidistra and the black, Bakelite phone which perches like an old rook: head hung low, dull plumage ruffled, wings slightly unfurled on its handsome walnut stand. He feels a sudden thrill of recognition at the pattern of the antique floor tiles, a feeling which instantly confuses him almost akin to coming home.
He remembers his grandparents humble two-up-two-down on Charles Street: the highly buffed, red-painted concrete step which his grandmother burnished to a glassy finish every Friday, without fail; the brown door with its stiff, brass, horseshoe-style knocker and number twelve positioned directly above (notable for the absence of its second digit; the two represented symbolically, at least by a couple of tiny, black nail holes); the large, elephants foot umbrella stand in the hall, stuffed with his grandfathers walking sticks (his childhood favourite with its finely carved bone handle fashioned into the shape of an albino otter); the air heavy with the smell of damp tea towels, boiled spring greens and bacon rind; a rich, olfactory maelstrom always gently underscored by the acrid, lemon scent of Jif scouring powder.
Gene pulls the door shut behind him. The natural light grows dimmer and is gently refracted through its stained glass into a dozy blur of burgundies, olives and ambers. Everything seems quieter and slower. He notices tiny fragments of dust floating in the air around him, buoyed up not so much by the air itself, it seems, but by by sound. By music.
Somewhere in the house a piano is being played a brief refrain, repeated endlessly. Gene feels dull and soporific, like a heavy, crystal stylus stuck inside a groove; jumping forward, then back again, forward, then back again.
Its my mother. Valentine reappears beside him. Shes learning the piano as part of her therapy. Erik Satie. She plays the same, few notes over and over
As she speaks she leads him down the corridor, deposits him in front of the meter and then disappears upstairs. Gene opens the little cupboard, shines his torch on to the digits and is about to start taking a reading when he notices, with a scowl, that several of the screws that attach the main body of the meter to the surrounding brickwork have worked their way loose.
He focuses the light from his torch on to one of them and presses it with the soft pad of his finger. The entire box shifts under his touch, then a tightly folded wad of paper falls out from beneath it (where it has evidently been pushed to shore up the base).
Gene reaches down and grabs it, intending to push it back into its original position, but then something hes not quite sure what, exactly stays his hand. He glances around him projecting a not-entirely-convincing veneer of studied casualness before carefully unfolding the thing and giving its contents a cursory glance.
Its actually a letter the top two-thirds of a letter, to be exact (and of a relatively recent vintage, at that). From what remains of the original, Gene is rapidly able to discern that its a final warning from a large, High Street bank. The letter threatens the addressee of its imminent intention to foreclose on their home (he double-checks the address, grimacing yup) for debts outstanding.
As he studies the letter, one of the screws (bottom left) works itself free from the brickwork and clatters down on to the tiles below. The meter (currently deprived of its paper support) tips forward slightly, with a mournful clank. Panicked, Gene quickly folds up the letter and shoves it back into its original place, then grabs the screw and replaces it, tightening it up with his thumbnail (he performs the same service to the other three).
Once this is done, he exhales, noisily (Phew! Close call!), then shines the torch back on to the digits to take his reading. He frowns. He draws closer to the meter, blinking. The six digits are now a neat row of zeros.
He closes his eyes for a second, then re-opens them Still all zeros! He rubs his chin, uncertain how to react. His face feels damp. He reaches into a back pocket, withdraws a white handkerchief and dabs it against his forehead as he ponders this conundrum. A cat silently glides down the hallway behind him, opting when it reaches him to slither, companionably, against his calves as it passes. Gene slams the cupboard door shut, with an ill-suppressed yelp, and turns, slightly panicked.
From where hes currently standing he can see into a small sitting room where the child now lies sleeping on an old-fashioned, brown sofa with heavy, dark wood trim. Each armrest is bookended by a further pair of large felines. The floor is covered by a series of ornate but threadbare oriental rugs of various sizes at least six or seven of them piled one on top of the other, in an exotic collage.
On one wall is a collection of round, antique, brass-coloured fish-eye mirrors. To the left of these, a handful of chipped and dented, metal, hand-painted signs lean up against the skirting, one advertising Bournville Drinking Chocolate, the others representing older brands hes not quite so familiar with.
A voluptuous wisp of smoke curls into his eye-line. Just as hes taking a tentative step forward to try and locate its source, his phone starts to ring. Both cats respond, in sync, leaping from their individual armrests and darting (with an almost choreographed precision) to opposite far corners of the room. Gene nearly drops his clipboard in his rush to respond (keen not to disturb the sleeping child)
Hello? he whispers.
Hello?
Hello? he repeats, slightly louder (as the child sleeps on, unperturbed).
Hello? a voice says (a male voice, northern, marginally flustered). Is that ? Uh Bollocks. Hang on a second
(Brief moment of indecision.)
Christ Almighty who the heck are you again?
* * *
Although plainly in desperate need of practice (virtually every element of his game is currently in free-fall), Ransom has yet to actually make it out on to the driving range. Instead he may be located (by all but the most incompetent of Satellite Tracking Systems) standing plumb in the middle of a magnificent, giant, outdoor chessboard (the exquisitely wrought pieces of an abandoned game dotted all around him), enjoying a cigarette, his cap pulled down over his forehead, while he speaks, animatedly, into his mobile phone.