Im not remotely bored, Gene maintains.
Well I am, Ransom grumbles, so if its oh bollocks!
He suddenly slips down in his chair.
Toby automatically snaps to attention. He scans the bar and rapidly locates the problem: Twenty to four and approaching, he mutters. Pushy Dad with kid in tow.
Ransom turns to Gene, panicked. Start talking about something important, he hisses, quick!
Uh Genes caught on the hop.
Go on, he prompts him, tell Toby about your preacher wife or your car accident or your cancer.
What? Genes disconcerted.
Gino here had terminal cancer over seven times but he cured himself with crystals, Ransom helpfully informs Toby.
I had terminal cancer once, Gene corrects him, irritated, and Ive never knowingly used
Only the once?! Ransoms appalled. But that skanky little blonde barmaid at the Thistle
Ive had cancer eight times, in total, but only once was it terminal. The other times it was just Gene shrugs, determined to underplay it just your standard small lumps and inflamed moles and stuff.
Hang on a sec! Toby suddenly pipes up, excited. So youre the man with no lifeline? The son of Cheiro? But thats incredible! Why the hell didnt you mention it in the first place?
He springs to his feet and proffers Gene his hand.
Im not Cheiros son. Gene shakes Tobys hand, somewhat overwhelmed. And Jen isnt skanky, he adds, as an afterthought, glancing sideways at Ransom, just a little bit wayward, sometimes
As he speaks, the Wolf and his father draw closer to the table.
So whereabouts in your body was this cancer? Ransom butts in (ignoring the Jen reprimand). The brain? The foot? In one, main area or spread all over the shop?
Uh Gene pauses before he musters up an answer (patently startled even disarmed by the golfers direct approach). Well it actually started off in the breast, he confesses, his right hand automatically drifting to the area just below his left nipple, and then there was a problem with the throat
His hand moves to the base of his throat, near the collar bone. Then a tumour in one of the lymph glands under my left armpit that was the really bad one
His hand moves to his armpit. It spread down to my stomach uh
He briefly loses focus, glancing down at himself, frowning, before quickly retracing the short series of movements for a second time:
Breast, throat, armpit, stomach
then a third
Breast, throat
The Wolf and his father are now standing next to the table.
I just wanted to take this opportunity to say another, quick thank you for helping us out this afternoon
The Wolfs father takes full advantage of the brief lull in their conversation.
Dont be ridiculous! Ransom pooh-poohs him, suddenly all smiles. Youve got nothing to thank me for! What I did was pure instinct! A natural reflex! It wasnt remotely grand or brave or heroic
What did you do? Toby demands, intrigued.
He saved our bacon, thats what! the Wolfs father exclaims. Hes a miracle worker! A Godsend! Im Brendan Dick, by the way, and this is my very lucky, very grateful, very gifted son, Alfie, aka Little Dickie, aka the Dickster, aka the Wolf.
The Wolf bays, to order (much to the evident dismay of the waitress, who is returning to the table with Ransoms drinks order).
In fact while were here I wondered whether we might just take this opportunity to bend your ear about the kids comp. Alfies not had the chance to play the course before
Thats a very tempting offer, Ransom interrupts, gratefully snatching his Scotch from the waitresss tray and knocking back a quick mouthful, and under normal circumstances Id like nothing better, but this gentleman here was just filling me in on some rather painful and sensitive details about his lifelong battle with cancer.
Oh.
The Wolfs fathers eyes turn to Gene, his expression an odd combination of irritation, pity and fear. The Wolf steps behind his father as if seeking shelter.
Dont worry Gene smiles at the child its not contagious.
Not so far as were aware. Ransom shrugs, widening his eyes at the cowering Wolf, somewhat mischievously.
Well maybe later, eh? The Wolfs father turns to leave, somewhat deflated.
Just by the by Ransom stops him in his tracks. You didnt happen to see a big, blond bugger in the foyer on your way through to the bar? Burgundy waistcoat? Huge fat white hands? Sweating like a rapist? Crouched over a laptop?
Uh The Wolfs father ponders this for a second. That description does ring a small bell, now you come to mention it.
Thought as much. Ransom nods appreciatively, turning to Gene. Terence Nimrod, he informs him, conversationally, the journalist. I was pretty sure I spotted him out there earlier.
The Wolfs father prepares to leave again.
Now I come to think of it Ransom stops him for a second time. I dont suppose it could do you any harm to wander over and get yourself officially acquainted. Throw my name into the mix if you think itll help. Offer to buy him a drink. Keep him up to speed on any recent developments in the kids game.
Thats not a half-bad idea! The Wolfs fathers suddenly beaming.
Happy to be of service! Ransom cheerfully rejoins, then turns straight back to Gene again. So this cancer of yours, he mutters, grabbing a large cube of ice from his whisky glass, popping it into his mouth and crunching it with a spine-tingling recklessness between his molars. Did it fetch up in yer knackers, or what?
* * *
Theres no room in the garage for a car. Its full of bikes and filing cabinets and old tyres and rusty swing sets and stacks and stacks of over-filled boxes. Sheila has lifted several of these from the pile and is halfway through emptying out the first of them which has The Rag, 1996 written on its side (circled, twice) in a heavy, black marker pen.
* * *
Theres no room in the garage for a car. Its full of bikes and filing cabinets and old tyres and rusty swing sets and stacks and stacks of over-filled boxes. Sheila has lifted several of these from the pile and is halfway through emptying out the first of them which has The Rag, 1996 written on its side (circled, twice) in a heavy, black marker pen.
Sheila sits cross-legged on the dusty, concrete floor, relying on the last of the natural light which filters in through the open garage door, tinged with a gentle, ethereal pink as she squints down at an open poetry book:
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in? she reads.
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
She closes her eyes for a second, smiling, the skin on her arms goose-bumping, her nostrils flaring, revelling in the feeling of pure, undiluted pleasure these few, simple lines afford her. When she opens her eyes again, she unexpectedly catches her reflection in a nearby hubcap. Her face is joyous illuminated. A rosy nimbus surrounds her head like a foggy halo of mustard gas.
She gazes at herself for a fleeting moment, shocked, then quickly turns away, slaps the book shut and tosses it (almost guiltily) back into the box. Three seconds pass before she is carefully retrieving it, straightening the dust jacket, lifting her black shirt and shoving it, furtively, into the waistband of her trousers (quickly yanking her priestly raiment back into place again).
She now pushes the first box aside and delves into the one that sits directly to its left (written across the lid in heavy, blue marker this time is ODDS AND SODS). From the top of it she withdraws an old altar cloth (partially destroyed by moths) and a folded-up childs duvet cover with matching pillow in the design of a racing car. Under these are four cuddly toys: a bear without a head, a felt elephant with its ears partially chewed off, a somersaulting dog with the springs dangling from its battery compartment and a duck.
Under the toys are two plastic bags, one containing Stickle Bricks, the other, Lego and part of a small train track. Next she withdraws three books. The first two (one is Gaskells Life of Charlotte Brontë, the other an old, obtuse-seeming hardback called Synonyms Discriminated) she hurriedly puts to one side, the third she inspects the cover of and then clucks her satisfaction at the title before resting her back against a large, empty Calor Gas bottle and starting to page through it.
She pauses at the beginning of Chapter Three, her eye momentarily distracted by something: a tiny silver sequin, squeezed by the urgent push of alternating pages into the books yellowing spine. She pulls it out, inspects it for a second, then drops it, carelessly, into her lap.
Her eye focuses on the chapters opening paragraph: Behind the layers of ambiguity and dissonance the agoraphobic longs for meaningful and rewarding involvement in the outside world. This may mean that there were lapses and breaches in her early feminine training that make it difficult for her to accept the renunciations usually accepted by women
As she reads, she slowly becomes aware of a slight commotion outside. She lifts her head and listens, scowling, gradually discerning the soft purr of an engine idling in neutral, the occasional clank of metal against railings interspersed by snatches of conversation and the jarring blurt of music from a phone.
She flares her nostrils, irritated, and returns to her book again, turning back a few pages, her eye settling on a paragraph that has been underlined in soft, dark pencil by the books previous owner: Although she did succeed in masking it, underneath she was seething with rage at the injustice done to her. It was the emergence of these feelings that she feared in subsequent social situations, as well as the fear of more injury, that turned her into a recluse
The engine having idled temporarily now roars back into life, brakes squeal and then the engine idles once again to accompanying laughter.
The most dangerous place for women, she reads, is in their own homes. One cannot read a newspaper without realizing the dangers of the street, yet social scientists have known for years what the public resists: the greatest danger is from loved ones and others whom we know
More engine noise, high-pitched female giggling, then (and this is the deal-breaker) the sound of breaking glass. Sheila springs to her feet and charges outside. She belts across the back garden, jinks through a specially engineered tear in the fence, expertly sidesteps a hodge-podge of small graves and ends up hard against the black, wrought-iron fence that shelters the churchyard from the road beyond.