Huh?
I mean all the crazy stuff about your plaits
Jen twirls her two ponytails at him, teasingly.
My ? Oh. Yeah Ransom winces, pained.
EVERYBODY REMEMBERS THE PLAITS! Jen bellows (in a surprisingly passable northern accent). THE PLAITS ARE BLOOMIN LEGENDARY!
Hah. Ransom smiles weakly as he reaches for the pocket containing his cigarettes, but his hand is shaking so violently that he quickly withdraws it again.
I was really getting into character at that point, he mutters.
Well you deserved a bloody BAFTA! Jen heartily commends him. Not that those things are worth diddly-squat, quite frankly, she adds.
I did a guest appearance on Neighbours once, Ransom recalls, almost poignantly, and the director said I put in one of the most gutsy performances shed ever
I MODELLED IN PARIS FOR JEAN PAUL GAULTIER!
Jen strikes a gruesome array of camp poses in rapid succession.
Ransom grimaces. A tiny pulse starts to throb in his lower cheek. His phone beeps.
So will we let him in on the whole thing when he eventually gets back? he wonders, glancing down at his phone and casually scanning through his messages.
So will we let him in on the whole thing when he eventually gets back? he wonders, glancing down at his phone and casually scanning through his messages.
Who?
Jen coldly inspects Ransoms hairline as she speaks (its slightly receding), and the way his golfers tan kicks in halfway down his forehead.
Who? Ransom snorts, looking up from his phone and focusing in on Jens lips. Your idiot barman, who else?
I keep telling you Jens lips tighten Genes not an idiot. Hes really wise, really funny, really emotionally intelligent
Emotionally intelligent? Ransom butts in, sniggering. Next youll be calling him one of the good guys!
Jen lets this pass.
Emotionally intelligent?! Ransom repeats, a single brow raised, tauntingly.
He runs marathons, Jen attempts to elaborate, evidently discomforted.
Marathons?! Ransom gasps. No! Seriously?!
Sponsored marathons, Jen snaps. He organizes them.
Sponsored marathons? Ransom clutches on to the counter, for support.
And triathalons.
And triathalons?! Wow-wee!
Ransom swoons across the bar top, overwhelmed.
Last year he raised almost fifteen thousand
I once raised double that amount in a single afternoon, Ransom interrupts her, straightening up, for a land-mine charity. Just after Diana died, it was. My rookie year. I had this little, pre-match wager with Jim Furyks caddie
Thats very impressive, Jen concedes, but have you ever been diagnosed with terminal cancer?
Sorry?
Ransoms temporarily thrown off his stride.
Cancer. Genes had it, almost constantly, ever since he was a kid. In pretty much every region of his body. Twice it was pronounced terminal. But hes fought it and hes beaten it eight or nine times. Hes a miracle of science. In fact he was awarded an OBE or a CBE or something, she adds, nonchalantly, for his voluntary educational work in local schools and colleges.
Ransom receives this mass of information with a completely blank expression.
And he does all these fundraising activities for armed forces charities, Jen persists (with a redoubled enthusiasm). His grandad was a war veteran. Gene always dreamed of becoming a soldier himself, but his health got in the way of it. His parents were both Carneys: his dad worked as a mechanic and his mum was a palm-reader. She came from a long, long line of palmists. Her great-uncle was Cheiro
She glances at Ransom for some visible sign of recognition. Hes really famous. She shrugs (having received none). Anyhow, Genes family toured all over Europe with loads of the big fairs, but when Gene started getting sick, he couldnt stay on the road. So they dumped him here, in Luton, with his paternal grandparents. His dads dad suffered from severe shell-shock. He was a lovely guy, heavily decorated amazing brass player. He actually lived on the same street as my mum: Havelock Rise, near the Peoples Park. All the local kids were scared of him. Hed be sitting quietly on a bench one minute, then the next hed just go nuts. Start screaming and yelling
Hang on a second Ransoms overwhelmed his mother was a famous ?
No, Jen tuts, his mothers great-uncle was Cheiro. He was the really famous one wrote loads of bestselling books and stuff. Although his mother was pretty talented herself, by all accounts, and so was Gene. Had a real gift for it, apparently. Like I said, he toured with the family before he got sick. His sister did this amazing contortionist act
She pauses to adjust a false eyelash, blinking a couple of times, experimentally. And another thing, she adds (unwittingly knocking the fleck of lint from her nostril with her cuff), about three or four years ago, just when he was really starting to turn things around, his sister and her husband were involved in this awful car crash. They were both killed. Gene was sitting in the back with his stepson and their daughter. His stepson was unharmed. Genes legs were completely smashed up. Theyre held together by these massive metal pins now, but he still ran the London Marathon last year in under three hours She pauses, thoughtfully. Oh yeah, and they adopted his niece Mallory which is French for unlucky, and then his wife became a hardcore Christian a Pentecostal minister She pauses again, frowning. Or I forget is she with the C of E?
Ransoms gawping at her, incredulous.
Psycho, huh? She chuckles. Shes about nine years old Mallory but the whole lower half of her face was totally destroyed in the crash. Her teeth are a disaster. Two-thirds of her tongue was bitten off. Her jaws been completely rebuilt. She still cant eat solids. Gene works three jobs to try and raise enough cash to afford private dental and cosmetic surgery for her in America. Theyve got the worlds most advanced specialists in the field in California brilliant cosmetic dentists and what-not. So he works all the hours reading peoples electricity meters, collecting charity boxes and running the mens toilets in the Arndale Hi. Jen glances over Ransoms shoulder. Can I help you with something, there?
Ransom turns slightly dazed to see a very tall, very lean young man standing directly behind him. The man is dripping with sweat and his chest is heaving, as if hes been running.
Noel! Ransom exclaims, clambering to his feet.
Youre a real piece of work, Ransom, Noel hisses, shoving him straight back down again. Anyone ever tell you that?
* * *
Valentine still gasping for breath strikes a match and crouches down to light a candle and a bright cone of incense. Her hand is shaking so violently that shes obliged to strike a second match, then a third. Once the candle and cone are finally lit, she places them on to a small, battered yellow shrine and sits, cross-legged, in front of it.
Calm down, you idiot! she chides herself, then closes her eyes and gently starts to rock. Five seconds later, her eyes fly open and the rocking stops. No! Dont calm down! she growls. Dont! Be angry! Feel something for once in your miserable life!
She starts rocking again, more violently, now.
I hate her! she confides to a small, primitive portrait of the goddess Kali which rests, in pride of place, at the centre of the shrine. Kali is a terrifying, cartoon-like figure with a pitch-black face and wild, coarse, flying hair. She stands astride the prostrate body of a man (her husband, the god Shiva, whom shes accidentally slain in an orgy of bloodlust) surrounded by mounds of corpses (her victims), wearing a necklace of baby heads while screaming, demonically.
Valentine stops rocking. Her eyes shift off, guiltily, to the left. On a nearby bookshelf is a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mary stands there, uncontentiously, smiling, benignly, in her azure-blue cloak, gently cosseting a prim, bleeding heart between her two, soft, white hands.
Nope. Not angry, Valentine murmurs, thats stupid counter-productive. Be calm. Calm. Renunciation. Equanimity. Focus. Renunciation. Equanimity Urgh! She shakes her head, frustratedly. Dont give in to her! Why do you always give in to her? Why?
Her eyes well up with tears.
Stop crying, you pathetic fool! she hisses.
Her hand moves to her throat. No! She wrenches the hand away again. Ignore the cruel voice. Ignore it! Say whatever you want! Feel whatever you like!
She pauses, frowning.
What am I feeling?
She looks panicked and quickly hones in on the image of Kali. After a couple of seconds she raises her eyes to the ceiling, focusing intently, twisting her hands together on her lap.
Can mercy be found in the heart of her who was born of stone? she recites, haltingly.
Were she not merciless, would she kick the breast of her Lord?
She lowers her eyes, shakes her head, forlornly, and then focuses in on the picture again.
Men call you merciful, she whispers, awed, but there is no mercy in you, Mother.
She bites her lower lip, grimacing. You have cut off the heads of the children of others, and these you wear as garlands around your neck
She reaches out and picks up a long string of sandalwood beads, looking almost afraid. It matters not how much I call you Mother, Mother, she concludes, shrugging. You hear me but you will not listen.
Valentine raises the beads to her lips and kisses them, then closes her eyes again.
Om krimkalyai nama, she intones, hardly audible.
Om kapalnaye Namah. Her voice grows louder.
Om hrim shrim krim
Parameshvari kalike svaha!
She repeats this phrase in a flat monotone, and each time she repeats it she moves one bead on the necklace forward with her middle finger. As she incants, a small child can be seen, through the open door into the hallway, gradually making her way down the stairs. When she reaches the bottom stair, she pushes open the gate and toddles through into the living room. She stands and watches Valentine for a while, then takes off her nightdress, drops it on to the floor and wanders, naked, around the room, touching various objects with her hand. She finally sits down (with a bump) on the rug directly behind Valentine and gazes at her, fascinated, rocking along in time.
Valentine eventually stops chanting. Approximately ten or so minutes have now passed. She slowly opens her eyes. She stares at the picture of Kali again, raptly, pulling her face in close to it.
Monster! she murmurs, smiling.
She seems calmer.
Wheres Daddy? a little voice suddenly demands.