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Gene suddenly spots the needle, glinting in the half-light, and dives down to retrieve it.
‘I’m not saying it wasn’t significant,’ he murmurs, plucking the needle from the carpet’s worn pile and carefully passing it over, ‘I’m just trying to keep a lid on things, that’s all. It’s late …’
He inspects his watch and realizes – to his dismay – that it’s much earlier than he’d imagined. ‘You’ve had a long day,’ he quickly runs on, ‘and after your disastrous meeting with the bishop …’
‘He’s such a stickler for punctuality,’ she growls, returning to her stool. ‘I was over half an hour –’
‘Yes,’ Gene interrupts, ‘I know. I remember. I believe I’ve already apologized for that.’
At least twice, he thinks.
‘So they smoked the joint,’ she repeats, shoving some hair behind her ear, ‘this piddling, insignificant, little joint of yours – and then what?’
‘It wasn’t my joint,’ Gene says, testily.
‘Actually, no’ – she raises a peremptory hand to silence him – ‘let me guess …’ She taps a speculative, index finger against the side of her cheek. ‘They smoke the joint and then they think, Hmmn. What next? Why not steal the Hummer and go out for a quick joyride? Wouldn’t that be a hoot?!’
‘Stan didn’t get behind the wheel,’ Gene insists. ‘He was extremely lucid on that point. He said nothing would’ve persuaded him to get behind the wheel – nothing. Ransom drove. And while I know it wasn’t ideal, he does have extensive experience in handling vehicles of that size …’
‘Great!’ She laughs, clapping her hands together. ‘He has extensive experience! Well that’s wonderful, Gene! That’s just terrific!’
Gene struggles to maintain his air of infinite calm.
‘I’m not saying it’s all right, Sheila,’ he eventually murmurs, ‘I’m just …’
‘Then the dratted thing goes and breaks down on them – Surprise! Surprise!’
She glances up at him, almost vengefully.
‘They were literally two roads away when it happened. And it didn’t break down, it ran out of fuel. I purposely keep the tank –’
‘There’s definitely a leak,’ she snaps, exasperated, ‘I’ve been complaining about it for weeks. There’s been diesel seeping out of the damn thing all over the patio …’
‘Yes. You did mention the leak,’ Gene concedes, nodding, ‘but I think it’s probably brake fluid rather than –’
‘So the brakes are dodgy?!’
She throws up her hands.
‘I didn’t … No. The brakes are fine. They’re fine. So far as I am aware, the Hummer is in excellent, working order, which is why I made extra sure that there wasn’t a sufficient amount of fuel in the tank to –’
‘Because you didn’t trust him?’ she interrupts. ‘You suspected he might do something like this, but you didn’t feel it was appropriate to confide in me about it? Perhaps you thought I wouldn’t be interested in what my fourteen-year-old son is getting up to?’
She gazes over at him, wounded.
‘No. No. It wasn’t Stan I was worried about so much as …’
He makes an expansive gesture with his hand, meant to signify ‘the broader community – chiefly its youthful contingent’.
‘That bloody jeep is a magnet for trouble,’ she growls, un-mollified, ‘I said that from the outset.’
‘You did. Although on a slightly more positive note, if the tank hadn’t been –’
‘Don’t you dare,’ his wife snaps.
‘The point is –’
‘The point is,’ she rapidly supersedes him, ‘that I warned you when Marek initially approached us with the idea that the whole thing would end in tears. Marek’s schemes invariably do.’
‘And you were right.’ He shrugs. ‘I accept that. I accepted it at the time. But my hands were tied, Sheila. I just didn’t really feel I could refuse him without –’
‘Heaven forbid you should upset Marek!’ his wife harrumphs.
‘He was desperate. And I knew how much it would mean to Stan –’
‘So now, in celebration of that fact,’ his wife interrupts, ‘as an expression of this “enormous gratitude” he apparently feels, Stan’s taking the damn thing out on spontaneous joyrides, stoned out of his tiny, little mind!’
Silence.
‘Well he certainly paid a price for it,’ Gene eventually avows, ‘if that’s any kind of comfort.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘He was completely humiliated, Sheila.’
She sits down on her stool again, pops the needle back between her lips and grimly unwinds a length of cotton.
‘And he did at least have the foresight – the emotional maturity – to ring me, immediately, once the shit started hitting the fan.’
‘Charming turn of phrase!’ she commends him.
He shrugs.
‘So that girl … I forget her name …’
‘Who?’
‘Who?’
She delivers him a sharp look.
‘You mean Jen?’
‘Jen. That’s right. Jen. She said he was being sick everywhere?’
‘She did?’ Gene grimaces. ‘Well that’s a slight exaggeration …’
‘She said there was vomit everywhere. It was “wall-to-wall”, she said.’
Gene takes off his watch and his rings, and turns to place them on his bedside table. ‘Thanks, Jen,’ he mouths.
‘Perhaps it wasn’t just pot they smoked …’ Sheila muses, paranoid. ‘Are you sure they didn’t …?’
She removes the needle, horrified. ‘I mean it could’ve been anything! We plainly have no idea …’
‘It was definitely just pot.’ Gene refuses to be roused. He pulls off his jumper, then starts to unbutton his shirt. ‘A very powerful variety, that’s all. Some kind of – I don’t know – skunk …’
His wife moistens the tip of the length of cotton on her tongue, and then holds it – with the needle – up to the light. ‘I find it difficult to understand,’ she ruminates, darkly, half to herself, ‘how a supposedly mature and responsible adult, a public figure, a sportsman of all people …’
Gene draws a deep, preparatory breath.
‘For the record,’ he murmurs, his voice so quiet as to be virtually inaudible, ‘it wasn’t actually Ransom’s dope.’
Sheila continues to try and thread the needle.
‘It wasn’t Ransom’s dope,’ Gene repeats, mechanically, ‘it was Stan’s dope.’
The fine piece of khaki-coloured cotton finally enters the tiny hole. His wife releases the thread and pulls it through.
‘Pardon?’ she says, once the thread has been carefully secured and knotted.
Gene doesn’t respond. She gazes at him, blankly.
‘Stan’s dope?’ she eventually echoes, her voice wavering, affectingly. Gene nods.
‘But …?’
She springs to her feet and goes over to close the bedroom door (perhaps afraid that Mallory might overhear them, and be instantly corrupted by the news). ‘How? When? Where?’
Gene bites his lip.
‘School? College? Basketball? Tell me!’
‘Taizé,’ he eventually mutters.
‘What?!’
She gapes at him, amazed.
‘Taizé,’ Gene repeats. ‘He said he got it at Christian camp.’
‘Christian camp?’ His wife is stunned.
‘He said everyone was doing it there.’ Gene shrugs. ‘He said –’
‘And he smuggled it home?’ she interrupts. ‘I mean he actually smuggled it home on the Eurostar?’
‘Yup’ – Gene nods – ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How much?’
‘Not much. Just one joint. He said he was saving it for a special –’
‘Good Lord!’
She crosses herself, and then, ‘Look at me!’ she exclaims, mortified. ‘I’m crossing myself!’
‘The point is –’
‘I mean after everything we’ve taught him! After everything you’ve been through. And Mallory! After everything …!’
‘I know.’ Gene takes a couple of steps towards her. ‘I’m as shattered by this as you are. But if it’s any kind of compensation, I honestly think he learned a valuable lesson today, and he’s not going to be rushing off to do it again any time soon.’
‘You already said that.’
She takes a couple of steps away from him. ‘And it isn’t,’ she adds, flatly, almost as an afterthought, ‘it isn’t “okay”, I mean.’
Gene stares at her, morosely, and then returns to the bed. He removes his shirt. He is silently cursing Jen in his head. Sheila has sat back down and is picking up the jacket.
‘Why did you say she was here again?’ she asks (as though reading his thoughts). ‘I’m still a little confused about that part.’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Gene shrugs, and then, ‘D’you need more light?’
He leans over to the lamp on his bedside table and turns it on. As the extra light fills the room, she glances over at him, irritably, then her eyes widen as they settle on a strange, blue-red bruise on his shoulder.
‘When she found out that Ransom had stayed here overnight …’
‘Found out?’ Sheila echoes, distractedly. ‘How did she find out?’
‘She rang me at work.’
‘She has your mobile number?’
His wife looks mildly surprised.
‘She got it off one of the receptionists at the Thistle.’
He sits down on the bed.
‘I see.’ Sheila nods. She seems to find this answer satisfactory.
‘When she found out he’d stayed here overnight, she demanded our home phone number.’
‘And you gave it to her?’
His wife’s eyes are drawn back to the bruise again as he reaches under his pillow and withdraws a vest and some pyjama bottoms.
‘She caught me off guard. I was in the middle of this complicated scenario at work, collecting a little girl from her childminder as a favour to a client. It was …’ He scowls. ‘It was complicated,’ he repeats. ‘The child had been jumping on a trampoline without any underwear, and the neighbour – the childminder – asked me to have a quiet word with the mother – or the aunt …’
