‘What is that out there?’ he demands, rising slightly. ‘A truck of some kind? A jeep?’
‘But wouldn’t that just be wrong?’ Stan interrupts, refusing to be diverted.
Ransom flinches at the word ‘wrong’. He abhors moral imperatives. The word ‘wrong’ hangs in the air between them, buzzing, self-righteously, like an angry black hornet.
‘Absolutely,’ Ransom finally concedes, smiling brightly as he sits back down again, ‘of course it would be wrong. Of course it would be. I was just thinking out loud – just trying the idea on for size – brainstorming, if you like … Although …’ He pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Although in my experience, which is – as I’m sure you can imagine – pretty extensive …’ (He pauses again, portentously.) ‘Golf is principally a game of the mind, a game of strategy, after all … I’ve generally found that actually telling people about something like this – a serious problem or a terrible catastrophe – confronting them with it, unhelpfully, at an inappropriate moment, can often end up generating more hurt and distress than simply letting the whole thing unfold in a more gradual, a more natural, a more … uh … how to put this? A more organic way.’
‘But if we just stick the book back on to the shelf again and say nothing,’ Stan interrupts, scowling, ‘what happens when they do eventually find out? Won’t I just cop all the flack for something that wasn’t even my fault?’
‘You?’ Ransom appears stunned by this humble teenager’s fundamental grasp of basic, deductive logic. ‘But why on earth would they blame you? That’s totally illogical! Like you say, it wasn’t your fault …’ He pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Although if you hadn’t come charging into the room, at the worst possible moment, like a bull in a bloody china shop …’
As Ransom speaks he darts a malevolent look towards his phone (where it currently sits, moistly – but still disturbingly functional – on the countertop).
‘Well who else are they going to blame?’ Stan snorts.
‘They might not blame anyone!’ Ransom declaims, indignant. ‘They might not even notice anything’s wrong. They might just put the staining down to a little natural wear and tear, or think that there’s a touch of damp behind the bookshelf, or …’ He pauses. ‘Or an infestation of silverfish. It’s a common enough problem, uh …’
He peers at Stan, enquiringly. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Stanislav,’ Stan enlightens him.
‘Polish?’
Stan nods. ‘On my dad’s side.’
‘Really? Gene’s a Pole?’ Ransom’s surprised.
‘Not Gene. I mean my real dad. Gene’s my stepdad.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Ransom accepts this information, impassively. ‘Well, for all we know, Stanislav,’ (he promptly returns to the issue at hand), ‘it’s entirely possible that nobody will get around to picking up this book and looking inside it for weeks – months – years, even. In fact it’s not beyond reason that we might actually be the last two people on the planet ever to handle this thing.’
He holds up the palmistry book with a suitably portentous expression.
‘I seriously doubt that,’ Stan quickly (and firmly) debunks his theory. ‘It’s a precious, family heirloom, not just some crummy, old book that nobody cares about.’
‘But that’s the very nature of an heirloom, don’t you see?’ Ransom exclaims, frustrated. ‘They’re not especially important – not in themselves. They’re just old things from the past that “represent” stuff …’ – he rolls his eyes, boredly – ‘stuff about, urgh … I dunno … ideas and memories and feelings and shit, but they don’t actually mean anything. They’re not actually worth anything …’
‘Well you were interested enough to take a look at it,’ Stan mutters.
‘This house could suddenly go up in flames!’ Ransom leaps to his feet, dramatically. ‘Tonight! Next weekend! An electrical fault! It could be razed to the ground! Then all this worrying and heart-searching will’ve been a complete waste of bloody energy.’
Stan indicates, mutely, to a small, flashing smoke alarm which is situated on the ceiling directly above their heads.
‘A flood, then,’ Ransom improvises, irritated. ‘A flash-flood – and you barely have time to evacuate the place …’
‘In Luton?!’ Stan snorts.
‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘No big rivers.’
‘None at all?’
‘The Lee, but that hardly counts.’
‘No canals? No lakes?’
Stan gives this some thought. ‘I suppose there’s always the lake over in Wardown Park, but that’s –’
‘A burst water main! Hah! ’ Ransom slaps the worktop, victorious. ‘I rest my case!’
‘These are Mallory’s things, anyway,’ Stan persists (instinctively shielding the vulnerable clover from Ransom’s violent show of exuberance). ‘They’re her dead mum’s things. They belonged to her dead mother,’ he reiterates (just in case Ransom was in any, remaining doubt about the objects’ sacred provenance). ‘Mallory’s the one you’ve got to be seriously worried about here.’
‘Mallory’s just a kid!’ Ransom swiftly pooh-poohs him. ‘She probably won’t even notice …’
‘Oh really?!’ Stan guffaws. ‘You obviously don’t know Mallory very well. Mallory’s officially the world’s most uptight kid. She’s a neat-freak – a lunatic. She pretty much has a heart attack if she steps in a puddle on her way to school. Top of her Christmas list last year was a shoe store and a lint roller.’
‘Well I bet Mallory has loads of knick-knacks knocking about the place from when her mum was still alive,’ Ransom contends.
‘There was her mum’s old teddy bear …’ Stan willingly concedes.
‘A teddy bear!’ Ransom throws up his hands. ‘Perfect! What better memento of a loved one than a teddy bear?’
‘… but it was destroyed by moths,’ Stan finishes off.
‘Oh.’
‘And there was her mum’s gold, heart-shaped locket with a tuft of her dad’s hair hidden inside …’
‘Bingo!’ Ransom snaps his fingers. ‘Top that! Precious, wearable and sentimental.’
‘… but it was stolen from her locker at the swimming pool last year.’
A lengthy silence follows in which Ransom stares, inscrutably, into the middle distance (pulling rhythmically – and not a little repulsively – at the hair under his armpit), until, ‘So what the heck is that thing?’ he finally demands, pointing. ‘A jeep, a van, a truck …?’
‘Cheiro,’ Gene says, ‘was this well-known –’
‘Palm-reader,’ she interrupts, ‘and a clairvoyant. Yeah. I know all about him.’
Valentine holds out her hand. ‘Can I take a proper look?’
Gene removes the ring from his little finger and passes it over. They are standing in the hallway together.
‘Although the story’s probably just apocryphal.’ He shrugs, noticing how her make-up is perfect now (the bright, red lipstick no longer smudged at one corner but adhering – neatly and faithfully – to the smooth line of her lips).
‘Apocry-what?’ She grins up at him.
‘Apocryphal.