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 …’
He glances over at his wife as he speaks. She is staring at him, almost speculatively. He struggles to decipher the exact nature of her look.
‘It was this ridiculously loaded situation,’ he continues, his confidence starting to flag slightly, ‘a stupid situation, just really embarrassing, and then Jen happens to ring up in the middle of it all.’ He grimaces. ‘I just gave her the number to get rid of her. She probably tried it a few times, got no answer, so decided to head over to the house on the off-chance –’
‘She has our address.’
This is a statement, not a question, and Sheila’s voice sounds disturbingly matter-of-fact.
‘Well she knows you’re the rector of the church.’ Gene shrugs. ‘It probably didn’t take much native ingenuity to work it out.’
Gene starts to take his trousers off.
‘You have a huge bruise on your back,’ his wife announces.
‘Pardon?’
He peers over at her, frowning.
‘A huge bruise.’
‘Do I?’
Gene puts a clumsy hand to his back.
‘Higher. On the shoulder. It’s pretty bad, actually.’
Gene tries to peer over at it.
‘D’you have any idea how you might’ve done that?’
‘Uh … No.’ Gene scowls. ‘Not really.’
Sheila gently places down the jacket. She suddenly looks pale, almost ill.
‘I need to clear my head,’ she announces, standing up.
‘Why? Where are you going?’ Gene asks, confused (still feeling around, aimlessly, for the bruise).
She walks to the door, her voice so low when she finally answers him as to be rendered virtually inaudible.
‘To pray,’ she murmurs, huskily, ‘that’s all.’
A flat-footed, heavily pregnant Jamaican woman (a veritable hormonal maelstrom, with slightly receding hair, a bad weave, gappy teeth and tired, bloodshot eyes) stands at Ransom’s shoulder as he completes his shave in a large, beautifully appointed hotel bathroom.
‘Remember what Jimmie always use to say, eh, Stu?’
She tenderly plucks a pale flake of dandruff from the shoulder of his dark grey bathrobe.
No response.
Ransom carefully glides the razor from his chin to his sideburn.
‘Jimmie always say: “Good