LITMIR.BIZ

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that’s hardly –’

      ‘Save it!’ Noel snaps.

      ‘Here.’ Jen hands Ransom his phone back, then turns to Noel. ‘I’m about to close the bar, so if you’re wanting a snack or a drink …’

      She pauses, mid-sentence, peering up into his face, quizzically. ‘I recognize you. We met before somewhere …’

      Noel ignores her. His eyes remain locked on the golfer’s.

      ‘Pizza Hut!’ Jen exclaims. ‘Didn’t you temp there for a while on the delivery truck?’

      ‘Two beers.’ Ransom valiantly attempts to dispatch her.

      ‘Or … Hang on a sec … Weren’t you the guy roadying for that crappy DJ at Amigos last Thursday when the big fight broke out with those lippy, Sikh kids and you went and got my friend Sinead her bag back?’

      ‘What’s wrong with you people?’ Noel hisses, his face suddenly reddening. ‘I don’t want a stupid drink and I don’t want a stupid chat, all I want is to find out why the hell it was you called me here!’

      He glowers down at the golfer, his fists clenching and unclenching. ‘So for the last fucking time –’

      ‘I’m really sorry, Noel,’ Ransom interrupts him, ‘but there’s been some kind of a mix-up. I honestly thought you organized this meeting tonight.’

      Noel looks astonished, then livid.

      ‘WHAT IS THIS?!’ he yells, finally losing his rag. ‘Are you DEAF ?! Are you STUPID?! Do we need a fucking INTERPRETER here?’

      ‘I got a call from Esther, my PR, like I said –’

      Before Ransom can complete his sentence Noel has grabbed the empty beer bottle on the bar top and has slammed it, violently, against the edge of the counter. Jen shies away as shards of glass cascade through the air. Ransom doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. He barely even blinks.

      ‘You want drama?!’ Noel menaces the golfer with the bottle’s jagged edge. ‘A little excitement?! Is that the deal?!’

      Ransom slowly shakes his head.

      ‘Or how about this?’ Noel calmly pushes the bottle against his own throat. ‘Is this more like it? Is this the kind of thing you had in mind, eh?’

      ‘Fabulous tattoo,’ Jen mutters, inspecting Noel’s forearm as she straightens up and shakes out her hair. ‘What is it? A swan? A goose?’

      Noel ignores her.

      ‘I swear on my life I didn’t set this thing up,’ Ransom persists. ‘I swear on my daughter’s life –’

      ‘Fuck off !’ Noel snaps, stepping back, jabbing harder. A small rivulet of blood begins trickling down his neck.

      ‘Or a big duck,’ Jen speculates. ‘A big, ugly old duck …’

      As she speaks Jen sees the Japanese woman from the front desk entering the bar and peering around her. Jen makes a small gesture with her hand to warn her off. The woman stands her ground. Jen repeats the gesture.

      ‘This is crazy, Noel,’ Ransom is murmuring. ‘I’m sure if we just …’

      ‘A really big, ugly, old duck,’ Jen repeats. ‘A really nasty, mean old duck. Like a … a …’

      She struggles to think of a specific breed of duck. ‘… a Muscovy or a …’

      Noel’s eyes flit towards her.

      ‘It’s not a fucking duck,’ he growls, insulted.

      ‘Sorry?’

      Jen takes a small step forward.

      ‘It’s not a duck,’ he hisses, lifting the arm, ‘it’s a snake, you fucking bubble-head.’

      ‘Really?’ Jen draws in still closer, taking hold of the arm and perusing it at her leisure. ‘A snake you say? Lemme just … Oh … yeah … yeah! Look at that! I can see all the scales now. The detailing’s incredible!’

      Noel says nothing.

      ‘So what kind of a snake?’ Jen persists. ‘Is it indigenous or tropical?’

      Noel ignores her. He’s focusing in on the golfer again.

      ‘An asp?’ Jen suggests.

      Still nothing.

      ‘A viper?’

      ‘It’s a fucking adder.’

      On ‘adder’ Noel pushes the bottle even harder into his throat.

      ‘Oh God, yes,’ Jen exclaims, ‘of course it is. An adder. I can see that now. If you look really closely you can make out the intricate diamond design on the …’

      Behind them – and over the continuing commotion from beyond the window – another conversation suddenly becomes audible.

      ‘Ricker,’ a woman is saying, ‘Mr Ricker.’

      ‘Did you enquire at the front desk?’

      (Gene’s voice, getting louder.)

      ‘I went to desk,’ the woman replies, in halting English, ‘but there is nobody …’

      ‘Did you ring the bell?’

      ‘She say he will meet in bar. Mr Ricker.’

      ‘Well, the bar’s almost shut now. It’s very late …’

      (They enter the bar.)

      ‘I know. Yes. My flight also late. My plane also late.’

      ‘It’s been pretty much empty since …’

      Gene slams to a halt as he apprehends the scene.

      ‘What on earth’s happened to the window?’ he demands, indignant.

      ‘If you don’t mind’ – Jen raises a peremptory hand – ‘we’re actually just in the middle of something here …’

      Gene focuses in on Noel, who currently has his back to them (and Ransom, who’s all but obscured by Noel). He starts to look a little wary.

      ‘Mr Ricker?’

      The Japanese woman steps forward. Noel half turns his head.

      ‘Is everything all right?’ Gene asks.

      ‘Everything’s fine,’ Jen says, nodding emphatically.

      ‘No problem,’ Ransom echoes, shifting into view and smiling, jovially.

      Noel slowly lowers the bottle from his throat.

      ‘What’s happened to your cheek?’ Gene wonders.

      (There is blood on Ransom’s cheek where a tiny splinter of glass from the beer bottle has lightly nicked his skin.) Ransom lifts a hand to the cheek and pats at it, cautiously. ‘It’s fine.’ He winces. ‘It’s nothing.’

      As Ransom speaks, Noel gently places the broken bottle on to the bar and then casually lifts his shirt to show Jen his chest. His chest is painfully emaciated but exquisitely decorated. The tail of the adder curls over his shoulder and finishes – in a neat twirl – around his nipple. All the remaining skin on his belly, waist and diaphragm has been intricately inked into a crazily lifelike, rough, wicker corset.

      ‘Oh God!’ Jen gasps, suddenly remembering. ‘Wickers!’

      Noel grins.

      ‘But of course – my dad coached you in five-a-side for years …’

      She squints at the tattoo work, amazed, as bright trickles of blood drip down on to the design.

      ‘Mr Ricker?’ The Japanese woman takes another cautious step forward.

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