LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘He was a little subdued,’ Gene confirms.

      ‘I could happily strangle him!’

      She stares up at the light-fitment, her eyes filling with tears.

      ‘I told him you’d be disappointed,’ Gene tries to reassure her. ‘I said, “She won’t be angry, Stan, she’ll just be really disappointed – really disappointed.” He was devastated. He actually began to sob when I said that.’

      Silence.

      ‘Fine.’

      She blinks her own tears back. ‘So they smoked a huge quantity of pot, and then what?’

      On ‘then’ (possibly pronounced more forcefully than she’d intended) she inadvertently spits the needle out on to the carpet.

      ‘Just one joint,’ Gene corrects her, ‘not “a huge amount”.’

      ‘Oh. Okay. Just one joint,’ she echoes, sarcastically, ‘just one, measly, insignificant little joint.’

      She’s down on her knees now, searching for the needle.

      ‘I didn’t …’ Gene starts off.

      ‘I mean, good gracious!’ She rolls her eyes, facetiously. ‘What on earth am I getting myself so worked up about?!’

      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

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