Reversed Forecast

by Nicola Barker

  Brera could hear noises on the stairs. Seconds later, two ambulancemen arrived carrying a stretcher. One of them had a bag and a syringe. Brera lifted herself. ‘She’s having an asthma attack but she won’t leave the building. She’s …’

  No words for it. What was she?

  The ambulanceman with the syringe said, ‘Take her in and lay her down on a sofa.’

  Brera scrambled up and grabbed hold of Sylvia’s arms. Steven held her legs, and between them they carried her back to the sofa and dropped her on to it. Her body felt heavy, a dead weight. Her face was still purple, her lips were white and her teeth were chattering.

  The ambulanceman filled his syringe, pulled up her sleeve, stuck it into her arm and emptied it. He then refilled the syringe and did the same thing again. ‘What set this off? Some kind of allergy?’

  Brera nodded.

  ‘She should be hospitalized but I don’t want to risk upsetting her any further,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe you could sedate her?’

  ‘Too risky on top of the stuff I’ve just given her.’

  Sylvia was moving her head from side to side. ‘Just … bloody … leave me.’

  He laughed. ‘She can talk, but she can’t breathe.’ He peered into her face. ‘How do you feel? Better yet?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘How about we take you to hospital now? You’ll be fine there.’

  Sylvia’s body, which had begun to relax, stiffened up again.

  He opened his bag and took out an inhaler. He showed it to Brera. ‘How much of this stuff has she had?’

  ‘I don’t know. A lot. But it didn’t seem like she was breathing it in.’

  ‘This close environment’s setting her off. The weather especially. We have a nebulizer in the ambulance. It’ll have to do her for the time being.’

  Brera nodded. ‘She had one before. If I keep her still for a few days and make her stay quiet …’

  She leaned over the back of the sofa and spoke to Sylvia directly. ‘You’ll do as I say or I’ll drag you to the hospital myself.’

  Sylvia ignored her. The ambulanceman had refilled his syringe. He showed it to her. ‘How are you feeling? Better? Do you want any more of this?’

  She scowled up at him. Her face was still pale but less blotchy. Brera moved towards him, keen to help, feeling woefully inadequate for her earlier lack of competence. ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Make yourself a cup of tea.’

  She nodded, chastened.

  Steven said, ‘I’ll make the tea. I know where the kitchen is.’

  Brera stared at Steven, looked at him as if she had only just realized that he was there, that it was him. She felt as if everyone was trying to make her feel useless, as though, in some way, this entire situation was her responsibility; Sylvia - her indomitable will, her obstinacy - had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

  The ambulanceman felt Sylvia’s pulse. ‘Her heart’s almost back to normal. She’ll wheeze badly for a few days. She’ll probably be very weak.’

  He looked over at Brera. ‘How old is she? Thirteen? Fourteen?’

  ‘Nineteen. She just looks younger.’

  ‘You’ll have to be firm with her.’

  She nodded, extremely resentful but incapable of expressing it. She wanted them all to go, then she would slap her, she could strangle her.

  Of course she knew that she would do neither of these things. A cool bath and a packet of biscuits, she decided. They would have to suffice.

  After carrying up the nebulizer, they set about rearranging the living-room furniture, pushing Sylvia, on the sofa, up against a wall so that the nebulizer could be placed next to a socket. As they worked a small congregation of birds accumulated on the window-sill. The door to the roof was still open and letting a cool breeze into the room; two or three birds were in the doorway. Brera, hawk-eyed, noticed them. She slammed the door and drew the curtains.

  It was dark now. Sylvia turned her head and muttered something.

  Brera moved closer, placing her ear next to Sylvia’s lips. ‘What?’

  ‘Open the curtains.’

  She frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Open the bloody curtains!’

  Brera smiled. ‘Open them yourself.’

  Sylvia tried to move but she was too weak. She tried to speak again, but the ambulanceman gently placed the nebulizer mask across her nose and mouth. She stared at him, livid. What was he doing? He had gagged her. She closed her eyes. If she’d had the energy, she would have stopped breathing just to irritate him.

  Later, after they’d gone, Brera sat in the kitchen with Steven and tried to explain. But Steven kept interjecting, to comment, to express sympathy and amazement.

  When he was seventeen Steven had read the book Sybil, about a girl who’d had fourteen personalities. He’d also seen the film starring Sally Field. He said, ‘This is twice as interesting as Sybil. You should write a story about it. Sell it.’

  Brera frowned. ‘This isn’t like that. It isn’t even very interesting. Only stupid. Stupid and sad.’

  Steven was surprised by the ferocity in her voice. He said, ‘Of course it’s sad. I thought she was going to die back then. Just die as I stood there, holding her.’

  Brera smiled at him, gently, wishing she owned a small firearm.

  In the morning, bright and early, Ruby had taken the dog out for a long walk, down through Leicester Square, to the Embankment and along the river. This was now almost a habit, she decided, was already becoming one: last night, this morning. Thinking, walking. Couldn’t be bad.

  When she arrived back at the flat, Vincent was still stretched out on the sofa, half-asleep. She pulled open the curtains. He groaned. ‘How early is it?’

  She consulted her watch. ‘Nine-forty-five. I’m working ten till six.’

  He sat up. Ruby noticed that he was wearing a shirt. He was slightly chubby. His stomach protruded and his navel stuck out too, like a white cherry on an iced cup-cake.

  ‘Why tell me that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where you’re going to be and how long.’

  He yawned, not really expecting an answer.

  She picked up a large, aluminium pan from the draining-board, rinsed it out and then threw some Weetabix, water and milk into it. This mixture she mashed up with a fork and then put down on the floor for the dog.

  ‘Will you eat anything?’ he asked, meaning by this that he would, that he wanted some coffee.

  ‘I bought a cup of tea earlier.’

  ‘You haven’t chucked me out yet,’ he said, secretly pleased, ‘because you need me to stay.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  She watched the dog eating. She said, ‘I don’t want you feeding her or losing her. I’ll put her muzzle on when she’s finished her breakfast.’

  He lay back down again, stretched out, pulled up his blanket. He debated whether he minded being indispensable, and decided that he didn’t mind, on this particular occasion.

  ‘You will be careful?’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘There’s dark glasses and a baseball hat in the bedroom. Unisex. In case you feel self-conscious.’ How would he look without that mess on his face? She smiled to herself. Less colourful.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Don’t step on her paws. I haven’t paid for them yet.’

  ‘So long as she doesn’t step on mine.’

  ‘I’ve paid for yours.’

  ‘Ha!’

  He waved at her. She completed her chores, patted the dog and left some spare keys in a prominent position.

  When she’d gone, Vincent stared over the top of the sofa at Buttercup, who was sauntering around the kitchen area, sniffing the tiles through her muzzle. He whistled to her. She popped her head around the edge of the units and stared at him, obliging but sullen. He whistled again. She sat down.

  He threw off his blankets and went into the bathroom for a pee. The dog followed him and watched from the doorway. Vincent flushe
d the toilet and then rinsed his face and hands in the sink. He stared at his wounds in the mirror and then debated whether to use Ruby’s toothbrush, but didn’t. Instead he ate some toothpaste, swallowed the foam and stepped over Buttercup, who was now lounging on her side, blocking the bathroom doorway.

  He strolled into Ruby’s bedroom and looked around for the hat and glasses she had mentioned. Eventually he found them, stuck on top of her wardrobe. He put them on and wandered into the living-room. The dog was now lying on the sofa.

  He considered whether it was appropriate to play-wrestle with a greyhound. She seemed rather large. Just as he was forming an opinion on this issue the telephone rang. He answered it. ‘Yes?’

  There was a pause. It was Steven.

  ‘This is Ruby’s flat,’ Vincent said smartly, ‘but she’s not here.’ As he spoke, he picked up the packet of Weetabix, took one out and ate it dry.

  ‘She’s at work?’

  Vincent’s mouth was full. There was a short pause and then Steven said, ‘I met you, didn’t I? The other night.’

  Vincent couldn’t remember. Dreamworld, he thought, Dreamland.

  ‘Will you just tell her that it’s off tomorrow. There’s been a hitch, so it’s off.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You will tell her?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  He chewed on the cereal, his mouth a cement-mixer, turning, churning, his brain, already, he decided, a cool block of concrete.

  Steven hung up. He turned and stared over at Sylvia, who was lying on the couch, almost obscured by darkness, wheezing.

  Eventually he said, ‘I’m Steven, by the way, if you can hear me.’

  Sylvia said nothing. She felt absolutely miserable. She just kept thinking, They all patronize me. Why won’t they leave me? I wish I was strong enough to chuck a chair at this fool. Even a pillow, but a pillow isn’t hard enough. I couldn’t aim properly anyway. It’s too dark. And she felt so tired.

  Connor had agreed to rehearse without the use of amplifiers. Sam and Sarah were sitting in the kitchen discussing Sarah’s work.

  Sarah was shouting above the noise, ‘Men have always linked the female sex with a kind of irrationality. Hysteria is perceived as something entirely feminine. Doctors used to think that when a woman became hysterical her womb rose into her throat and became jammed there. Men get hysterical all the time but we just don’t use the same words to describe their anger. Of course it’s exactly the same anger. Sensitivity, hypersensitivity, mysticism, magic. These are all things that marginalize us. But women pretend to enjoy the margins. It’s a kind of control through a lack of control, if you see what I mean. We’re responsible for our own contradictions.’

  In the next room, Connor started to drum in earnest, then to sing. Sam stuck a finger in each ear. Sarah followed suit. They grinned at each other, dumbly.

  Ruby was sitting on the sofa watching This is Your Life and waiting impatiently for Vincent to return with the dog. She’d been rattling around in the flat for an hour or so, aimless, like a pea in a tin can. She was trying not to worry over his whereabouts, and took reassurance from the fact that his shirt was still on the floor. It smelled - she noticed when she sniffed it - of sweat and vomit.

  When he let himself in she said, ‘I tried to phone you earlier this morning but you’d gone already.’

  This sounded like an accusation, but he didn’t let it bother him. He felt a general sense of well-being, was pleased, in fact, to see Ruby, although he was uncertain why. He smiled at her. ‘I’ve been exercising this dog all day. I haven’t rested for a single minute.’

  There was something speculative and unfinished about his speech. She said, ‘I only asked you to look after her,’ and made a kissing noise at the dog, patting her lap to encourage her over. Buttercup strolled across and sat down next to Ruby, sniffing at her legs through the muzzle. She had a strangely replete air about her.

  ‘You didn’t feed her, did you?’

  Vincent shook his head, taking a rucksack off his shoulder and slinging it on the floor. ‘She chewed a cigarette butt, only she didn’t swallow it.’

  ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  He ignored her. ‘What’ll you feed her tonight?’

  Ruby stroked the dog between her ears. ‘She should be eating a special high-fibre diet. Stuff called Beta-Racer. I couldn’t find any, though, so I got her some normal dog food instead.’

  Vincent sat down on the sofa next to her. She stared at his profile. ‘Your bruises are still bad.’

  He nodded and then stretched out his legs and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He pulled out a handful of notes. ‘Here.’

  She took the notes and counted them: Two tens and four twenties. ‘What’s this? Where did you get it?’

  He leaned forward and stroked the dog. Ruby noticed with some alarm how natural this gesture looked. She couldn’t help thinking how useful the dog was, as an excuse, as a reason to ignore everything.

  ‘Did you borrow it?’

  ‘I won it in a bet, in a pub.’

  She rolled the notes up into a tight wad. ‘It’s illegal to bet with people you don’t know in pubs. You can get arrested for it.’

  He smiled. ‘I’d fucking burp and they’d have me for noise pollution.’

  Her eyes returned to the television screen. ‘I’m just telling you.’

  After a short pause he said, ‘You’ll be needing some new sunglasses.’

  ‘You lost them?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You broke them?’

  ‘No. I ate them.’

  She focused on his face. ‘You ate them?’

  He nodded. ‘For a bet.’

  ‘I bought those on the Kings Road. I liked them.’

  ‘I only ate the lenses. The frame was still intact, but I couldn’t see any point in bringing that back.’

  ‘You’ll be ill again.’

  ‘I won’t. I vomited them up straight away.’

  ‘You hate vomiting.’

  ‘I hate a lot of things, but I still do most of them.’

  The money. She felt it in her hand. What was he after?

  They both stared at the television for a while. Eventually she said, ‘You didn’t do anything special with the hat, then?’

  He picked up his bag. The hat was squeezed into one of the front compartments. He pulled it out and tossed it at her. It landed on her lap and she stared at it without moving. He pulled open the main flap of the rucksack, took out a record from the back and passed it to her. She took it from him and pulled the corners of the cover straight where they had become bent in the course of his journey. Ray Charles. It wasn’t new.

  ‘This is a completely different record. Thanks, anyway.’

  He located his toothbrush in his bag and sprang up. ‘I’m just going to brush my teeth.’

  She handed him the roll of notes. ‘Stick these into the coffee jar in the cupboard above the sink.’

  After he’d done as she’d instructed he went into the bathroom.

  She wondered where the rucksack had come from. What exactly had he been doing all day? The dog looked all right. Tired, though. She picked up one of her paws. The pads looked fine.

  Vincent returned and sat back down on the sofa. ‘What’s this about?’ He was holding the registration booklet.

  ‘Bad news.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Read it.’

  Inside he found a betting slip; on it, some notes. ‘I wrote those today,’ she said, ‘in a spare moment.’

  ‘Is she any good at racing?’

  ‘She came in the first three during her maiden race, which I think is good. But she’s raced badly since.’

  ‘How many races?’ He looked at the book.

  ‘Too many. She could race well if she felt like it, but she doesn’t seem to want to.’

  He inspected her betting slip. ‘What’s this mean?’

  ‘Things that might help. I listed them.’ She pointed. ‘T
hat says “weight”.’

  ‘She needs to lose a few pounds? Well, that’s straightforward enough.’ He battled to read on: ‘Hurdles, handicap, distance and positioning.’

  ‘She hasn’t raced over hurdles before. I thought she might be good at it.’

  He frowned. ‘If she can’t be bothered running in a normal race, how’s making her jump things going to help?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  She stood up and went into the kitchen, opened a bag of dog biscuits and tipped them on to a plate.

  Vincent was still reading her notes. ‘What does handicap mean?’

  She picked up a can opener and stuck it into the top of a tin. ‘Sometimes she interferes with other dogs. That’s a really bad sign. Greyhounds aren’t bred to be aggressive. Bitches especially. So if you have a greyhound that snaps at other dogs - even though it’s usually only because of friendliness or boredom - the racing manager gets really upset about it.’

  ‘I asked about the handicap.’

  ‘Well, if she ran in a handicap race her trap would be at the front. Because she’s crap they’d give her a head start.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘When she’s released she’d have the advantage of a few extra seconds on her side. She’d be able to see the hare without being put off by other dogs.’

  ‘You’ve written “positioning” here in capital letters.’

  ‘Yep. It’s connected.’

  She mashed up the meat from the tin with the biscuits, put the bowl down for the dog and took off the muzzle. ‘I bought two bits of fish on the market this afternoon. Maybe you could make dinner?’

  ‘I know that some dogs run wide and some run close to the fence.’

  ‘The rails.’ She grinned.

  Vincent caught her expression. ‘Well, fuck you!’

  She walked back over and sat down again. ‘OK.’

  He pushed his toothbrush behind his ear, as if it were a pen, and folded his arms.

  ‘There are six traps. The first four traps are chosen in a kind of draw. The first trap is usually the best trap for most dogs because the distance that dog ends up running is much shorter, I mean, if it stays close to the rails.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Think about it. The dogs run an oval course. The inside of an oval is going to be a shorter distance than the outside. Anyway, if a dog is a good railer and a fast trapper and it’s in trap one, it’ll be hard to beat. In the bookies, if anyone’s going to bet in forecast doubles, most punters will bet the combination one and six. They’re the two best traps.’