Reversed Forecast

by Nicola Barker

  ‘Why six, then? The dog in that trap’d be running the longest distance.’

  Ruby nodded. ‘True. The two outside traps, five and six, aren’t included in the draw. Dogs that are well-known wide runners are always given the outside traps to save on injuries.’

  He was frowning again. Ruby jumped up and hunted around for a pen and some paper. She found a small red pen and the back of an electricity bill. She sat down and drew a large oval and then six small boxes on the oval which she numbered one to six, then moved up closer to Vincent to show him what she was doing. He felt her leg touching his, could smell her hair.

  ‘If a wide runner was placed in any of the four inside tracks, he’d come powering out when the trap opened and go shooting towards the hare, smacking into several other dogs in the process. The speed they go, he’d probably end up hurting either himself or one of the other runners. What it comes down to is the fact that a wide runner will always chase the hare.’

  ‘Hold on …’ He was confused. ‘So if they’re all chasing the hare, what about the railer, the dog in trap one?’

  She smiled. ‘Dogs are like people. They do stuff for different reasons. The strains of dogs from which most of today’s greyhounds are bred were strains that just ran for the sake of it. They’ll chase anything. For a railer, it’s more the running than the chasing that excites them. If a dog is a good railer, then it isn’t that bothered about catching the hare. It’s canny. It knows how to win a race.’

  ‘So,’ Vincent took the pen off her and pointed it at the two boxes numbered five and six, ‘what about these dogs? They’re just stupid?’

  ‘Nope. The distance around the track is longer from these two traps, but at the same time they’ve got much more room to really stretch out. Racing’s all about negotiating bends. A dog that’s railing has a much tighter bend to negotiate, and the other dogs will be crowding him more. But the wide runner can really stride out and he’s less likely to be bumped.’

  Vincent rubbed his forehead. Ruby noticed. ‘It gets even more complicated when you try and think how your own animal fits into the whole thing.’

  Buttercup had finished her dinner and was now lying across the kitchen tiles. Vincent turned his head and stared at her. ‘What sort of a runner is she?’

  Ruby took hold of the registration booklet, opened it, pointed. ‘That there is the first race she ran. Her time …’ She ran her finger down the column, calculating out loud. ‘She was at least five or six seconds faster in that race than in any of her others.’

  ‘Which trap?’

  ‘Two. Which makes you think she’s going to be a railer, but in fact I know she runs fairly wide. She’s never been in traps five or six, but they’ve run her in all the others and she hasn’t done anything.’

  Vincent was staring at Ruby’s ear as she spoke. He said, ‘Did you have all those holes made in your ear at the same time?’

  ‘What?’

  She frowned at him. He scratched his nose. ‘If you think about it, there’s no point in considering this stuff tactically unless you’ve actually seen the race.’

  She closed the book. ‘And how d’you work that one out?’

  ‘Well, a race isn’t only about how one dog performs.’

  ‘But I’m only interested in one dog.’

  ‘I’m saying that a race isn’t about how one dog performs, it’s about how six dogs perform. Maybe she is a wide runner.’

  ‘So why her best performance from trap two?’

  ‘Well, maybe in that race she came out of the trap faster than the other dogs to her right, was able to see the hare, unhindered, and move outside before the other dogs overtook her.’

  Ruby thought about this. ‘I don’t think she’s a particularly fast trapper, which means she doesn’t usually come out of the trap all that quickly.’

  She threw the book down and stood up. ‘I’d better get dinner on.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Fish.’

  ‘Not for dinner, for the dog.’

  He stretched out his arms across the back of the sofa; his fingers nearly reached her as she leaned on the arm. ‘You’ve written out your lists and you said she’s got a race on Thursday.’

  Ruby stared at her finger-nails. She was wearing a transparent polish that made them shine, but they still looked ragged.

  He said, ‘I think we should take her down to the track right now and experiment.’

  ‘How? What good would that do?’

  ‘You’ve got to offer her some kind of incentive.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Greyhound racing originated with coursing, didn’t it? Dogs chasing live hares?’

  ‘In Ireland.’

  ‘She’s probably just bored. She isn’t stimulated, so she won’t perform.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘I was telling you how these strains of dogs chase anything. Usually they’ll run after anything because that’s how they’re bred.’

  ‘So?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘In coursing I know for a fact that dogs never interfere with each other.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Lots of reasons.’

  Vincent grinned. ‘Deviants are always more intelligent, so they get bored more easily.’

  Ruby considered this for a while. Eventually she said, ‘We can’t just go down to the track. They might have speedway on tonight. Anyway, I’m tired and she’s just eaten.’

  ‘In the morning, then.’

  She stood up. ‘I suppose I could phone and ask if it’s all right to take her down early.’

  ‘If we get there for eight, you’d have a full two hours before work.’

  Ruby went to the phone and picked up the receiver. She didn’t feel very enthusiastic herself, but any enthusiasm, from any source, no matter how misplaced, was better than none at all. She was about to dial and then stopped.

  ‘Why all this sudden interest in the dog? I didn’t know you even liked dogs.’

  He was staring at the television. ‘I don’t. But I do like plans.’

  Ideas. To have an idea, he thought. To think and to do. What could be better?

  She stared suspiciously at the back of his head before dialling. He was full of shit.

  Sam sipped her lager and waved a hand in front of her face. Someone nearby was smoking and holding their cigarette too close. She shouted, ‘Well, everything’s relative, isn’t it? I mean, your position is always going to be affected by where you stand, who you are and your sex.’

  She couldn’t help thinking how smart Sarah looked. Her hair was drawn back away from her face and she wore very little make-up, except for black liquid eye-liner on her top lids and some mascara which made her eyes look enormous. Sam couldn’t believe she’d managed to persuade her to come along tonight. She felt honoured.

  Sarah put her lips close to Sam’s ear: ‘Yeah, that’s fair enough, but sometimes that sort of argument gets you out of everything, if you see what I mean. Relativism’s often just an excuse for not committing.’

  She was stopped, mid-flow, by someone pushing past her who tipped up her drink. It spilled down her shirt and drenched her breasts. She swore and tried to wring it out ineffectually with one hand. ‘It’s too bloody full in here,’ she shouted, ‘and it’s too LOUD.’

  Sam grabbed hold of her arm and steered her towards the nearest exit. ‘It shouldn’t stain if you give it a quick rub down.’

  Sarah indicated the stage with her hand. ‘Won’t Connor be on soon? It’s been at least half an hour since the last lot played.’

  ‘They’ll be doing loads of songs. I don’t think we’re obliged to see every one.’

  Sam threaded a route around the bar, towards the ladies’ toilets.

  Inside were two or three women. It was cramped, even in here. Sam turned on the warm tap at one of the sinks and beckoned Sarah over. ‘Splash some water over it. There’s some liquid soap if you want it. Then hold it under the hand dryer.’

  Sarah
tried to bend over the sink. ‘It’s right down the front. I’ll end up even wetter this way.’

  Outside Sam could hear the taped music stop and a loud cheer as people waited for the imminent arrival of the band on stage. She said, ‘I’ve always really hated this place, but it must be exciting to play here. Connor’s played here loads.’

  She walked to the door and opened it, standing on tip-toe to try to see the stage. But the crowds were too dense and her angle too oblique. The three women who had been in the toilet repairing their make-up and brushing their hair pushed past her. Sarah shouted from inside, ‘What’s happening?’

  She walked back in. ‘They’ve come on. I can’t see them, though, only hear them.’

  Sarah cocked her head to one side and listened. ‘I can just hear a kind of roaring noise. Is it them or the toilet cistern?’

  Sam grinned. ‘You must be so glad you came.’

  Outside there was more cheering.

  ‘What are they called again?’

  Sam watched with surprise as Sarah unbuttoned her shirt and took it off.

  ‘Stirsign.’

  She held it under the tap, lathering it with soap and then rinsing it.

  Sam watched her. ‘D’you want me to stand guard at the door?’

  ‘Not when the band’s just come on. It’s perfectly private in here.’

  She wrung out the shirt and then stuck it under the hand dryer.

  Sam couldn’t help staring at Sarah’s body, which was pale, angular and extremely thin. She wore a turquoise bra which efficiently cupped her small, neat breasts. Sam thought her too thin, as though if she moved too sharply or quickly her bones might push through the skin and show themselves, bursting out like little daggers.

  Sam touched Sarah’s shirt to see how quickly it was drying. ‘It’s still soaking. The dryer isn’t very efficient.’

  Sarah misconstrued the source of Sam’s concern. ‘Look, why don’t you go on out? I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.’

  Sam shook her head. ‘I can see him any time. Anyway, it’s too crowded out there.’

  ‘What’s your star sign?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Aquarius or Gemini.’

  ‘Neither: Pisces, but I am a water sign, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  Sarah smiled at this. ‘I’m a fire sign. We’re incompatible.’

  Sam was about to reply when the door swung open and two women came in. She noticed them staring at Sarah’s bare skin and exchanging glances. One of them went into a cubicle while the other fluffed up her hair with her hands, watching Sarah in the mirror. Sam felt compromised, but couldn’t understand why.

  ‘D’you want me to hold it under for a while?’

  Sarah, apparently oblivious, handed the shirt over. ‘Thanks.’

  She picked up her lager and took a sip of it. Sam held the shirt under the dryer. It felt soft.

  The second girl came out of the cubicle, washed her hands and then held them, dripping, limply in front of her.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  Sam turned and was about to step sideways. But Sarah said, ‘Don’t worry,’ pushed her firmly up against the dryer and kissed her, fully.

  Sarah’s lips felt delicate and her breath tasted of lager and another flavour: garlic or liquorice. Sam felt Sarah’s tongue, like a mollusc, a foreign thing, curving up along the inside of her lips. She felt her hands, she was sure she felt them, touching her breasts, soft on her breasts. The dryer pushed out warm air, the weight of them both reactivating its mechanism.

  Just as suddenly, Sarah withdrew. She was laughing. ‘They’ve gone. We frightened the shit out of them. Give me my shirt and I’ll put it on.’

  Sam handed her the shirt. ‘Why did you do that?’

  Sarah slipped it on and began to fasten the buttons. ‘It was the highlight of their evening.’

  She peered at herself in the mirror, wiped the corners of her lips with her thumb and forefinger, smiled and then pushed the door open, holding it ajar for Sam. ‘Come on.’

  Sam didn’t pause to check her own reflection. Her stomach. How did it feel? As if she’d just been told the lemonade she’d been drinking was actually turpentine. A kind of horror. Confusion? No. A pure feeling without fixed meaning.

  Sarah led the way, pushing past people at the back, moving gradually forwards. Near the front, everyone was dancing. Several people were stage diving.

  Sam shouted over the noise, ‘If we get too close we’ll get thrown about. Everyone’s pushing.’

  Sarah launched herself into the middle of the fray. Sam opted to stay back, craning her neck, trying to see Connor. Eventually she could see him, banging away at his drum-kit, hair in his face, T-shirt still on but soaking wet.

  I want to feel part of this, she thought. She wanted to, but suddenly she felt removed from everything. Lonely. Alone. The drum, the beat, the sound it made, reminded her. Of what?

  She was twelve years old and Sylvia was asking her if she could borrow her skipping rope. The music - she couldn’t escape it, but she could block it - came in waves. It reminded her of the rope: swinging round and round, whizzing, whirring and slapping the ground.

  Sylvia had borrowed it. Sam heard the rope turning: vicious, unstoppable, cyclical. She watched Sylvia’s feet as she jumped, inefficiently shod in a pair of old, soft, blue canvas deck shoes. Sylvia counted as she jumped, ‘One, two, three, four …’ By the time she’d reached fifty, her feet had grown heavier, faltering. She stopped on fifty-four, without grace, clumsily tangled, her breathing laboured.

  On the ground, surrounding her, their necks and wings broken, were five or six birds. Injured by the rope. Killed by the rope.

  Sylvia fell to her knees and gathered them up with her hands, her breath turning into jerky tears.

  Sam had watched coldly, thinking, Will I ever love anything that much?

  Her heart contracted and the feeling she experienced was not so much love as jealousy.

  Steven spent the evening watching Sophie’s Choice on video. During any especially tedious or gut-wrenching moments he cast an eye, somewhat apathetically, over the latest edition of The Stage.

  Steven loved Meryl Streep. If asked to explain this adoration, he’d say that he loved the way that she was never shrewish. She was so dignified. She could be angry - he thought she did Angry extremely well - but she was never vulgar. She didn’t forget herself, her dignity.

  Sometimes he’d masturbate as he watched her on screen. She was so aloof, and that in itself was sexy. But after he’d finished - when he’d cleared away the tissues and washed his hands - he’d always feel an intense pang of self-disgust.

  He’d been staring at one particular page of The Stage for several minutes, reading but not reading, when something caught his eye and caused him to blink, pick up the paper and stare at it more intently. The focus of his attention was a small but nicely written obituary towards the bottom of the page. He read it, re-read it.

  Sylvia watched Brera talking on the phone. She watched but she didn’t listen. She’d been using the nebulizer since the morning, and its vapours had been opening her bronchial tubes, releasing the hostage air in her lungs, and then escaping; travelling onwards, upwards, making her brain smart, glisten, pulsate, making colours painfully clear, and smells … but she couldn’t smell anything, she just knew that everything was clearer, magnified, extended, elongated. Her senses were ecstatically jumbled.

  Brera was sitting close by, talking on the phone but also staring at Sylvia, thinking, It’s not so much that she can’t breathe, more that she doesn’t want to breathe. She’s happier not breathing.

  She focused on Sylvia’s face. Her lips were moving, she was muttering, and whenever the mask fell from her nose and mouth, Brera could hear disjointed pieces of conversation. She struggled to keep her attention focused on Steven.

  Inside Sylvia’s head facts and images were floating, connecting, disconnecting. She said, ‘I can see these conversations taking place, eve
rywhere, but really the conversation is the same one. It’s the same conversation.’

  She saw herself in a place full of bright lights and a bright girl with white hair was saying something about ideas.

  ‘You say you like ideas? What does that mean?’

  A voice responded. It came from nowhere, but it was a harsh voice, full of emphasis: ‘Ideas alter things, form things, change things unilaterally. They can be modified, disciplined, controlled. I see stuff. Life. I see life and it’s only a mishmash of facts, thoughts, images, pictures. But everything crystallizes in my head, forms doctrine, produces its own clear meaning. My mind works that way.’

  Sylvia couldn’t understand this at all. The girl seemed to be having difficulty too, but she said, ‘Life is more jumbled than you think. Caring about things should be enough. Even if you can only manage to care about one thing. You have to understand what it is to be good. Not so much what you can make of life, but what you can give to it.’

  Sylvia wasn’t bothered any more, but the dialogue continued anyway. ‘That’s an idea, though! It’s just that you can’t be bothered to take it any further, to politicize. It’s just sloppy thinking.’

  Sylvia could taste the word politicize on her tongue. Its rough edges, its sharpness. She had no feelings either way - towards it or against it - she could only taste it.

  The white voice was saying, ‘I never take things further because that’s how you get into trouble. Once you accept one thing, you end up accepting loads of stuff, half of which you don’t really understand. When things get too big, they get out of your control. You start off by thinking that you’re being good, but you end up finding out that ideas have a life of their own. They can turn bad, can make you bad and you don’t even know it.’

  The hard face, the hard voice, laughed. This laughter tickled Sylvia. It had its own particular charm, this laugh, like snuff, or the smell of fruity pipe tobacco. ‘But I want to get into trouble! Don’t you? Why not get into trouble? You’re naive. You know it too, and you think that your naivety makes you good, but in fact all it makes you is easy to manipulate.’