Reversed Forecast

by Nicola Barker

  Sam was perched on the edge of her bed playing the guitar. The noise she made drowned out the sound of raised voices from elsewhere in the flat. Above the guitar she could only hear a vague squawking sound, a frantic bickering, like the call of a starling.

  She wore a loose pair of brown dungarees, the straps of which nestled in the crook of each arm. The front bib had tipped down too, revealing her left breast in its entirety. She knew how beautiful she must look, like this. But it gave her no joy and no comfort.

  She continued to play, remembering as she strummed something that Sylvia had said about birdsong. She’d said, ‘If you listen to a thrush sing, you can hear how birds use a musical scale which contains far more intervals within the octave than our scale. Our system is a kind of compromise. We cancel out all those extra tones so that we’re left with a practical scale of twelve. Birds have a completely different musical language. We can listen to it, but we can’t understand it. And it’s only because of the way that we’ve chosen to transcribe music. We made it incomprehensible, on purpose. We decided.’

  The doorbell rang. She stopped strumming and listened to the sudden silence in the flat. She put down her guitar.

  Brera welcomed Ruby inside and pointed her towards an armchair in the living-room. To Ruby the flat seemed different: lighter. Doors and curtains were open. She dumped her suitcase and sat down, holding on firmly to the dog by her collar. She sensed an atmosphere. Brera wore no make-up but her cheeks were red. Sylvia seemed, if anything, even smaller than during their last encounter - anaemic, a pale yellow, her every feature like so many tucks and pleats in a piece of pastry.

  Sylvia spoke: ‘That dog stinks of dog.’

  Sam appeared in the doorway. ‘That’s a tautology. Well, nearly.’

  Sylvia’s eyes flickered over towards her and then away.

  Sam smiled at Ruby. ‘Hi.’

  Ruby smiled back and said, ‘Are you all packed yet? Has Steven called?’

  ‘No, but I should think he’ll be here soon.’

  Brera was staring out of the window, watching a small congregation of sparrows who had assembled under the eaves of the roof outside.

  Sam said gently, ‘We’d better get a move on.’

  Brera snapped to attention. ‘I’ll get changed. Then I’ll pack.’ She turned to Ruby. ‘I’ve scribbled down a few instructions. I left them in the kitchen on the table.’

  Ruby nodded, hoping that things would be organized before nine-thirty. She couldn’t afford to be late for work again.

  Sam and Brera disappeared. Sylvia sat cross-legged on the sofa. As soon as Brera was out of earshot she said, ‘I won’t be any trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine.’

  Ruby felt uneasy.

  ‘Maybe you should give the dog some water?’

  Ruby stood up. ‘Good idea.’ She pulled the dog along the corridor, past Sylvia’s room - the smell was as bad, if not worse, than on her last visit - and into the kitchen. Sam was here, making tea. She put three cups on a tray and passed a fourth one over to Ruby. Ruby took it and sat down.

  When Sam had gone, she tried to convince herself that her life was a broad expanse, a large space, like a field, which Vincent only fitted into in a very small way - on the horizon, a figure on a distant hill, a scarecrow, a small, insubstantial dot.

  Sam took Sylvia a cup of tea. Sylvia motioned her to put it down a distance away, on the floor.

  Sam did as she was instructed and then said, ‘How many days has it been since your last asthma attack? Four? Listen to your breathing. The difference is amazing.’

  Sylvia’s nostrils twitched as she smelled the steam rising from the cup of tea, which stank of curdled milk, sour milk mixed up with a sharp scent of tannin. It disgusted her.

  She stared up at Sam. ‘The thing is,’ she said, calculatedly mournful, ‘I’m not happy.’

  Sam couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Are you serious? You? Not happy? You’re never happy.’

  Sylvia’s eyes began to water, entirely of their own accord. Everything overwhelmed her. Usually things overwhelmed her and she was passive. She chose to be. But this was different. She felt helpless and impotent. When she tried to speak, her voice emerged as a tiny, timorous squeak. ‘No matter what I say or do, it makes no difference. No wonder I feel angry. No wonder I want to hurt myself.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Sam moved towards her and placed a hand across her mouth, gagging her, feeling the damp warmth of her lips and saliva against her palm.

  Sam’s voice had sounded ferocious, but she didn’t feel at all angry. Instead she felt frightened; mainly for Brera, but for herself too. Sylvia’s eyes widened but she didn’t move. Sam kept her hand where it was and said quietly, ‘Don’t ruin everything just because you know you can. Consider us. Imagine how we feel.’

  She removed her hand, inspecting it for a second - as though the hand was somehow separate from her body, from herself - and then wiped it on the front of her dungarees before turning and leaving the room.

  Once Sam had gone, Sylvia took hold of the bottom of her T-shirt, pulled it up and rubbed her face vigorously with it. When she’d finished rubbing, her face was crumpled and wrinkled, as though she wanted to howl, or was howling, but without making a sound. She looked like a tiny red ant.

  After a while her expression returned to normal. She whispered, ‘What did she have on her hands? What sort of perfume? Like vanilla pods. Like terrible vanilla on a knife blade.’

  She was calm now, outside, but inside she was wild, galled and hot with anger.

  I’ve got to hurt them back. But hurt them without hurting myself. That’s how people behave. That’s what Brera wants.

  She stared over towards the window, but for once the birds - on the sill, in the sky, perched on the power lines - didn’t seem like everything, didn’t fill her world. Suddenly she felt the need to make room for something else. To broaden her horizons.

  He’d already been awoken once by the phone.

  At half-past eight the doorbell rang. He staggered up from the sofa to answer it, feeling like his spine had been twisted during the course of the night into a voluptuous spiral. He held the base of his back with one hand, endeavouring to massage the offending area, while with his other hand he clutched walls, doors and banisters, trying to support himself. Eventually he reached the front door. He opened it.

  Steven stood there, smartly attired in a light-green suit. His lapels were wide, and his tie too. The tie was decorated with tropical fruit: a mango, kumquats, grapes and a papaya.

  Vincent gingerly put out his hand and took hold of the tie. ‘You weren’t obliged to wear that.’

  Steven knocked his hand away. ‘Has Ruby gone yet?’

  Vincent tried to remember whether he’d seen Ruby or not. He shook his head. ‘I’ve been asleep. Someone phoned her early on.’

  He attempted to call to mind his earlier phone conversation. Steven, meanwhile, pushed past him and bounded upstairs. Vincent closed the door and followed him at a more genteel pace.

  He walked into the flat and closed the door behind him. Steven emerged from the bedroom. ‘Some of her things are gone.’

  Vincent scratched his head. ‘Someone phoned this morning. What’s the time?’

  Steven checked his watch. ‘Eight-thirty.’

  ‘Don.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who phoned. Don. He said it was important. Will you be seeing her?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Good.’ Vincent sat down on the sofa. ‘You can tell her, then.’

  Steven appraised Vincent from above. He inspected the cut on his hairline. After a few moments he said, ‘I suppose this means you won’t be seeing her again.’

  ‘Ruby?’ Vincent thought for a second. ‘Probably.’

  Steven couldn’t tell whether this ‘probably’ meant yes or no. To try to ascertain which, he said, ‘How long were you planning to stay here?’

  Vincent rubbed his forehead. His fingers followe
d the path of his scar, his scab. Steven winced as he watched this, worrying that he might try to pull the scab off. He did try, but the cut was still too new.

  Steven didn’t like the idea that Vincent might be planning to stay on in the flat indefinitely. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that she’s gone?’

  Vincent yawned. ‘She’s left most of her stuff. She’s left her records.’

  ‘That was kind of her.’

  Vincent realized that he wasn’t particularly enjoying this conversation. He didn’t want to analyse his feelings, preferring instead to feel urges and to act upon them.

  ‘You like Ruby?’ Steven asked, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

  ‘What?’ Vincent almost laughed. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  At the same time, however, he thought, Caring and liking. Are they the same things? Can I like a person without really caring about them? He supposed so.

  Steven walked back over to the bedroom and peered in through the door. The whole flat looked like a tip. He turned towards Vincent. ‘Before you go, can you tidy the place up? It’s a mess.’

  Vincent shrugged. ‘She likes it like this. She made this mess.’

  He pulled his legs up on to the sofa and lay down on it again, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about Ruby any more. He found discussing her with Steven depressing. He didn’t like the idea, which any type of conversation between them implied, of some kind of common ground, something shared, any sort of similarity between them.

  There’s nothing to discuss. I won’t commit myself to any one thing, to one place, one idea, one person. I have to commit myself to everything. If it’d only been sex - at first I thought it’d only be sex - then it would’ve been fine. Now everything’s too confused. People shouldn’t need to demand things from each other.

  He liked this idea. He said, ‘People shouldn’t expect too much from each other.’

  Steven was staring over towards the door, thinking about leaving, but at the same time peculiarly dissatisfied by this interlude with Vincent. When Vincent spoke, Steven couldn’t understand what he meant. He paused and waited for Vincent to clarify his words. Vincent kept his eyes closed. He was smiling to himself.

  ‘What a wanker,’ Steven muttered, letting himself out and going down the stairs.

  After Steven had gone, Vincent continued to smile. He was remembering the colour of Ruby’s nipples.

  The day stretched ahead of him. He knew that he was at liberty to fill it in any way he chose.

  Ruby put her head down on the table, using her folded arms as a cushion. She closed her eyes.

  ‘You’re not ill or anything, are you?’

  ‘No.’ She didn’t bother opening her eyes or lifting her head. It’s only Steven, she thought, and he doesn’t count.

  Steven pulled out a chair and sat down. Ruby listened to the dog as she shifted nervously under the table, concerned at his proximity.

  ‘I just went to your flat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was going to give you a lift. Your friend was still there.’

  ‘Vincent.’

  ‘He said that Don phoned and that I should tell you. Does that make any sense?’

  Ruby opened her eyes. ‘Don? Why?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’ He registered her expression. ‘You can ring back now if it’s important.’

  ‘No. I’ll ring him later.’

  She calculated in her mind the number of days that had expired since she’d acquired the dog. Six. Her mind turned to Vincent and the money. When she’d said no, had she really meant no? Maybe then, but now?

  Steven said quietly, ‘You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. I should think so.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Are you working? It’s nearly half-nine.’

  ‘I’d like to go soon, but it won’t look too good if I leave before they do.’

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll try and hurry them up a bit. They shouldn’t be much longer.’

  She popped her head under the table and addressed the dog: ‘I’m going out soon. Can you hold your bladder for eight hours? I hope so.’

  She hoped so.

  Several pieces of paper were on the telephone table, some in a neat pile, others crammed into the directory. Eventually Sylvia found what she was looking for: a small piece of lemon-yellow notepaper. On it, in Sam’s hand, Connor’s name in capital letters and the ten digits of his phone number. She dialled.

  It rang three times and was then answered: ‘Hi. This is Connor.’

  ‘Sylvia.’ Her voice was clear and loud.

  ‘You sound completely different from the last time we spoke.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was just saying. Why did you ring?’

  Sylvia felt silly. She hated taking the initiative.

  ‘I want you to come and pick me up.’

  ‘What?’

  She repeated what she had said, shaping the consonants and vowels slowly and carefully as though speaking to a child: ‘I said, I want you to come around here and pick me up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to visit your flat. Sam told me all about it. She told me how nice it was.’

  ‘She did?’ Connor was incredulous.

  Sylvia grimaced to herself. She thought men must be very stupid.

  ‘Will you come?’

  He hesitated and then acquiesced: ‘Maybe I could just visit you. How would that be?’

  She scowled. ‘Come now,’ and cut him off.

  She stood up. Her head felt too light. The walls slipped slightly and the carpet wavered. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to focus herself.

  Forty minutes later Sylvia stood damp and naked in Brera’s room, staring into the dressing-table mirror. She’d had a bath and had washed her hair, which was wrapped up in a towelling turban.

  Her naked body looked awful. Her hip and rib bones jutted out under her yellowy skin, the bones far too clear, too evident. Her breasts were small but droopy, like tiny bread rolls in two translucent plastic bags.

  She inspected the stretch marks on her breasts, belly and buttocks, the small clusters of eczema on her arms and chest, on her hands and neck and on the arches of her feet. She wasn’t particularly self-conscious, didn’t care what people thought. She rarely tried to see herself as others saw her. She continued to stare at herself, her expression blank and uncritical. The air was warm.

  She left the room for a while, then reappeared, minutes later, fully dressed. She wore one of Sam’s dresses: a slightly old-fashioned, loose-fitting brown pinafore dress, which reached to well below her calves. Underneath it she wore a pea-green T-shirt. Her legs were bare, and on her feet were her old brown sandals.

  She threw her head forward - an action which occasioned a wave of dizzy nausea - pulled off the towel, using it to rub dry the ends of her hair, then opened the top drawer of Brera’s dressing-table. The sweet aroma of perfume and make-up which rose from the drawer forced her to step back for a moment. These smells shot straight up her nose and made it run. She sniffed and stepped determinedly closer again, holding her nose between finger and thumb this time and breathing through her mouth. She looked for make-up and creams which were unperfumed, and applied these products to her face with caution.

  When she’d finished, she stepped back, pushed her hands through her hair, pulling down her wiry curls into some semblance of order, and inspected herself in the mirror. Her face still looked gaunt, thin, strangely moonish. She smiled. Her teeth were yellow. Over the past few days she’d been unable to put toothpaste - that sweet, awful, pungent stuff - into her mouth.

  She closed the drawer, dusted down her pinafore and then walked into the hallway, pausing for a moment to listen to the scuffling, snorting sounds that the dog was making in the kitchen. She walked to her bedroom door, waited, held her breath, but could hear nothing. No sounds at all.

  ‘I bet that bitch closed my window.’

  The smell,
though! It was still there. It made her head feel like her brain was stewing in vinegar. Of course she was able to smell it everywhere in the house, but here it was concentrated, heady and undiluted.

  She returned to the living-room. She was nervous. She walked over to the television, switched it on and turned the volume down. Instead of sitting on the sofa, she primly tucked in her dress and sat down in a small armchair.

  As she watched the screen she hummed to herself: snatches of a tune she’d been composing over the past few days. She listened to her own voice, pushed it out and pulled it in. She listened in amazement as the cords in her throat held a note, didn’t waver, simply held on to it and expelled it with an alarming purity.

  What did this mean? What had changed? She curtailed her thoughts, refusing to contemplate options, choices, possibilities. She didn’t need choice. She stopped humming. She listened.

  Someone was climbing the stairs outside. Connor. She recognized the sounds he made. He knocked at the door. She stood up and steadied herself by holding on to the arm of the chair.

  How many days now since I ate? she wondered, and then, Will I answer or will I just let him knock and knock?

  When she felt steady enough, she walked to the door and opened it.

  An ambulance was parked on Wardour Street, blocking the one-way system. Its two attendants were uptight. They had struggled along the market with a stretcher, negotiating the stalls, the fruit, the rubbish. Ruby followed them into the shop.

  Jason was pointing towards the men’s toilets: ‘There’s a needle about a foot long blocking the cistern in there and blood sprayed all over the wall.’

  To Ruby he said, ‘Toro found him.’

  ‘Who? Is he dead?’

  ‘Looks like he swallowed his tongue. Toro’s in the staff kitchen out back. I said he could make himself some coffee.’

  Dawn was holding the toilet door open. Ruby walked over. She had to look. She glanced in. The white urinals. The blue tiles. Her gut turned. He was right. Blood. A bad smell. They were lifting the body. It wasn’t even stiff yet. His head rolled back, his face, set, grey, his neck like a slack rope.