Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings

Which particular bitch? When had she spoken to him at the track? Had he been holding a dog at the time? Had she been holding one? Had she expressed an interest?

She felt hot. The fan’s rapid movements were making her feel queasy. She pulled off her jacket and walked outside. It was hot here too. Things were fuzzy. She blinked, unable to tell whether this fuzziness was caused by heat, a heat-wave shimmering on the Sunday roads, or by movements behind her eyes, inside her.

Vincent pottered around the flat, feeling no particular urge to leave. He tried to assess Ruby on the basis of her personal possessions, but there was little of interest to look at apart from her record collection and her underwear. The record collection was impressive.

His headache was now a dumb whine at the back of his skull, but tolerable. He found an old Kraftwerk album and put it on – turning down the volume slightly – then wandered about, acclimatizing, inspecting things.

He had a bath. It felt like ages since he’d had a proper wash. He picked up Ruby’s soap and sniffed it. It wasn’t strongly perfumed – smelled like Palmolive – so he used it freely, grinning to himself, imagining which parts of Ruby’s body it had lathered. The warmth of the water, the rubbing, the foam, gave him a slight erection. He stared at it for a while with a terse and serious expression, then burst out laughing. It bobbed down in the water, submissive again, mournful and flaccid.

After drying himself, he went into the kitchen, still naked, did the washing up and then returned to the bathroom, where he picked up his clothes, dressed and surveyed himself in the mirror. His whole forehead was a pinky-purple colour. This bruising reached down to either side of his eyes. One eye was black. He inspected the cut more thoroughly. Most of the bump had gone down, but several strands of hair were caught inside the mouth of the gash. He pulled at them, very gently, wincing as some of them came out. He pulled a few more and then gave up, concerned that he might bring back his headache.

He returned to the kitchen and inspected the cupboards to see what food Ruby had in. Tinned stuff, dried stuff. He’d cook something.

While some beans were soaking he tidied up the living-room and then moved into Ruby’s bedroom. Her carpet was knee-deep in pieces of clothing. He kicked these into a large pile and then sorted out what was clean and what was dirty. He sniffed, looked, fondled.

He liked it here. He’d stay for a while, but he wouldn’t ask. If you asked, people said no. Even soft people. Eventually.

Ruby pressed the buzzer and listened out for barking, but could hear none. The building was a mixture of grandeur and delapidation. It was built in a square around a tarmacked courtyard. The entrance was barred by a large, black, metal gate.

After several minutes a tiny old man staggered across the courtyard towards her. He looked like Mr Punch, all nose and chin with eyes like sultanas. He reached the gate, puffed out, and gazed through it at her. ‘You’ve come to get the bitch?’

Ruby nodded and said, ‘I’ve seen you at Hackney before, haven’t I?’

‘Could’ve, but I’m usually at Walthamstow.’

He started to unlock the gate before adding, ‘That bitch of yours wouldn’t run on the Walthamstow track for love nor bloody money. They’ve got a McGee hare there. You familiar with it?’

Ruby frowned. ‘It’s smaller, isn’t it?’

‘Smaller than the Outside Sumner and doesn’t make so much noise. Stupid bitch wouldn’t run for it. Trap opened and she didn’t come out. Nice grass track but she wouldn’t have any of it.’ He shook his head. ‘Racing manager was about ready to kill me. Punters weren’t happy either. There again, she was still a novice, so she probably only had about fifty quid on her.’

He pulled the gate open. Ruby stepped inside and he closed it behind her, then turned and led the way across the tarmac. She followed him, watching the back of his yellowy kennel coat, into the main building, through an unprepossessing passageway, which smelled of detergent and dog, and into a large, square, brightly lit kitchen.

He pointed towards the big pine table that filled the centre of the room. ‘Sit down while I go get her. I’ll bring her registration booklet too.’

Ruby sat down and rested her elbows on the table. The room felt airless, she felt aimless. Why was she here? She thought, I won’t think anything. Not anything. Nothing.

When he returned, she said, ‘Don didn’t get around to telling me your name.’

He grinned. False teeth. As straight as a die. ‘Stanley. Stan. I’m seventy-four and he still has me working a seven-day week.’

Ruby pushed herself back on her chair and peered over at the dog. Stan was holding a lead and the bitch stood at the end of it, looking tense. She couldn’t help thinking how large the animal seemed. Not fat, just big.

Stan leaned against the table and got his breath back. The dog stood still, not pulling on her leash, but managing to look on edge, padding from foot to foot. He stared down at her. ‘I like black bitches. This one’s related to Dolores Rocket. Won the Derby. Won the Puppy Oaks too, twenty-odd years ago.’

He jerked the lead and brought the dog’s head up. Her face was skinny, scraggy and strangely petulant.

‘I’ll get a muzzle on her.’

‘Do you have to?’

‘She’ll chase anything if she feels the urge.’

‘Anything but the McGee hare, eh?’

Stan fitted the muzzle over the dog’s face. ‘Well, they’ve all got coursing in their blood, but these dogs …’ He slapped her lightly on her rump and she stiffened her legs to take the slap. These dogs were bred from strains of dogs that didn’t so much care what they chased, they’d run for anything.’

He brought the bitch around the table and handed Ruby her lead. Ruby hesitated and then took it. She felt a dart of terror in her chest that started between her breasts and shot up to her throat. She tried to swallow it, to keep it under.

Stan looked down at her for a moment, then said conspiratorially, ‘How much is he asking for?’

Ruby felt the leather of the lead between her finger and her thumb. ‘Nine hundred.’ When she said it, it meant nothing.

He burst out laughing. ‘I’ll tell him you’ll give him seven. He had her down at Swaffham in Norfolk on Friday. Check her toes.’

Ruby picked up the dog’s right foot. The pads all seemed fine. She picked up the left and he interrupted her, taking hold of the paw himself and parting the front pads. ‘Third pad’s slightly swollen.’

‘Is that a problem?’

She knew it was. I know all this, she thought, I know this stuff.

‘I’ll tell Don you thought it was.’

She smiled gratefully and stroked the dog’s back. ‘How did she do at Swaffham? I didn’t even know Don raced in that part of the country.’

‘How do you think she did?’

He passed Ruby the registration booklet. She opened it. Little Buttercup. Black bitch … When she was born, where, the names of her parents, the size of the litter. Physical description. Tiny details. Times of her races, places. Swaffham – the latest entry.

‘Sixth.’

‘She’s got a race lined up at Hackney on Thursday. You’d better have a chat with the racing manager, though. He’s not happy with this bitch. Did Don tell you she’s in the E grade? Her actual running time at 525 yards was 30.40 on her last night out.’

Ruby verified this in the booklet. It wasn’t a good time.

‘Just the same,’ he added, noting her expression, ‘there’s nothing wrong with her physically. The toe’s no problem. You’ve obviously got a good eye. She’s a fine-looking bitch.’