Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

Brera completely lost control. She stood stiffly, blinking, saying nothing, clenching and unclenching her fists.

‘Come on, let’s go! Get a coat, or come as you are. I need you to give me directions.’

He turned and carried Sylvia towards the door. Brera ran after him. ‘If we pass the ambulance on the way we can stop it.’

They reached the door and then all hell broke loose. Sylvia’s body, previously slack and pliant, exploded out of Steven’s arms like a firecracker.

‘Let go of me!’

Steven tried to grab hold of her. Sylvia wasn’t strong enough to resist, but she angled her body on the floor, against the two walls and the door, in such a way as to make moving her virtually impossible. When he tried to lunge at her, she kicked out at him, used her elbows and her nails.

He drew back. ‘What’s wrong with her? What is this?’

Brera ignored him, threw herself at Sylvia and landed on top of her, using all the force of her weight to subdue her. Steven looked on in amazement. He thought it possible that Brera might crush the girl completely, might certainly break a bone or a rib. He said, ‘Don’t hurt her … don’t …’

Brera’s weight curtailed Sylvia’s thrashing. Her head collapsed to one side. Steven noticed, when this happened, that her nose was bleeding. The blood was dark. The sight of it appalled him.

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.