Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

‘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 flushed 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.