Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

‘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.’