Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

Sarah appeared in the doorway wearing an old-fashioned, yellow shirtwaister, black tights and flat black shoes. Her hair was tied back with a yellow scarf. She wore no make-up.

‘That didn’t take long. The dress is great.’

‘Did you phone your mother?’

Sam shook her head. ‘No, but I shouldn’t think she’ll be bothered.’

Sam followed Sarah out of the flat. ‘I didn’t mention my sister before, did I?’

‘No. She sing too?’

‘Not much. We let her write some of our music.’

Sarah slammed the front door. ‘Yeah?’

‘She suffers from a kind of disability.’

‘Really?’

Sam stepped out into the street. ‘She’s afflicted.’

‘An affliction?’ Sarah smiled. ‘Sounds biblical.’

As soon as he heard the front door slam, Connor sat up in bed and looked frantically around his bedroom, trying to locate something — anything — that Sam might have left behind. Eventually his eyes settled on a small, white, cotton bra which was slung over the cymbal on his drum-kit. He went and picked it up, then folded it carefully so that it would fit into the fist of one hand. He smiled to himself, feeling its softness, then stopped smiling and tried to bring to mind exactly what it was that had passed between them.

Vincent led the way down to Berwick Street. He was bossy this morning and full of purpose. ‘I’m sure I saw a butcher’s down here.’

Ruby nodded. ‘There’s a few of them. They all open early. Supply hotels and stuff.’

‘This one.’

They went inside. Vincent smiled at the butcher, who stared at him coldly, taking in, in one glance, the cut on his forehead and his crumpled shirt.

‘I want a whole rabbit.’

‘Skinned?’

‘No, whole. Ears, fur, everything.’

The butcher disappeared into the rear of the shop. When he had gone Vincent turned to Ruby: ‘I used to do this trick with dead rabbits when I was a kid. I’ll show you later.’

She imagined him as a child — exactly the same, only smaller. She wondered what he was up to, but didn’t really care. She’d given up on things, temporarily. He’d had that effect on her.

Outside again, he said, ‘We want to head for Oxford Street.’

‘Fine. We can catch the bus from Oxford Circus.’

Oxford Street was quiet at this hour. Vincent stopped walking and leaned against a rubbish bin. They stood in silence together.

‘Now what?’

‘Shut up and listen.’

She waited mutely for several minutes but nothing happened. The dog began to grow impatient and pulled on her lead. She was about to complain when Vincent said, ‘I can hear something. Can you hear it? The dog can.’

Ruby looked down at Buttercup and as she looked she began to hear something: a strange kind of clattering and banging, a hollow noise, a repetitive thuddering-shuddering. Like thunder. Like an earthquake. She stared down the street, towards Oxford Circus and gasped.

A sea of horses. So huge. A glorious plague of them. Filling the city, exploding its damp, grey glass and granite, its rubble, its tarmac. Shattering the city with the gloss of fur, of muscle. Steam; ears, nostrils, quivering; eyes, black, whites rolling; tassels; tails. The smell of them. Their froth, their breath, their foam. Saddle leather. Sweet wax.

This was beauty. Like a knife twisting in her stomach. They passed her by, three abreast, on and on and on. Until the last, like water trickling down a plug hole, suddenly gone. Like a drum that stops beating. Beating.

‘It’s a fascist thing, really.’

‘What?’ She could still hardly breathe.

‘That feeling.’

Her eyes were full of tears. He had given her this moment, had handed it to her. She said, ‘Don’t say anything else. You’ll ruin it.’

He laughed at her — she was such a fool — and walked down to Oxford Circus, still laughing.

They stood on the track.

‘What’s the plan, then?’

He looked around him. ‘Give me a minute.’ Then added, ‘Let’s walk her for a while.’

‘Great idea.’

He scowled at her, but they started walking. Vincent had been full of ideas the night before, full of plans and schemes, all of which had suddenly dissolved.

Ruby was saying, ‘Either they feel the urge or they don’t.’

‘Where’s the hare?’

She stood still and glanced around the perimeter of the track. ‘If we carry on walking we’re bound to come across it.’

They walked past the traps, six metal boxes, neatly numbered, which had been pushed off the sandy track and on to the grass verge.

‘How come the traps aren’t on the track?’

‘They’re mobile. Think about it. If they left the traps on the track after a race had started, the dogs’d run into them on the last bend.’

‘Can we push them out?’

They pushed them out together. Vincent wanted to put Buttercup into one.

Ruby opened trap six and helped her inside. Vincent walked around to the front and peered in at her. He could see her pointed nose and her eyes. ‘She looks pretty bored from this end.’

Ruby crossed her arms. ‘She’s bound to. She can’t hear the hare or anything.’

‘Can we run her now?’

‘No. I’d have to ask the groundsman to operate the hare and I don’t fancy doing that.’

She opened the trap, pulled the dog out and put her lead back on. ‘The hare’s over there. Can you see it?’

Vincent looked in the direction she had indicated. ‘That orange and white thing? It’s like a balloon. No wonder she can’t be bothered chasing it.’

He walked over and inspected it more closely, then took his rabbit out of the plastic bag, holding it aloft in his left hand, pushing the hare manually along its runner with his right, so that it made the requisite clattering noise.

The dog’s ears pricked up and she pulled on her leash. Ruby held her back. Vincent continued pushing and after several steps he broke into a slow trot. The dog began to bark and pulled on her lead so hard that Ruby had to hold on to it with both hands.

‘She’s pulling my arms off.’

Vincent carried on jogging but shouted over his shoulder, ‘Keep her until I tell you, then let her come, but let her pull you.’

The dog was riding up on to her back legs, still barking. Twenty yards on, he shouted, ‘Come on, then!’

Ruby allowed the dog to pull her along, slowly at first, but after several steps she could no longer control her and moved faster, and then faster still. Eventually she was running after Vincent and the dog was loping in slow but effortless bounds. Vincent stopped the hare just beyond the finishing line, about sixty yards from its original position.

He was breathless. He tossed his brown rabbit across the artificial hare and waited for Ruby and the dog to catch up.

‘What shall I do?’ Ruby was hurtling towards him.

‘Let her have it.’

She couldn’t do otherwise. The dog jerked out of her hands, almost pulling her arm from its socket, charged at the rabbit and did her best to grab hold of it through her muzzle. She managed, somehow, to snatch it off the hare and shook it, swinging her head violently from side to side. The fur on the rabbit’s hindquarters started to rip and the red flesh gaped through. Vincent, exhausted, was roaring with laughter. Ruby was bent double, trying to catch her breath, feeling the palm of her hand burning from the pull of the leash.

‘Don’t let her eat the bloody thing!’

He took hold of her lead and pulled on it. The dog held on to the rabbit and growled at him.

Ruby grinned, still panting. ‘You’re never going to get that off her.’

‘You try and grab it.’

He was facing the dog, pulling her towards him. The collar had ridden up on her neck and was stuck behind her ears. Her head was down low, close to the ground. She growled again.