Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

‘D’you think I’m mad?’

‘Come and take the lead then.’

She obliged him. He moved closer to the dog, circling her, bent down slowly and then lunged at the rabbit. She snarled, still holding on, and jumped forwards, towards Ruby, altering Ruby’s centre of gravity and toppling her over. As she fell she let go of the lead. The dog dashed away, carrying the rabbit with her.

‘Are you all right?’

She sat up, slightly winded, and tried to dust herself off. He offered her his hand. Her first impulse was to spit on it, but she reached out and took hold of it.

Ruby apologized for being late, and was about to explain about the state of her clothes when the area manager, Tom Croft, emerged from the kitchen carrying a bundle of notes through from the safe. He had yellow hair and a long, soft chin.

‘So you finally made it?’

‘I just told Jason …’

‘What are you wearing?’

She said nothing. He stared at her coolly. ‘You think this job is so difficult? There are plenty of others who could manage to do it, come in on time and dress properly.’

He pointed towards the till closest to where she was standing. ‘I suggest you get some work done.’

Ruby sat down at the till and was about to give it a routine check when a punter came up for a bet. She rang it on, took the money and thanked him. When he’d gone, she took out the larger notes and counted them.

‘Jason, this is a tenner short. Did you put in a float this morning?’

Jason was about to say something when Croft interrupted: ‘I’ve been using that till myself all morning. It was fine when you sat down there two minutes ago.’

‘Well, it’s not fine now and I’ve only taken one small bet.’

‘Are you sure that’s all you’ve taken?’

‘What?’

She noticed that Jason was blushing. Croft said, ‘You’ve signed on. You should’ve checked the till first. The loss of that money is now your responsibility.’

He pulled on his jacket. ‘I want you properly dressed next time I see you and I want you in on time.’

He strolled out.

As soon as he was gone she turned on Jason. ‘I don’t believe this! He practically called me a thief.’

‘At least he didn’t give you a formal warning.’

‘That isn’t the point. Where’s Dawn?’

‘I dunno. Not here yet.’

‘If I’d been ten minutes later, I’d have missed him too.’

Jason smiled grimly. ‘Knowing your luck, he’d have waited.’

‘Oh yeah?’

She pulled off her sweatshirt and sat down. ‘What bloody luck?’

Already Sarah could smell something strange. Her olfactory senses were incredibly refined. Her gut was stimulated not so much by sight as by sound and by smell. It churned as this new, unexpected aroma entered her nostrils and gained access to her interior. When she inhaled a good or a bad smell she sometimes felt as though she were actually eating it. Aromas were like foods but were less physically complex, like a kind of dispersed matter. When she inhaled them they invaded her, filled her and travelled through her system.

She tried to think of something else. ‘What’s your mother called again?’

‘Brera.’

‘Weird name.’

‘It’s Irish.’

‘Nice name.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t the lifts work?’

‘There aren’t any. It’s only five floors.’

By the fifth floor, Sarah was breathing so heavily that she couldn’t smell anything.

Sam opened the door and ushered Sarah inside. It was dark. They walked down the passageway and into the living-room. Sam was about to switch on the light, but then resisted and strolled over towards the window instead, intending to draw the curtains. She bumped into an armchair. The furniture had been moved around. She grabbed hold of a curtain and was just about to yank it open when she heard Brera’s voice.

‘Leave those.’

She paused.

‘Don’t open the curtains. Sylvia’s on the sofa. She’s had a bad attack.’

Sam squinted around her in the half-light. ‘Well, she’s not there now.’

‘Damn!’

Brera turned and headed towards Sylvia’s bedroom. Earlier she had taken the precaution of locking the door. She tried the handle. It was still locked. She peered into Sam’s bedroom but this room was also empty. She turned towards the bathroom. She tried the door but the bolt inside had been shot across.

‘Sylvia?’

No reply.

‘The window’s jammed in there. You won’t get it open.’

She heard a quiet, scraping noise, like the sound of soft sandpaper against wood. Then she realized that this was actually Sylvia’s voice.

‘I know that.’

‘Come out, then.’

‘Later.’

She could hear the gentle wheezing of Sylvia’s breath.

‘What’re you doing?’

Sylvia’s voice was raw but censorious. ‘I’m having a crap, all right?’

Brera scowled and turned to see Sam and Sarah, standing directly behind her. Sarah was smirking.

‘Who’s this?’

‘Sarah.’

Brera felt ridiculous.

In the kitchen, she filled the kettle, plugged it in and turned it on. ‘She nearly died yesterday.’

This was her excuse.

Sam sat down but said nothing. This irritated Brera, who could still visualize the horror of the day before: Sylvia’s blotchy face and clenched teeth, the sounds she made.

Sarah was leaning against the door, one hand on the handle, pushing it up and down. After a while Sam said, ‘She seems fine now.’

Brera dropped her voice: ‘Not really. She can hardly walk. Hardly breathe. I decided it’d be best if we cancelled the photographer. That was all sorted and then Steven phoned last night …’

‘Why are you whispering?’

Brera put a finger to her lips. ‘He phoned last night and said he’d managed to organize a small club tour. Only about ten dates, but it starts almost immediately. Some singer dropped out at the last minute. Irish pubs and clubs. Mainly in the north.’

They all turned as they heard the toilet flush, and, after a short duration, the slow sound of the bathroom door being unbolted.

Sylvia staggered back to the living-room. It took her several minutes. She sat down on the sofa and tried to calm herself. She felt terrible, but this sick feeling, this illness, was paradoxically reassuring. It was simpler than everything else. There was something intimate and familiar about it. She smiled to herself and thought, Sickness is like a boyfriend.

She stopped smiling and frowned. That morning she had awoken and her mind had been full of one thing, one word. The word was virus . She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Virus! The idea of it had stuck with her. She thought, Life is about man battling with the virus. The virus is like a force, but something so simple, so destructive. And man, in all his complexity, can’t beat it. He can’t beat the virus.

The thought of this made her skin crawl, but it made her feel gratified too and strangely calm.

Ruby’s bad start had infected her entire day. She’d argued with several customers, had broken the printing mechanism on her till before the biggest race of the afternoon, had spilled tea over one of Dawn’s magazines and had dropped the sugar bowl on the floor in the kitchen.

As she climbed the stairs up to her flat, the sugar on the soles of her trainers made an irritating gritty noise against the linoleum.

Almost at the landing, she met a neighbour: a small, mousy-haired girl who wore John Lennon glasses and baggy trousers. She was on her way down. She stopped Ruby as she moved past her, taking hold of the sleeve of her sweatshirt: ‘Ruby, is there an animal of some kind in your flat?’

Ruby almost smiled. Vincent, she thought, but said, ‘A dog.’