Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

‘Terry was sniffing around earlier. You’d best get rid of it.’

Terry was the caretaker.

‘Hell. That’s all I need.’

She took out her keys and unlocked the door to her flat. She could hear music inside. She couldn’t place it, though. As she opened the door she listened more attentively.

Vincent was standing in the kitchen wielding a large bread knife.

‘What’re you doing?’

She walked over to the stereo and turned the volume down.

‘Dinner.’ He grinned at her. ‘Watch this.’

He bent down low, disappearing from sight behind the work surface. After several seconds he raised his arm, bringing his right hand into view. On it, cleverly reassembled in macabre puppet form, was the tattered rabbit skin. He bounced it along the counter, waving the rabbit’s paws and nodding its head.

Ruby covered her mouth with her hand. ‘That’s disgusting.’

The rabbit clapped its paws and then bowed.

She felt queasy. ‘Get rid of it. It’s horrible.’

Vincent stood up, the rabbit still covering his hand, and strolled towards her.

She took a step backwards. ‘Keep it away from me.’

She moved behind the armchair.

‘For God’s sake, it’s only a piece of fur.’

She tried to distract him. ‘Where’s the dog?’

‘The rabbit ate her.’

He moved around the armchair. Ruby continued to back away. ‘Is she in the bedroom?’

‘Might be.’

‘Something’s burning.’

‘Onions. They aren’t burning.’

Ruby stepped up against the sofa and then toppled on to it. Vincent bent over towards her, holding the rabbit only inches from her face and clapping its paws together as if intending to grab hold of her nose. She yelled and tried to escape sideways, but Vincent was too quick for her. He grabbed her arm with his free hand and pushed her flat on to the sofa. She struggled, but he held her hips down with his knee and moved his free hand to her shoulder.

‘Get lost!’

Her face was scarlet. She was perfectly serious. Vincent was laughing.

He said, ‘I won’t put it in your face, honestly.’

Instead he pulled up her sweatshirt and stuck the rabbit between her breasts. This time Ruby screamed. She pushed Vincent’s hand and knee away and ripped at her sweatshirt. Vincent rolled off her and on to the floor, roaring.

Ruby could feel the sticky fur and skin of the rabbit against her bare flesh, but she couldn’t bear to pull it out with her hands. Instead she pulled off her sweatshirt and watched disgustedly as the rabbit fell to the floor. Vincent put out his arm to reach for it, but she kicked it away and then kicked him in the stomach.

‘Fuck!’

He grabbed her foot and twisted it, bringing her down heavily on top of him. He was winded but still gasping with laughter. Ruby tried to scramble to her feet, but he stuck one of her arms behind her back and held it painfully in this position.

Her face was pressed into his shoulder. She bit him in the soft flesh between his shoulder-blade and his armpit. He swore and then tossed her over on to her back and straddled her stomach.

At this point it dawned on him that she was wearing no shirt, only a black bra. Her pale skin underneath it felt like candle wax.

She said, ‘I could really hurt you if I chose to, but I choose not to.’

He laughed. ‘You think so?’

He touched the place where she had bitten him. ‘I bet you pierced the skin.’

She stared at his hand. It was caked with dry blood from the rabbit. He looked at it and smiled. ‘Rabbit blood.’

She wondered whether he intended to lean over and kiss her. She thought, It’d take so little effort to kiss me now. He will kiss me.

But he didn’t. He put his hands on the floor, either side of her, and pushed himself up. She thought, He doesn’t even want to.

She lifted her foot and kicked him squarely between the thighs.

He yelled. His legs buckled and his expression lost all traces of merriment. She scrambled to her feet, pushed him over sideways and used all her weight and strength to hold him down.

His face was pale. She smiled dryly to herself, pinning his arms to the floor with her knees.

Gradually he regained some of his colour. She leaned over him. He opened his eyes and looked into her face. She stared back at him, still holding him down firmly, although he offered no opposition. She moved slowly and deliberately closer to his face and then kissed his nose, his lips. These were small kisses, soft kisses, her lips puckered loosely as though she were about to suck a lychee.

He turned his head away. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t touch me.’

She pulled back.

‘Where’s the dog?’

‘In the bedroom.’

‘Right.’

She stood up and looked around for her sweatshirt. It was slung over the arm of the sofa. She grabbed it and held it to her chest as she walked over to her bedroom. Opening the door, she said, ‘Those onions still smell like they’re burning.’

He sat up. ‘How was work?’

‘I had a terrible day.’

She went into her room. ‘And I’ve got to go out now.’

‘Where?’

He scrambled to his feet and went into the kitchen.

‘To take some photos. I won’t have time to eat.’

‘It’ll keep.’

Scowling, he turned off the oven.

Ruby closed her bedroom door and leaned up against it. She felt sick.

The dog was stretched out on her bed. She opened a lazy eye and perused Ruby with it. Her tail thumped gently against the pillow. Ruby walked to her cupboard and searched for something special to wear. She wanted to look good. She had been insulted.

At the back of her wardrobe was a cotton dress, plainly cut, flattering but not too short. She took it out and inspected it. It was black with a thin white band around the neck and hem.

She pulled it over her head and put her arms through the armholes, but before she pulled it down, she yanked off her trainers and stepped out of her jeans, spat on her hand and rubbed it between her breasts to eliminate any final traces of the rabbit, then adjusted the dress and looked around for a pair of sheer black tights. She found some, checked them for holes and then sat down on the bed to pull them on. As she eased them over her feet and stretched them up her calves she thought, Does he hate me now? Does he think I’m easy?

She hated that word.

Did she like him? She remembered Sunday and the incident with Donald Sheldon. On Sunday I convinced myself that I liked Don Sheldon and I’ve never fancied him.

She stood up and pulled the tights over her bottom and thighs, settling the elastic comfortably around her waist. Would I have had sex with Vincent? Yes? What did he mean, ‘Don’t touch me’? What does that mean?

Shoes.

She searched for a specific pair of high-heeled black shoes. She found them under her bed and slipped them on, then stared down at her feet and thought, How can I fancy him?

All she could think of was that moment, on Saturday, when she had walked into the burger bar and he had been standing by the counter. It was a random moment, but the thought of it seemed to satisfy her in some way — nothing specific about the moment, but the moment itself.

She liked his carelessness.

She marched to the door and opened it. Vincent was leaning against the oven. He hadn’t moved. He stared at her. She felt her insides swelling.

‘What’s up?’ He asked this aggressively, defensively.

She glared at him, not understanding what he meant. She said, ‘I’m in a hurry.’

She turned and went into the bathroom, inspected her face in the mirror and picked up her make-up bag.

Vincent called through from outside. ‘I’ll get the dog ready.’

‘Why?’

‘We’ll come too.’