Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

She didn’t want him to come, but said, ‘The camera stuff is under my bed, in a black case. It’s all there. Get the dog muzzled.’

He popped his head around the bathroom door. ‘I like that dress.’

‘You’re welcome to borrow it.’

She turned back to the mirror and reapplied her lipstick. She thought, Don’t touch me ? Jesus.

Sam walked through to the living-room. It was dark and stuffy in here. She perched on the arm of the sofa, inspected the nebulizer and then the top of Sylvia’s head, which was all but covered by a blanket. She could hear her breathing rattling underneath it.

‘You must be boiling under there.’

Sylvia moved slightly.

‘Sounds like you had a bad attack yesterday.’

No movement.

‘Mum was telling me how you went out on Saturday night and that you’ve been strange ever since.’

Sylvia’s body stiffened. Sam noticed. That’s odd, she thought.

‘Was someone rude to you?’

Sylvia pulled the blanket away from her face. ‘Who’s that girl?’

‘Sarah? She’s a nurse. She’s going to look after you while Mum and I go away for a few days.’

‘She’s no nurse.’

‘No, she’s just a friend.’

‘You’re going away, though.’

‘We’ve been offered a small tour, but Mum isn’t keen to leave you, especially now you’re so sick.’

Sylvia tucked the blanket more tightly around her chin.

Sam changed tack. ‘Your breathing sounds terrible, like the noise a balloon makes when you let go of it and the air speeds out. Like a whistle. Have you tried the nebulizer?’

‘Last night. A bit this morning.’

‘You’ll be on steroids again if you’re not careful.’

‘I won’t be.’

Sam paused for a moment and then said, ‘What about your room?’

Sylvia turned, suddenly attentive. ‘Can you get the key?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘How?’

‘If you act reasonably over this tour thing, I’ll try and talk her round. Otherwise …’ She made an expansive gesture with her hands. ‘She might have you locked out here for good.’

Sylvia started to say something but the entry-phone buzzed. Sam stood up. ‘That’ll be Sarah. She just popped out to get some wine. I could bring you a glass if you like.’

Sylvia grimaced, turned over and pressed her face into the back of the sofa. ‘I don’t want anything. Keep her away from me.’

Her throat tightened.

‘I’m not being rude,’ Sarah said, sipping from her glass, comfortably ensconced at the end of the table, ‘but in performance terms, in any terms, it probably wouldn’t occur to most people that the two of you were even related.’

Brera was infuriated by this.

‘We are though,’ Sam said.

Brera added, ‘In a way that makes it even better. More dramatic.’

Brera didn’t actually know what she was talking about. This was Sam’s concern. Even so, Sarah gave her comment some consideration. ‘Well, it adds another dimension, certainly.’

Sam realized — and it came almost as a shock — that she didn’t like justifying herself, only explaining, only … not even discussing. Just talking.

She didn’t want to think about being different. They were all women, after all. That united them. Colour separated her from Brera, from Sylvia, but gender , that was what connected them. They understood each other. Their breasts, their vaginas. Sarah too. They were all the same.

Sylvia was escaping. Had to. Get some air. She made it to the door. The front door. They hadn’t locked it. Sarah’s fault. She pulled it open and stared into the hallway.

Two people were there, on the doorstep, engaged in an argument. They stopped when they saw her. She was wearing only a T-shirt, knickers and socks. Her mask was attached to her nose and mouth, but the wire dangled, unplugged, across her shoulder.

Two people and a dog.

Vincent had just told Ruby about Steven’s phone call. Ruby focused on Sylvia and began to say something, Sylvia simply turned her back on them, hopeless now, and started her journey back inside. She put her hand out to the wall to steady herself — everything achingly slow — and found instead Ruby beside her, Ruby’s hand steadying her, Ruby’s arm and Ruby’s shoulder.

Sylvia caught hold of Ruby’s hand. ‘What’s that?’

Ruby could barely understand her growl, but said. ‘It’s a bird.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I did it years ago.’

They shuffled inside. Vincent followed, like a porter, he thought, with the dog and the case.

Sylvia maintained her tight grip on Ruby. No one understood her here. She had to find understanding.

‘Shall I put the light on?’ Vincent asked in the hallway, and then, on receiving no reply, in the living-room.

Ruby settled Sylvia on the sofa. ‘Best leave it off.’

Sylvia’s breathing sounded like the noise a young fledgling might make, a mouse.

‘You can’t be either Sam or Brera.’

Vincent inspected the nebulizer. Sylvia indicated the refill bottle with her foot. He picked it up and tipped some inside where she showed him. She turned it on.

‘Why are you doing that?’ Ruby asked, suspicious.

‘Air conditioning,’ Vincent said. The smell in the flat was sickening.

Sylvia started to tell them both about the virus, still wearing her mask. Ruby sat down with her. Vincent squatted next to Ruby, closest to the machine and its expulsions.

‘Several … jangles … body-part … layer … transaction … locomotive …’

They couldn’t understand her. The nebulizer was steaming, producing a vapour, a heady, menthol mix. Their eyes began to stream. They were sniffing, inhaling something spectacular, the weirdest potion. After a while they were all laughing for no particular reason. Ruby was sure that she felt Vincent touching her leg, her tights, feeling her shoes. Was he really doing that? The air was so warm, so warm, and something else … Why was she here? She couldn’t focus. She struggled to remember.

Sam was on her third glass of wine. Sarah was discussing a trip she’d taken to the Philippines when she was eighteen. Brera felt something soft and moist against her thigh. Wine usually made her feel this way, but inside her chest, her stomach …

Sam, opposite Brera, sensed something vibrating between her knees. Their eyes met. ‘I think it’s a dog,’ Brera said, bursting out laughing. They peered under the table.

‘Where on earth did you come from?’

Sam listened intently for a moment and thought that she heard mutterings from elsewhere in the flat: chanting, grunting, stifled guffaws.

In the living-room, the darkness, she found them. The atmosphere had overloaded with the scent of ripe menthol.

‘How long have you all been here?’

She tried to open the door on to the roof, but of course it was locked. Instead she opened the curtains and the window.

‘You must be Sam … or Brera.’ Ruby tried to stand up. Failed.

‘What are you all doing?’

‘I’m supposed to be taking some photographs. Steven sent me.’

Sam walked over and switched off the nebulizer. She waved her arms around, trying to improve the circulation of air. ‘It’s like an opium den in here. That stuff’s toxic if it isn’t used properly.’

She noticed that Sylvia was holding Ruby’s hand and that her mask was unplugged.

If this girl, Sylvia thought, tells Sam I was trying to escape …

‘We knocked on the door and your friend answered,’ Ruby said.

‘My sister.’

This was a mistake everyone made.

Sylvia grinned, under her mask, victorious.

‘I only just found out we weren’t even supposed to come,’ Ruby added, apologetically, ‘which is a pity, really, because the light’s brilliant.’