Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

Sam’s mind, full of Sarah. Connor’s mind, full of Sam. Brera’s mind, full of Sylvia. Sylvia’s mind, contained so easily, flying above the city.

What the hell had happened? A day of nagging, an ugly, pointless, driven, aimless time. He didn’t want to think about it. Solid things. That was better. Something solid. Thursday. Yes. Bateman Street. Yes. Ladbrokes.

He was sitting on a small, red plastic stool. He was watching the television screen. How was he feeling? Defeated? Frustrated? There was no answer to that. He wouldn’t provide an answer.

Ruby. She had refused him. He worried that she lacked understanding, and therefore, as a consequence, that she also lacked imagination. She’s deceptive, he thought. She looks like she doesn’t care, she lives like she doesn’t care, but she does care. She does. He couldn’t deny that he liked her strength, but her goodness?

On the screen appeared a list of the runners for the two o’clock at Hackney.

Was it goodness or was it just stupidity? No, not stupidity, worse than that. Conservatism.

He had wanted to go to the track with her, but he wouldn’t admit it. He had been forced to argue with her instead, which, everything considered, was for the best.

He had been hoping for an outside trap for Buttercup: four, five or even six, but he saw immediately that she had been drawn in trap three. He felt around in his pockets and pulled out a handful of notes. He stared at the list of runners, trying to understand the odds. Buttercup was out at twenty-five to one. The favourite, a bitch called Karen’s Special, was the four-to-five odds-on favourite. The commentator for the race was saying how she’d been dropped a grade because she’d just come out of season, so she was running well below her class. She was usually a railer, but was drawn in trap four.

‘Right.’

The notes he was clutching had been removed that morning from Ruby’s coffee jar. This was his revenge. He reached for a pen and was still scribbling on his slip when the commentator introduced a visual survey of the animals in the race. Six small figures led six tiny dogs in coloured jackets out on to the track. He saw Ruby immediately, saw, even from this great distance, that her jacket was ill-fitting — too large, greyish — and that her hair shone out like a clump of flossy white cotton. He found himself grinning.

He watched intently as each dog was paraded in front of the camera. Ruby was third. Her expression was serious as she posed Buttercup and encouraged her to stand straight, side-on, to her best advantage. The dog’s tail, Vincent was pleased to note, wagged cheerily. Ruby did not look at her best on screen. In fact she looked rough — her expression tired, almost grim, and her face heavily made-up, especially her eyes, which looked too dark somehow, too hooded.

Vincent peered around him at the other punters. Most of them were staring into space, writing on their slips or inspecting their papers. He felt a tightness in his chest. This isn’t sex, he told himself, refusing to even consider the word affection ; not sex, only excitement.

Ruby had moved on and the favourite was now showing: a lean, slight, brindle bitch.

He picked up a pen and completed his slip. Trap four. A practical choice, a sensible gamble, free of sentiment. He visited the counter and returned to his stool.

On the screen the dogs were being loaded. Ruby, he noticed, was chatting to the person handling the dog next to her and smiling. What was she saying? Did she think she’d win? What was she thinking?

He listened to the whistle of the mechanical hare.

‘Hello.’

Toro stood beside him, eating a doughnut.

‘Hang on.’

The hare whizzed past the traps and at that same instant the traps opened. Vincent’s eyes were glued to the third trap. Buttercup sprang out.

‘Yes!’

She shot out of the trap like a bullet and veered immediately towards the hare, smashing full-on into the dog to her right. This dog (the favourite) rolled twice and pushed into the dog from the fifth trap who had come out more slowly. Buttercup stumbled, found her feet and ran on, but was then cut out of the picture as the camera followed and focused on the leading dogs from traps one, two and six, who had come out unhindered.

Vincent jerked his head sideways as though endeavouring to see beyond the screen, beyond what the camera would show.

Traps one and two were running close to the rails, six was in the picture but running wide. By the third bend, six had fallen back and Buttercup had inched her way into view, running in enormous, exhaustive bounds, on the outside, eventually running close to the six dog and then overtaking him.

‘Yes!’

Vincent bounced up from his stool, forgetting about his bet, thinking only about Buttercup. ‘Go on, you silly bitch!’

He was so intent on watching Buttercup’s progress, her every move, her every stride, that he failed to notice as the number one dog ran across the finishing line, followed closely by trap two.

The race was over. The hare stopped.

He looked down at his slip. ‘That was quick.’

Toro put out his hand for the slip, but Vincent screwed it up and threw it at one of the television screens.

‘Forget it. Come on.’ He took hold of Toro’s arm. ‘Let’s get drunk.’

Stan bent over and ran his hands down the dog’s back, her rump and hocks. ‘Seems OK. We’re in seven kinds of shit, though.’

Ruby was patting Buttercup, was so proud of her. The dog was still jerky, panting, trembling.

‘Did one of the other dogs get hurt in the tumble?’

He shrugged. ‘I dunno. That’s not our main problem. Our problem is the racing manager. He’ll have to explain why an obvious wide runner got drawn in trap three. It’s his responsibility. The punters’ll be fuming, and if it looks bad for him, then it looks bad for you.’

‘But it’s …’

‘His fault. Yeah, but that won’t make him feel any better. It’s not as though he’s had any indication from her previous form.’

‘No.’

‘He might scratch her.’

Ruby’s jaw dropped. ‘He can’t do that. She came third.’

She towered above Stan. He was a withered four foot nine, hunched and red-nosed. She waited for him to say something. The dog was sitting down now, panting, her paws still hot.

‘Don lost a lot of money recently.’

‘What?’

‘Gambling. He lost a load gambling, so he sold a good dog from the kennels, and unloaded this bitch on you.’

‘Well, he can’t have been that desperate. I haven’t even paid him yet.’

‘Exactly.’

He gazed down at the dog.

Connor was in his bedroom practising on his drums and keeping up a frenetic, repetitive, hardcore beat. He stopped for an instant, flipped a drumstick into the air, caught it, and then commenced with another song. He laughed out loud, relishing the noise he was making, the tension he was releasing.

Tension?

Am I tense? Just thinking about it made him stiffen up even further, although his arms kept on banging and tapping and whipping.

Am I tense?

He was desperate to communicate with Sam. She’d been out of contact for … he counted the hours in time with each beat … fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four hours. He continued drumming, noticing how his heart had started to pump in time. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Too quick, too speedy, too swift. He was warm, not warm, hot, not hot, wet. His head was wet.

I want to stop drumming but I can’t. It was too loud, too fast. Sarah will think … two, three, four. What would Sarah think? He didn’t give a damn what Sarah thought.

He felt as though his heart was beating so rapidly now that it was actually faster than the drums: double-time. His head began to feel light, soft and airy.