Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

Calm down, calm down, two, three, four.

Sarah flung open his bedroom door. She had knocked twice but he hadn’t heard.

‘Would you give it a rest for a while? My head’s splitting.’

He stopped immediately, was almost grateful to her.

She glanced at his face. ‘You look terrible. As white as a sheet.’

He said nothing. She disappeared. He sat still, stared at the drumsticks in his hands, debated whether to start up again, but couldn’t face it. He was wound up like a watch. His palms were damp. He needed to unwind.

He stood up, stepped carefully away from the kit and walked into the living-room. Sarah was in her bedroom. He could hear her hairdrier. She can’t listen, he thought. He picked up the phone.

Sylvia never answered the phone. She lay on the sofa as it rang. She didn’t even bother considering who it could be. She didn’t know anybody.

Brera and Sam were out shopping. Again. She stared around the dark room. So this is how it’s going to be from now on? She smiled to herself.

The telephone continued to ring. She sucked her teeth.

Connor was so shocked when someone answered that he actually dropped the receiver. He picked it up in time to hear a voice say, ‘No one rings for this long.’

‘It’s me, Connor.’

‘Who?’ She knew perfectly well who he was.

‘I’m a friend of Sam’s. Is she there?’

Sylvia put down the phone and walked to the bathroom. She washed her hands, noting how much her eczema had improved over the past couple of days. She returned to the living-room and sat down on the sofa. Connor’s voice vibrated in tiny soundwaves through the air. Eventually she stood up and strolled back over.

‘Look, I’m tired.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Why?’

‘I just wondered.’

Sylvia debated whether to answer this and then said, ‘I’m locked in.’

‘You are?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you all right?’

She grinned to herself. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

Connor scowled. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Look, this is silly.’

‘Silly?’ She smirked. ‘Well, you’re paying, stupid.’

‘Will he be gone all night?’ Ruby asked, feeling relieved, but also defeated.

Toro was drunk, leaning against Ruby’s doorframe and emitting yeasty belches. He shrugged.

‘Where is he?’

He shrugged.

‘Fine.’

She slammed the door and then opened it again. ‘Don’t you have any idea?’

He shook his head.

‘Didn’t he even give you a message for me?’

‘I gave it to you.’

Ruby watched as he turned and staggered downstairs, hanging on to the banister for support. She closed the door and sat down on the sofa again. The dog was asleep in her bedroom, but the flat still felt empty.

‘Bastard.’ Her voice sounded ludicrously small.

She wanted a drink. A lager. She was peckish. A kebab. She stood up, went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and took out her coffee jar. She took off the lid and peered inside. No money. What had he done with it?

She wasn’t so much angry as hungry. She put down the jar and looked around for Vincent’s rucksack. It was still on the floor next to the sofa. She frowned. Did I really think he’d gone? He wouldn’t go like that.

She picked some mould off a piece of bread and put it in the toaster.

Two hours later they were still on the phone. Nothing real or significant, in conversational terms, had been achieved during this time. Connor had tried, on several occasions, to turn the subject of their conversation around to topics closer to his heart, but such attempts had proved futile. He said, ‘About Sam …’

Sylvia cleared her throat and then cleared it again. Her throat never felt fully clear. After clearing her throat for a third time she said, ‘My sister.’

‘Yes.’

Connor hoped that Sylvia wouldn’t go off at a tangent again. He was sick of the virus. She’d told him all about it. At inordinate length. Having a conversation with Sylvia was like blowing an egg. All the time you did it you could only think what a waste of energy it was, and sometimes the pin holes at either end would collapse and the overall effect would be entirely ruined.

Sylvia knew perfectly well that Connor only wanted to speak to her because he couldn’t speak to Sam. She was obstructing him. It has also occurred to her that it was possible to do just about anything on the phone without the person at the other end having the slightest inkling. She considered some of the things that it would be possible to do and tried a few of them.

‘About Sam …’

Sylvia didn’t respond. She was inspecting the hair under her right arm while holding the phone slackly in her left.

‘Is she busy at the moment?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Sarah told me …’

‘Fuck her.’

‘Who, Sarah?’

‘Fuck her.’

‘Sarah?’

‘Fuck her.’

‘I was told that Sam and Brera had several gigs lined up.’ He’d tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.

‘Ha!’ Sylvia laughed and then coughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

She had just been sniffing the hair under her arm. She sniffed it again — deeply, fully — and inhaled the strong, pungent smell of old sweat. It was a horrible and yet a delicious smell.

Connor was still talking: ‘I don’t suppose you’d mind mentioning to her …’

Sylvia said, half to herself, ‘Why did I put my nose there?’

‘What?’

‘Smell. I never noticed.’

‘What?’

She stared around the room, looking for things that were aromatic. She put down the phone and muttered, ‘If I didn’t notice, maybe I couldn’t. If I couldn’t, then why did I put my nose under my arm?’

Connor sensed that all was not well at the other end. He could hear a selection of distant squawks and muffled thumps. He debated whether to hang up. Why am I speaking to this girl? Am I that fucked up over Sam?

On Tuesday when Sarah had returned home from Hackney she’d asked, ‘Have you met Sylvia before?’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s a barbarian.’

‘You don’t like her?’

‘She’s like a big, brown, hairy man. She even speaks like a man.’

Connor had tried to imagine Sylvia as a man. He imagined Sam, but masculine. He liked the idea. Yet when he spoke to Sylvia, she didn’t sound like a man at all, more like an old woman: stroppy, strained, dithering.

He wouldn’t hang up. No. He held on.

Sylvia stood in the kitchen, staring into the fridge. She took out a bottle of milk and sniffed it.

‘Oh my God!’

She shook her head, blinked, and then sniffed it again. ‘Can I taste it? I can’t taste it.’

She put it down, too frightened to try, reaching instead for a half-eaten packet of soft cheese. She pushed her face into it, covering the tip of her nose in its soft stickiness. She gasped, dropped the cheese, backed into the kitchen table, knocked over a chair and clutched at her face with both hands. She stood still, her two hands covering her nose, her breathing jerky and uncontrolled.

Connor was relieved when he heard her again.

‘Hello?’

She was close to the phone, panting and hesitant. She picked up the receiver.

‘Um.’

She was rubbing her nose with the flat of her palm. Her nose was now red from rubbing.

‘What were you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

Her response was too quick, he thought. He smiled to himself. ‘You said something before … something about a smell.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Um. Shit.’

‘What?’

‘Go away.’

‘I heard you shouting.’