Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

She felt it against her skin and it made her skin tingle.

Someone was next to her. She tried to open her eyes, to stare, yet when she opened her eyes the light was too bright, so she closed them again. But this is a different dream. In this dream I can see everything.

Next to her, on the rock, was a dog — a big soggy dog. She turned her head and stared at it. Vincent! She laughed. It wasn’t a dog at all. He glared at her. She realized that she was naked.

He said, ‘I’m going to have to throw you in.’

His voice was so soft. Obviously the cave has made his voice softer, she thought.

He grabbed her arm. Is he wearing anything? She tried to see, but when she opened her eyes everything was too bright. She felt him touch her breasts and then her belly. Again he said, ‘I’m going to have to throw you in.’

‘All right.’ She giggled. Her voice sounded stupid.

He was pulling her towards the water. She wasn’t afraid. She wanted him to pull her in. He was holding her arm, still holding it, but now she was holding his too. She said, ‘If I go, you go.’

She sensed the water close to her feet, surrounding her feet, her shins, her calves, her knees. She tried to slide in quicker, but he held her back. She felt his skin all wet and shuddered.

When she awoke her pillow was on the floor. She reached out for it, keeping her eyes closed.

Oh no. I won’t wake up from this.

Connor dragged the telephone into his bedroom. He had just made a cup of tea, tip-toeing around the flat so as not to wake anyone. Sarah had a guest. He didn’t want to intrude. The telephone cord was just about long enough. He slipped it underneath his door, pushed the door shut, then sat down on the floor and drank a mouthful of his tea. He coughed. It was still too hot. He put the cup down and dialled Sam’s number.

It rang several times and then she answered it. He shoved some hair behind his ear. ‘So you’re up?’

‘Yes.’

Already — it had only been three days — it felt strange to her: his voice, his manner so familiar.

He said, ‘We haven’t spoken in ages.’

‘How’s Sarah?’

‘Pretty busy. Someone stayed over.’

‘Who?’

‘God knows. A man.’

Sam jerked at the phone cord so hard that she almost disconnected the call.

He was irritated. He thought, What does it matter? It’s only her .

He said, ‘Sarah mentioned that you had some gigs lined up.’

‘Hull on Saturday.’

She sounded half-hearted. He noticed and tried to flatter himself that he was the cause of her misery.

Sam said, ‘You were in the paper today. A picture and everything.’

‘I saw it.’ He was pleased that she’d seen it. ‘We’ve got a gig tomorrow too. Subterrania.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Could I see you tonight? You left some stuff here.’

‘I don’t think so. Sylvia’s not been well. We want to spend some time with her before we go.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’d better get off the phone. I don’t want to wake her.’

‘I hope it goes well tomorrow,’ he said, sounding disconsolate.

‘Thanks. See you.’ She hung up.

Sylvia coughed. Sam turned. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘You always have to use me as an excuse. I hate it.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘You both make me sick. You and Brera. You’re always doing it.’

‘We don’t mean to.’

Sam’s eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness. She could see Sylvia propped up on the sofa, surrounded by cushions.

‘That’s the worst part of it, though. You always mean everything you do.’

Sam went back to her room. She sat on her bed and promptly burst into tears. She kept thinking, What’s going on? I can’t make sense of this. I don’t want to make sense of it.

Sylvia padded quietly into the hallway and listened to Sam crying. Good, she thought, that’s her out of the way. She could hear Brera brushing her teeth in the bathroom.

She slipped along the passage and into the kitchen. It was so bright in here. She blinked for several seconds before she could adjust her eyes.

The paper was open on the kitchen table. She paged through it, hoping for a familiar face, an image she could recognize, but nothing sprang out at her. She turned to the front and looked for some indication of content. She found what she was searching for and turned towards the back.

Half-way down this page was the heading STIR-FINE! and a picture. She stared at the picture, her eyes widening in surprise. He looked absolutely nothing like he sounded, nothing like she’d imagined.

She was disturbed by a movement in the hallway. She spun away from the paper towards the sink, picked up a glass and held it under the tap.

Brera walked in. ‘I thought you were Sam.’

She didn’t reply.

‘What’re you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s bloody wrong!’

She banged the glass down on the draining-board and marched out. She felt dizzy. In the sunlight everything smelled so acute, so strong. Even the newspaper, like bleach and ink — a hot, savage smell.

She was so hungry but she couldn’t eat. If I eat, she thought, I might give myself away.

She threw herself on to the sofa. Everything needs to be normal, she decided. She lay down flat. I’m threatened. By what? Alternatives. I must get back … the feathers, the fluttering, the catch in my throat. No senses, no sense.

She remembered Connor’s face: unshaven, so dirty, all that hair, in tangles. She thought, He kept my secret. Now I owe him something. Now we owe each other something. This notion depressed her.

She coughed for a while and then spat out the phlegm from her mouth on to a tissue. Suddenly she found it hard to swallow phlegm, to do normal things.

Maybe God is punishing me for killing that little girl. Everything is getting bigger and bigger, and the bigger everything gets, the smaller I am.

She felt minuscule.

Vincent was strolling down Argyll Street with an open can of lager in his hand and a paper under his arm. He was happy. If you ask for anything, he was thinking, you face the possibility of someone saying yes and of someone saying no. This didn’t strike him as good enough. It didn’t satisfy him.

Pigeons were everywhere: oily, skinny, puffy, mottled. He kicked up his feet as he walked, as if he were striding through winter leaves.

What kind of a commitment had he made to her? Any? None?

Ruby pondered these questions as she worked the till and the pay-out. Friday was Dawn’s half-day. As usual, it was busy.

Two-thirty now. Was the dog still all right? She’d nipped out at twelve and had taken her for a short stroll. She’d been going stir-crazy.

Where was he? Sod him.

Where was he, though?

There he was. She felt. Sick.

Two forty-five. He was going to do something she didn’t want him to do. The bastard. She’d said no to him, over and over, but he was still here, like he’d threatened. He wore her hat and a pair of almond-shaped mirror glasses. Where did he get hold of those? He looked absurd.

Jason was busy. She checked furtively. He was filling out a stationery order.

‘The whole idea,’ she’d said, ‘is stupid. People rip off book-makers all the time and they always get caught.’

‘Only the ones you hear about.’

‘But even the ones I hear about have better ideas than yours.’

‘How?’

‘Well, either way I come out of it looking like I’ve made a mistake.’

‘A small mistake. I bet you make mistakes like that all the time.’

‘Not on purpose.’

He had chosen his horse: Origami. She’d never even heard of it. Just before the off, when it was busy, he came up and handed her his slip. A queue of punters formed behind him. Jason was giving her a hand, working the other till.