Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

She took the slip from him. This was stupid. She’d told him she wouldn’t do it. She’d said so, but now she was doing it. He’d said that he wouldn’t write out the slip properly. That was part of the scheme. Only the horse’s name and a two, two noughts, in the wrong box. Under pounds instead of pence.

She pushed the slip into her till, pressed a two, kept her finger on the nought button that little bit too long. God! She did it. Registered the bet, tore it in half, handed him his half. He gave her no money.

‘What do you call it?’ he’d asked. ‘The technical name.’

‘An over-ring. If your hand slips, or if you don’t remember to put in the decimal point at the right time.’

‘You wouldn’t notice a mistake like that straight away, not if you were busy.’

‘I would.’

‘I bet you’ve done it before, though.’

‘Accidentally.’

‘If the horse wins, you say I gave you the two hundred. Pay your till back with part of the winnings. If I lose, say it was an over-ring.’

The swine, she thought. How many times did I tell him I wouldn’t do it?

The race was off. She stood up. How long would it last? Six furlongs?

‘Jason,’ she said, ‘I want to get a Coke.’

She walked past the safety door, through the shop and outside.

‘Jason would be bound to recognize you if you came up to collect the money.’

‘I’d get someone else to collect it.’

‘Who? I wouldn’t want anyone else involved.’

‘Nobody.’

‘Anyway, if I take a bet worth over fifty quid I’m supposed to notify the manager.’

‘Not if you’re too busy.’

‘Even then.’

She picked up two crates, placed one on top of the other and sat down. It was warm here. The sun shone on her bare arms and her face.

‘What’s the point?’

‘You could buy the dog. They treat you like shit anyway.’

‘Even the thought of it makes me feel sick.’

‘That’s excitement.’

The crates were uncomfortable. They cut into her legs. Vincent tapped her on the shoulder. For an instant she thought he was a wasp, a hornet. She jerked away.

‘I told you I didn’t want to do this. I said no.’

And he’d punished her by staying away. She had been punished .

I’m not nice after all, she realized, only weak. Weak. That was an ugly word. It made her feel ugly.

‘The horse won,’ he said, grinning. ‘At five-to-one. Origami. I chose it because my sister used to make origami swans.’

She looked up at him. ‘I said I didn’t want to do this.’

She couldn’t see his eyes, only her own face reflected in his glasses. A weak mouth. A weak chin. A weak face.

‘But you did it.’

‘I’m fidelity-bonded. Do you know what that means?’

‘No.’

‘It means that if I ever get caught doing anything illegal, I can never work with money again. Not anywhere, ever again.’

He scowled at her. Maybe she just wasn’t clever enough.

‘I’ve earned you eight hundred pounds. The horse came in at five-to-one.’

‘I don’t want your money.’

‘Not my money, your money.’

‘I don’t want the money. You have it.’

‘I don’t need it.’

‘Then burn it.’

She stood up and walked back inside.

When she sat down again, Jason said, ‘There’s a bet here for two hundred. You should’ve told me you’d taken it before the off.’

‘It was on the off. I didn’t have time.’

He handed her the slip, settled, with the amount she had to pay out written in red ink at the bottom. She stacked ten bundles of hundreds into a neat pile and waited for Vincent to come back in. He didn’t come.

She settled other bets, took slips, counted money, handed it over. She waited. She took a slip, counted the money, took a slip …

Vincent’s writing. She looked up. A face she almost recognized. Not Vincent’s face. She picked up the bundles she’d prepared and handed them over, two hundred short. He took the money and thanked her. The spare two hundred she moved into her till.

She knew that face. Who was he?

Fuck.

Sam noticed something strange about Sarah’s complexion as soon as she met her. A roughness. A reddish, blotchy patch around her mouth, nose and on her chin.

They were at the Scala watching a matinée showing of the director’s cut of Pretty Baby . Sarah’s idea. Sam had been keen to talk, which was unfortunate.

‘How’s Connor?’

‘Himself. Loud.’

‘Have you been busy?’

‘No.’

‘Do you like Brooke Shields?’

‘Sometimes.’

That redness. She had been kissing someone. With stubble. That would explain it.

She took the dog out, made something to eat, began packing. Only a small bag for the time being.

Vincent arrived while she was feeding the dog. He thumped on the door and then pushed it open.

‘You should be careful. I walked straight in here from the street.’

She wanted to silence him for a minute so that she could yell at him, but he kept on talking.

‘This small guy was sweeping the stairs. He stopped me and was asking all kinds of questions. Wanted to know about the dog.’

‘The caretaker. Red hair.’

‘That’s him.’

He walked into the bathroom. She heard him turning on the taps. She returned to her bedroom and sat down on her bed. She listened to the sound the water made as it hit the enamel bath. She listened to laughter, conversation, arguments going on outside in the street. She listened to the noises the dog made, pushing her bowl around on the kitchen tiles with her nose.

A while later Vincent appeared in the doorway, wrapped only in a towel.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Packing.’

She was packed.

‘You aren’t really going to Hackney?’

‘I said I would.’

‘You should’ve kept that money.’

‘You told me,’ she said, very calmly, ‘that you didn’t even know that epileptic.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t fuck me around.’

‘I actually just met him again today.’

‘You set me up.’

Vincent’s expression, previously churlish, became serious. ‘You don’t honestly think that?’

She knew it. She knew it.

What could he do with her? She had shocked him.

They were both silent for a while. She was staring down at her hands.

Eventually she looked up at him. He had dropped his towel. Her eyes widened.

‘Is it just sex you want?’ he said, his voice sounding flat and angry. ‘Is that it?’

She wasn’t surprised by this question. The only thing that surprised her was his honesty. But he was always honest. That was the problem.

‘Look at me,’ he said, ‘I’m ridiculous.’

She did look at him. She straightened her back and crossed her arms. He didn’t appear to be upset or embarrassed by her scrutiny. His skin was pink-tinged from the heat of the bath. His body was surprisingly hairy. He looked overweight. His stomach protruded. His thighs were stocky and angular. He said, ‘Don’t you want to laugh? Don’t I make you want to laugh?’

As he spoke she was staring at his penis, which seemed unusually pale, a whitish-blue colour by comparison with the ruddy tone of the rest of his skin. His testicles were lopsided.

She stood up and unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing. ‘You made me do something I didn’t want to do.’

‘What?’

She took off her shirt, hooked her thumbs into the black leggings she wore, pulled them down, stepped out of them, unclipped her bra, pulled down her knickers.

He noticed that her skin was a very cheap white and that her hips were fleshy and strong. Her nipples were tiny and a pale beige colour, like small round servings of coffee ice-cream.