Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

Now what? There was something in her expression, something harsh and hostile.

He said, ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I’m sick of you taking advantage. What did you do with that money?’

She was crazy for him, but he’d made her hate herself. Somehow.

He had never seen a woman strip as an act of hostility before. He wondered whether that was how she saw his body — as something offensive — when all he’d really intended was to ridicule himself.

‘I let him have it. It felt like he was owed it. I don’t know.’

In the same way, in the same way that he’d not wanted her to touch him, to kiss him, in that casual manner she had, that easy, accidental fashion. He didn’t want to be like the dog. A mistake. He either wanted plain sex, or, plain sex, or … He never thought about these things. Never. He couldn’t think about them.

He picked up his towel and walked out. She climbed into bed.

When Brera found Sylvia early on Saturday morning, she was huddled in an ungainly heap by her bedroom door, clutching a partially unbent coat-hanger and a fish-knife.

Brera prodded her with a slippered toe and said grimly, ‘Now what? Is this how it’s going to be?’

Sylvia stirred and then turned over. She opened her eyes. ‘I want to go in again. We agreed, didn’t we? You locked me out before and it didn’t work.’

‘Twice.’

Brera clearly remembered these two occasions. On the first — Sylvia had been thirteen — she’d gone on hunger strike: eight days without food before Brera relented. On the second occasion — at fifteen — after three days outside she’d sliced her arms with a kitchen knife. Brera didn’t really want to dwell on either incident. This time, she’d decided, it wouldn’t come to that. She said tersely, ‘Are you warning me? Is that it?’

‘I’m not doing anything. I can do exactly as I please.’

‘Listen to your voice. It sounds so clear.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Have you eaten?’ Brera was keen to avoid a confrontation.

‘No.’

‘Why aren’t you eating?’

Sylvia sat up, leaned her back against the door and rapidly changed tack. ‘I did eat, earlier on, before I fell asleep.’

‘What did you eat?’

‘Some bread. An apple. Milk.’

‘That’s not enough. I’ll get you some cereal.’

‘I’m full.’

Sylvia patted her stomach and looked off sideways. Brera found her expression shifty and devious. She’s still such a child, she thought, as she squatted down next to her and put out a hand to touch her hair. ‘You know we won’t go if you don’t want us to. That woman, Ruby, is coming this morning at eight. Maybe you don’t like her?’

‘She’s all right.’

‘You don’t really want us to go.’

Sylvia’s hair felt like wire under her hand. Sylvia turned and squinted up into her face. ‘You want to blame me for not wanting to go yourself. I can see straight through you. But I won’t have you blaming me again. I just want … I only want to be left alone, that’s all.’

Brera drew back her hand and stood up. ‘You’re going to do something stupid. I can tell.’

‘I won’t do anything. I just want …’

‘I know what you want. Just give it two more days. I want you to recover properly.’

‘Give me the key.’ Sylvia put out her hand.

‘I’ll give the key to Ruby. I’ll instruct her to let you in on Tuesday. That’s a promise.’

‘It’s too long.’

‘Only two days.’

Brera tried not to sound brutal. She knew that with Sylvia a fine line had to be drawn between cooperation and coercion.

Very gently Sylvia said, ‘I’m lonely. Please let me in.’

‘No.’ Brera’s voice remained sure and calm. ‘Tuesday’s soon enough.’

Sylvia crossed her arms. ‘You always have to treat me like a child.’

‘You always have to behave like one.’

‘OK.’ She stood up, scowling, her face reddening. ‘We’ll see.’

She turned and stalked away, down the corridor and into the living-room. Seconds later, Brera could hear her opening the curtains.

She called out after her, ‘Are you trying to spoil things? Are you punishing me?’

After a short silence Sylvia shouted back, ‘Only God can punish you.’

Brera scratched her head and then inspected her finger-nails. Eventually she said, ‘You don’t even believe in God, you bloody hypocrite.’

Sylvia grinned to herself, then sat down on the sofa. Why am I grinning? she wondered. I’ve got nothing to grin about.

There was a mustiness in the room that made her want to sneeze. She listened out to hear what Brera would do next. She crossed her fingers, hoping that she wouldn’t try to bring her something to eat, then uncrossed them with a small sigh of relief as she heard her go into Sam’s bedroom.

It felt strange having the curtains open. Over the past four or so days she’d spent all her time in virtual darkness. Early on she’d had trouble working out why this was so, but had felt too ill to do anything about it. Now she stared at the window, looking for her birds. Maybe they’ve forgotten me? If they have, I might just as well be dead.

She blinked several times, growing gradually more accustomed to the light.

When had the sun risen? Two hours, three hours earlier?

She sniffed and then sneezed. In the bright light she could see dust floating in the air: thousands of specks of it. She tried not to breathe them in, then felt light-headed, so filled her lungs. She could smell the sunlight. It smelled like a big, black oil slick — warm and oozy.

When she’d been talking to Brera, she’d been struck by how pungent her perfume was. Like dried apricots — a sweet, harsh smell. She thought, It smelled so strong as her hand touched my hair, I thought I’d gag.

The sunlight began to upset her. She debated whether to close the curtains again, but became too fearful, too frightened in case the birds had forgotten her. Several had accumulated on the window-sill — three sparrows and a starling. She couldn’t be sure, though, that they wouldn’t have been there anyway. She peered at them, over the arm of the sofa, too overwhelmed by the new, hot, hazy, dazy smells in the room to walk over.

Her mind switched to the night’s activities: the coat-hanger and the fish-knife. The smell from her room! She’d noticed it before, of course, but she hadn’t realized quite how repulsive … She couldn’t think about it. Too dangerous.

She lay down and closed her eyes. It was that time of day: cars full of people, driving to work, trains, tubes and buses. She could smell the exhaust fumes, like a thick, yellowy grog — a horrible, tepid, burning smell. The smell of business, of a big cigar.

If only I could hibernate. Draw in my head like a tortoise. Get into a dark cave, like a bear and simply sleep.

Two days, she thought. They won’t get me this way.

Sam had overheard the conversation in the hallway. She was lying in bed. She’d been awake for several hours; had, in fact, been listening to Sylvia earlier, working away at the lock on her bedroom door.

As she lay there she wondered whether Brera was intending to talk her way out of going on the tour. At the last minute.

She tried to think about Connor, but couldn’t concentrate on him, his feelings, the possibility of having hurt him.

She tried to think about Sarah, but, again, couldn’t settle her thoughts.

If I loved her. Loved, she thought, still smarting, my face, my figure, all that would be wasted. And then, What a stupid way to think.

Brera tapped on Sam’s door and walked in. Sam opened her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

Brera closed the door, walked over and sat down on the end of her bed.