Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

She removed her hand, inspecting it for a second — as though the hand was somehow separate from her body, from herself — and then wiped it on the front of her dungarees before turning and leaving the room.

Once Sam had gone, Sylvia took hold of the bottom of her T-shirt, pulled it up and rubbed her face vigorously with it. When she’d finished rubbing, her face was crumpled and wrinkled, as though she wanted to howl, or was howling, but without making a sound. She looked like a tiny red ant.

After a while her expression returned to normal. She whispered, ‘What did she have on her hands? What sort of perfume? Like vanilla pods. Like terrible vanilla on a knife blade.’

She was calm now, outside, but inside she was wild, galled and hot with anger.

I’ve got to hurt them back. But hurt them without hurting myself. That’s how people behave. That’s what Brera wants.

She stared over towards the window, but for once the birds — on the sill, in the sky, perched on the power lines — didn’t seem like everything, didn’t fill her world. Suddenly she felt the need to make room for something else. To broaden her horizons.

He’d already been awoken once by the phone.

At half-past eight the doorbell rang. He staggered up from the sofa to answer it, feeling like his spine had been twisted during the course of the night into a voluptuous spiral. He held the base of his back with one hand, endeavouring to massage the offending area, while with his other hand he clutched walls, doors and banisters, trying to support himself. Eventually he reached the front door. He opened it.

Steven stood there, smartly attired in a light-green suit. His lapels were wide, and his tie too. The tie was decorated with tropical fruit: a mango, kumquats, grapes and a papaya.

Vincent gingerly put out his hand and took hold of the tie. ‘You weren’t obliged to wear that.’

Steven knocked his hand away. ‘Has Ruby gone yet?’

Vincent tried to remember whether he’d seen Ruby or not. He shook his head. ‘I’ve been asleep. Someone phoned her early on.’

He attempted to call to mind his earlier phone conversation. Steven, meanwhile, pushed past him and bounded upstairs. Vincent closed the door and followed him at a more genteel pace.

He walked into the flat and closed the door behind him. Steven emerged from the bedroom. ‘Some of her things are gone.’

Vincent scratched his head. ‘Someone phoned this morning. What’s the time?’

Steven checked his watch. ‘Eight-thirty.’

‘Don.’

‘Who?’

‘The man who phoned. Don. He said it was important. Will you be seeing her?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Good.’ Vincent sat down on the sofa. ‘You can tell her, then.’

Steven appraised Vincent from above. He inspected the cut on his hairline. After a few moments he said, ‘I suppose this means you won’t be seeing her again.’

‘Ruby?’ Vincent thought for a second. ‘Probably.’

Steven couldn’t tell whether this ‘probably’ meant yes or no. To try to ascertain which, he said, ‘How long were you planning to stay here?’

Vincent rubbed his forehead. His fingers followed the path of his scar, his scab. Steven winced as he watched this, worrying that he might try to pull the scab off. He did try, but the cut was still too new.

Steven didn’t like the idea that Vincent might be planning to stay on in the flat indefinitely. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that she’s gone?’

Vincent yawned. ‘She’s left most of her stuff. She’s left her records.’

‘That was kind of her.’

Vincent realized that he wasn’t particularly enjoying this conversation. He didn’t want to analyse his feelings, preferring instead to feel urges and to act upon them.

‘You like Ruby?’ Steven asked, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

‘What?’ Vincent almost laughed. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

At the same time, however, he thought, Caring and liking. Are they the same things? Can I like a person without really caring about them? He supposed so.

Steven walked back over to the bedroom and peered in through the door. The whole flat looked like a tip. He turned towards Vincent. ‘Before you go, can you tidy the place up? It’s a mess.’

Vincent shrugged. ‘She likes it like this. She made this mess.’

He pulled his legs up on to the sofa and lay down on it again, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about Ruby any more. He found discussing her with Steven depressing. He didn’t like the idea, which any type of conversation between them implied, of some kind of common ground, something shared, any sort of similarity between them.

There’s nothing to discuss. I won’t commit myself to any one thing, to one place, one idea, one person. I have to commit myself to everything. If it’d only been sex — at first I thought it’d only be sex — then it would’ve been fine. Now everything’s too confused. People shouldn’t need to demand things from each other.

He liked this idea. He said, ‘People shouldn’t expect too much from each other.’

Steven was staring over towards the door, thinking about leaving, but at the same time peculiarly dissatisfied by this interlude with Vincent. When Vincent spoke, Steven couldn’t understand what he meant. He paused and waited for Vincent to clarify his words. Vincent kept his eyes closed. He was smiling to himself.

‘What a wanker,’ Steven muttered, letting himself out and going down the stairs.

After Steven had gone, Vincent continued to smile. He was remembering the colour of Ruby’s nipples.

The day stretched ahead of him. He knew that he was at liberty to fill it in any way he chose.

Ruby put her head down on the table, using her folded arms as a cushion. She closed her eyes.

‘You’re not ill or anything, are you?’

‘No.’ She didn’t bother opening her eyes or lifting her head. It’s only Steven, she thought, and he doesn’t count.

Steven pulled out a chair and sat down. Ruby listened to the dog as she shifted nervously under the table, concerned at his proximity.

‘I just went to your flat.’

‘Why?’

‘I was going to give you a lift. Your friend was still there.’

‘Vincent.’

‘He said that Don phoned and that I should tell you. Does that make any sense?’

Ruby opened her eyes. ‘Don? Why?’

‘Didn’t say.’ He registered her expression. ‘You can ring back now if it’s important.’

‘No. I’ll ring him later.’

She calculated in her mind the number of days that had expired since she’d acquired the dog. Six. Her mind turned to Vincent and the money. When she’d said no, had she really meant no? Maybe then, but now?

Steven said quietly, ‘You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’

‘Yeah. I should think so.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Are you working? It’s nearly half-nine.’

‘I’d like to go soon, but it won’t look too good if I leave before they do.’

He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll try and hurry them up a bit. They shouldn’t be much longer.’

She popped her head under the table and addressed the dog: ‘I’m going out soon. Can you hold your bladder for eight hours? I hope so.’

She hoped so.

Several pieces of paper were on the telephone table, some in a neat pile, others crammed into the directory. Eventually Sylvia found what she was looking for: a small piece of lemon-yellow notepaper. On it, in Sam’s hand, Connor’s name in capital letters and the ten digits of his phone number. She dialled.

It rang three times and was then answered: ‘Hi. This is Connor.’

‘Sylvia.’ Her voice was clear and loud.

‘You sound completely different from the last time we spoke.’