Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

On the tube, something odd happened. As they waited for a train, she put out her hand — a minute hand, dry to the touch, rough, scabby — and took hold of his. His body stiffened. He thought, Why is she doing this? He tried to catch her expression out of the corner of his eye, not turning his head, keen not to confront or embarrass her. He saw that she had her eyes closed. She swayed slightly.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded, still breathing through her mouth.

When the tube arrived, she moved very slowly and heavily. He prayed, God, I know it’s selfish, but don’t let her die on me. That’d finish me off completely.

At last they were home. By the time they’d arrived, she was panting. He opened the door and followed her in. She walked straight into the living-room and stood in the centre of the carpet, staring around her.

He said, ‘I’ll get you a drink. I bet your throat’s dry after all that … breathing.’

‘I only want water. Do you have bottled? Not Evian, it’s too chalky.’

‘My flatmate drinks bottled stuff.’

He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Sylvia remained where she was. She didn’t move, just closed her mouth and sniffed tentatively. This room, she decided, stinks of hippie oil. She didn’t like it.

Connor returned with a glass of water. He offered her the glass and she took it. He said, ‘Why are you pulling that face?’

‘This room.’ She was breathing through her mouth again. ‘It smells like perfume. I don’t like it.’

She looked around. ‘Where’s your room?’

He pointed. The door was half-open. She took several steps in that direction and then her legs began to wobble. He noticed and moved to assist her, taking the glass from her and putting an arm about her waist.

Slowly he helped her into his bedroom and on to his bed. Once comfortably seated, she put her hand out for the glass, took it from him and drained it in several gulps. Some of the water splashed down her chin and on to her pinafore.

He squatted next to her. ‘You don’t seem very well.’

His head was only a foot or so away from hers. His face, however, was partially covered by hair. His hair looked soft. She liked the way that she could see only a fraction of his features, but also it maddened her. She put out her hand and roughly drew his hair to one side, tucking it behind his ear. His face expressed a mixture of surprise and concern.

She said, ‘Let me be honest with you.’

She continued to stare at him and thought, What shall I say? Shall I tell him the truth? Shall I ask him to just leave me alone?

Her face projected her thoughts. He could see that she felt trapped, and was about to offer to leave her for a while, to say this to her, when her stomach interrupted them both with a loud, snarling, watery gurgle.

‘How long since you ate?’

She glared at him, as though affronted. ‘I won’t eat anything.’

He rocked back on to his haunches, surveying her. Am I doing this for Sam? he wondered.

He tried to understand Sylvia, what it was that she thought she was doing. Eventually he said, ‘Why have you been breathing through your mouth all this time? Are you still upset by the smell of things? Like you were the other day, on the phone, remember?’

She avoided his gaze, focused on his drums and said, ‘Do you play those?’

‘How long since you ate anything?’

‘Recently.’ She answered too quickly.

He said, ‘I guess that’s why you seem so weak. You’ve not been eating. Punishing Sam and Brera for going away.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t care what they do. I have my own life.’

He stood up. ‘I’m going to make you something to eat, and if you don’t eat it, I’m going to throw you out.’

He’d decided that firmness was best. She seemed far too manipulative to tolerate subtlety.

She stared at him coolly. ‘I don’t mind. I’ll go.’ She tried to push herself up, but couldn’t stand.

‘How long since you ate?’

She turned her mind back. ‘Thursday morning …’ then thought some more. Thursday morning she hadn’t eaten either. She found it hard to remember her last meal: maybe a sandwich on Wednesday night.

Connor stood up. ‘I’ll get you something.’

She wanted to stop him. ‘Wait a second.’

He paused on the threshold of the room. ‘Now what?’

She said, ‘I’m the sort of person who likes … discomfort. If I feel ill, I feel stronger. Do you understand what I mean?’

She knew this was a ludicrous question, so before he answered she said, ‘I could go home.’

‘Well, don’t expect me to help you. You don’t even have any money. How far do you think you’ll get in your condition? Be sensible.’

She considered this. She thought, What if I collapse outside and someone calls the police? Maybe they’ll have my picture, my description, on their files. Maybe they’ll know all about the girl in the park and the geese. Or else … Now her mind was speeding. Or else I might collapse and get taken to hospital. They’ll call Brera and she’ll come back. They’d never forgive me. She and Sam. It’ll justify everything they’ve both said.

She looked up at Connor. ‘All right. Get me something.’

She flopped back on to the bed. Connor remained in the doorway long enough to notice that she didn’t put her knees together when she lay down, but luckily the fabric of her dress fell between her legs.

She is like a man, he thought, remembering Sarah’s comment.

Sylvia stared up at the ceiling. This bed, she decided, smells strange. She could smell Sam on the sheets — a scent of vanilla — but it was mixed with something else. Sex, she decided. His smell.

She found him physically interesting. He was slight and thin, but also tall and in no way gawky. He had sensitive hands. His skin was healthy and smooth. His face wasn’t actually handsome, but it was the sort of face a small mammal might have — not a rodent’s face — a natural face. Clear and uncomplicated.

Her reverie was spoiled by the smell of real coffee. She felt physical alarm. She sensed her pulse rate quickening. She sniffed the air, inhaled it, digested it. Moments later she differentiated the aroma of bacon — a sweet, spicy smell — and the bland but startling fragrance of an egg frying.

She was cold. She touched her arms, which, she discovered, were rough with goose-pimples. She rubbed these vigorously until they melted away and then pushed herself up into a sitting position. Every sense, every pore, every orifice felt aroused.

Connor piled the coffee, juice and fried breakfast on to a tray and picked it up. He hoped that this combination of food wouldn’t be too fatty and rich for someone who hadn’t eaten in a while. Porridge would probably have been better for her, he thought, and weak tea. He carried the tray into his bedroom.

Sylvia was no longer on the bed. She was standing behind his drum-kit, staring out of the window.

He put the tray down. ‘Come on. Eat it while it’s still hot.’

She turned and faced him. Her eyes were wild and round. ‘Don’t make me.’

He didn’t want her mood to infect him. He couldn’t help thinking what an affecting person she was. He picked up a knife and sliced into some bacon, into the egg, and scooped these and a couple of slices of mushroom on to a fork. He stepped around his drum-kit and carried this small offering over to her. She pushed herself up against the window, her mouth tightly shut.

‘Open up.’

She shook her head, but he noticed her nostrils twitching. The food was inches from her face. Her eyes began to turn back in her skull, rolling, white, like the eyes of a frightened pony. For a second she looked as though she might topple into the window. He put out an arm to support her, curling it around her back. Her mouth opened, and a small moan, a tiny groan, escaped from her lips. He took this opportunity to slip the forkful of food into her mouth, afterwards closing her lips with his fingers.