Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

He saw her face, so stupid, so child-like, so full of impulse, and wondered what they were doing, what they could do. At the back of his mind he knew that he would make love with her, if he could, but he didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, that she wouldn’t change her mind half-way through, get bored or get angry. She wasn’t emotionally consistent.

He pulled her closer to him and touched the redness on her chest and neck, then took her nipple into his mouth as she sat astride him. She pulled it away. ‘That’s my job.’

Is she joking? he wondered.

Her face was serious. ‘If we have sex now …’ she frowned, ‘will it be interesting? Will it taste of anything? I mean, what would we do?’

Even as she spoke, he felt himself diminishing. He said, ‘I suppose the point is that you do it because you want to be close to another person.’

She pulled back slightly and stared at him. His face was covered by his hair, his body was lean. Like the bacon, she thought, not too much fat on it.

She pushed his hair away from his face. Underneath it, his eyes were uncertain. She liked that. She felt herself warming inside, bubbling a little, like milk before it boils. She pushed him gently down again and pulled off his shorts.

This is a real, live, proper man, she thought, delighted.

She pulled the covers over him, as though tucking him up for the night, scooped another mittful of ice-cream from the tub, and then slipped in beside him. She pushed down her creamy hands and took hold of his now somewhat flabby member. He gasped at the coldness of her touch.

‘Where does this go?’ she asked quietly. Then added, ‘Don’t tell me, I’ll guess.’

Where was Sylvia? Out. Already?

Ruby collapsed on the sofa. The dog had been locked inside all day. She’d have to take her out soon. She didn’t move, though.

In the kitchen, Buttercup sat under the table, her nose peeking out between two chairs. Close to the sink was a large puddle of urine. The kitchen smelled strongly of dog.

Ruby surveyed this scene, then squatted down and spoke directly to her: ‘How can I be angry with you?’

The dog stared back at her, blankly.

She pulled out a chair and sat down on it. Her mind was clean and empty.

Steven had booked them into a small hotel within walking distance of the bridge.

At four they’d completed their sound-check in the club. At five they had a light meal in a tiny café, close to the hotel. At six Brera got up to order another pot of tea.

Sam and Steven watched her as she strolled over to the counter.

‘Excited?’

Sam had been staring after Brera, not really concentrating. ‘Pardon?’

‘I asked whether you were excited.’

She shrugged.

‘You’ve been quiet.’

‘Yeah.’ She looked down at her hands.

Sometimes she hated being away from home because things could so easily spin out of proportion. At home everything was balanced by a kind of regularity: possessions, routine, family. But when you were away, stupid, small, tiny impulses, thoughts, notions, could take over and dominate everything. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sarah. About herself and how separate she felt.

Steven was staring at her, as though expecting her to say something.

She said, ‘Did you get to meet my friend Sarah the other day?’

He considered this question for a moment and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘No reason.’ Sam focused on his tie — a bright, wide, ugly thing. ‘I just wondered.’

Ruby gazed at the dog.

‘Dog,’ she said eventually, ‘You are not enough.’

She stood up and strolled around the flat. Eventually she arrived outside Sylvia’s door. Inside, when she listened carefully, she could hear a combination of low clucking and cooing, a deep, meditative humming and a whirring noise. She leaned her body against the door, submerging herself in these sounds. After several minutes she reached inside her jacket pocket and took out a bunch of keys. The metallic jangling that they made and the noise of steel against steel as the key turned in the lock jarred on her nerves. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The smell was terrible, but she didn’t mind it. She accepted it. Inside the room were birds, birds, birds. Everywhere, like feathery wallpaper, glued to their perches, silent, watching. In the dusk their faces glowed. It isn’t dusk yet, she told herself; just seems that way.

She walked over to Sylvia’s bed and sat down on it. So many eyes watched her. Why don’t they fly away? she wondered. They should do. But they didn’t.

Something was tickling her. For a moment she thought it was a feather in her nose, in her throat, but then she realized that it was love. Love . An infinitely soft fur-ball of enchantment, an amiable, intimate contentment.

She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. When she’d closed them, she remembered a dream: a bird at her window and the red sky. A thought floated into her head. All these things go on, and you don’t even notice, but they go on anyway .

She felt something soft and scratchy on her hand, heard the buzz of tiny wings, the fan of feathers. One by one the birds surrounded her. Some of the smaller ones landed on her arms and chest, balancing on the landscape of her body.

Eventually a small sparrow alighted on her nose. She wanted to laugh and to twitch, but did nothing.

I am so flat, so empty, she thought, and felt suffused with joy.

Connor stroked her cheek, leaning over the bed. She opened her eyes and saw that he was fully dressed. He said, ‘I’m going out now. We’ve got a gig in West London. You’re welcome to come along and listen.’

What is this? she thought. I don’t want anything else from him, apart from what I’ve already had.

She rolled over, sniffing the pillows, appreciating the smell of his hair on the cotton covers. ‘Go. I’ve got things to try.’

He didn’t really want to leave her. Tonight, he decided, I’ll do something by Big Star as an encore, something from Sister Lovers .

He said, ‘I’ll dedicate a song to you.’

‘Will you?’ She didn’t sound particularly interested. ‘That’s good.’

She closed her eyes. ‘See you, then.’

What would Sam think of all this? he wondered, and then realized that he didn’t actually care. Sylvia’s indifference amused him. Her passion amazed him. These two things balanced each other.

She heard him leaving the flat. ‘Come and listen’ she thought contemptuously. The fool!

She wanted more than that, and she would have it.

Vincent was icing a cake. Ruby’s tiny kitchen was covered in flour and sugar.

He had decided around lunch-time, in a moment of boredom, that baking Ruby a cake would be almost as good as apologizing. Easier, certainly. He couldn’t really understand what it was that he should apologize for, so the cake served a dual purpose, was an evasion, of sorts.

He told himself, as he baked, that any sort of relationship between himself and Ruby was impossible. The main problem was that he liked her too much. She deserves worse, he decided, someone who cares more about stupid things. Someone who isn’t independent, and who doesn’t respect her.

The stage was small and cramped. As they plugged in their guitars and adjusted their microphones, Sam thought wryly, The problem with being a middle-of-the-road band is that your audiences are middle-of-the-road. She considered this for a second and then decided that a short while ago it wouldn’t have bothered her, but now it did.

They started their first song after a perfunctory introduction from Brera and an even more perfunctory round of applause from the audience.

Sam squinted out, beyond the lights, at the crowd. How many people altogether? she wondered. Sixty? Seventy? Some sat at tables, but the majority milled around over by the bar. Mainly men.