Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

Sam was glad that they had dressed down. She looked over at Brera, who seemed cheerful enough, her cheeks slightly pink, her mouth singing and smiling. The light that shone on them — two spotlights from above — was filled by swirls of cigarette smoke, as though all the cigarette smoke in the entire place was funnelled into these two bright tunnels. Sam tried to make this halo of light, this nimbus, the edge of her consciousness. She didn’t want to see beyond it. She felt as though her mind was programmed to transfer everything before her into nastiness, obscenity and ugliness. She tried to tell herself, But it’s my mind that does that. It isn’t actually the case, it’s only me.

She strummed vigorously on her guitar and harmonized.

The next song started. What we’re doing … she thought, it is right.

She glanced over at Brera again and Brera caught her eye and grinned. But in glancing, she caught several other eyes. Some people, close to the front, were watching her intently, their eyes cutting into her.

She peered down at her guitar, focusing on her fingers, imagining for an instant that her hands were strumming not the instrument but her own body: calming her, relaxing her.

I’ve never been afraid of performing before, she thought, and then, seconds later: At least, not of being watched. I don’t mind people staring. People always stare.

She looked up and out at these people, stared back, but it didn’t feel right. It felt as if she were offering an invitation. It felt promiscuous, like responding cheaply to a cheap proposition. She focused on the stage, at a space just in front of her feet.

The point of a performance, she told herself, is that you have to be secure in your own world. You have to show the audience your world, your confidence, your self-containment, and they should appreciate it. They should respect it.

But what was her world? Who was she? She was different. No wonder they stared. The only black woman here.

The song ended and several people clapped. Brera leaned over and said, ‘Let’s do something light, something funny. This lot could do with cheering up.’

‘No.’ Sam pointed with her foot at their song list, which was stuck to the bottom of an amp. ‘Let’s stick with it.’

After a short pause they started to play again.

She’s really trying, Sam thought desperately; I can’t let her down.

She looked up, focused her eyes and tried to smile. She caught the gaze of one man, standing close to the bar, and realized that he was staring at her breasts. Only at her breasts.

He knows that I’m here with my mother, she thought primly, and it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference.

In that instant she doubted everything that she had previously established, in her mind, about the two of them: the show, the act — two women, a mother and a child, taking a stand. Ideas don’t translate into life, she thought. Marxism, monetarism, conservatism, communism, feminism. Things can’t translate because people are stupid. They won’t believe.

She stared at the man by the bar and tried to communicate her anger, her sudden hatred. But he didn’t notice her , only her body. She sang automatically, she played automatically, but all the while, inside her, a private mantra repeated itself. I have to carry on. I have to carry on .

This was Sarah’s fault. She knew it. Why am I so bloody suggestible all of a sudden? How can I let her get the better of me?

I have to carry on .

It felt to Sam as though her mind had opened up, like a flower. It was a strange and terrifying sensation. Usually her mind was closed, had one small door and a door-keeper who carefully selected the things that would be let in and the things that would be left out. But suddenly the door was wide open, and the supporting frames were cracking, crumbling, letting in more and more light, more and more air. And people .

She closed her eyes, continuing to strum and play. Now she could only imagine everyone watching her, but imagining was bad enough. She knew that simply not caring was a solution, but she did care. She did care and she couldn’t stop caring.

Life is a terrible violation .

One song.

Life .

Another song.

Terrible .

The last song.

Violation .

She opened her eyes and turned to Brera. ‘That’s it. Let’s go.’

Brera scowled. ‘Not even an encore?’

‘Let’s go.’

She jumped down from the stage, into the crowd, using her guitar to keep people distanced, stumbled through the club, beyond the bar, out of the exit and on to the street.

She breathed in the night air, looking up at the sky but seeing only clouds.

Brera was behind her.

‘Stage fright,’ she said, sagely.

Sam wanted to disappear, but couldn’t.

When Ruby came to it was dark. The room was empty. The birds had flown. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to establish her whereabouts. Something was bothering her, upsetting her, but she didn’t know what. The doorbell rang. She sat bolt upright. ‘That’s it. The doorbell.’

She jumped up and ran to answer it, hoping it would be Sylvia. Instead it was Vincent, holding a cake.

She pulled the door wide open. ‘I was asleep.’

He offered her the cake. She took it and used her free hand to switch on the light. Everything sprang into clear relief. The cake was ineffectively covered in a scrappy piece of clingfilm. She pulled it off, careful not to damage the icing. It smelled of fruit and spice.

‘Weird cake,’ she said, sniffing it. He pushed past her and went into the living-room, turning on the light and sitting down on the sofa.

She followed him. ‘What’s this for?’

He shrugged, smiling. She watched his smile. Could she forgive him? This was his way of saying sorry. What for, though? Which particular thing was he apologizing for? For not fancying her? For nearly losing her her job? For not giving a shit about anybody else?

‘I fucked Sarah.’

‘Sarah?’ she said. ‘Isn’t she Sam’s friend?’

He nodded. ‘I fucked her.’

‘Thursday night,’ she said, feeling sick.

Why had he told her? She stood up, holding on to the cake with both hands. She felt like throwing it at him but thought, No, that’d be too easy.

She walked over to him. ‘Take the cake.’

‘What?’

‘Take the bloody cake!’

He took the cake. He was still smiling at her. He was setting her free.

She walked from the room, down the hallway and into the kitchen. The dog was still there. She looked at her and said, ‘I’d forgotten about you.’

She picked up her lead from the table and attached it to her collar.

‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘You’re going home.’

She pulled her along the corridor and towards the front door. Vincent emerged from the living-room.

‘What’re you doing?’

She stopped and turned. ‘What does it look like? I’m taking the dog out.’

‘Where?’

‘Back.’

‘Back where?’

Before she could reply he said, ‘Don’t do that. Don’t take her back.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well …’

He thought for a moment and then said, ‘She’s interesting. She makes you interesting.’

‘You’re a dishonest bastard. A dirty lying bastard.’

She meant it. She yanked open the door and pulled the dog behind her.

He stared after her, smiling. She was free. He had set her free.

He listened to the noise of her shoes on the tiles in the hall, on the stairs. The tapping of the dog’s toe-nails.

When she had gone, Vincent rang for a cab. He was still holding the cake. He considered what she’d said.

There are two worlds, he decided, one in which being honest means something mundane, another in which it means being true to yourself, to real things.