Nicola Barker - Reversed Forecast

He stared at the cake and debated which world it was that Ruby inhabited until a car horn sounded outside.

I’ll take the fucking cake, he thought, getting to his feet; I’ll take it.

Sam borrowed Steven’s mobile phone in the car on their way back to the hotel. Initially she rang Jubilee Road, but no one answered. Next she tried Sarah.

As she dialled Brera turned and asked, ‘Who’re you phoning?’

Sam put up a hand to silence her, evading any explanations.

What did she want from Sarah? She couldn’t decide. Affirmation? Confirmation? Justification? Sex?

Sarah answered, ‘Hello?’ Her voice seemed troubled.

‘It’s Sam.’

‘Sam!’ She sounded delighted. Sam’s heart lifted, but before she could say anything Sarah said, ‘She’s still in the bathroom. She’s driving me insane.’

‘Who is?’ Sam asked this automatically, not even thinking.

‘Your sister. Your mad bloody sister. She’s made such a mess. I don’t know what Connor was playing at, bringing her here.’

‘Connor?’

‘Hang on.’

Sam listened. In the background she could hear squawking and splashing: sounds like a gang of children might make in a public pool. She also heard Sarah shouting, saying, ‘Do you know how much that costs? A whole bottleful? Do you have any idea?’

After a further pause and more splashing, Sarah returned to the phone. She said, ‘I slapped her earlier and she asked me to do it again. She enjoyed it.’

‘You slapped Sylvia?’

Brera turned in her seat. ‘What about Sylvia?’

Sam ignored her. ‘You slapped Sylvia?’

Sarah sounded unrepentant: ‘Yes. I slapped her and she enjoyed it. She asked me to do it again.’

Sam laughed. Like me, she thought. If she slapped me, I’d probably enjoy it too. What a fool. A complete fool.

‘You said Connor invited her?’

‘He must’ve. He’s out now, though. At a gig or something.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Orgasmic.’

Sam smiled. That’d be right, she thought. We are sisters, after all. Something else popped into her head, inexplicably: It wasn’t fear I felt before, only ecstasy . She knew instantly that this wasn’t coherent, but feelings, she decided, like ideas, didn’t have to be, weren’t obliged to be. She said briskly, ‘And where’s Ruby?’

‘Ruby?’

‘The blonde woman who’s looking after her.’

‘Oh.’ Sarah paused for a second. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

Sam endeavoured to take stock of the situation, ignoring Brera’s desperate gestures from the front seat.

‘OK. Well, thanks for putting up with her. I’ll see you.’

‘What do you mean? Is that it?’

‘I think so.’

She used the cut-off mechanism on the phone and handed it to Brera. ‘It’s all yours.’

Brera was in a state of intense agitation. ‘Who was that? Who slapped Sylvia?’

Sam laughed. ‘Someone who should know better,’ she said.

Shortly after Sarah had hung up, Vincent arrived, demanding money for a cab, clutching, somewhat incongruously, a large iced cake which smelled of apples and cinnamon.

Sarah said, ‘Hi,’ and made as if to give him a hug, but he put out a restraining hand.

‘Hold on. This is precious.’

‘Who’s it for?’

‘Nobody.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Would you pay the cab? He’s waiting outside.’

Sarah went to get her purse. Vincent walked into the living-room and was about to switch on the television when an assortment of peculiar noises captured his attention. They were radiating from the bathroom. He walked in and found Sylvia.

She was in the bath, up to her neck in water. The bathroom smelled like a perfume counter. Sylvia was naked but seemed unembarrassed.

‘Hello,’ she said, recognizing him from their previous encounter. She sloshed around lazily in the water, grinning, watching as waves of liquid spilled over the rim of the bath and on to the floor.

Vincent tried not to fall over on the tiles; which were now wet and slippery. He held his cake aloft. Sylvia spotted it as she peered over the edge of the bath. She sat up. ‘What’s that? Is it for me?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose it could be.’

She stretched out an arm towards him. He saw that her hand was covered in eczema.

‘You shouldn’t stay in there for too long.’

‘Sod it. Give me the cake.’

Her face shone out wetly at him: a round, yellow, exuberant moon.

There was something in her that he found suddenly irresistible. What was it? A carelessness? He said, ‘No cake until you get out of that bath.’

She scowled. ‘Yeah? Is it really worth it?’

He showed it to her. ‘Smell it. It’s delicious. It’s all natural.’

He saw her nostrils twitch and her eyes ignite. She tried to snatch at it and water spilled from the bath in even greater quantities.

‘Out,’ he said authoritatively, ‘out or no cake.’

She turned her back on him. ‘I’m not a bloody kid, or a dog.’

He enjoyed this little display. He liked her unreasonableness. He put down the lid on the toilet and sat on it. ‘Fine.’

He then said, ‘Ruby must be worried about you.’

‘Ruby?’

Sylvia considered this for a moment. He smiled at her expression, which was so expressive, suddenly so serious. Eventually she said, ‘From now on I’m living only for pleasure.’

He put a finger into the icing on his cake, scooped some off and ate it. Sylvia watched jealously, her mouth watering. She stood up, stepped out of the bath and grabbed a large fistful of it, shoving it into her mouth. It was delectable.

Vincent watched her, offered her the plate to hold. ‘Hedonism,’ he said. ‘You’ve become a hedonist.’

She ignored this. She didn’t understand what he meant. She said, ‘Where’s this from? I want more of it. Different kinds, different types. I want to build a world out of tastes like this. A life. Something so beautiful, so delicious, completely full of touching and tasting and smelling and seeing.’

Vincent passed her a towel.

‘I made it,’ he said calmly. ‘And I can make more. I can show you how.’

‘Right.’

Sylvia was pleased by this notion. ‘I’ll get my clothes. Let’s go.’

Vincent watched her as she padded from the room. His gut tightened. Ruby was cheap, he thought.

He was cheap too. He had to spread himself very thinly.

So much happens here on a Saturday night, Ruby thought, as she walked from street to street through Hackney — from Pembury Road to Amhurst Road to Mare Street, then along this main thoroughfare for a long, long time.

Eventually, outside the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood, she ground to a halt. The dog had been behaving perfectly pulling on her lead only where appropriate, for the most part trotting amiably at Ruby’s side, obliging and obedient.

‘Good girl,’ she said, squatting down next to her. She stared up at the bright lettering on the front of the museum and thought, Hackney Wick and Bethnal Green. How far between the two?

She decided to take a bus.

After several false starts she established herself comfortably upstairs on a number 6. The dog clambered on to the seat next to her. It was empty up here, apart from the two of them. She stared out of the front window. The scene before her, lit by orange lights, dark but not yet properly dark — The city, she thought, is never really dark — seemed inexplicably grand. The dog sat beside her, also watching, but her eyes saw things differently, saw everything in monochrome, like fragments of an old film, every detail rendered stark and formal.

The dog sat next to Ruby like another person, upright on the seat, her legs tucked under her, her back ramrod straight. But with every unexpected jerk she fell forward, sometimes only a couple of inches, but other times almost crashing into the window, on to the floor. On these occasions Ruby tightened a possessive arm around the dog to save her from falling, from injury. The dog was too big, too bulky and unsuitable. Like so bloody many of the things in my life, she thought, and then instantly dismissed this idea. Instead she decided, My life is too small , that’s the problem. Maybe I’m too small.