Reversed Forecast

by Nicola Barker

  ‘If the horse wins, you say I gave you the two hundred. Pay your till back with part of the winnings. If I lose, say it was an over-ring.’

  The swine, she thought. How many times did I tell him I wouldn’t do it?

  The race was off. She stood up. How long would it last? Six furlongs?

  ‘Jason,’ she said, ‘I want to get a Coke.’

  She walked past the safety door, through the shop and outside.

  ‘Jason would be bound to recognize you if you came up to collect the money.’

  ‘I’d get someone else to collect it.’

  ‘Who? I wouldn’t want anyone else involved.’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Anyway, if I take a bet worth over fifty quid I’m supposed to notify the manager.’

  ‘Not if you’re too busy.’

  ‘Even then.’

  She picked up two crates, placed one on top of the other and sat down. It was warm here. The sun shone on her bare arms and her face.

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘You could buy the dog. They treat you like shit anyway.’

  ‘Even the thought of it makes me feel sick.’

  ‘That’s excitement.’

  The crates were uncomfortable. They cut into her legs. Vincent tapped her on the shoulder. For an instant she thought he was a wasp, a hornet. She jerked away.

  ‘I told you I didn’t want to do this. I said no.’

  And he’d punished her by staying away. She had been punished.

  I’m not nice after all, she realized, only weak. Weak. That was an ugly word. It made her feel ugly.

  ‘The horse won,’ he said, grinning. ‘At five-to-one. Origami. I chose it because my sister used to make origami swans.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I said I didn’t want to do this.’

  She couldn’t see his eyes, only her own face reflected in his glasses. A weak mouth. A weak chin. A weak face.

  ‘But you did it.’

  ‘I’m fidelity-bonded. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It means that if I ever get caught doing anything illegal, I can never work with money again. Not anywhere, ever again.’

  He scowled at her. Maybe she just wasn’t clever enough.

  ‘I’ve earned you eight hundred pounds. The horse came in at five-to-one.’

  ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘Not my money, your money.’

  ‘I don’t want the money. You have it.’

  ‘I don’t need it.’

  ‘Then burn it.’

  She stood up and walked back inside.

  When she sat down again, Jason said, ‘There’s a bet here for two hundred. You should’ve told me you’d taken it before the off.’

  ‘It was on the off. I didn’t have time.’

  He handed her the slip, settled, with the amount she had to pay out written in red ink at the bottom. She stacked ten bundles of hundreds into a neat pile and waited for Vincent to come back in. He didn’t come.

  She settled other bets, took slips, counted money, handed it over. She waited. She took a slip, counted the money, took a slip …

  Vincent’s writing. She looked up. A face she almost recognized. Not Vincent’s face. She picked up the bundles she’d prepared and handed them over, two hundred short. He took the money and thanked her. The spare two hundred she moved into her till.

  She knew that face. Who was he?

  Fuck.

  Sam noticed something strange about Sarah’s complexion as soon as she met her. A roughness. A reddish, blotchy patch around her mouth, nose and on her chin.

  They were at the Scala watching a matinée showing of the director’s cut of Pretty Baby. Sarah’s idea. Sam had been keen to talk, which was unfortunate.

  ‘How’s Connor?’

  ‘Himself. Loud.’

  ‘Have you been busy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you like Brooke Shields?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  That redness. She had been kissing someone. With stubble. That would explain it.

  She took the dog out, made something to eat, began packing. Only a small bag for the time being.

  Vincent arrived while she was feeding the dog. He thumped on the door and then pushed it open.

  ‘You should be careful. I walked straight in here from the street.’

  She wanted to silence him for a minute so that she could yell at him, but he kept on talking.

  ‘This small guy was sweeping the stairs. He stopped me and was asking all kinds of questions. Wanted to know about the dog.’

  ‘The caretaker. Red hair.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  He walked into the bathroom. She heard him turning on the taps. She returned to her bedroom and sat down on her bed. She listened to the sound the water made as it hit the enamel bath. She listened to laughter, conversation, arguments going on outside in the street. She listened to the noises the dog made, pushing her bowl around on the kitchen tiles with her nose.

  A while later Vincent appeared in the doorway, wrapped only in a towel.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Packing.’

  She was packed.

  ‘You aren’t really going to Hackney?’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘You should’ve kept that money.’

  ‘You told me,’ she said, very calmly, ‘that you didn’t even know that epileptic.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t fuck me around.’

  ‘I actually just met him again today.’

  ‘You set me up.’

  Vincent’s expression, previously churlish, became serious. ‘You don’t honestly think that?’

  She knew it. She knew it.

  What could he do with her? She had shocked him.

  They were both silent for a while. She was staring down at her hands.

  Eventually she looked up at him. He had dropped his towel. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Is it just sex you want?’ he said, his voice sounding flat and angry. ‘Is that it?’

  She wasn’t surprised by this question. The only thing that surprised her was his honesty. But he was always honest. That was the problem.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said, ‘I’m ridiculous.’

  She did look at him. She straightened her back and crossed her arms. He didn’t appear to be upset or embarrassed by her scrutiny. His skin was pink-tinged from the heat of the bath. His body was surprisingly hairy. He looked overweight. His stomach protruded. His thighs were stocky and angular. He said, ‘Don’t you want to laugh? Don’t I make you want to laugh?’

  As he spoke she was staring at his penis, which seemed unusually pale, a whitish-blue colour by comparison with the ruddy tone of the rest of his skin. His testicles were lopsided.

  She stood up and unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing. ‘You made me do something I didn’t want to do.’

  ‘What?’

  She took off her shirt, hooked her thumbs into the black leggings she wore, pulled them down, stepped out of them, unclipped her bra, pulled down her knickers.

  He noticed that her skin was a very cheap white and that her hips were fleshy and strong. Her nipples were tiny and a pale beige colour, like small round servings of coffee ice-cream.

  Now what? There was something in her expression, something harsh and hostile.

  He said, ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I’m sick of you taking advantage. What did you do with that money?’

  She was crazy for him, but he’d made her hate herself. Somehow.

  He had never seen a woman strip as an act of hostility before. He wondered whether that was how she saw his body - as something offensive - when all he’d really intended was to ridicule himself.

  ‘I let him have it. It felt like he was owed it. I don’t know.’

  In the same way, in the same way that he’d not wanted her to touch him, to kiss him, in that casual manner she had, that easy, acciden
tal fashion. He didn’t want to be like the dog. A mistake. He either wanted plain sex, or, plain sex, or … He never thought about these things. Never. He couldn’t think about them.

  He picked up his towel and walked out. She climbed into bed.

  * * *

  SIXTEEN

  When Brera found Sylvia early on Saturday morning, she was huddled in an ungainly heap by her bedroom door, clutching a partially unbent coat-hanger and a fish-knife.

  Brera prodded her with a slippered toe and said grimly, ‘Now what? Is this how it’s going to be?’

  Sylvia stirred and then turned over. She opened her eyes. ‘I want to go in again. We agreed, didn’t we? You locked me out before and it didn’t work.’

  ‘Twice.’

  Brera clearly remembered these two occasions. On the first - Sylvia had been thirteen - she’d gone on hunger strike: eight days without food before Brera relented. On the second occasion - at fifteen - after three days outside she’d sliced her arms with a kitchen knife. Brera didn’t really want to dwell on either incident. This time, she’d decided, it wouldn’t come to that. She said tersely, ‘Are you warning me? Is that it?’

  ‘I’m not doing anything. I can do exactly as I please.’

  ‘Listen to your voice. It sounds so clear.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Brera was keen to avoid a confrontation.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why aren’t you eating?’

  Sylvia sat up, leaned her back against the door and rapidly changed tack. ‘I did eat, earlier on, before I fell asleep.’

  ‘What did you eat?’

  ‘Some bread. An apple. Milk.’

  ‘That’s not enough. I’ll get you some cereal.’

  ‘I’m full.’

  Sylvia patted her stomach and looked off sideways. Brera found her expression shifty and devious. She’s still such a child, she thought, as she squatted down next to her and put out a hand to touch her hair. ‘You know we won’t go if you don’t want us to. That woman, Ruby, is coming this morning at eight. Maybe you don’t like her?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  ‘You don’t really want us to go.’

  Sylvia’s hair felt like wire under her hand. Sylvia turned and squinted up into her face. ‘You want to blame me for not wanting to go yourself. I can see straight through you. But I won’t have you blaming me again. I just want … I only want to be left alone, that’s all.’

  Brera drew back her hand and stood up. ‘You’re going to do something stupid. I can tell.’

  ‘I won’t do anything. I just want …’

  ‘I know what you want. Just give it two more days. I want you to recover properly.’

  ‘Give me the key.’ Sylvia put out her hand.

  ‘I’ll give the key to Ruby. I’ll instruct her to let you in on Tuesday. That’s a promise.’

  ‘It’s too long.’

  ‘Only two days.’

  Brera tried not to sound brutal. She knew that with Sylvia a fine line had to be drawn between cooperation and coercion.

  Very gently Sylvia said, ‘I’m lonely. Please let me in.’

  ‘No.’ Brera’s voice remained sure and calm. ‘Tuesday’s soon enough.’

  Sylvia crossed her arms. ‘You always have to treat me like a child.’

  ‘You always have to behave like one.’

  ‘OK.’ She stood up, scowling, her face reddening. ‘We’ll see.’

  She turned and stalked away, down the corridor and into the living-room. Seconds later, Brera could hear her opening the curtains.

  She called out after her, ‘Are you trying to spoil things? Are you punishing me?’

  After a short silence Sylvia shouted back, ‘Only God can punish you.’

  Brera scratched her head and then inspected her finger-nails. Eventually she said, ‘You don’t even believe in God, you bloody hypocrite.’

  Sylvia grinned to herself, then sat down on the sofa. Why am I grinning? she wondered. I’ve got nothing to grin about.

  There was a mustiness in the room that made her want to sneeze. She listened out to hear what Brera would do next. She crossed her fingers, hoping that she wouldn’t try to bring her something to eat, then uncrossed them with a small sigh of relief as she heard her go into Sam’s bedroom.

  It felt strange having the curtains open. Over the past four or so days she’d spent all her time in virtual darkness. Early on she’d had trouble working out why this was so, but had felt too ill to do anything about it. Now she stared at the window, looking for her birds. Maybe they’ve forgotten me? If they have, I might just as well be dead.

  She blinked several times, growing gradually more accustomed to the light.

  When had the sun risen? Two hours, three hours earlier?

  She sniffed and then sneezed. In the bright light she could see dust floating in the air: thousands of specks of it. She tried not to breathe them in, then felt light-headed, so filled her lungs. She could smell the sunlight. It smelled like a big, black oil slick - warm and oozy.

  When she’d been talking to Brera, she’d been struck by how pungent her perfume was. Like dried apricots - a sweet, harsh smell. She thought, It smelled so strong as her hand touched my hair, I thought I’d gag.

  The sunlight began to upset her. She debated whether to close the curtains again, but became too fearful, too frightened in case the birds had forgotten her. Several had accumulated on the window-sill - three sparrows and a starling. She couldn’t be sure, though, that they wouldn’t have been there anyway. She peered at them, over the arm of the sofa, too overwhelmed by the new, hot, hazy, dazy smells in the room to walk over.

  Her mind switched to the night’s activities: the coat-hanger and the fish-knife. The smell from her room! She’d noticed it before, of course, but she hadn’t realized quite how repulsive … She couldn’t think about it. Too dangerous.

  She lay down and closed her eyes. It was that time of day: cars full of people, driving to work, trains, tubes and buses. She could smell the exhaust fumes, like a thick, yellowy grog - a horrible, tepid, burning smell. The smell of business, of a big cigar.

  If only I could hibernate. Draw in my head like a tortoise. Get into a dark cave, like a bear and simply sleep.

  Two days, she thought. They won’t get me this way.

  Sam had overheard the conversation in the hallway. She was lying in bed. She’d been awake for several hours; had, in fact, been listening to Sylvia earlier, working away at the lock on her bedroom door.

  As she lay there she wondered whether Brera was intending to talk her way out of going on the tour. At the last minute.

  She tried to think about Connor, but couldn’t concentrate on him, his feelings, the possibility of having hurt him.

  She tried to think about Sarah, but, again, couldn’t settle her thoughts.

  If I loved her. Loved, she thought, still smarting, my face, my figure, all that would be wasted. And then, What a stupid way to think.

  Brera tapped on Sam’s door and walked in. Sam opened her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Brera closed the door, walked over and sat down on the end of her bed.

  Sam propped herself up on her elbows. Brera’s hair was tied back into a scruffy pony-tail. She untied it and then massaged her scalp with the tips of her fingers. As she did this she said, ‘You’ve been distracted lately.’

  Sam was surprised that they were suddenly discussing her and not Sylvia.

  ‘So?’

  Had Brera noticed anything? Her heart felt like a sparrow - small, light, fluttering.

  ‘You’re uptight because you think I’m going to back out of the tour at the last minute.’

  Sam relaxed, was relieved at her mother’s lack of insightfulness. She said calmly, ‘Things have a way of sorting themselves out.’

  Brera stopped fiddling with her hair and started to speak again, but Sam’s mind was elsewhere: I’m missing something. It’s true. I’m missing something but I
don’t know what. Something’s wrong. I’m incomplete.

  She was miserable.

  Brera was saying, ‘There comes a time when you have to let a person take responsibility for their own life. Otherwise it’s like a kind of cruelty.’

  Sam listened to this string of words as though they were being spoken on the surface of a pool, above water, and she was floating, just underneath, submerged, her ears full of liquid.

  Am I different? I want to be the same, but now I feel … separate.

  This was Sarah’s fault. Were men the same as women after all? Was she being like a man? Was that how she felt?

  Brera was saying, ‘I won’t have her dying in my house. She can go and die somewhere else. She’s old enough to. She’s got to start being courteous.’

  Sam rubbed her face. Small dots of sleep were encrusted in the corners of each eye, like tiny scraps of wheat. She picked them out and then said, ‘So go and tell her.’

  She felt amoral. Removed. She didn’t care what happened.

  Brera stood up. ‘I’ll get packed first.’

  ‘Go now.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  When Brera had gone, Sam lay down in bed again. She thought, I am different.

  And what could be worse than that?

  Sarah wasn’t yet dressed. Her long legs stuck out from her dressing-gown. To Connor they looked thin and ungainly, like the limbs of a deer, but white.

  ‘Sam’s like a tiny goddess,’ she said, provoking him. ‘I don’t believe she ever invests in anything emotionally. She’s invulnerable, which means that she wants to understand things but not to feel them. She’s incapable of genuine involvement.’

  Connor was trying to eat his cereal. He ignored Sarah. She loved it when he ignored her. It meant that she could say anything, that she had beaten him, defeated him, had won, was winning or would win.

  He picked up a cup of scalding hot coffee, holding the cup itself, not the handle. It was burning him. He continued to ignore her. She was only a parrot, chattering. How strange it is, he thought, when things that are extremes come together. He used all his energy to convince himself that what his fingers felt was a freezing sensation instead of a burning one.