Reversed Forecast (6 page)

She heard Sam emerge from her room and walk towards Brera’s voice, still singing herself. She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. They infuriated her. She found them unbearably smug and confident, like nuns or traffic wardens - self-assured and immensely self-motivated. Pure.

She inspected the eczema on her hands and wrists. The skin here was bumpy and itchy, some of it moist and shiny. She pulled off a scab which covered the tender flesh that linked the space between her finger and thumb. Her eyes watered. She enjoyed this strum of pain, lost herself in it and savoured its tone.

Suddenly she saw the little girl’s face in the chafed and pinky pattern of her flesh, imagined for a second how the cold water would have felt entering her nose and throat, covering her eyes.

The sound of Connor’s hesitant tread in the hallway distracted her. She stopped breathing for a moment and listened out for the slight noises he made, her head to one side, eyes closed. He had a light tread. Must be thin, she thought. His step seemed tentative, well-meaning, self-conscious. She heard him enter the living-room and began breathing again. The air she drew into her lungs felt dry and coarse. It rattled in her throat. She coughed for a short while then swallowed down a mouthful of phlegm.

Connor was singing now too. He was doing a comic version of
Dolly Parton’s ‘Love is like a Butterfly’, in a low, brash voice. She could hear the two women laughing. She put her hands over her ears, imagined that her hands were like shells, and the noise of the blood, the compressed air in her ears, the wail in her head, was really the sea. She stood on a bone-pale beach. It was an airless place.

Ruby awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing. She opened her eyes and tried to pull herself up straight. She’d been slumped over sideways on to her bedside table. Her face felt strange, like warm wax that had set overnight into a distorted, lopsided shape. Her neck ached, even her tongue ached and her body felt, in its entirety, distinctly askew.

Vincent was there. Ugh! She looked at him. A horrible face. Dirty. Phlegm, mucus, special smells. Blood, dried. Everything inside spilling out.

His face was a solid bruise. He was a car accident, still jumbled. She had no clear impression of him. Not mentally, not visually. It was bright in her room, a yellow-white brightness, reflecting unkindly off him.

She sprang out of bed to answer the ringing. She was still wearing her cardigan, which she pulled close around her, and her T-shirt, which she noticed had coffee stains down the front.

The telephone - it had a long extension cord - was situated in the centre of the draining-board next to the sink. She picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah? Ruby here.’

She licked a finger and applied it, somewhat hopelessly, to the stain.

‘You sound rough.’

She didn’t recognize the voice. ‘Hold on.’

She put down the receiver, turned on the cold tap and stuck her head under it, inhaling sharply as the water gushed over her hair, into her ears and down her neck. She turned it off and shook her head, like a dog after a dip, then picked up the receiver again. ‘Hi.’

She felt the water dripping down her back and her face. Eventually a voice said, ‘Hello, Ruby?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Donald Sheldon. Is it too early?’

‘I’ve been up ages,’ she lied. He’d never phoned her before.

He said, ‘Actually, I’d like to see you. This afternoon if it’s possible.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘There’s a café near Seven Sisters tube.’ He described its precise location. ‘We could meet twelve-ish.’

Twelve was too early.

‘Yeah, that’s fine. Seven Sisters. Twelve-ish.’

‘See you then.’

She put down the receiver and walked into the bathroom to look for a towel. She found one slung over the edge of the bath and wrapped up her dripping hair in it before putting the plug in the bath and turning on the taps.

Back in her bedroom, she rooted out a pair of jeans, a black vest and some clean underwear. Vincent lay across the bed, his legs spread, his feet dangling off the end. His arms, she noticed, now held a pillow over his face. She said, ‘I wouldn’t do that. Someone might be tempted to press down on it.’

He said nothing.

She returned to the bathroom. While she undressed, she debated how soon it would be acceptable to ask him to leave. She tested the water with her hand, climbed in, then lay back and relaxed, staring abstractly beyond her breasts, her knees, her toes, at the taps and the steam from the water.

Vincent felt like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly. That inbetween stage. A pupa. His skin, hard, semi-impervious; himself, inside, withered and formless.

He was not himself. His head bumped and pumped. The light, the morning, scorched him.

During the night he had awoken, he didn’t know what time, and had found a girl, a stranger, next to him. Her hip near his chin. Wool, scratching; cold skin. He had pressed his forehead against her thigh. It had cooled him.

And now it was morning. He needed something. Had
to stretch his body - that crumpled thing - his mind, his tongue.

Ruby picked up a bar of soap and started to build up a lather. What does Sheldon want? she wondered. What does he want from me? Her toes curled at the prospect. She stared at them and thought, Why am I doing that with my feet?

Vincent stood on the other side of the bathroom door with his hand on the handle. He shouted, ‘You could’ve told me you were having a bath.’

Ruby dropped the soap and covered her breasts. ‘Don’t you dare come in.’

‘I have no intention of coming in,’ he said scathingly. After a pause he added, ‘Why the hell did you bring me here? I’ve had the worst time.’

She gasped at this, her expression a picture, and shouted, ‘I didn’t bring you here.’

‘Well, I didn’t get here on my own.’

His voice sounded muffled, further away now. ‘Do you always live like this?’

She stood up, indignant, and stepped out of the bath. ‘Like what?’

Silence, then, ‘Forget it.’

‘Like what?’

She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her and pulled open the door. ‘Live like what?’

He was standing in the kitchen, looking inside one of her cupboards. He glanced at her, in the towel. ‘For a minute there,’ he said, grinning, ‘I thought you were a natural blonde. But it’s only foam.’

She yanked the towel straight. With his cut, his pale, white face, the bruises, the suggestion of a black eye, he looked like Frankenstein’s monster. But he didn’t frighten her. She said calmly, ‘Get out of my flat.’

He grimaced. ‘Some hospitality. I have a migraine and all you can do is shout.’

‘Yeah?’ She smiled. ‘Well, I think you should go.’

She returned to the bathroom, closed the door, dropped her towel.

He said, ‘I have a blotch. I’m going blind. You expect me to go when I can’t even see straight?’

She stared at the bath. ‘Well, whose fault is that?’

She picked up her towel and started to dry herself. She heard the cupboard close.

‘Yours. You shouldn’t have paid my bail.’

She rubbed herself vigorously.

‘And lunch. I only get migraines from gherkins.’

‘What?’

‘An allergy.’

She laughed. She was glad that he had an allergy.

He listened to her laughing. Smiled at it. He liked her flat. It was central. He sat down on the sofa, picked up one of the empty vodka bottles, sniffed the neck of it and winced.

Eventually she emerged, fully dressed, made up, her teeth brushed and her hair gelled.

‘I made you some tea.’ He held out a mug to her.

She took it from him. ‘Aren’t you having any?’

He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t keep it down.’

‘Did you try?’

‘I had some water.’

She sipped the tea. It was lukewarm. ‘How are you feeling?’

He shrugged.

‘What are you going to do?’

He shrugged again.

‘Will you go home? Are you up to it?’

He cleared his throat. ‘May I use your bathroom?’

‘Of course you can.’

Once he’d closed the door she shouted, ‘I’m going out in a minute. Should I trust you here alone?’

‘I wouldn’t.’

She put down her mug of tea. ‘Only a trustworthy person would’ve said that.’

‘Think what you like.’

‘I will.’

She picked up her keys. She was insured. She needed a new stereo, anyway.

Donald Sheldon - self-appointed king of Hackney Wick - was a short, squat man with thick, wavy hair and skin the colour of roasted peanuts. He was drinking a foamy coffee and wore an expensive business suit. Ruby was nervous, had thought too much about meeting him.

‘Am I late?’

He shrugged. ‘Ten minutes. Coffee?’

She nodded. ‘Thanks.’

He manoeuvred himself out from behind the table and strolled over to the counter. Ruby watched him. She regularly saw him down at the track. He trained mainly at Hackney, but she was well informed that he ran his dogs wherever he could. She’d often seen him interviewed on SIS, the racing channel.

He returned to the table, carrying her coffee, holding on to its saucer. She looked down at his hands and saw that he wore rings on most fingers but none that seemed like a wedding ring. He sat down again. ‘I’ve seen you at Hackney a lot. You obviously enjoy the sport.’

She nodded.

‘How old do you think I am?’

This question surprised her. She stared at his face, his thick hair, his good tan. She wanted to flatter him: ‘Forty, forty-two.’

He smiled. ‘Forty-eight. I’ve been racing dogs since I was fourteen.’

‘Thirty-four years.’

‘I first went to Hackney when I was five, with my dad. You might get to meet him later.’

She stared at him, bemused, wondering where his dad fitted into the equation.

He smiled fondly, but more to himself than at her. ‘My dad got me my first dog. He helped pay for it by putting his every last penny on Pigalle Wonder in the 1958 London Cup. A great champion: big, but well balanced. Really handsome.’

Ruby put her teaspoon in her coffee and stirred away some of
the foam. She felt obliged to say something but couldn’t think what, so she just said, ‘Betting on the dogs is a bit of a lottery.’

Don looked irritated. ‘I tell you, the only important thing you need to do to win at the dogs, Ruby, is to rely on honest thinking.’

She liked the way he’d used her name. She looked into his face. Did he want to employ her or to fuck her? Either way, she was flattered. He was saying, ‘Racing isn’t just about speed.’

He paused. ‘Do you know what it is that makes a good dog?’

Ruby focused on her coffee and tried to think. Eventually she said, ‘Speed and intelligence, mainly.’

He shook his head. ‘Racing is all about negotiating bends. To negotiate a bend you need balance, coordination and muscular control. But it’s more than that. A dog must have the will to win. It has to have that primitive urge. Some dogs will always be chasers or chuckers. A dog must know how to place itself. It’s got to be crafty.’

She looked at his hands as he spoke. Brown, clean hands. What did he want? What was he doing?

He said, ‘I didn’t know anything when I got my first dog.’

An image shot into her mind of how Donald Sheldon would look naked. She visualized him with an all-over tan and pinky-brown genitals. Not too much body hair. His stomach, slightly saggy, and his breasts.

He said, ‘All this is leading somewhere.’

‘Is it?’

Of course. He looked at her, grinned, then said, ‘And I think I have a good idea where you want it to lead.’

His voice sounded suggestive, arrogant, even sensual. He was old. Not that old. She inhaled deeply and stared straight into his eyes. He picked up a fork and shook it for emphasis, ‘I’m willing to sell you that dog.’

‘Dog?’

‘The one we discussed.’

‘Discussed?’ Ruby wanted to rewind this conversation in order to try to make sense of it.

He dropped the fork, laced his fingers together and leaned
forward. ‘She’s trained. She’s in good form. I mean, she’s out of season now and she’s in good nick. She’s registered. She has a race or two lined up at Hackney, but after that it’d be your business.’

He was trying to sell her something! Donald Sheldon!

I would never, she thought, holding in her gut, I would never have had sex with him. Never.

He added, ‘It must be about her fourteenth week since she was in season. She’s probably got a bit rusty while she was rested, but that’s only natural.’

Ruby tried desperately to remember what she had said to him, how this situation had developed. Had he confused her with someone else? I didn’t even want a job, she thought furiously. Not that kind of job.

He frowned. ‘She’s put on weight, but bitches often do, even if they haven’t been mated. Her current grading figure isn’t very encouraging, but I’d be giving her to you for nine hundred.’

She said carefully, ‘To be honest, cash-flow is a bit of a problem for me at the moment.’

She wanted to laugh in his face. It was all so stupid.

He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t want the money straight off. A week would do. Six days. If we shook on it now you could take her immediately.’

He was squinting with sincerity. He sincerely thought he was doing her a favour. If he’d employed her, if he’d fucked her, he would’ve worn that same expression. But he was selling her something.

Selling her something.

She had to admire him.

He waited.

It was her turn. To do. What?

She took the easiest option, as was her nature.

She nodded and shook his hand. His skin was warm and dry.

He stood up. ‘The dog’s down at the kennels. Here …’ He handed her his card, which she took and inspected.

‘My dad’ll be there for most of the afternoon. He’s expecting you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m not doing you any favours. I’ve had very little luck with this particular bitch. But you expressed an interest and now she’s yours.’

Ruby tried to smile as she placed his card in the front pocket of her jeans. He turned to go. She watched him as he walked between the tables and up to the door. He pushed it, it swung outwards and he stepped outside.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling and noticed a large fan up there, turning rapidly.

Which particular bitch? When had she spoken to him at the track? Had he been holding a dog at the time? Had she been holding one? Had she expressed an interest?

She felt hot. The fan’s rapid movements were making her feel queasy. She pulled off her jacket and walked outside. It was hot here too. Things were fuzzy. She blinked, unable to tell whether this fuzziness was caused by heat, a heatwave shimmering on the Sunday roads, or by movements behind her eyes, inside her.

Vincent pottered around the flat, feeling no particular urge to leave. He tried to assess Ruby on the basis of her personal possessions, but there was little of interest to look at apart from her record collection and her underwear. The record collection was impressive.

His headache was now a dumb whine at the back of his skull, but tolerable. He found an old Kraftwerk album and put it on - turning down the volume slightly - then wandered about, acclimatizing, inspecting things.

He had a bath. It felt like ages since he’d had a proper wash. He picked up Ruby’s soap and sniffed it. It wasn’t strongly perfumed - smelled like Palmolive - so he used it freely, grinning to himself, imagining which parts of Ruby’s body it had lathered. The warmth of the water, the rubbing, the foam, gave him a slight erection. He stared at it for a while with a terse and serious expression, then burst out laughing. It bobbed down in the water, submissive again, mournful and flaccid.

After drying himself, he went into the kitchen, still naked, did
the washing up and then returned to the bathroom, where he picked up his clothes, dressed and surveyed himself in the mirror. His whole forehead was a pinky-purple colour. This bruising reached down to either side of his eyes. One eye was black. He inspected the cut more thoroughly. Most of the bump had gone down, but several strands of hair were caught inside the mouth of the gash. He pulled at them, very gently, wincing as some of them came out. He pulled a few more and then gave up, concerned that he might bring back his headache.