Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings - Nicola Barker 4 стр.


During the course of his twenty-nine years, he has never seen any purpose in dedicating himself to traditionally worthy or helpful occupations. He refuses to give over his considerable powers to anything specifically useful. His prime, twin attributes of determination and energy have never been expressed constructively. If they are and of course he thinks that they are he has a definition of constructive which is all his own.

He survives on a diet of grand gestures, obnoxiousness and guile.

Only one thing blots his anarchic copy-book. It is a simple thing. He is full of love. So full of love indiscriminate, luminous, pulsating, unremitting that it threatens to make him weak, to make him burst, to make him give in, completely. To what, though? He doesnt know.

The strange thing about love, Vincent decided, studying the white flecks on the pink moons of his nails, is that it starts off as one thing, and comes out as something altogether different.

His arresting officer pushed open the cell door and walked in. Your bails been settled.

I love this man, Vincent thought, but itll come out some other way.

He looked up from his hands. Fucking bail. What a joke.

Yeah, very funny.

He stood up. Can I go?

Sign a couple of papers and youre a free man, for the time being, anyway. So long as you dont behave like a lunatic again before your court case.

Vincent smiled. Well, thats hardly too much to ask for, is it now?

When he caught sight of Ruby she was leaning against the reception desk reading a pamphlet about the police cadets. She looked up as the door swung back and slammed behind him. He thought, My God, shes a push-over. The best kind of girl.

He pulled on his canvas jacket and said, You can get me something to eat if you like.

Ruby picked up the pamphlet and stuffed it into her pocket. I dont think so.

His eyes, she noticed, were like two blue marbles. He adjusted the collar on his jacket, grinned at her and strolled outside. Ruby nodded to the constable behind the reception desk and followed him.

She stepped into the afternoon sunlight and saw him disappearing into a burger bar over the road. She crossed cautiously and followed him in. He beckoned to her from the counter. How about buying me a burger and a drink?

Why should I?

Because youre loaded.

She scowled at him. How did you work that one out?

I want a burger, a Coke and some chips.

The counter girl flinched at the mention of the word chip and then looked to Ruby for her order. Ruby sighed. Ill have a medium coffee please, with cream.

Vincent sauntered off and took possession of a plastic table next to the window. Ruby paid, and while she waited for the order, counted the remaining small coins in her purse. Vincent was sitting at the table and running his fingers over the cut on his hairline. The cut stretched across a bluish lump and glimmered like a red mouth. Ruby supposed that he must have been given a stitch, although it didnt look like it from where she was standing.

Her order arrived. She picked up her tray and made her way to the table. Vincent looked up at her. I havent eaten all day.

She sat down, removed her coffee and then pushed the tray towards him. She felt light-headed.

Your hands arent very clean. I dont think you should touch that cut. It might get infected.

He shrugged. Ive had worse. Its given me one hell of a headache, though. I could do with a proper drink.

Maybe youre concussed. What did the doctor say?

I dont know. Some crap. I might get gangrene of the brain.

He was joking. Ruby gently removed the lid from her polystyrene cup. Youve already got it, mate, she thought.

He noticed the tattoo on her hand. Whats that? A name? A bird?

A swallow. I did it when I was seventeen.

He wiped some ketchup from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. Lets see.

She opened her palm and showed him.

You did it yourself?

She nodded. Pen and a pin.

Ouch.

She sipped her coffee. What did you tell the police?

I told them I tripped.

Did they believe you?

No.

Was your friend all right? The epileptic

I only met him once before.

What do you mean?

He wasnt my friend.

Ruby tried to understand this, but had trouble doing so.

Was he an epileptic?

Might be. He didnt say he wasnt.

He was unconscious.

Exactly.

She said, Youre not from London, are you?

Why?

You dont sound like you are.

Nope.

Where are you staying?

He thought for a while. Wembley.

Really?

On someones floor. Before that I was in Amsterdam. Squatting.

She visualized him, squatting, in a field full of tulips. A windmill.

He was eating his fries and his fingers were greasy. He said, In case youre wondering, Im not naturally a violent person.

She smiled at this. She could see no reason to deny being violent unless you actually were violent. He noticed her smile and was indignant. Give me some credit.

Two hundred quid, she answered, that should do you.

He continued to eat in silence. Eventually she said, Will I get it back?

He thought about this for a while. You shouldnt have paid it.

I thought Id get it back.

He offered her one of his fries and she shook her head.

What were you planning to do with it?

She shrugged. I dunno. Save it.

He squinted at her. Well, saving it isnt doing anything.

I was going to do something.

What?

She tried to think. Something. An investment. I dont want to discuss it.

Why not?

Its private.

You could give it to charity.

Havent I already?

He gulped down his Coke and then licked his teeth. Its kind of like he said thoughtfully, Im your investment.

He was pleased by this. He couldnt imagine a worse investment. And Im me, he thought. Fuck only knows how she feels about it. He chuckled to himself.

She drank some more of her coffee. With her free hand she felt underneath the table, touched something soft, instinctively stuck her nail into it and then realized that it was chewing gum. She quickly withdrew her hand. The table was a startlingly bright yellow. All along its edge were melt marks, brown stains from cigarettes.

I was going to invest it properly, she said, after a pause, in a small business.

Two hundred, he said. Thatll get you a long way.

I was intending to.

I bet you were.

She glared at him. She dealt with men like him every day at work. One day, she knew for sure, she would do something constructive and she wouldnt have to deal with men like him any more.

She turned and looked out of the window, into the street. She saw pigeons, people, grey buildings. This city, everything in it, including me, is a big lump of grey muck, she thought.

Ive got a headache now, he said. Do you live near here?

Ive got a headache now, he said. Do you live near here?

Why? She stared at him again.

I only wondered.

Why?

I just need to put my head down for half an hour.

She started to laugh. Im pissed, she thought. Id rather die than invite him home.

Eventually she said, You think Im a bloody push-over.

You are.

She was.

Sylvias room always seemed dark, although it had no curtains and the windows were usually open. The walls, which had once been white, were now a shabby grey. Bits of wallpaper hung in strips where the birds had ripped at it to secure lining for their nests.

No attempt had been made to clear up the splatterings of dirt left by the birds on the floor, or at the bases of the thirty or so perches which had been erected on three of the four walls. Here it had formed into small, pointed, pyramidic piles.

The perches varied in size and were nailed to the wall in a series of regimented lines. They were fixed at four heights, some ten or so inches from the floor, others only inches from the ceiling. They encroached on the room, making it seem much closer and smaller than it actually was. About a quarter of the perches had been enlarged and built into perfunctory nesting boxes, although the birds rarely hatched their eggs or brought up their young within the rooms perimeter.

Pushed up against the only clear wall was Sylvias bed. The duvet was a dark green colour, stained intermittently by whitish bird droppings. There was little else in the room except for a large, grey trunk at the foot of her bed in which she kept all her clothes and the few other personal possessions that she valued.

The room was rarely quiet. The air was constantly full of the sound of vibrating wings, of bird argument and intrigue, and underneath each sound, humming at the very bottom, the purring, cooing, singing of the pigeons.

Wild birds are not naturally aromatic creatures, but the consequence of a large number of them inhabiting an enclosed space was that the room smelled something like a chicken coop. It was a strong and all-pervasive smell which was gradually taking over the top few floors of the block. During fine weather in the heat the smell expanded and could be detected over an even wider area.

Sylvia was oblivious to the smell. Since she rarely ventured out of the flat, it never struck her as out of the ordinary. Sometimes she noticed it when she travelled back indoors from her dawn vantage point on the roof, but even then it smelled like something good and reliable, a heavy, dusty, musty familiarity.

She knew that the dirt, the smell and the feathers were bad for her. Often she tasted this in her mouth after she had coughed. When she suffered from an asthma attack she would use her inhaler and hide under her duvet, somehow believing that the air under here was cleaner, free of the cloying thickness.

During the long, solitary periods spent in her room, Sylvia usually sat on the trunk at the foot of her bed with her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees.

She did very little, but was skinny. Her face was not thin, though. It was round and her cheeks were pouched and protuberant. Her father was a Cypriot. She had never met him, never mentioned him. Her mouth and nose were heavy and her lids and lips were thick and rich. Her eyes were a bright deep green: ironic cats eyes.

Most people apart from those who were expert in such matters presumed her to be retarded. Yet it always grew increasingly difficult (with familiarity) to pinpoint exactly how this was. She was numerate, literate, articulate. Only her will was retarded. She couldnt quite do anything. She couldnt quite want anything. She had no real desire, except to be left alone. She didnt even really want the birds that much, but she perceived them as though they existed in a different realm of being, a realm of necessity, of inevitability.

Earlier on, Brera had supposed that external stimuli might renew Sylvias vigour, her will. She had tried psychotherapy, counselling, family therapy. But nothing had worked. Nothing encroached. She remained aloof.

Sometimes Sylvia sat in her room and with a great deal of effort tried to summarize her life, to get her head around its totality. Whenever she did this, she could think only of nothing. Of a vacuum. The enormity of this vacuum terrified her. So instead she fixed things in terms of the birds, in a feathery cycle of birth, youth, age, death. This meant that after a time she couldnt actually do without them. They were her.

Straight after the argument she had regretted it. Steven John didnt really matter, she knew that. He didnt threaten her. He couldnt change things.

She sat on her trunk, pressed her chin into her knees and thought, I want them to leave me. I want things to be quieter and simpler. If they deserted me, if they grew tired of me, I could sit here for ever. I wouldnt have to try any more and that would be good. I think that would be good.

She knew it.

Six

Because he had forced himself to await a precise time before calling on her, Steven felt almost as though a previous arrangement had been made for this meeting. He felt confident. He waited for her to say something as he stuck his thumb into his belt and grinned.

Ruby squinted out at Steven through the half-light, her expression a mixture of impatience and exhaustion. Oh God.

His expression sank from cheerful to jowlful. Im pleased to see you too, he said.

He watched as she pushed her hand through her hair. He thought, Shes still wearing too much make-up and her skirt is too tight. Paradoxically, these familiar flaws made him feel inexplicably fond.

Can I come in?

Um. She thought about this for a moment. Why dont we go out for a drink? I can run up and fetch my coat.

And put some shoes on. He pointed to her stockinged feet.

Yeah. She turned. Wait here.

He ignored this and followed her, up the stairs and into her flat.

Her jacket was slung over the arm of a chair. She grabbed it and frantically looked around for her shoes. He stood in the doorway and appraised the room, wondering what it could be that she was so keen to conceal. Someone was in the bathroom. He could hear a tap running. She pulled on a pair of boots. Thats Toro, she said, washing his face.

Why?

Hes drunk. He won on a couple of races this morning.

Steven stared at the bathroom door, waiting for it to open.

She checked in her pocket for her keys. Right, lets go.

Dont you want to tell him?

What?

That youre going out.

She stood in front of him, awkwardly, her eyes unblinking, hiding something. No.

He looked not at her but over her shoulder.

How about that person on the floor?

Who?

She turned. Oh. Him. Hes fine.

Vincent lay on his back, spread-eagled across the carpet, his head hidden from view behind the sofa.

Is he sleeping or what?

She sighed. Its not a problem.

Before he could respond to this she said, How do you manage to always make me feel so bloody guilty?

He shrugged. He just had that knack. They both knew the reason. He disapproved of her. He liked her, but he thought her capable of behaving, at times, stupidly and carelessly. She allowed her life to become sordid. He found this hateful.

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