Free Reversed Forecast by Nicola Barker Page B

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, didthe 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.
    He returned to the kitchen and inspected the cupboards to see what food Ruby had in. Tinned stuff, dried stuff. He’d cook something.
    While some beans were soaking he tidied up the living-room and then moved into Ruby’s bedroom. Her carpet was knee-deep in pieces of clothing. He kicked these into a large pile and then sorted out what was clean and what was dirty. He sniffed, looked, fondled.
    He liked it here. He’d stay for a while, but he wouldn’t ask. If you asked, people said no. Even soft people. Eventually.
     
    Ruby pressed the buzzer and listened out for barking, but could hear none. The building was a mixture of grandeur and dilapidation. It was built in a square around a tarmacked courtyard. The entrance was barred by a large, black, metal gate.
    After several minutes a tiny old man staggered across the courtyard towards her. He looked like Mr Punch, all nose and chin with eyes like sultanas. He reached the gate, puffed out, and gazed through it at her. ‘You’ve come to get the bitch?’
    Ruby nodded and said, ‘I’ve seen you at Hackney before, haven’t I?’
    ‘Could’ve, but I’m usually at Walthamstow.’
    He started to unlock the gate before adding, ‘That bitch of yours wouldn’t run on the Walthamstow track for love nor bloody money. They’ve got a McGee hare there. You familiar with it?’
    Ruby frowned. ‘It’s smaller,