Reversed Forecast. Nicola Barker

      Dedication

      For Ben Thompson,

       who’s always liked a bit of a flutter

      Contents

       Cover

      Title page

      Dedication

      One

      At night she breathed through her mouth, which would have…

      Two

      When younger, Sylvia had been something of a diversion, a…

      Three

      ‘How long have you been waiting?’

      Four

      Sam was peering through the kitchen window, trying to see…

      Five

      Vincent had been staring at his hands with unswerving concentration…

      Six

      Because he had forced himself to await a precise time…

      Seven

      Vincent opened his eyes. Black. He turned his head to…

      Eight

      Ruby unlocked the door and automatically reached out her hand…

      Nine

      Samantha stayed out all Saturday night and returned to the…

      Ten

      Ruby awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing. She…

      Eleven

      There was a painting in the living-room, a portrait, that…

      Twelve

      Connor woke Sam by kissing her ribs and her belly,…

      Thirteen

      Sylvia stood by the window. The curtains closed behind her.

      Fourteen

      What the hell had happened? A day of nagging, an…

      Fifteen

      What time was it? Four a.m.?

      Sixteen

      When Brera found Sylvia early on Saturday morning, she was…

      About the author

      Other books by Nicola Barker

      Praise

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      ONE

      At night she breathed through her mouth, which would have been fine, if unerotic, except for the fact that her loose lips and sagging tongue spilled out copious quantities of saliva on to her pillow. Sometimes she woke up in the morning to find that the side of her mouth and chin, as well as portions of her lower cheek, had become damp and chapped from her sloppy expulsions.

      She slept on her stomach - her breasts, soft pillows; her face, crushed against the bedclothes, misshapen by sleep, like the face of a pug, a boxer or a pekinese: inelegant but charming.

      This morning - a Saturday - too, too early; she slept and she dreamed. In her dream she saw the wings of a large black bird. Some people are frightened by wings, she thought. And feathers. Some people are afraid of moths. The way they flutter. This fear - she didn’t know the word for it - a nameless fear.

      One instant the bird was at her shoulder, but the next it was outside her window, holding on to the sill with its strong claws, tapping, tapping.

      Christ! she thought, suddenly feeling her body, her face, crashing into consciousness. Something is there at the window.

      Ruby turned over and tried to open her eyes, both still gummed up with remnants of liquid eye-liner and mascara. She lifted a warm hand to wipe them clear, but this rapid movement, the whiteness of motion from her bleached hair, her pale skin, made the bird - if indeed it was a bird - fall from the sill, as though shot by an arrow of whiteness, a white lightning. When her eyes could properly focus, all she could see through her tiny bedroom window was a pinkish hue, reflected from wall to wall on the buildings outside - diluted light like a weak pink gin. She sniffed, still thinking of the bird. ‘It was probably only a pigeon,’ she said, calming herself, then she opened her eyes wider, registered the reddish atmosphere outside and muttered, ‘Bugger. It’s going to rain.’

      She turned over, relaxed, opened her mouth to inhale, and in a single breath was gone.

      It didn’t rain immediately. Several miles away a small dark woman stood alone on an open piece of roof-scape. She was still, rooted, like a tree, but her leaves were feathers, which quivered and vibrated in the slow, smouldering, morning light. The mass of birds on her outstretched arms were shrill, excitable, ecstatic, and called, ‘Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!’

      They were heavy, but Sylvia waited, remaining benign and impassive until one, last bird had arrived. It landed on her shoulder, gently brushing her cheek with its great black wing.

      ‘Hello,’ she said quietly, her voice low and rasping. ‘I could see you coming from miles away. A minute ago you were only a tiny speck on the horizon.’

      ‘Cor!’ it replied, tipping its head, fixing her with a single, black eye.

      She grinned and then dropped her arms, feeling the weight of many birds instantly lift, turning her head, hearing the whirrrr of their wings as she watched them ascend.

      At ten-forty-five, Ruby ran across Wardour Street and made her way down towards the main bulk of the Berwick Street fruit market. Here she bought a bag of apples and smiled hello to various stallholders. She was late for work, but didn’t seem concerned. From the far end of the market her peroxide hair was clearly visible amongst the bright cuts and smashes of different fruits - the casualty of colour.

      To any incidental observer, standing attentive at the end of the market, watching out for motorbike couriers, the wasps, the fruit skins, Ruby painted a diverting picture.

      She’s bold, she’s tall. When the men on the market call her a Big Girl, and they do, she spits out her tongue. Her short, unruly, badly bleached hair initially distracts attention from her large, red lips and black-lined eyes. She never tans, but she does wear tinted make-up to stop her skin from looking too pale, too insipid. She has a long nose which is rounded at the tip - not snub - and which suffers the indignity of a slight dent in the middle. She has a big but good body and her clothes are fashionable but not showy. (This is no place to be showy. Soho is cheap-showy.) She has green eyes and five hooped earrings in each ear. Until recently her nose was pierced too. On the palm of her right hand she has a tattoo, which depicts, somewhat clumsily, a small, blue bird in flight. This doesn’t irritate her too much now - she tries not to regret things from the past - although sometimes it surprises her when she puts out her hand in shops to receive change.

      Occasionally, as she walks, the market men send teasing whistles in her direction, which make her smile, check her tights and pull down her skirt. Her skirts are usually short but not excessively so, because her legs, although long, are also thick and muscular. If asked what part of her body she hated most, she would probably slap her thighs. She is resolutely curvy: a pear-shaped peach.

      Close up, in focus, beyond the hair, the nose, the thighs, hides another essential, unmistakable, uncosmetic detail. It reveals itself physically, although it is not physical. It shows itself in her half-smiling, bright red, cherry lips. In her eyes, which see everything, are concerned with every small detail. You can hear it in