Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings. Nicola Barker
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 maneuvered 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 heat-wave 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