Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings. Nicola Barker
She said this with great certainty, as though only saying it this way would mean it didn’t matter.
‘You won’t get a licence then. Not without proper kennels. Anyway, when the racing manager at Hackney finds out Don isn’t training her any more, he’ll drop her from the card. If she doesn’t get a place in her next race, he’ll drop her for the season anyway.’
Ruby stared at the dog. The dog’s expression was docile but furtive.
‘You,’ she said, with sudden fondness.
The dog licked her lips. Her whiskers stuck out of her cheeks – silver against her black fur – like needles in a pincushion.
After a while Ruby said, ‘There’s no law against being too keen.’
‘There should be, though.’
Stan leaned against the table. ‘You could run her at an independent track and you wouldn’t even need a licence. Swaffham’s a permit track. You could run her there for fifty quid. Or you could even breed from her.’
‘I could,’ she said. ‘I could, but I don’t want to.’ She was making decisions now. She could make them. ‘I want to run her at Hackney.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I can run her on Thursday.’
‘He’ll drop her if he finds out Don’s sold her.’
‘What if she got a place?’
He laughed. ‘She won’t.’
‘But what if she did?’
‘He’ll drop her anyway.’
‘She deserves a chance.’
Stan thought about this, looked unconvinced, but said, ‘If I come down on the day, and anyone asks, you can say you’re with me.’
Ruby smiled. ‘I’ve got plans for her.’
Stan stuck his hands deep into his pockets. ‘You’ll find out soon enough she’s got plans of her own.’
Vincent scowled at the dog. ‘Where did that come from?’
Ruby closed the door behind her and unclipped Buttercup’s lead from her collar.
‘She’s a bitch. I just bought her.’
‘Why?’
She sat down. ‘I don’t know.’
He stared at the dog as she walked around the room, sniffing furniture and poking her nose into corners.
‘Black’s a good colour. She matches everything,’ he said.
‘Yeah. I really needed to hear that.’
‘I made dinner.’
‘I thought you’d be gone.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
He went into the kitchen and dished up the food he’d prepared.
‘Don’t give any to the dog.’
‘I wasn’t planning to.’
‘She’s on a diet.’
Ruby took the plate he handed her and started eating. Tuna, rice, sweetcorn, beans. The dog smelled the food and walked over. She sat next to Ruby, staring at the plate, her tail making a slight swishing sound against the carpet.
‘Does she bite?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why’s she wearing that muzzle?’
Ruby closed her eyes, stopped chewing and swallowed. ‘At Tottenham Court Road tube she chased a woman wearing a furtrimmed jacket up the escalator.’
He laughed. ‘Did she get her?’
‘She caught her but she didn’t bite her. She was wearing her muzzle.’
‘You should’ve had her on a lead.’
Ruby dropped her fork and showed him her hand. ‘Leather burns.’
She continued eating. This is nice.’
‘I trained as a chef. In Dublin. They had a big dog track there. Shelbourne Park. I went once but I never won a penny.’
‘There are always plenty of jobs for chefs up west. Imagine what you could earn. You could pay me back in no time.’
‘I don’t think so.’
He stood up and went to turn over the record he’d been listening to earlier, then ran some water into a pan and put it down on the floor for the dog.
‘Can she drink through that muzzle?’
‘Yeah.’
He returned to the sofa, noting Ruby’s miserable expression. ‘I get the feeling you didn’t really think this through.’
‘Story of my life.’
She continued eating, then added, ‘But there was a great moment back then when it really did seem like a good idea.’
‘She’ll chew this flat to pieces.’
‘I’ll keep her muzzled.’
‘What will you do with her when you’re at work?’
The dog, suddenly, inexplicably, started to bark. Vincent jumped and dropped a forkful of rice on to his lap. He scooped it up with his fingers and crammed it into his mouth. Ruby craned her neck and stared over the back of the sofa towards Buttercup, who was still standing next to her bowl of water.
‘What’s up?’
She called out her name but the dog didn’t respond, so she put down her plate and walked over to her, squatted down next to her and tried to attract her attention. The dog continued to bark, loudly, bouncing forward on her front paws. Ruby tried to force her to sit by pushing down her rump but the dog wouldn’t oblige. She tried talking sternly and then, finally, shouting.
Vincent put down his plate and walked over. ‘What’s she barking at?’
‘I don’t know. She was fine when she came in.’
The dog fell silent. They both stared at her, surprised. Then, after a five-second hiatus, she started up again.
Ruby swore.
‘If the bloody neighbours find out I’ve got a dog, I’ll be evicted.’
‘Follow her eyes.’
‘Why?’
She peered into Buttercup’s face. The dog’s eyes were glazed and purposeful. Her breath was bad.
Vincent bounded over to the stereo and lifted the stylus. The dog stopped barking. He dropped it again. She barked.
‘She doesn’t like Kraftwerk, so she’s barking at the speakers.’
He squatted down, took the record off and threw it on the floor, then put another one on.
Ruby’s eyes widened. ‘Be careful. You’ll scratch them.’
He turned the volume up and waited for a song to start. As soon as it did, so did the dog. He laughed and switched it off. ‘She doesn’t like Inner City either.’
He took out a Ray Charles album and slung it on. It began to play. The dog cocked her head, listened intently and then sat down.
‘Look at her! She’s an old crooner.’
He was preparing to change the record yet again when Ruby crawled over to the socket in the wall and pulled out the plug. She glared at him, still on her hands and knees. ‘If you’ve scratched any of my records you can pay me for them.’
‘I