Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings. Nicola Barker

he drew closer to his car, he noticed that the side mirrors had been pulled off and that the aerial had been twisted into a heart shape. ‘Curse the bastard,’ he muttered. ‘Curse the bastard that did this.’ He grabbed the aerial and tried to straighten it.

      Sylvia walked out of her room and into the kitchen. ‘He makes me want to spew,’ she announced.

      Sam and Brera were doing the washing up. They both turned to look at her.

      ‘He liked your songs,’ Sam lied. ‘You should’ve come in and said hello.’

      Sylvia removed a strand of her hair from the confines of the pony-tail she was wearing and twisted it around her finger. ‘He hated the songs. I heard him.’

      Brera pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘He thought they were good but unusual.’

      ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

      Brera crossed her arms and stared at Sylvia as she stood in the doorway. ‘Grow up.’

      ‘I’m nineteen. That’s old enough.’

      For what? She didn’t look nineteen. She looked twelve. Like a scruffy, ill-adapted pre-teen.

      ‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘I vandalized his car.’

      Brera continued to stare at her. ‘You appal me.’

      Sam leaned on the window-sill and peered out again. Steven was still there, yanking at his aerial.

      ‘It’s only the aerial,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s an old car.’

      Sylvia glared at her. ‘Who asked you?’

      Brera threw herself forward on to the table and banged her forehead against it. Thump. She did it again. Thump.

      Sylvia was furious. ‘Stop it!’

      Brera stopped and straightened up. ‘Are you happy now?’

      ‘Yes!’ Sylvia shouted, and the shout turned instantly into a cough, into several coughs, whooping coughs.

      She couldn’t breathe. She clutched her stomach and leaned against the side of the door, bent double.

      Good, she thought. Punishment for everybody.

      She coughed carelessly, loosely, so that the unrestrained force of her hacking might rip up her throat and bring out blood. She visualized the cough as two tiny beings playing volleyball inside her throat, passing the tickle back and forth, catching it, returning it, blocking it, holding it. If only, she thought desperately, seeing their impassive faces through her streaming eyes, if only they could enjoy my illness as much as I do.

      She turned, still coughing, and staggered back down the corridor.

      ‘Go!’ Brera shouted after her. ‘I’m sick of the sight of you!’

      Sam began washing up again. After a minute or so she said, ‘I think she feels left out.’

      Brera rubbed her eyes. ‘She’s such a little bitch. She never does anything for herself and she resents everything we do.’

      Sam ran a finger across the bubbles in the sink, watched them burst on her skin. ‘She’s bound to feel threatened by Steven. She might feel like she’s losing us. Losing something.’

      Brera’s lips tightened. To hell with what she thinks.’

      Sam glanced towards the open door and then walked over to shut it. As she turned back she said, ‘Perhaps we should’ve explained about her to Steven. I’m sure he would’ve understood, and if he hadn’t, then we wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him anyway.’

      ‘You think I’m ashamed of her?’

      Brera’s eyes filled. Sam found the sight of her mother’s imminent tears disagreeable and unsettling. I shouldn’t feel that way though, she decided, and tried not to. She pulled off a piece of kitchen roll and handed it to her. Brera blew her nose and then looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot.

      ‘I’m frightened, that’s all. I want to protect her.’ Her eyes exuded tears: large, fat tears like transparent slugs, slithering down her face. ‘She’s such a little shit.’

      Sam watched the tears. If I taste one, she thought, then everything will be all right. She put out her hand and brushed a tear from Brera’s chin on to her finger, then let it fall from her finger on to the end of her tongue.

      ‘She’ll be fine,’ she said.

       Five

      Vincent had been staring at his hands with unswerving concentration for almost five hours. During this time there had been no perceptible change in their appearance.

      After his initial statement to the two police officers – ‘I fell over. I banged my head’ – a short period of speculation about bail payments and a perfunctory medical check, he had refused to involve himself in any further interaction. This hadn’t really worked to his advantage, but he hadn’t honestly expected it to.

      Within the previous couple of weeks he had been detained on two occasions and charged on one of these for breach of the peace. He was hardly a novice in the cells, and, as such, no one paid him much attention.

      While he stared at his hands his mind ran over a variety of subjects. Larson. Arson. Willie Carson. Occasionally he slumped into an unthinking daze, but when he came to and refocused on his dirty nails, fingers and the pale hair on the back of his knuckles, his mind raced on with as much enthusiasm as if it had never paused. Blood in my nostrils, dried blood, like paint.

      He often lost all track of time. His life was a strange mixture of time-using (demonstration) and time-wasting (remonstration).

      He has many opinions, his own opinions, and he has many faults. The chief one is intolerance. He sees himself as an anarchic bob-a-job man – doing favours, splitting hairs, trading down. Always down. He is unusual in that his intolerance and his pureness of vision haven’t made him into boot-boy, a Tory or a fascist. He is the opposite of these things; is ceaselessly, peacelessly contrary.

       My life. What fucking life? No life. Low life.

      He has a terror of involvement, of commitment – to places, to things. He won’t be held culpable or responsible, will only represent one view: his own view. He thinks the world, everything, is stupid.

       Stupid!

      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 doesn’t 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 bail’s been settled.’

      I love this man, Vincent thought, but it’ll come out some other way.

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

      ‘Yeah, very funny.’

      He stood up. ‘Can I