Reversed Forecast / Small Holdings. Nicola Barker

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       Eight

      Ruby unlocked the door and automatically reached out her hand for the light switch. She stopped herself just in time, feeling the switch with the tip of her finger but applying no pressure. Instead she paused in the doorway for a moment in order to adjust her eyesight to the room’s darkness. After a few seconds she could make out the shape of a figure on the couch – Toro, still snoring – and she could also see, if she stood on tip-toe, beyond the sofa, where Vincent’s blanket was bundled up into a deceptively large pile.

      Very gently she closed the door behind her. She fancied a cup of coffee but didn’t want to wake her guests, so she settled for a glass of water and then padded quietly into the bathroom.

      It smelled. She closed the door and switched on the light. She was positive that the smell was of vomit, but could see no sign of it. She inspected the toilet bowl, which looked clean, but squirted some bleach down there for good measure.

      After completing her ablutions, she switched off the bathroom light and made her way blindly into her bedroom. Before she closed the door she felt under the handle on both sides for the keyholes, located the key on the other side, took it out, pushed it in on her side, pulled the door to and locked it.

      The small window in her bedroom let in just enough light. She pulled off her clothes and hunted around on the floor for something suitable to wear. Eventually she found a large T-shirt which she put on and pulled down.

      She climbed into bed. Her blankets were rucked up and jumbled. She put out a hand to pull one over and then gasped as she touched something warm and bristly.

      There lay Vincent in a state of irritable semi-wakefulness. He opened one eye and stared at her. ‘Get your hands off my neck.’

      She sprang out of bed. ‘Christ! I locked myself in here and you’re in here already.’

      He pulled himself up on to his elbows, thought about saying something, opened his mouth to say it, but no words came out, only liquid.

      Ruby was almost sick herself, but not in sympathy, not exactly.

      ‘Get out of my bloody bed! You could be anybody!’

      ‘I am anybody.’

      He rolled over, stood up and staggered towards the door clutching his stomach. He pulled at the door handle with his free hand but it wouldn’t open, so he threw up against it, then fell to his knees and inspected his handiwork.

      ‘That’s my kidney, liquidized.’

      Ruby snatched a cardigan from the floor and wrapped it around her.

      He groaned, ‘You really think I intend taking advantage of you when I’m crippled by some kind of chronic gastric disorder?’

      She pushed past him and switched on the light. They both blinked. Ruby’s eyes adjusted. Vincent’s wouldn’t focus. He removed a hand from his gut long enough to touch his forehead and then clutched his stomach again, leaning forward. Ruby, fearing more mess, looked around for something he could vomit into, but didn’t have a rubbish bin in the room or anything like a bowl or bag. Instead she grabbed hold of an old broken guitar without strings that was leaning against the wall. She thrust it towards him. ‘Don’t you dare be sick on the floor again.’

      Vincent stared at the guitar. ‘If you’re expecting me to vomit into a musical instrument, I’d prefer a trumpet.’

      He leaned even further forward and put a hand across his mouth, speaking through his fingers, ‘Just open the door.’

      She dumped the guitar, turned the key in the lock and pulled the door wide. He crawled through, and, after a moment’s hesitation, dragged himself into the bathroom. Ruby glanced over at her bed and saw that his vomit was a particularly strange colour: a harsh taramasalata pink.

      When Vincent crawled back out of the bathroom a short while later, he paused in the doorway and watched as Ruby stuffed all affected linen into a refuse bag. She scowled at him. ‘This pink stuff is like something you’d serve with crackers.’

      She went and found a cloth in the kitchen and began to scrub at the door and the carpet. Vincent made no attempt to help her or to arrange himself comfortably. Instead he lay in a clumsy heap next to the wall.

      She walked over to inspect him. He looked pale and sweaty. She prodded him with her toe.

      ‘Are you asleep? The floor’s rock hard.’

      She touched his hand. It was wet.

      She went into the living-room and leaned over the back of the sofa. ‘Toro? Wake up.’

      He grunted. ‘You think I could sleep through that?’

      She kicked at the back of the sofa. ‘You got him pissed in the first place. Come and give me a hand.’

      He sat up, rubbed his eyes. ‘It smells like a hospital.’