Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

I suddenly realise that Aphra has adjusted her focus and that I am now the lone recipient of all her attention.

‘I simply don’t remember ,’ she says, inspecting my nose and cheek and lips as if I’m some kind of dated — and slightly distasteful — nude hung up in the National Gallery. ‘What day was this, exactly?’

‘Two days ago,’ I say, ‘Monday.’

She draws close to the back of my ear and gives a little sniff .

(What is this girl? A collie ?!)

‘I did have a migraine then,’ she regretfully concedes, drawing back again.

‘The dust ,’ I sigh, and wave my hand (the way I distinctly remember she’d waved hers).

‘Yes,’ she murmurs (not registering my satire), ‘it certainly has been bad for this time of year.’ She pauses, turns, and sits back down. ‘So you took me home, you say?’

I nod.

‘Did I ask you to?’

I shake my head. ‘A porter from the hospital asked me,’ I explain.

‘Good Lord ,’ she expostulates, and then is silent for a while. Punk’s Not and I appraise each other, blankly.

‘Do you remember the address ?’ she suddenly asks, slitting her dirty pigeon eyes, suspiciously.

‘The Square,’ I say.

She grimaces.

‘Which floor?’

‘Third.’

‘Which number ?’

‘Twenty-seven,’ I say, ‘or twenty-eight.’

She digests this information for a moment.

‘And then what?’ she asks.

‘I took you inside, but you kept on walking out again. You kept saying, “This isn’t home …”.’ I pause. ‘It was actually rather irritating…’

‘Oh really ?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then what?’

I glance anxiously over towards Punk’s Not.

‘You honestly want me to go into all of this right now?’

She snorts, contemptuously, ‘And why wouldn’t I?’

I turn to Punk’s Not and hold out my hand. ‘I don’t believe I got your name before,’ I say (by way— Aw, Bless —of a gentlemanly distraction).

Punk’s Not stares at my outstretched palm in open disgust.

Long pause (but still, I persist).

‘Larry,’ he says, finally.

‘Larry?’ I repeat.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘ Good ,’ I say.

‘ Tell me,’ Aphra butts in impatiently.

I clear my throat. ‘Well…’ I murmur.

‘Cat got your tongue? ’ she enquires smartly.

‘ Well ,’ I continue (and you can Fuck Right Off), ‘we got inside and I led you straight through to the bedroom…’

‘How’d you even know where the bedroom was?’ she asks haughtily.

‘Instinct,’ I respond, still more haughty.

She merely grunts.

‘Then I removed your shoes…’

‘Oh really ?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Which shoes?’ she asks.

‘Green shoes,’ I say, ‘with ridiculously huge buckles and ugly, square toes.’

As I finish speaking, she leans forward and quietly inspects my shoes ( the trainer for summer 2003–according to the Fashion Gestapo at Arena Magazine —the Adidas Indoor Super: red, white, blue, with oodles of beige suede trim, totally now, yet totally then).

She concludes her perusal and glances back up again with a small snort ( Hey . I remember that snort — must be some kind of awful trademark ).

‘Craven,’ she intones, darkly.

‘Pardon?’

‘And needy ,’ she continues smartly, ‘you’re just so incredibly needy, Adair Graham MacKenny.’

(Shit. This bitch has absolute recall… Uh . Or does she?)

Larry sticks both arms behind his head and lounges back on the bench, chuckling.

‘Bull,’ I say.

‘Classic,’ she sighs, ‘neutral,’ she adds, ‘retro,’ she concludes.

What. A. Cow.

Before I can offer any kind of formal defence for my Indoor Super (and God knows I could’ve, and it would’ve been stringent), she turns her lacerating tongue on Punk’s Not.

‘And you ,’ she says, ‘with your shite Dr Martens. I mean, it’s a new millennium now, so let’s move on a little, shall we?’

I think it would be fair to say that Larry does not particularly relish this unprovoked sartorial dressing down.

‘So I take off your shoes ,’ I boldly interject ( yeah , wanna play by the Big Boy’s rules, do we?), ‘and I close the curtains. Then I go into the kitchen and I pour you a glass of water. I find you a bowl to be sick in…’

‘Well bully for you,’ she says, crossing her arms, yawning, and glancing back over towards Blaine and his didicoi army.

‘And when I come back into the bedroom,’ I continue (just a subtle hint of smugness in my tone), ‘you’ve removed the bottom half of your clothing…’ I pause, with relish. ‘The pants, the skirt. And you’re clutching your ugly, green shoes in each of your two hands, naked as the day.’

Larry’s spirits (I think it would be fair to say) have suddenly revived. His hands are squeezing his knees and he’s leaning forward.

‘Naked?’ he repeats.

‘From the waist down,’ say I.

‘ Unbelievable ,’ Aphra mutters.

‘Then I go into the bathroom,’ I continue, ‘to try and find you a flannel, but there isn’t one…’

‘Flannels,’ she harrumphs, ‘ disgust me.’

‘So I dampen some toilet roll, and then this strange woman comes in…’

‘Oh my God,’ Larry intones.

‘A woman ?’ Aphra looks stunned.

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I mean in retrospect, it was a little awkward…’

Aphra stands up.

‘Gotta go,’ she mutters, and simply walks off.

Bam .

I gaze at Larry. Larry gazes back at me. He shrugs, bemusedly. I glance down. She’s left her bloody Tupperware.

‘She’s left her bag ,’ I tell him, and lean down to grab it.

Larry darts out a restraining hand. ‘From the waist down?’ he asks (hungry for confirmation).

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘ Hairy ?’ he whispers (still holding on, defiantly).

‘Let’s put it this way,’ I say. ‘The closest that girl’s ever got to a Brazilian is the time she did the tango with her salsa instructor.’

Larry releases my arm. I grab the bag. We do a spontaneous high five ( Yup , that’s boys for ya ), then I dart off, into the crowds, and after her.

Can’t find the girl. Not for love nor bloody money. Guess she must’ve turned a sharp left and headed up the stairs. The crowds are dense, and time is marching, so I head back to work, lugging the bag of Tupperware along with me.

No sooner have I stepped foot back indoors than I’m caught up in the middle of an excited throng of staff in the foyer.

‘Were you outside ?’ someone asks. ‘Did you actually see ?’

Uh ?

Wha ?!

I quickly make my way over to the window, as dumpy, ginger-haired Bly from Human Resources burns my ear.

‘I mean it was all getting a little frantic for a while,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if you noticed…’

Frantic? What ? The Gypsies? The Lift Music?

‘There was a big crowd of them,’ she continues, ‘just making this huge racket…’

There was?

‘Right inside the fences and everything. And then suddenly this man is climbing the thingummy…’

She points.

‘ What ?’ my jaw slackens. ‘The Support Tower?’