Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

‘Ja- who ?’

‘Lisa.’

‘Oh.’

‘…was saying how Blaine is actually very into all the Jewish stuff. She said this entire stunt had been devised as a consequence of Blaine’s friend Harmony Korine-the film-maker…’ (Absolutely no sign of recognition at this name.)

‘…having shown him a short story by the German-Jewish writer, Franz Kafka.’

‘What’s the story about?’ she asks (moderately interested).

‘Haven’t read it yet…’ I say.

‘Ah.’

(The light inside her quietly switches off.)

‘But from what I can tell…’

‘He just moved his hand,’ Aphra murmurs.

I blink.

‘Pardon?’

‘He moved his hand ,’ she says.

I turn around.

Yup . There’s his hand. Out of the sleeping bag. Scratching weakly at his trademark mop of dark hair.

The hand disappears again. I turn back around.

‘Gone,’ she says, mournfully.

Her eyes return to my face for a moment. Sad eyes. Grey eyes.

Okay …(So I’ve temporarily run out of steam. I open my mouth to say something but nothing emerges. So I inhale, deeply, and close it again.)

‘Were you clear?’ she suddenly enquires.

‘Pardon?’

‘The clinic ,’ she says, ‘were you clear?’

I frown, somewhat taken off my guard (Now this is a whole other can of worms…)

‘Yes,’ I finally mutter, ‘I was, actually.’

‘Good,’ she says, her eyes sliding back over towards the Illusionist again.

‘How did you know?’ I ask (maybe a touch of aggression in my voice — which I try my best to temper on the grounds of our recent — and still potentially delicate — food-theft situation).

She just shrugs. ‘An old friend of mine was temping there. I met her from work for a drink that night. I was with you in the waiting room…’

She smiles. ‘…And because I’d already had the benefit of observing your antics around here …’

She stops smiling.

‘Two and two, et cetera,’ she concludes.

I scratch my head. She looks down at her watch.

‘Don’t you have a job to go to?’ she asks tartly. (Well that’s a Summary Dismissal if ever I heard one.)

I half-turn but don’t move. Instead I pretend to busy myself with methodically fastening my jacket (it has one of those magnificently chunky, ‘work-wear’, lumberjack-style zips), then immediately un fasten it, then re fasten it, like a boy standing outside his school science lab, debating whether to head inside for a practical, or bolt off across the playing field and down into the ditch beyond where all the bad kids like to hang, during lessons, and sniff solvents, and make out, and share a smoke (or was that just my school? My science class? Was that just me ?

Yeah?

So fuck the universal).

She straightens up and jumps down from the wall (plainly preparing to head off herself), and as she does, one of the security guards waves at her, jovially, from inside the fenced enclosure. She waves back.

‘See you later ,’ she yells.

He nods, does the thumbs up.

(Great. Another rival.)

‘Hey…’ she suddenly murmurs (much softer, now, and in my direction).

I glance up, briefly, from my zippering hell ( man , all that friction’s starting to burn off my thumb nail).

‘So next time you want a free feed, MacKenny…’ She rattles her bag at me, smiling, rather tenderly…

( Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus —is she actually gonna ask me round for dinner ?)

The smile suddenly drops. ‘Why not bring your own fucking Tupperware, eh ?’

Gets me every time, damn her.

But come on , the shoes were hot .

Back to last night:

‘She can cook,’ Jalisa informs me as she returns from the bathroom. ‘God knows she can cook.’

(Solomon — too — is rendered virtually rhapsodic by some of the more ‘esoteric’ culinary productions.)

‘I mean everything in tiny pieces and portions,’ Jalisa murmurs, ‘as if prepared for a sickly child or a fussy dowager…’

‘Bizarrely aromatic ,’ Solomon announces, ‘did you happen to notice that?’

Uh …I cock my head (I mean I didn’t get to eat much yet, but smell…? Yeah. Maybe.)

‘Low-fat,’ Jalisa interjects, informatively.

‘And succulent,’ Solomon continues, ‘if unbelievably fussy …’

‘Yeast-free,’ Jalisa raises her voice slightly ( Wow . Think that crack about her headscarf might still be stinging her?).

‘Yeast-fucking- free ?’ Solomon scoffs.

Jalisa stares at him, heavy-lidded ( Ay . The hypnotic glare of the angry polecat).

‘ And gluten free,’ she growls.

‘What about the bread? ’ Solomon raises one sceptical brow.

‘ Spelt flour,’ she hisses.

‘And the filo pastry ?’

Silence .

‘So you basically think that this food is intended to appeal to someone sickly?’ I jump in (before the actual blows commence- Hmmn . Is Aphra sick? She doesn’t look sick…)

‘Perhaps an allergy sufferer,’ Jalisa ponders, ‘or a very healthy hedonist…’

‘Given that we’re dealing with what could essentially be described as your basic south-east Indian cuisine here,’ Solomon shrugs his ridiculously manly, steel-grey-lambswool, John Smedley-encased shoulders, ‘by your estimation…’ he delivers Jalisa a pitying look, ‘the entire Indian sub-continent should be peopled by allergy sufferers.’

Jalisa stares at him for a while, her expression, quizzical. ‘I’m not sure who built the road , Solomon,’ she eventually murmurs, ‘but you seem to be experiencing some kind of temporary charm bypass.’

(No comment is forthcoming from the guy wielding the tarmac.)

The overall impact of this scathing attack is marginally undermined by the fact that as soon as Jalisa finishes speaking she picks up a stray spoon and finishes off the rice pudding with it.

‘ I wanted some of that,’ Solomon finally hisses.

Jalisa smacks her lips, defiantly.

(So he’s definitely not getting any tonight, eh?)

I slowly tiptoe away from the table and towards the door, hands raised (perhaps) in the slightly defensive attitude of a frightened hamster.

‘Well this has been fun,’ I mutter, rapidly exiting.

‘Yes, hasn’t it,’ Jalisa tosses back.

The guard’s name is Seth and he’s extremely garrulous. Within five minutes he’s told me where he’s originally from (Greenwich), which part of London he currently lives in (Battersea), what his last assignment was (some shonky American Wrestling deal at the London Arena), what his next will be (the new Bridget Jones film), how much he’s earning (£100 per day), the duration for which his mother breast fed him (Okay, so now I’m just showing off- the dude was bottle fed, as it happens).

As I’m sure you can imagine, it doesn’t take a man of my subtle conversational abilities long to lure him around to the fascinating subject of Aphra.

‘ Lovely girl,’ he says cheerfully, ‘but a total fucking nutter .’

‘Really?’

‘Didn’t you notice yet, guv?’ he chortles.

‘Well, she’s certainly a little…’

I raise my brows, suggestively (Could that possibly be constructed as ungallant?).

‘Believe it or not,’ he runs effortlessly on, ‘the first time she ever came here she didn’t have the first clue about who David Blaine was or what the fuck he was doing up there…’ He smiles, fondly, at the memory. ‘She’s like, “But why’s he in the box…?” “Won’t he get sick if he doesn’t eat for all that time?”, “And how will he go to the toilet ?”, “ What ? With everybody just watching ?”’