Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

‘What was it?’

(I’m drawn in.)

‘It was the tube for Blaine’s urine. It was actually glued , by the cold, to the end of his penis. When that kid hoovered it up, you could apparently hear his screams reverberating all over Times Square.’

‘ Ouch .’

He nods. ‘And the ice was four feet thick.’

We both glance over — grimacing sympathetically — towards the box.

‘His girlfriend at the time probably felt like having a small yank on it herself,’ I speculate.

‘ Josie ?’ he looks surprised. ‘Wasn’t she very supportive throughout?’

Oh .

‘So where d’you work?’ I divert.

‘St Botolphs. The shelter. But I’m actually doing a stint of outreach while Blaine’s here.’

( What ? Punk’s Not a charity worker? A paid up member of the God Squad?)

‘It’s been really great for Hilary, though,’ he says, pulling the lid off another carton and taking a sip himself, ‘to be able to return — without too much fuss and fanfare — to a place where people knew him from before…’ Silence .

‘Knew him from before what ?’ I eventually murmur.

( Oh Christ. Don’t answer .)

‘The breakdown.’

Another silence .

‘You should see him at the shelter, though,’ he continues (as if the silence wasn’t painful at all), ‘just reading people. He’s got it down to a fine art now. Every time there’s a new face in the place, he bides his time for a few nights, keeps his eyes and his ears peeled, then just totally shits them up. Basically tells them all this stuff that they didn’t even know about themselves. Astonishing details. Amazing predictions. Of course he plays it down a lot. Just says it’s “kind of mathematical ”…’

He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t know about that, but it’s certainly an impressive knack …’

He pushes the lid carefully back on to the cup.

I clear my throat, painfully.

‘Is he over his flu yet?’ I ask.

Punk’s Not nods, benignly. ‘I think we’ve pretty much got him through the worst of it,’ he says, ‘although it can be pretty dicey with street people. For some reason they’re especially prone to developing long-term problems with their lungs.’

I balance my cup, gingerly, on the handrail. Then once it’s obviously balanced, I pick it up again.

‘Well, I’d better get these down there,’ he says, tapping the top of a carton, ‘before they grow cold.’

He turns to go, then he pauses. ‘Should I mention that I just saw you to Aphra?’ he asks.

I try — for a moment — to look blank. Then I give up.

‘Better not,’ I mutter.

He tips his head, in gentle acknowledgement. ‘We’re all just doing our best for the girl, eh ?’ he says.

I nod.

He pauses. ‘And if you ever feel like you need someone to talk to…’

He smiles.

I try (I try ) and smile back (but fail). Then he waves and strolls off.

Shit , man.

I shove the lid back on my carton and march furiously (determinedly) in the opposite direction.

In fact I’m halfway up The Highway before it actually strikes me:

Punk’s Not was wearing CATs. I swear to God. And in tan .

Bloody Aphra .

Tinny ?

Did he actually , really say that?

Tinny ?

A second message comes. It arrives, without fanfare, while I’m lounging at the bar in our local pub on Sunday, ordering a third round and keeping half an eye on the Live Match , on Sky.

‘If I was a man,’ she says calmly, ‘I would beat you up . I really would. And I’d enjoy it. I’d take an active pleasure in it. Once was wrong, see? But it was manageable . Now it’s every night. Every night. It’s madness . And it won’t last, trust me. It can’t last. And if it does, by some miracle, then she’ll blame you , ultimately. When everything falls apart, she’ll blame you …’ Her voice cracks and she begins to cry. ‘And so will I.’

Click .

For some reason I don’t share this one with Solomon.

I mean what did I do that was so damn bad ?

God.

Oh God .

The i-Pod’s utterly filled up. It’s crammed. It’s choca-bloc. It’s complete .

Now what?

It’s no good. I’m too weak. I just have to take a look (a quick peek ), to find out if I was actually right or not. (Josie. The girlfriend. Did my eyes deceive me when I watched the TV programme? Or did Punk’s Not fuck up and get it all completely wrong?)

The Blaine book (shoved idly under my bed for the last week) is rapidly dragged out, and I’m heading diligently for the Frozen in Time chapter when my eye is drawn inexorably back…

Wow .

Nice art work. Great layout. Brilliant photos (author’s own).

And it’s extremely well written (it is ). And very dry . And revealing. And intelligent. And self-aware (within reason). And actually…curiously…quite beguilingly charming. The tone . It’s spot on . I can almost hear him speaking in that deep, slow, measured, slightly ironic-sounding drawl of his.

When I check out the acknowledgements I see it was co-written with this guy called Ratso who also wrote On the Road with Bob Dylan . And apart from ‘Blaine’s Challenge’ (which is entertaining enough) there’s also loads of information on how to perform various tricks (and pull various scams ). I actually learn — there and then — how to relight a candle without holding the match to the wick, try it, at once, then dash upstairs and show off my achievement to a bemused-seeming Solomon.

Tons of science stuff. And history stuff (it’s virtually a magician’s lexicon ). Blaine actually pinpoints his various magical heroes and influences, and if you read closely, it’s possible to see what he’s cherry-picked, why and where from: Alexander Herrmann; the street magician; Robert-Houdin, with his role as international envoy and ‘ peace -bringer’ Houdini, with his amazing knack for publicity ; Xavier Chabert, who really risked his life for his feats; Orson Welles — a keen amateur magician — gets a plug, for duping dumb America with his radio adaptation of H. G. Wells’ War of the Worlds (So there’s the literary angle neatly sorted, eh ?). He even gives Fidel Castro a name-check for cunningly using trained white doves to bring this magical sense of ‘legitimacy’ and ‘wonder’ to his political machinations.

Here’s another thing: there’s tricks inside the text itself . Blaine claims, near the start, that his publishers (Pan) have agreed to print many different versions of the book, which means ( Wha ? You think we were born yesterday ?) that each copy is somehow particular to the person who’s bought it. That it’s actually ‘magical’ in some way. At one point the casual narrative is suddenly interrupted by a mind-reading section, where Blaine whispers into the reader’s ear directly , saying stuff like, ‘You’re easily hurt. You like to travel…’

Hell yeah. This is brain-fucking at an executive level.

I finally get to investigate the whole Jewish angle. Man , the autobiographical content is utterly fascinating . There’s no mention at all of Blaine being Jewish himself (there’s a general impression that he was raised in a nurturing, free-thinking, 1970s New Age style environment — I mean there’s hard times and austerity, no TV and plenty of reading, but single-parent wages are carefully scrimped and saved for Montessori schooling).