Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

She shakes her head, slightly shocked. ‘Always hated those ads,’ she mutters.

‘In fact one time he was pulling a similar kind of stunt on a cliff-top. He was right on the edge of this precipice and he slipped, lost his footing, and just went hurtling down this dead drop…’

‘ Then what?’

‘That’s the weird thing. He thought he’d had it. He thought he was going to die . But by some bizarre miracle — which, to this day, he still doesn’t entirely understand — he survived. A huge fall, and barely a scratch on him. After that all his friends used to call him, “the cat”.’

‘Nine lives…’ Aphra’s frowning. ‘Well that hardly sets the greatest precedent, does it?’

‘Why?’

‘Because he thinks he’s immortal. But of course he’s not. Nobody is.’

I shrug. ‘I suppose we could say that he lives a “charmed life”.’ Well…charmed in some ways, but definitely not in others. He’s seen everyone he truly loves slowly die around him, but he’s survived. Part of him, I’m certain, wants to punish himself for living on. And another part — a Messianic part — probably believes that he’s pretty much indestructible.’

We’re standing and talking by the Tower, now.

‘I’ve gotta go,’ she says, and takes the two bags from me.

‘I had a happy time tonight.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you.’

Then she kisses me, softly, on the cheek, turns and heads off into the light.

I follow her.

Obviously.

I mean, wouldn’t you ?

She doesn’t know I’m behind her. She never looks back (Nope. Not once ), not even when she first takes her leave of me (when most normal people actually might). And maybe part of me thinks (to begin with, at least) that she will, and if she does, then I’ll be able to turn resignedly around again (tongue-lashed and scalded), head off home, have a quick nip of Jim Beam, fall into a warm bath, a soft bed…

But she doesn’t look back.

She crosses the bridge.

(How I love this damn bridge at night…Although I love it best at dawn; the sky tender and blushing like some uptight, Victorian virgin on the morning of her deflowering, the clouds crazily spiralling, the random puffs of vapour from the city’s air conditioning, the tug horns blaring, a thousand lights on the riverside blazing, then gradually growing dimmer and more ineffectual in the shimmering glare of the rising sun.)

She stands at the far end of the bridge and watches Blaine for a while. Then she checks herself (I can tell — even from where I’m standing — that it takes some effort of will) and strolls on. She walks on . She’s not heading for the nightwatch. And she’s certainly not heading home again. So where’s she going?

My following gets more furtive now (I mean if she catches me behind her at this stage it’s gonna look pretty dodgy, eh? ). She walks on briskly for a further five minutes, then she stops. I, peer up at the large, grey building towering above her.

But of course. Of course . Guys. The bloody hospital .

I shouldn’t (don’t even waste your breath), I know I shouldn’t, but I still keep on following. And it’s not like I’m saying that the hospital security is a bunch of shit or anything (wouldn’t fucking dare ), but I pursue her, unchallenged, down a labyrinth of corridors, through a dozen swing-doors, up a series of stairs…

Eventually she reaches her destination; enters a brightly-lit ward and marches up to the nurses’ station.

I’m peering in at her through the wire-meshed glass in the heavy, white, hospital regulation swing-doors. She’s talking with a nurse. A blonde nurse. The nurse is listening, then frowning, then responding quite emphatically. Aphra says something else, then dumps a bag of food on to the desk. The nurse grabs it, lifts it up, holds it out to her, gesticulating. Aphra turns on her heel. The nurse calls after her…

Jesus wept , she’s heading back!

Fuck .

I sprint down the corridor and turn a sharp left.

She’s still coming. I zip into a private room (dimly lit. Some poor plugged-up geezer beep-beeping it on a heart monitoring machine). Still I hear her footsteps approaching (How unlucky is that ?). I shove my back against the wall, in the lee of the door, holding my breath.

I feel her — I feel her — peering in through the glass (the light from the hallway cuts out as her head blocks the gap).

I count to ten. Then to twenty.

She sneezes, loudly (the bloke on the bed stirs. His breathing quickens, his heart rate)…

And then she goes.

She does .

I count to five, put my hand on to the doorhandle, twist it, pull …Am just about to take my chance and scarper, when I detect a further- rather sharp- exchange underway in the hallway (between Aphra and the nurse), so I pause, push the door to, and glance anxiously around the room.

Wow. It’s nice in here. Very nice. Homely. Swanky. Flower displays everywhere (forget the bunch. Fuck the bunch. The bunch is so passé), a strongly scented candle- Jasmine? Lavender? — a veritable stall of fruit, and a whole host of well-framed family photographs all crammed together on a side table in a fashionably congenial bohemian mish-mash.

A piece of sculpture. A small, bronze minotaur . Looks old. And important.

Paintings on the walls. Huge fuckers. This amazing Ben Nicholson (swear to God, it’s the real deal — I touch the paint with my thumb); something brilliant and abstract which just must be by Howard Hodgkin; and some very strange but rather magnificent work by the Chapman Brothers (which I saw — or something very like it — I’m pretty certain) at a recent exhibition.

Along from those, on a beautiful, dark-wood sideboard (ebony? Swathed in carved birds and ivy— Man , this just can’t be hospital issue) are literally dozens of Get Well Soon cards ( someone —or someone s —certainly loves this sick-o). At the front of the pack is a scruffy, hand-drawn cartoon, which looks like the work — if I’m not very much mistaken — of no less an individual than serial Brit-Art sex-kitten, Tracy Emin.

An Apple laptop (of course . The last word in modern). A fantastic crystal ashtray (spotless).

And he’s wearing a watch (this sick geezer, keeping time ? Crazy, huh?), which the dull light catches. Solid gold. Flecks of ice. Looks like something which even 5 °Cent might consider a little too blingin’ obvious .

Bedside table is stacked with magazines and books (this is some cultured ill-mother-fucker). I cock my head towards the door, holding my breath. The argument continues.

At the sound of raised voices, the sick geezer (no word of a lie, he has this fabulous silk counterpane, hand-embroidered and beaded with this sumptuous — but manly — geometric pattern in black and silver) starts moving around and grunting slightly.

Has he seen me?

Oh God .

I take a step closer. I don’t want to intimidate him — or to come over like some kind of crazy interloper (which — let’s face it, I effectively am ).

‘Hello…’

In my keenness to introduce myself I knock into his books — quickly snake out my hand to stop the pile from falling (I mean is this any kind of an arrangement for a very sick person?) And guess what?

No. Seriously. Guess …

Top of the pile (I say top of the pile), Shane by Jack Schaefer.