Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

Before I’ve completed more than a couple of sentences, though, he puts out his hand.

‘No,’ he says. ‘ She’s reading that.’

Ah .

I grab the next book down from the pile: The Future of Nostalgia by Svetlana Boym (She’s given the first chapter the nifty title ‘Hypochondria of the Heart: Nostalgia, History and Memory’. Yo-ho! Well isn’t this going to be a rip-roaring half-hour?).

As I begin to read (a little shakily at first) I see his hand snake out towards a small, custom-built table which he yanks around to face him. There’s a notebook affixed to it — the pages held in place with strips of elastic — a pencil and a tiny reading light. He clicks the light on and grabs the pencil between his shaky fingers.

‘ Slower ,’ he barks, then proceeds to take a series of the world’s most detailed and laborious notes.

In longhand.

With page references.

He’s an Athlete of Pain. An Olympian . In the hours that follow I watch him vault and parry a thousand searing hurdles. But I don’t stop. I don’t comment (he clearly doesn’t want that). I simply read on.

I see him grit his teeth, gnash them. I see the top-half of his torso jerk — uncontrollably — towards the bottom in a series of random, horrible, pitiless spasms. I see beads of sweat forming on his brow as his free hand clenches, then unclenches, then clenches again (but the working hand still diligently continues writing).

Sometimes there’s a sudden, hog-like grunt —as the pain shoots from the back of his neck, to the back of his throat, up into his nose — and a small spray of mucus blasts out. His feet, under that eiderdown, are in constant motion, dancing an endless, joyless jig of torment.

The knees pull up, then flatten down, then pull up again. His shoulders lift, then rotate, then drop. He gasps. He pants…

Hard not to remember S’omogyi, the Hungarian Chemist, in the Primo Levi, and how difficult it was for him to give up the mortal coil. Almost three days of struggle, punctuated, only, by the awful, repetitive murmuring of ‘Jawohl.’

‘I never understood so clearly as at that moment,’ Levi whispers, ‘how laborious is the death of a man.’

Jawohl.

Jawohl .

Jesus Christ I wish he’d press that button.

Kill the pain.

Press the button.

Go on.

Press it.

You know you want to.

It’ll make things better.

It will.

It will .

Go on.

That’s what it’s there for.

Go on.

Go on .

Just press the damn thing !

But he doesn’t. He won’t. He can’t .

I replace his notebook with a fresh one on two separate occasions. It’s then that I discover (to my palpable horror ) that he has a huge pile of the bastards in a suitcase by the wall. In fact there are two cases: one containing the notebooks he’s already filled (numbering approximately seven to eight dozen ), the other holding the empty ones (numbering approximately twenty-odd).

I’m literally gagging for a piss by around 4 a.m. (fine for him , he has a catheter). We’re halfway through St Petersburg, the Cosmopolitan Province (page 124, chapter 9) when I grind to a halt, uncross my legs and beg a short intermission.

‘Ever been to Russia?’ he croaks agonisedly as I stand up.

‘Never.’

‘Pity,’ he hisses, through pain-gritted teeth, ‘ I have.’

I bump into a nurse, outside, in the corridor. A different nurse. A night-nurse.

‘Is Brandy still up?’ she asks (in a thick but confident Eastern Bloc accent).

‘Afraid so,’ I say.

‘In agony?’ she enquires.

I nod grimly.

‘Only damn thing keeping him going,’ she phlegmatically opines.

Then she pauses for a moment and smiles. ‘Same as the rest of us, huh ?’

It’s 4 a.m. I’ve been clumsily articulating Russian place names for over five hours. For once in my life I’m not entirely certain how to respond.

‘Admire your stamina,’ this kindly philosopher-nurse murmurs (conserving my breath for me), then she pats me firmly on the shoulder and points straight down the corridor, ‘Toilet’s that way, okay?’

I am awoken at 8.15 by the book falling. It clatters off my lap and down on to the linoleum.

What?!

(How long’ve I been sleeping? One hour? Two hours?)

Brandy Leyland is flat out (Face battered and pocked like the head of an antique hammer. Skin like silver birch bark. Breath coming, then going, in racking bursts. Hands still clenched so hard his knuckles glimmer like alabaster).

I lean down and pick the book up. A young man enters. He seems surprised — and not entirely delighted, either — to see me there.

‘Hi,’ He holds out his hand. ‘Punch Leyland. Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?’

Punch ?

I clamber to my feet. ‘Adair Graham MacKenny,’ I say, refusing to elucidate any further (If in doubt, clam up. That’s my philosophy).

We shake (How old is this punk, anyway? Seventeen? Eighteen?).

‘So Aphra didn’t bother turning up again?’ he asks (with more than a hint of I-told-you-so in his voice).

His father awakens, with an awful cough.

The nurse enters. The good nurse. She goes over to his side, removes his mask, wipes his mouth, props him up.

‘So Aphra’s a no-show again?’ he repeats (like this is an itch he simply must scratch).

‘She just left , actually,’ I suddenly find myself muttering (hoping the nurse doesn’t try to contradict me).

Brandy Leyland blinks his sickly affirmation.

The good nurse glances up and smiles. ‘Surprised you didn’t pass Mrs Leyland in the corridor,’ she says briskly.

‘ Second Mrs Leyland,’ the posh boy snipes.

?!

I am tired. Fucking tired. I head straight into work — avoiding Blaine, travelling there the back way — then sit hunched over my desk all morning, drinking black coffee, blinking and yawning (things aren’t really feeling like they’re quite ‘hanging together’ properly. I’m like a flat-pack cupboard with five of my screws missing).

Bly hunts me down at lunchtime (So who suddenly made this ginger filly my very best mucker, eh ?).

‘Good party, was it?’ she asks, shaking my shoulder. I leap up with a holler (I was just resting my damn eyes for a second there, okay ?).

‘Fuckin’ riot ,’ I mutter.

We leave the building together.

God I need air . I stand out front and inhale . I twist my head around, throw my shoulders back, stretch my arms up…

Whoo. That’s better.

It’s then I spy Aphra.

Approaching from the left. Destination Blaine. And I am here — right here —standing slap bang in the middle of her simple trajectory (A cruel twist of fate you say? How about a compound fracture? ).

Should/could/might/ must get the hell out of her way.

Uh…

Can’t turn on my tail and dash back inside again (too obvious a manoeuvre, even for me ), can’t sprint down towards Blaine (she’ll just call out and follow)…

My only viable option?

The river .

‘Ever been on the Belfast ?’ I ask an unsuspecting Bly.

‘What?’

‘The Belfast? HMS Belfast?’

(Quick clue: it’s huge, battleship grey, and permanently docked on the water just in front of you.)