Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

‘Did you see this?’

I point to a photo (a still, taken from a local woman’s home video) of the top of Blaine’s casket, which was taken during the Buried Alive stunt.

‘What is it?’ she asks.

‘A black cross. The woman who took this says that it appeared above the casket and just hung there, at all times, throughout the week that he was buried.’

Jalisa stares at it, her expression incredulous.

‘He goes on to say,’ I continue, ‘in the text , how he planned to get buried on Good Friday , that his birthday fell on Easter Sunday that year, but then they finally decided to delay the whole thing until the religious holidays were over.’

She rolls her red eyes — they are very red, actually ( Hmmn . Must remember what mug she’s been drinking that tea from, and avoid it like the plague in the morning).

‘I love the way,’ she grins, ‘that he never makes any kind of overt statement. He leaves those imaginative leaps to the reader — or the spectator. He just presents all this quasi-religious information as if it’s by-the-by, pure coincidence, stuff that simply happens …’

‘Because please let’s not forget,’ I lecture sternly, ‘that Jesus Christ was a master magician; turning one loaf into a thousand loaves, the water into wine…’

She chuckles, ‘And didn’t Jesus also get slated in his time?’

‘They crucified him in the press, apparently.’

‘Ho ho,’ she ho-hos.

I do a little curtsy.

‘I was fascinated,’ she continues, ‘by all that stuff, early on, about the “magic room” he saw in his dreams.’

‘Me too.’

‘Blaine says the room stopped appearing to him when he got to an age where he realised that depending on the “props” of magic wasn’t the way to go. That “real” magic wasn’t about boxes with false bottoms in them, it was something more true, more “grown up”, more powerful…’

She slowly shakes her head.

‘You’re not buying that?’

‘No. Why? Are you?’

I shrug.

‘He wants us to believe that all the magic he does now is real ,’ she says. ‘But I find it difficult to accept that this “magic room” of his childhood wasn’t actually a belief in real magic. Children are credulous. They’re full of wonder. For a child, anything is possible. I can’t help feeling like the adult Blaine has cleverly flipped the meaning of his dream inside out…’

‘So why did the magic room disappear from his dreams, then?’ I ask the Oh Wise One.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She throws out her hand, dismissively (accidentally loosening the folds of her robe). ‘The room disappeared when this terrible realisation finally dawned on him that magic was an illusion. It disappeared when he realised that there was no such thing as real magic. Only a clever combination of cunning, luck and manipulation. I mean he openly states himself that the psychology of magic is the same as the psychology of a small-time con. Magic is just a combination of pre-planning, deception and a powerful ego.’

I ponder this for a while.

‘You think he’s in denial, at some level?’

‘At some level, yes. He has to be. Otherwise it wouldn’t work. I mean he makes a big deal in the book about how all the greatest magicians were people who “played the part” of someone with supernatural powers. But what does that actually really mean? Because anyone can play a part , but then it’s still fundamentally just play …’

She sighs. ‘The fact is that it’s this playful gap which Blaine is most interested in. It’s what he exploits. It’s where his power resides. His strength, as a performer, lies in this confusion. But he calls it “mystery”…’

She pauses, perhaps slightly confused herself, now. ‘I mean he talks a great deal about “belief” in the book, as if a person having the innocent facility simply to believe without questioning is something magical, something wonderful, as if a person’s at their very best when they’re truly “open”, truly “vulnerable”, but I keep on wondering exactly what they’re believing in. What lives in that gap between appearance and fact? You can call me cynical, but I’m not entirely convinced that it’s necessarily a good thing…’

She glances up — for confirmation — observes my goofy smile, quickly glances down, bellows, ‘You shit! ’ and frantically grapples with those loosened folds of fabric.

Now that’s the kind of gap a man can believe in.

Of course I wouldn’t dream of looking

Far too much respect there.

Although, for the record: very dark nipples.

And much fuller than you might initially imagine.

Okay. Let’s all just forget I said that, eh ?

Something strange and disturbing happens en route to work. I’ve just crossed Tower Bridge (on the left-hand side, with its view of the east and Canary Wharf), have jogged down that (now) infamous curving stairwell (the site of my first, late-night encounter with the green-hoofed Aphra), have turned a sharp right (in order to facilitate an early-morning trip to the Shad Thames Starbucks), when I espy Hilary (sans headcloth), crouched over (hunched) , a few yards along from the embankment wall.

My instinct is to saunter on by, but then I remember Punk’s Not’s comments of the other evening and think better of it. I walk over. He glances up, sees it’s me, but says nothing.

‘What the hell’re you doing?’ I ask him.

‘Moth,’ he murmurs, pointing.

Eh ?

I peer down. Good God . He’s right. The most spectacular moth. About five inches in diameter, subtly coloured — but magnificently patterned — in a range of dark chocolate browns, subtle fawns and pale creams. Fluffy torso. Two fantastic, golden antennae.

But something’s wrong. I pull in closer and see that someone’s cleverly stuck it on to a wodge of yellow bubblegum.

‘Oh Christ. Who’d do that ?’

Hilary shakes his head.

‘It’s quite exquisite,’ he says, then adds (in case I was in any doubt), ‘I really love moths.’

I take a step back. ‘D’you know what kind it is?’

‘Nope.’

‘D’you reckon it’s indigenous?’

He shrugs. ‘Could’ve come in on a boat, I guess. One of the big cruise ships which travel around Europe and dock here at the Tower.’

He stares at it some more, plainly quite mesmerised.

‘You stand guard,’ I tell him, ‘and I’ll go and buy a bottle of water so we can try and wash some of that gunk off.’

He waits. I go to get the water (and two coffees. And two buns. Aw ).

Then we commence our heroic battle to save the moth.

The moth is very obliging. And it’s still quite gutsy (quite lively , too), which we both construe as a positive sign.

Hilary gently holds on to its abdomen and the tip of one large wing as I slowly pour some water on to the gum surrounding its leg area. Once a small pool of liquid has been created around it, Hilary gradually tries to pull it free.

The moth struggles, impressively, to kick its legs clear. But the gum is stuck thoroughly to its belly and to the pavement below.

At this critical point, Aphra turns up.

‘What the hell’re you doing?’ she asks, placing her bag of Tupperware down on to the cobbles.

‘Moth,’ Hilary says.

I don’t look up. I look sideways. I see that she’s wearing a ferocious pair of orange-patent-leather winkle-pickers which render her feet almost a third-again as long. She leans over.