Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

‘Yuk,’ she says.

‘Someone stuck it down on to the pavement with a piece of gum,’ I murmur (in that blank yet heartfelt tone especially favoured by the doctors on ER ).

Hilary, meanwhile, has trotted off to find some kind of pointed implement — an old nail, a stick —so that he can flip the gum away with it.

‘Good night, was it?’ I ask her, my voice slightly jaundiced-sounding ( why , I’m not entirely sure).

‘Have you ever noticed how terribly Hilary stinks ?’ she asks. ‘Like old sweat and shit and Bovril?’

I flinch (I mean, is the poor bastard even out of earshot?).

I point to her shoes. ‘Been auditioning for pantomime , have we?’

She snorts — almost a guffaw (now that’s a result).

I glance up at her, half-smiling. She’s inspecting the moth again. ‘You know, that isn’t gum ,’ she says, matter-of-factly, ‘that’s its guts.’

‘ What ?’

Hilary returns bearing the dried stem of a dead flower.

‘Aphra thinks that goo might be the moth’s intestines,’ I tell him.

He crouches down and begins to poke around.

‘Oh fuck ,’ he says, his voiced hushed in horror, ‘I think she’s right. I think it is .’

We all recoil and then stare at the moth some more.

‘But they’re so yellow ,’ I say, ‘and so sticky . And it still seems so alive …’

‘There is something quite amazing…’ Hilary begins.

Then Aphra kicks out her winkle-pickered foot and slams it down on top of it. Once. Twice. She performs a small pirouette.

‘Dead,’ she says (with some satisfaction), casually inspecting the sole of her shoe which is now smattered in moth-goo. She grabs my bottle of water and splashes it over. She scrapes the shoe clean on the side of a nearby bench.

She inspects it again.

It’s pristine.

She uses the remaining water to wash the side of the bench off (so Public Spirited of her), then hands me the empty bottle back.

Hilary stands up.

‘ Well ,’ he says, ‘I suppose that’s that , then.’

‘Poor moth,’ I say.

We both inspect the spot.

‘Blaine had a restless night,’ she informs us, ‘and woke slightly earlier than usual this morning. But he seems in pretty good spirits, just the same.’

Then she chucks me, fondly, under the chin, nods towards Hilary, grabs her bag, and Arabian Nights it off down the cobbles, apparently without a care.

‘So compassionate ,’ Hilary says thickly.

‘I bought you some coffee,’ I say, ‘and a bun.’

‘Thanks,’ he says, staring down, once again, at the small stain where the moth used to be, ‘that was nice of you. But I ate earlier.’

Earlier ? When? At fucking dawn ?

So I take them to Bly, at work, and pretend I bought them for her , instead.

She glugs down the coffee, then inhales the bun, after.

( Oops. Quick burp.)

The girl’s dependable like that.

But is that obnoxious ginger really her natural hair colour?

In fact I’m so relieved by her cheerful straightforwardness that I start telling her about what I perceive as being the shortcomings of i-Pod…

‘“Holidays In The Sun”’ she suddenly screams. ‘The Sex Pistols!’

Okay.

So just…

You know.

Sitting at my desk.

Doing some work.

Suppressing my yawns.

Then at 10.17 my phone rings.

‘Bring the book back,’ a woman’s voice demands.

‘Pardon?’

‘The Spencer. The book . Bring it back.’

It’s her .

‘But I’m at work.’

‘I don’t care . Brandy needs it. He wants it now . So bring it the hell back .’

Approximately twenty minutes later, and I’m standing in the hospital foyer trying to persuade a porter to spirit that troublesome tome upstairs for me, when that dark, pretty, older, angry woman from Aphra’s flat rolls up and taps me on the shoulder.

I turn. I start -

Eh ?

Oh fuck .

Ambuuush !

She then grabs me by the arm (while the porter watches on, in astonishment) and drags me outside (Good. So now he has me down as some kind of child killer) on to the handy raised walkway which connects the hospital to the train station (Yup. Just what this situation lacked; that fascinating element of physical jeopardy).

‘So try and explain this one,’ she hisses, shoving me up roughly against a wrought-iron railing (Ow!)

‘There is no explanation,’ I answer (I mean can you think of one?).

‘That just won’t do ,’ she growls.

‘Well it’s gonna have to,’ I say firmly ( Hey. Where’d this impressive core of moral certainty suddenly spring up from?).

She just stares at me, in disgust.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ I ask (not a little indignant).

‘His First Wife ,’ she snaps (with capital letters- like she’s happily betrothed to the American President). ‘And who the hell are you , for that matter?’

( Huh ? Didn’t I introduce myself to this bitch once before?)

‘The prick,’ I respond (with that charming streak of self-deprecation I’m now so legendary for), ‘who was dumb enough to give you his phone number.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ she says haughtily, ‘but I just don’t get your sense of humour.’

‘That’s because I wasn’t actually being funny,’ I tell her.

(If I was , though, it’d be an entirely different matter.)

‘Now you’re starting to scare me,’ she says.

(Oh God , not this again).

‘You scare easy,’ I murmur.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You scare easy,’ I say, but louder, this time.

‘What are you?’ she squeaks, jabbing her index finger into my shoulder. ‘Some kind of stalker? A weirdo? What do you want? What’s your agenda?’

‘All I want ,’ I tell her calmly, ‘is for you to leave me the fuck alone.’

(So it’s only a Muji shirt, but I happen to be quite fond of it.)

‘ What? ’

She looks incredulous.

‘One,’ I say, ‘I think you’re crazy. Two ,’ I add, ‘I think you should stop phoning me. Three ,’ I continue swiftly, ‘I haven’t warmed to you particularly, so four ,’ I climax, ‘I think we should avoid each other.’

‘Then stay away from my family ,’ she bellows.

(Oh lovely. Just as a huddle of pretty nurses stroll by.)

‘Nothing would please me more,’ I snap back.

‘Good,’ she says (slightly put out by my compliance).

We stare at each other.

‘Let go of my arm,’ I say.

‘With pleasure ,’ she says.

She lets go.

I pass her the book. I start to walk.

‘But what about Aphra ?’ she yells after me.

I don’t look around. I just keep on walking

‘I know she’s not coming in. I know that you’re covering for her,’ she continues yelling. ‘She just won’t speak to anyone…’

It’s then — very neatly, and with the minimum of fuss — that I lift my right hand high and show her the finger.

Come on …

It was a joke .

It was funny .