Clear (22 page)
Authors: Nicola Barker
She shrugs.
‘Why the shrug?’
‘In this country, maybe, but in–say–
Ethiopia
…’
She sighs. ‘It’s all relative, I guess.’
‘Well, this is nice,’ I mutter.
Silence
.
‘Blaine’s actually looking a whole lot thinner now,’ she observes.
I merely grimace.
‘Why the face?’ she asks.
‘This is
my
face,’ I say (a delicate combination of haughty and apologetic).
‘So after weeks of analysing him into the damn ground,’ she muses, ‘suddenly Blaine is
persona non grata?
’
I wave my hand, airily. ‘It’s a crazy old life,
eh?
’
‘What?’ she snorts. ‘Skiving off work? Downloading your record collection on to an i-Pod?’
I shrug.
‘That’s not being
busy
,’ she sneers. ‘That’s just pointless
duplication
.’
I shrug again (Is this girl
entirely
oblivious to all basic forms of body language?).
‘It’s just
reformatting
,’ she gradually builds up speed (Yup.
Now
we’re for it), ‘I mean how could Capitalism possibly
survive
without inventing a hundred different ways of doing the exact same thing?’
‘Interesting point,’ I demur.
‘It’s like life is a can of
Coke
,’ she points at an empty can on the table, ‘and instead of just
drinking
it we spend all this time and this
effort
deciding whether to have it in a glass or sip it through a
straw
.’
I nod.
‘But it’s the
liquid
that matters, Adie, not how you consume it.’
‘Straight from the can, in my case,’ I aver (angling–unashamedly–after the purist vote).
‘I think you just missed my point,’ she mutters.
‘Well, if there isn’t a
can
,’ I say, ‘how the heck do you expect to hold all the contents in?’
‘I swear to God,’ she says (effortlessly sidestepping my fine, philosophical barb), ‘that you’ve only lost interest in Blaine lately because you’re scared he’s a gentile, and that’ll mean all your exciting little conspiracy theories won’t actually add up.’
‘
Terrified
,’ I scoff.
She smirks at me.
‘I was never
that
interested anyway,’ I obstinately persist, ‘just momentarily
diverted
.’
‘But does it really matter
what
Blaine’s background is?’ she battles on. ‘Surely the important thing is what he chooses–consciously or otherwise–to “represent”, and how people respond to it?’
‘Of
course
what you are matters,’ I scowl: ‘You have to be legitimate at
some
level. Otherwise it’s all just bullshit. You have to walk the walk to talk the talk.
Everybody
knows that.’
‘So let me get this straight,’ she murmurs. ‘You were offended by Blaine’s use of
Christian
iconography, to begin with. Then you found out that he was a Jew, and because people were throwing eggs at him, that was just dandy…’ She pauses, frowning. ‘Although in
my
book, if he
is
a Jew, then using the Christian stuff in such an unapologetically self-aggrandising way strikes me as perhaps a little dodgy…’
‘Oh
Great
,’ I sneer. ‘
Now
you get all sniffy about it. But when
I
was getting upset about the Christian angle, I was apparently just “overreacting”…’
She flaps her hand at this (like my words are just gnats). ‘You’re too literal,’ she says, ‘and that’s your problem. This is Art. It’s not about the person so much as the statement they’re making. It doesn’t really matter what his racial origins are…’
‘Try telling that to the people throwing
eggs
at him,’ I squeak.
‘That’s exactly
my
point,’ she jumps in, cackling exuberantly.
It is?
It
is
?
I frown, confused.
‘The way I’m seeing it, there are two things that Blaine is obsessed by,’ she holds up a couple of fingers, ‘suffering and
mystery
. Fortunately (for him)
all
religions, all nationalities, all cultures can relate to those things in some way or other. His work has a universal application. It’s not about any particular
denomination
, but about the trials of humanity.’ (
Work
? Who does she think he is?
Picasso
?)
I say nothing.
‘You’re just sulking,’ she says. ‘You were hoping to take the moral high ground over this whole Jew farrago, but the water’s suddenly risen and now you’ve found yourself stranded on some rocky little promontory, feeling like a complete
dick
. But the truth is, you can swim. You’re a
good
swimmer. So why not just
jump in
?’
She leans back on her chair, plainly delighted with herself.
The chair creaks.
‘You’ve simply
got
to include all that
fabulous
“inundation” imagery,’ I gasp (camping it up a little), ‘in the DVD extras for your motivational video.’
She completely ignores this, simply laying both hands flat on to the table-top, delivering me a brilliant smile and proudly announcing: ‘Black Sabbath, Volume IV. “Under The Sun”.’
Three seconds pass us.
‘
Urgh
, been there,’ I finally grouch, ‘
done
that.’
Didn’t have her down for a heavy rocker, somehow.
You think I was a little harsh?
You
do
?
Well, on
Monday
she texted ‘The Thrills, “Don’t Steal Our Sun”.’
Tuesday: ‘Donovan, “I’ll Try For The Sun”.’
Wednesday: ‘The Libertines, “Don’t Look Back Into The Sun”.’
Talk about grabbing a baton and
running
with it.
Then catching you up and beating you
senseless
with the damn thing.
Again and again and again.
And
again
.
My
level?
Okay. I confess. I
did
go twice.
Three
times. But that’s all.
And it was always completely spontaneous (a totally last-minute decision). And late. Always late. And I stayed on the bridge–well back, virtually invisible (just a few feet, literally, beyond the halfway point).
From this considerable distance she was just a blob, a blur. But I could tell it was Aphra (It’s all in the posture, see? The tilt of the head, the jut of the chin…).
One night it rained–a steady rain–but she stayed on. She’d brought an umbrella with her (that particularly childish,
transparent
kind), and she put it up and just sat there. It would’ve made an amazing photograph (the light, the transparency,
his
transparency beyond her). But I hadn’t brought my camera along.
Missed opportunity,
eh?
I got wet that night; stood in the lee of the second gate and it almost sheltered me, although on a couple of occasions (but not this one) bridge officials moved me on.
Four
times. I went four times. The fourth time I bumped into Punk’s Not. Or he bumped into me. He was carrying six steaming cartons of hot coffee over the bridge in a specially adapted plastic tray.
‘It’s three fifty-seven on a Thursday morning,’ he blared, tapping me on my shoulder, quite unexpectedly, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
(Almost having a
heart
attack, you
fucker
. Don’t just
tap
me like that.)
‘Late shift at work,’ I say airily, ‘just heading home.’
(Then I turn and face the other way, like I’m right in the middle of my
very important
journey.)
‘What?’ he scoffs. ‘The mayor really needed some pencils sharpening and simply couldn’t wait until dawn?’
‘Backlog,’ I sniff, ‘I’ve had flu, as it happens.’
‘Hilary too,’ he says.
‘How
hilar
ious,’ I quip smugly.
(Ah,
vengeance
.)
‘So fucking funny he
shat
himself,’ Punk’s Not muses.
‘Yeah,’ I nod, ‘
I
had that symptom.’
He offers me a cup of coffee.
‘Oh,
Thanks
,’ I say, and take one.
‘i-Pod.’
Punk’s Not points enviously towards my new technology.
‘I mean that man’s really the
tick
sucking on the pock-eaten
arse
of Performance Art,’ I harp on, bilefully, nodding (meanwhile: Yup. This
is
the i-Pod, this
is
my baby) as I pull off the lid.
‘Apparently they really compress the sound,’ he says.
‘
What
?’ I glance up.
He draws his finger and thumb together (to demonstrate), ‘They compress the sound. To save space. Rendering the music a little…’ he muses, ‘tinny.’
(The
bitch
)
‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘I’ve seen him
on
.’
‘Who?’
(
Tinny
? Is he serious?)
‘Hilary.’
‘
On
?’
He nods.
(I quickly deduce that this is Magic Speak.)
‘Really?’
‘Yup.’
I balance the lid on the bridge’s thick handrail and take a quick sip.
Urgh. Tea
. And with
sugar
.
‘He once told a colleague of mine,’ I say, wincing slightly, ‘that a close relative of hers would lose a limb…’
Punk’s Not smirks. ‘Yeah.
Bly
. I know all about that…’
‘And then he did,’ (I ignore him), ‘in an accident.’
‘Ever happen to
meet
her dad?’ Punk’s Not asks (a single brow raised, satirically).
I shake my head. ‘You?’
He shakes his, too. ‘Nope. But Hilary knew all about him from Bly’s idle chat in the office. A hopeless alcoholic, apparently. Works…’ He pauses, for effect. ‘On a
threshing
machine.’
‘
Fuck
.’ I nearly snort tea all over him.
He grins. ‘I mean credit where credit’s due,
eh
?’
I take another sip of tea. The tea is good, in actual fact.
‘Never waves,’ Punk’s Not muses. ‘Not a waver.’
‘Hilary?’
He nods.
‘Probably frightened his scarf might topple off.’
‘You neither,’ he observes.
Huh
?
‘That’s true,’ I say eventually.
‘Nor Aphra,’ he continues. ‘She never waves.’
This news surprises me.
‘I generally find that the people most
committed
to the spectacle,’ he says, ‘who feel a real
part
of it, are the ones who rarely wave.’
I frown.
‘How about you?’
He shakes his head. ‘But then I’m
working
, aren’t I?’
I pause, mid-sip.
‘And I feel sorry for the guy,’ Punk’s Not continues. ‘He’s waving all bloody day. It’s like people come and they wave. But there’s thousands of them. And they all want something from him. That contact. That moment of intimacy. It’s a complex exchange. And I think it probably takes its toll on him, psychologically.’
‘But he
likes
to wave,’ I say. ‘And he
likes
to have a toll taken,’ I add.
‘I read somewhere that Blaine’s most satisfying moment when he was buried alive for that week in New York,’ Punk’s Not says, ‘was when he finally learned the art of pissing and waving at the same time. When he overcame all his inhibitions and could do both, without thinking.’
‘Where’d you read that?’
‘Don’t remember. But isn’t that so
magicianly
?’ he chuckles. ‘You know, just finding that special little knack, that tiny, vaguely socially unacceptable trick, then diligently perfecting it.’
‘I suppose it is,’ I say.
(
Magicianly
, eh?)
‘And apparently his catheter wasn’t the right size on that stunt, so he found himself pissing down on to his sheets all week.’
He grins. ‘I mean can you imagine how much that coffin
stank
when he actually came out of it?’
‘I’ve observed before,’ I say (keen not to be left behind), ‘how incredibly ill-prepared he sometimes seems. In the Ice Challenge he simply “forgot”, at the last minute, to put his knee-pads on. And this was after
months
of training himself to sleep standing up, which he couldn’t actually
do
without wearing the pads in case he stuck to the ice and couldn’t get off.’
‘There’s a really
classic
story from that
Frozen in Time
thing,’ Punk’s Not sniggers (I note how he’s memorised all the official titles and secretly despise him). ‘They apparently had this kid out the back hoovering up all the melted ice as the glacier defrosted, and at one point he wasn’t paying proper attention and he hoovered up this long transparent
tube
…’
‘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.