Clear (29 page)
Authors: Nicola Barker
Glass in his
shoes
, perhaps.
You know, now I actually come to
think
about it, the quality of sound on the i-Pod
does
seem a little too compressed. Boxed up. Flattened out.
Smaller.
Have
you
noticed that?
And here’s another thing: now that I actually have all this choice, I find that I just keep on hankering after the
same
short selection. Time and again.
Ad infinitum
.
Which is terribly disappointing.
Ideologically speaking.
Home.
At
last
.
I quietly let myself into the house, tiptoe through to the kitchen, and am not a little surprised to discover Jalisa, sitting alone at the table–wrapped up in one of Solomon’s Oriental robes (which is way too big for her), drinking a mint tea and reading the Blaine book.
‘Don’t you find that Blaine story quite amazing?’ she says, not even glancing up (as if I’ve been standing there, all night, just
waiting
for her observations).
‘Which one?’
‘He’s a six-year-old kid, travelling alone to school on the subway. It’s a very straightforward journey, just two stops. And he’s playing with this bunch of tarot cards, which he loves to perform tricks with…’
I suddenly remember.
‘Yes,’ I take over, ‘and these two old women take an interest in the cards, so he shows them a trick or two, but his hand slips at one point and he accidentally
drops
them–’
‘The train
stops
suddenly,’ she interrupts (the story fresher in her mind), ‘and they fall on to the floor. But by the time they’ve gathered them all together, he’s missed his stop.’
‘So he panics.’
‘But then the women get off the train with him at the next station, take him over to the other side, catch another train back, walk him to school, and explain to his teacher why he’s late…’
She glances up at me, then down at the book again. ‘He says that this experience taught him how much–even at such a young age–his magic
affected
people.’
She smiles. ‘But what it
actually
taught him, was how magic was a useful device for making people
care
for him. Magic placed him in
jeopardy
, and then magic seemingly pulled him through again.’
She closes the book and puts a hand up to her eyes.
‘I think I caught conjunctivitis off the dog.’
‘
What?
That’s ridiculous.’
She sighs. ‘I caught it off a
cat
before…’
‘Well in
that
case, maybe Jax caught it off
you
.’
She gives this possibility some serious thought.
I pick up the book myself and turn to an image towards the back.
‘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.
‘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
.
And what
about
Aphra, anyway?
Moth
killer.
Hmmn
. Talking of
funny
…
Now here’s a
really
hilarious thing: I’ve suddenly noticed how when I’m passing the time of day in the general vicinity of Blaine lately–on my way to the shops, perhaps, or to the café, or on my walk home, maybe–
whatever
–and I’m just hanging out for a moment, soaking up the
atmosphere
, possibly having a quick chat with some passing stranger (some really
normal
, really
amicable
-seeming individual), that suddenly–out of the blue–they’ll just turn and say something like, ‘God, I just
wish
I’d brought those rotten
tomatoes
with me…’ And they’ll be staring up at Blaine with an expression of such pure, such condensed
hostility
. And I’ll turn and glance up at him myself, struggling to see the thing they’re seeing, struggling to remember that furious feeling
I
once felt, but all I’ll see is a coffee-coloured, black-haired man, quietly
sitting
there, smiling, waving, doing nothing in particular.