Clear: A Transparent Novel. Nicola Barker
(Give the man credit for it why don’t you?
Schaefer?
Stand up and take a bow!
Schaefer…?
Wow. He’s certainly getting on a little now, isn’t he?
And…uh…he’s kind of wobbly on his…
Whoops!
Can he…?
Would you mind…?
Oh.
Is that his secretary, just next to him there?
Could she maybe…? Yeah?
Well that’s…that’s good. Great…Uh…
Hup!
Wowsa.
Phew!
Steady. Steady…
Aw.
Just look at the old dog – look at him! – lapping it all up.
And the audience?
On their feet. Waving their bic lighters, singeing their thumbnails. Stamping their feet. In a state of complete bloody ecstasy, and all because of just two simple words. That’s two. Count ’em.)
You can’t learn that stuff. No way. It’s born (I’m serious. I should know). And you can call me naive (if you like. I’m man enough to take it), but I’m not seeing Schaefer (in my mind’s eye), his head tilted on one side, his mouth gently gaping, his pencil cocked, taking detailed notes on ‘structure’ or ‘the use of metaphor’ at some cruddy creative writing seminar in some embarrassing further education college in the American Mid-West circa 1947. (Fuck off!)
Because this is no-frills writing at its very best. This is ‘am-it’, ‘lived-it’ stuff. Shane (yeah, remember him? He…? He rode?) is the first person Schaefer mentions in the book; the first syllable, no less. And if I’ve got this right (and I’m fairly sure that I have…Okay, bollocks, I know I have), then he’s also the last. He’s the last syllable.
(Cue music for The Twilight Zone.)
It can’t be an accident! It just can’t.
The novel ends on his name (this time, though, Shane is leaving, not arriving). The whole narrative essentially resounds to the rhythm of his name:
Shhhh-aaay-yne (Yeah. I think that works better phonetically, for some reason).
Please note – the secret poets among you, especially – that perfect hush in the first part of the word – Shhhh! Be quiet! Someone important owns this name! Pay attention! Shhhh!
(Okay, so maybe I’m starting to over-egg this thing a little.)
But the name definitely chimes. It’s almost as though the book (that heavy weight in your left hand – the pages read – and no weight at all in your right, because it’s over: the journey is travelled, it’s done) is just this great, big, old grandfather clock, striking for all it’s worth. This huge, sonorous bell:
‘And he was Shane.’
(That’s the last line.)
Boinggg!
I mean Ka-fucking-Pow or what?!
I’m actually laughing out loud. I swear to God (sad bastard? Me? Won’t bother denying it). Because I am putty – literally putty – in Schaefer’s hands. And I love his hands (Calm down. There’s nothing even remotely unmanly about it). I just love this feeling. I do. To be manipulated, to be led, to be played, and so artfully. It’s just…I’m just…I’m very, very happy to be a part of that process. Because you can’t beat that sensation (so you might as well join it, eh?).
Bottom line: Schaefer’s just owning that shit. (Man, you’ve got to own your shit. Fact.)
So maybe I think about Shane a little too much, sometimes. And maybe I’m prone to overanalysing everything, but then ‘life is in the details’, as they say (‘they’ in this particular instance being the Special Features Writer in a copy of Elle Decoration, which I paged idly through at the Sexually Transmitted Diseases Clinic in Bow last Tuesday, who was holding forth – and so passionately – about leather-look wallpaper. It’s the coming thing).
It was his first book, actually. Shane. It was Schaefer’s first. I read his other big one – can’t remember the title (fuck it. That’s so…uh…).
Company of Cowards!
Ting-ting!
Yeah. It just wasn’t so good.
But then lightning rarely strikes, etc.
Hmmn.
Are you…? Am I…?
Let’s press rwnd for a moment, shall we?
Slow it right down…
Then just…uh…
…HOLD!
Good.
Freeze it for a second…
Yes…
Uh…
Oh. No.
Okay…
Just a couple of frames more…
Just a couple…
STOP!!!
That’s it!
That’s me. I’m just…
I’m very small right now. Okay? Bottom left-hand side of the picture…
If you could maybe…?
Bingo!
So we’re jumping around a little – the focus is all shot – the sound’s terrible. But I think if you look closely you can just about see me, hanging around, unobtrusively, almost lost in the background…
I’m sitting, slightly hunched over (my habitual posture – I have a clinical condition known as ‘Masturbator’s Back’), my free hand jammed deep inside my trouser pocket and my headset blasting (ODB, eff-ing and blinding for all he’s worth – which is quite a lot), and I’m thinking about Shane while I munch on my sandwich (it’s lunchtime). I happen to be straddling this gonad-freezing marble wall by the mother of all rivers (No. Not the Nile. You want Agatha Christie? Then look under C).
The River Thames:
Tah-dah!
In all her sweet autumnal glory. Tower Bridge is quite literally towering behind me – her huge, turquoise ramparts (okay, so I’m no whizz on architecture) flying out from between my two puny shoulder blades like a couple of crazy bat-wings (this image so very nearly works that I’m tempted to leave it in. Yes, it is a tad far-fetched – especially when you consider the angles and everything – but I think Jack would’ve approved. I think Jack would say, ‘You’re doin’ real good work here, kid; but just remember the story. Keep your mind focused on the narrative, because that’s what truly counts in this business. That’s what really matters here.’
Is this guy some kind of saint, or what?).
We’re