Clear: A Transparent Novel. Nicola Barker
(no it isn’t) just opportunism. It’s so much more than that. It’s a moral crusade. It’s righting the wrong. It’s fighting the good fight – sniff! – for my trusty old dad.
Ahhhh.
(NB. Please don’t hate me, sensitive Girl Readers. Just try and understand – if you possibly can – that vengeance is never a pretty thing. But it still has to be done. I mean where would your girl-philosophy of ‘kiss ’n make up’ have left Shakespeare? Or Scorsese? Or Bridget fucking Jones. Eh?)
So I’ve been (uh…let’s put it this way) purposefully (and cheerfully) avenging Douglas Sinclair MacKenny (and myself, I guess, on him, in some strange, messed-up angry-only-son kind of way) in the most uninhibitedly primal manner, by cunningly employing the boxed-up Illusionist as my…
Now what’s the word I’m searching for here…?
‘Pimp.’
Pardon me?
‘Pimp.’
A woman – average height, average build, average looks – is suddenly standing before me, grimacing, clutching her forehead, and pushing a plastic bag brimming with Tupperware on to my lap.
Eh?
I refuse to take the bag, rapidly yanking my headphones from my ears. What is this?
‘Pimp,’ she repeats. ‘You’ve been using that poor, starving bastard to pimp all the women around here.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ she says. Then she drops her Tupperware, groans, slithers down to the tiles, and lies slumped against the wall.
I jump down myself, alarmed. But before I can ask, she waves her hand dismissively, and murmurs, ‘Migraine. Mild autumn. The dust.’
She’s clutching her forehead with her other hand and rocking slightly. I give her the once-over. Hmmn. Strangely familiar. I’ve definitely seen her around. I gather up her Tupperware (about twenty small boxes, like the kind you can get at good Thai restaurants to take home your leftovers. Neat. Reusable. Microwave friendly) while I try to remember where, exactly…
Nope.
‘Can I get you a glass of water, maybe?’ I ask. ‘I actually work in this building.’ I point. She has her eyes shut. She is deathly pale.
‘Did you ever get migraines?’ she asks vengefully.
‘No.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘I often get headaches, though,’ I squeak, defensively, ‘from the glare off my computer.’
She snorts.
I inspect my watch. Lunch is almost over.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask.
She waves her hand again, ‘I’m fine.’
I lean forward, preparing to put her bag down next to her (and then scarper).
‘Open me a box!’ she suddenly yells.
‘Pardon?’
‘A box.’
She lunges for the plastic bag. She grabs a box. She rips off the lid. Then she leans over (quite gracefully) and vomits straight into it. The vomit is thick and glutinous. Instead of detaching itself from her mouth and filling the box neatly, it stretches, in a silvery spider web, from her mouth to the Tupperware.
My God.
She spits and detaches it.
We both stare, blinking, into the container. She sniffs, matter of factly, then reaffixes the lid.
She hands the box back over.
‘In the bag,’ she orders, feeling around inside her pocket for a tissue. The puke still hangs in fangs down her chin.
A middle-aged man stops, proffering a handkerchief. The be-fanged one takes it.
‘Thanks,’ she mutters.
‘Migraine,’ I explain to the Samaritan.
‘I know.’ The man smiles and squats down in front of her.
‘Is it a bad one, Aphra?’ he asks.
Aphra?
‘Pretty bad,’ Aphra murmurs.
‘I thought when I saw you leaving,’ he says, ‘that something was up.’
‘The dust,’ she says, and waves her hand regally towards the magician.
He nods.
I find myself taking a slow step back. I am thinking, ‘This is great. They know each other. I’m off the hook. I’m out of here.’
The Samaritan turns and peers up at me, ‘I work at the hospital,’ he says (as if this might prove meaningful), ‘Guys. I’m a porter there.’
‘Ah.’ I nod my head. I’m still holding the bag of Tupperware.
‘You’ll need to take her home,’ he says. He turns to the woman. ‘It’s not too far, is it?’ he asks.
She shakes her head, then winces.
‘Shad,’ she says, ‘just straight down…’
She indicates beyond Blaine, beyond the bridge, to one of the best parts of town.
‘Let’s get her up,’ the porter says.
We slowly manoeuvre her into a standing position (strike what I said before about ‘average build’. This girl ain’t exactly thistledown).
Once she’s up, the porter moves her arm around my neck, and my free arm around her waist.
He steps back, appraising his work.
‘Good,’ he says, smiling. ‘Now just take it nice and slow, yeah?’
Then he turns and addresses me, exclusively, ‘When you get her in, close all the curtains, don’t try and give her anything to eat or drink (well, maybe just pour her a glass of water), then gently lay her down and place a moist, cold flannel across her forehead…’
I scowl. I open my mouth. I close my mouth. I swallow. I adjust the Tupperware…
Aw, bollocks, man!
I fucking nod.
Pimp?
Pimp?!
Okay. Okay. So just hold your fire. I’m throwing down my weapon, see? And I’m coming out – very slowly – with my hands in the air.
I’m co-operating.
Now can we please, please just try to get this whole thing back into proportion? I mean come on. Don’t take it all so seriously. This is fun. Just fun.
And another thing (while we’re at it) let’s bin Above the Below already (cheesy, cheesy, cheesy). I’ve got my own little carry-on a much better moniker. I’m calling it ‘Above the Pillow’, and my current strike rate is five (five!) and counting (Yup. It’s an Adair Graham MacKenny International Shag-a-thon down here, baby).
Maybe I exaggerate, slightly. Four. Well, three and a half (in one instance I didn’t quite get to come. There’s been a couple of ‘hitches’, in other words. But heck, who’s complaining?). It’s early doors (Day Nine for Christ-sake),