Clear

by Nicola Barker

  The Haters are standing outside a fair few circles, in other words, and inside a lot of others…But you know what? You know what? Wherever the hell it is they’re currently situated, it seems pretty damn crowded in there.

  So you’d better, uh…

  Duck!

  Wow.

  Wow!

  Damn good shot.

  Four

  I don’t see her again for two whole days. Then I’m wandering out of the office, mid-morning, to buy myself a packet of Lockets (sore throat–too much cheap herb the night before) when I see her, sitting on one of the two benches (I didn’t mention the benches yet, did I? Well they’re situated at the base of the bridge, side-on to the embankment wall, slightly out of the way; and while the view of Blaine isn’t all it might be from here–because of the angles, etc–he’s still moderately visible from this particular corner).

  She has her plastic bag with her, full of Tupperware (but of course), and she’s wearing what appears to be a bleached-denim shirtwaister (which looks disturbingly like last season’s last season Marks and Spencer), a neat, tiny, chiffon-style scarf at her throat, some round, pearly-grey Jackie O earrings…and her shoes? Platforms. Like the kind which almost did for Baby in Spiceworld. Grey suede. Square toed. With an obscene burgundy flower covering the buckle.

  She has nice ankles, actually. But a thick midriff (too thick, if you ask me, for that pinched-in kind of frock). Skin slightly too pale for a brunette, but her arms are pretty. Plump but shapely. Hair looks good- short and shiny (smooth, in general, but enlivened by a good bit of modern chop at her nape).

  A plain girl (no getting around it–eyes the shade of a city pigeon, haughty nose–sensitive nostrils–and a full lower lip, but a too-tiny upper one). Past her prime (must be thirty-two, at least–thirty-four?), but with an interesting kind of solidity, a creaminess, a half-absent quality (a washed-out, much-lived-in well-fedness that’s strangely hard to resist…I mean, for a boy-whore, anyway).

  So what do I do? Avoid? Approach? Mollify? Threaten? Be cute? Make a joke? Get sarcastic?

  She’s boredly reading an article from a broadsheet paper (just a page–and the article is folded over, as if it’s been stored in somebody’s pocket). I glance to her right. A man is sitting next to her, also in his thirties; square-set, ruddy-cheeked, chaotic-looking, with slightly-thinning, coarse-seeming, strawberry blond hair, wearing old combat trousers and an extremely ancient, well-ripped ‘Punk’s Not Dead’ T-shirt underneath a proper shirt made out of musty-looking black moleskin.

  Are they (by any chance) ‘together’?

  I walk straight over.

  ‘Headache gone?’ I ask.

  Her eyes don’t even flip up.

  ‘Migraine,’ she hisses.

  ‘Migraine gone?’ I ask.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says.

  I begin to say something else (something very witty, in actual fact) and she raises a curt hand to silence me.

  ‘Reading,’ she barks.

  The hand is held high, and then retained aloft, to stop me (I presume) from moving angrily off.

  Punk’s Not Dead sneers, superciliously.

  ‘Punk is Dead,’ I say, ‘and that’s exactly the reason why they designed that T-shirt.’

  His superciliousness transmogrifies into pity, as he quietly surveys my immaculately well-thought-out look (60 per cent Marc Jacobs, 40 per cent Issey Miyake).

  ‘Nice,’ he eventually murmurs.

  Oooh. Cutting.

  Aphra finishes reading and glances up. She stares at me, blankly. ‘So who the hell are you?’ she asks.

  ‘Adair MacKenny,’ I stutter (falling–but only momentarily–a little off my stride). ‘I kindly took you home when you were ill the other day,’ I continue, in tones of determined affability, ‘was extremely late back to work as a result, and subsequently received a rather nasty formal reprimand for my crimes.’

  (So I exaggerate for effect sometimes.)

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says.

  She passes the article back to Punk’s Not.

  ‘Vicious,’ she murmurs.

  ‘What is?’ I ask.

  ‘Article in the Guardian,’ Punk’s Not says, ‘about Blaine.’

  He proffers me the article. I take it and give it the once-over. ‘Oh yes,’ I say, recalling having read it a few days earlier (Wednesday? Thursday?), ‘I remember this…’

  In the article, a slightly sour pussy called Catherine Bennett holds scathingly forth about what a ridiculous ass the magician is, and how unspeakably proud she’s been rendered by our unstoppable British urge to ridicule and debunk him–our cocky, cockney lawlessness, our innate willingness to lampoon and pillory.

  Yip yip!

  I mean, that’s our Great fookin’ British Democratic right, to rip the damn piss, innit?

  Maybe Blaine (to paraphrase) might’ve got away with his pretentious pseudo-art rubbish in the US of A, but not here. Oh no. Not in good old Blighty, where we stands up proud and tall and we speaks our minds and we calls a spade a spade (then breaks it, in half, across our workmanlike knees).

  ‘Jew-hater,’ Punk’s Not opines, taking the article back off me and folding it up, carefully.

  ‘You think so?’ I ask (neatly maintained brows trimming my beautiful fringe in a fetching display of polite middle class alarm).

  ‘But of course,’ Punk’s Not scoffs, ‘what else?’

  I glance over briefly towards the Illusionist. He’s got the little window in his box open (did I mention the window before? A tiny, hinged square, cut into the plastic, which he can easily unlatch if he feels the sudden, overwhelming urge to shout something down to his disciples below). He’s currently up on his knees (looking unusually vital), gazing down and out of it at a small huddle of people in brightly coloured, semi-transparent costumes who suddenly strike up (gypsy-style) on five violins and play something cheerfully mundane, which would–by any kind of standard–render ‘lift music’ scintillating.

  ‘Catherine Bennett…,’ Punk’s Not quips, ‘if I’m not very much mistaken, being the famous heroine of Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”.’

  (Note the dramatic emphasis.)

  Man. This kid’s good.

  ‘But it’s not Catherine, it’s Elizabeth.’

  Aphra–coincidentally–is paying no heed to our literary jousting. She is standing up and staring–in sheer wonderment–at the musical Didakais. The magician (meanwhile) has collapsed back down (at the start of their second number) and is looking a little wan again (maybe the music’s reminding him of all those lousy meals he’s had in poor quality Spanish restaurants over the years).

  ‘Same difference,’ Punk’s Not mutters furiously.

  I suddenly realise that Aphra has adjusted her focus and that I am now the lone recipient of all her attention.

  ‘I simply don’t remember,’ she says, inspecting my nose and cheek and lips as if I’m some kind of dated–and slightly distasteful–nude hung up in the National Gallery. ‘What day was this, exactly?’

  ‘Two days ago,’ I say, ‘Monday.’

  She draws close to the back of my ear and gives a little sniff.

  (What is this girl? A collie?!)

  ‘I did have a migraine then,’ she regretfully concedes, drawing back again.

  ‘The dust,’ I sigh, and wave my hand (the way I distinctly remember she’d waved hers).

  ‘Yes,’ she murmurs (not registering my satire), ‘it certainly has been bad for this time of year.’ She pauses, turns, and sits back down. ‘So you took me home, you say?’

  I nod.

  ‘Did I ask you to?’

  I shake my head. ‘A porter from the hospital asked me,’ I explain.

  ‘Good Lord,’ she expostulates, and then is silent for a while. Punk’s Not and I appraise each other, blankly.

  ‘Do you remember the address?’ she suddenly asks, slitting her dirty pigeon eyes, suspiciously.

  ‘The Square,’ I say.

 
She grimaces.

  ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Third.’

  ‘Which number?’

  ‘Twenty-seven,’ I say, ‘or twenty-eight.’

  She digests this information for a moment.

  ‘And then what?’ she asks.

  ‘I took you inside, but you kept on walking out again. You kept saying, “This isn’t home…”.’ I pause. ‘It was actually rather irritating…’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then what?’

  I glance anxiously over towards Punk’s Not.

  ‘You honestly want me to go into all of this right now?’

  She snorts, contemptuously, ‘And why wouldn’t I?’

  I turn to Punk’s Not and hold out my hand. ‘I don’t believe I got your name before,’ I say (by way–Aw, Bless–of a gentlemanly distraction).

  Punk’s Not stares at my outstretched palm in open disgust.

  Long pause (but still, I persist).

  ‘Larry,’ he says, finally.

  ‘Larry?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  ‘Tell me,’ Aphra butts in impatiently.

  I clear my throat. ‘Well…’ I murmur.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ she enquires smartly.

  ‘Well,’ I continue (and you can Fuck Right Off), ‘we got inside and I led you straight through to the bedroom…’

  ‘How’d you even know where the bedroom was?’ she asks haughtily.

  ‘Instinct,’ I respond, still more haughty.

  She merely grunts.

  ‘Then I removed your shoes…’

  ‘Oh really?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which shoes?’ she asks.

  ‘Green shoes,’ I say, ‘with ridiculously huge buckles and ugly, square toes.’

  As I finish speaking, she leans forward and quietly inspects my shoes (the trainer for summer 2003–according to the Fashion Gestapo at Arena Magazine–the Adidas Indoor Super: red, white, blue, with oodles of beige suede trim, totally now, yet totally then).

  She concludes her perusal and glances back up again with a small snort (Hey. I remember that snort–must be some kind of awful trademark).

  ‘Craven,’ she intones, darkly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘And needy,’ she continues smartly, ‘you’re just so incredibly needy, Adair Graham MacKenny.’

  (Shit. This bitch has absolute recall…Uh. Or does she?)

  Larry sticks both arms behind his head and lounges back on the bench, chuckling.

  ‘Bull,’ I say.

  ‘Classic,’ she sighs, ‘neutral,’ she adds, ‘retro,’ she concludes.

  What. A. Cow.

  Before I can offer any kind of formal defence for my Indoor Super (and God knows I could’ve, and it would’ve been stringent), she turns her lacerating tongue on Punk’s Not.

  ‘And you,’ she says, ‘with your shite Dr Martens. I mean, it’s a new millennium now, so let’s move on a little, shall we?’

  I think it would be fair to say that Larry does not particularly relish this unprovoked sartorial dressing down.

  ‘So I take off your shoes,’ I boldly interject (yeah, wanna play by the Big Boy’s rules, do we?), ‘and I close the curtains. Then I go into the kitchen and I pour you a glass of water. I find you a bowl to be sick in…’

  ‘Well bully for you,’ she says, crossing her arms, yawning, and glancing back over towards Blaine and his didicoi army.

  ‘And when I come back into the bedroom,’ I continue (just a subtle hint of smugness in my tone), ‘you’ve removed the bottom half of your clothing…’ I pause, with relish. ‘The pants, the skirt. And you’re clutching your ugly, green shoes in each of your two hands, naked as the day.’

  Larry’s spirits (I think it would be fair to say) have suddenly revived. His hands are squeezing his knees and he’s leaning forward.

  ‘Naked?’ he repeats.

  ‘From the waist down,’ say I.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Aphra mutters.

  ‘Then I go into the bathroom,’ I continue, ‘to try and find you a flannel, but there isn’t one…’

  ‘Flannels,’ she harrumphs, ‘disgust me.’

  ‘So I dampen some toilet roll, and then this strange woman comes in…’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Larry intones.

  ‘A woman?’ Aphra looks stunned.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I mean in retrospect, it was a little awkward…’

  Aphra stands up.

  ‘Gotta go,’ she mutters, and simply walks off.

  Bam.

  I gaze at Larry. Larry gazes back at me. He shrugs, bemusedly. I glance down. She’s left her bloody Tupperware.

  ‘She’s left her bag,’ I tell him, and lean down to grab it.

  Larry darts out a restraining hand. ‘From the waist down?’ he asks (hungry for confirmation).

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘Hairy?’ he whispers (still holding on, defiantly).

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ I say. ‘The closest that girl’s ever got to a Brazilian is the time she did the tango with her salsa instructor.’

  Larry releases my arm. I grab the bag. We do a spontaneous high five (Yup, that’s boys for ya), then I dart off, into the crowds, and after her.

  Can’t find the girl. Not for love nor bloody money. Guess she must’ve turned a sharp left and headed up the stairs. The crowds are dense, and time is marching, so I head back to work, lugging the bag of Tupperware along with me.

  No sooner have I stepped foot back indoors than I’m caught up in the middle of an excited throng of staff in the foyer.

  ‘Were you outside?’ someone asks. ‘Did you actually see?’

  Uh?

  Wha?!

  I quickly make my way over to the window, as dumpy, ginger-haired Bly from Human Resources burns my ear.

  ‘I mean it was all getting a little frantic for a while,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if you noticed…’

  Frantic? What? The Gypsies? The Lift Music?

  ‘There was a big crowd of them,’ she continues, ‘just making this huge racket…’

  There was?

  ‘Right inside the fences and everything. And then suddenly this man is climbing the thingummy…’

  She points.

  ‘What?’ my jaw slackens. ‘The Support Tower?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  I glance out. I see two Z cars and a frantic cluster of security.

  How’d I miss this shit, man?

  (How? How?! I’ll tell you how: fucking Aphra!)

  ‘Nope.’ Bly grimly shakes her head. ‘This guy climbs the tower–and nobody’s even really trying to stop him–and when he reaches the top, he’s just standing there, not entirely sure what he’s gonna do next. Pretty soon he starts screaming and shouting. Then he starts hurling all the bottles of water everywhere…’

  ‘I can’t believe I missed this…’ I wail.

  ‘Nor can I,’ she murmurs, wide-eyed. ‘It was pretty, bloody scary.’

  ‘Then what?’ I turn back to appraise her. ‘Did they get him?’

  ‘Eventually, but it seemed to take hours to sort everything out. It was a really serious breach. A totally calculated attack.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I mean having a bit of fun is one thing, but this was just…’

  She shrugs. ‘Humiliating. I mean for us.’

  Us?

  ‘The British,’ she continues (obviously spurred on by my blank expression), ‘the host nation.’

  I turn and gaze out through the window again, but my view of the Illusionist is compromised by a tree.

  ‘And what was Blaine doing all the while?’ I ask (thinking it best not to embroil myself in a dialogue about National Responsibility, etc.) ‘Was he shitting himself or what?’

  Her eyes widen. ‘The guy started yanking on his tubes, you know? The ones for his urine and uh…’ (she
pulls exactly the kind of face you’d expect from any well-bred girl under the circumstances).

  ‘Did they come loose?’

  ‘Couldn’t see. Maybe.’

  ‘And Blaine?’

  ‘He was standing up and kind of watching. But very calm. Unbelievably calm. Someone who was out there said he was just looking at the guy and smiling. The guy was going potty. Then Blaine waved at him. A friendly wave. Like he was totally unfazed by the whole situation.’

  ‘Really?’

  I hear my own voice, from the outside, and it sounds…well, almost disappointed.

  ‘Yup. That’s what they said. Totally unfazed.’

  ‘And he just waved?’

  ‘Yeah. The guy was psycho before, but the wave sent him completely loopy. He was just thrashing around, screaming, making a real tool out of himself. But Blaine was unflappable. The person who saw it all said he was very, very cool. He really handled himself. His behaviour was impeccable.’

  She smiles up at me.

  Uh. Hang on, now…Is that a smile?

  (So why’s this ridiculously amiable girl-pudding suddenly smirking? And why am I the clueless recipient of her unexpected bitcheroony?)

  ‘Well that’s great,’ I mutter uneasily. ‘I’m pleased for him.’

  ‘Good,’ she says (still the smirk. Why the smirk?), then she glances down. ‘By the way,’ she whispers, ‘never really had you down as a Christian Radio kinda guy.’

  She saunters off.

  X-squeeze me?

  I frown. I scratch my head. I look around. I pause. I glance down.

  I slowly lift up Aphra’s Tupperware bag to eye level.

  Ah.

  Yes. Ha ha.

  Premier Christian Radio.

  Very funny.

  I mean is this girl determined to massacre my street credibility?

  It was full–the Tupperware. It was actually full of food (no, not of the regurgitated variety. I checked). And because I’m obliged to slog my way through lunchtime (Yeah. Big surprise), I do the neighbourly thing and try to drop it off at her flat in The Square after work.

  Major wash-out. Nobody answers the buzzer, and the porter’s clocked off, dammit, so everything’s firmly shutdown and locked up.