Clear: A Transparent Novel. Nicola Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ he’s left behind. Douglas Sinclair MacKenny is – in his own mind at least – now first in line to get himself that fancy fat magician’s wand. But two other boys – at least – have their greedy eyes glued on this exact-same prize.

      There is a brief halt to the digging as the tragic magician’s possessions are firmly removed from a host of small, grasping hands, and when the digging resumes, the children are duly frogmarched up the beach, on to the prom, and into the warm, distracting embrace of the funfair for ‘a couple of rides’.

      It isn’t a long while after that Carrazimo’s body is pulled from the sand. Yes. He’d performed this feat a hundred times before. But it’d rained at breakfast and the sand – for some reason – was just slightly wetter than it usually was in summer.

      He’d drowned.

      Douglas Sinclair MacKenny was scarred for ever. Not just by the death (although that took its toll – he was, after all, an accessory to the illusion), but by the fact that he was cruelly denied that most tantalising, powerful and coveted of items: the magician’s fat wand. Carrazimo had promised, hadn’t he? The perfidious, two-faced, double-crossing liar.

      Hmmn. Think there might’ve been any phallic significance in all of that?

      I know what you’re thinking: it was all a very long time ago now (this illusionist stuff). And he’s just my old dad, after all – I mean if he happens to see me more than twice in your average year – Christmas / birthday – he starts to think the worst.

      Suspicious?

      Suspicious?!

      ‘Got dumped by your lady friend, did you, Adie?’

      ‘Running a little short of money, eh?’

      ‘Thrown in the towel at your job again, then?’

      ‘Still living with that immigrant?’

      ‘Got yourself the effing clap?’

      ‘Finally planning to tell your poor mum and me that you take it up the arse, for pleasure? That you’re a dirty (tick one or all of the below:) transexual/bisexual/pansexual/disgusting bloody fag?!’

      (Look, for the thousandth time, Dad, I’m not a homosexual. It’s just the way I wear my hair – I mean if TV’s Vernon Kay can do it and marry a beautiful woman and sustain a successful career…)

      Jesus, that illusionist has got a lot to answer for.

      And the fact is…(to get down to the facts again)…Hmmn, how to put this into actual words?

      The fact is (to reiterate) that blood is marginally thinner than an iced vodka slammer (and not half so digestible) and I’ve been using…

       No.

      I’ve been employing…

       No.

      I’ve been deriving…

      Score!

      …a certain amount of…

      Uh…

      …real…

       Scratch

      …serious…

       Scratch

      …active…well, pleasure, in getting my own back. On magicians. Per se. And on Blaine, specifically.

      And it isn’t (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.’

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