Clear: A Transparent Novel. Nicola Barker

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      ‘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), and I’m still – ahem – ‘feeling my way’ – insert Frankie Howerd-style exclamation of your choice – around here.

      There are several approaches (if you must know. And if you mustn’t, then I’m still determined to tell you), but the important thing to bear in mind (morally – urgh, yawn – speaking) is that I’m happy – more than happy – to take each and every one of them:

       Approach (A) The Girls who Love Blaine

      There’s nothing more attractive to a sensitive, beautiful, highly-strung girl (who still attends college, believes in Karma and dresses like Nelly Furtado) than an attractive (well, quite attractive – if I’ve cleaned my nails and applied my hair gel), sensitive, highly-strung boy who’s ready, willing and able to empathise with them over the many complexities of Blaine’s tragic predicament.

      Girl steps back (temporarily overwhelmed) from the dramatic spectacle of the ‘angelic’ Blaine. She is shaking her head, bemusedly.

      ‘I mean why would people want to throw eggs at him?’ she asks poignantly. ‘Haven’t they got anything better to do? He’s not hurting anyone, is he?’

      Adair Graham MacKenny (doctor on call) shrugs his shoulders, resignedly, ‘Nope. Only himself. And that’s absolutely his prerogative, if you ask me.’

      Girl turns to look at A. G. MacKenny, immediately digesting the fact that A. G. MacK. is (like her hero) dressed principally in black.

      ‘Exactly.’ She smiles, shyly. ‘I mean I think people are threatened by him. By the statement he’s making.’

      A. G. MacK. nods, ‘Yeah. And I definitely think people are confused by him, and that’s half the trouble.’

      Girl considers this for a moment, ‘You’re right,’ she says, ‘I think they are.’

      ‘And sometimes,’ A. G. MacK. continues (as if he’d only just thought of it), ‘when people are confused, they lash out. They do stupid things.’

      Girl turns, impressed, the dark pupils in her blue eyes dilating. ‘That’s sad, but it’s so true.’

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