Clear

One

I couldn’t even begin to tell you why, exactly, but…

Two

You know, I always really wanted to make a good…

Three

Oh shit.

Four

I don’t see her again for two whole days. Then…

Five

‘There’s an apple pie in Shane, actually. The book. It…

Six

So I got the flu. Bully for him. And it…

Seven

Woman trouble. I can smell it a mile off. I…

Eight

And there she is. Aphra. Sitting quietly on the wall.

Nine

I am awoken–at ten–by Solomon, who takes the unusual step…

Ten

She prepares me a cup of White Tea in her…

Eleven

It’s not a criticism of the girl or anything (well,…

Twelve

Okay. I confess. I did go twice. Three times. But…

Thirteen

Prepare yourselves.

Fourteen

‘Love this warship. Absolutely love it. Visited it–twice–as a boy.

Fifteen

Home. Bath. Bed.

Sixteen

Something strange and disturbing happens en route to work. I’ve…

Seventeen

Got a great little system going with Good Nurse.

Eighteen

I find Aphra where I knew she’d be.

About the Author

Other Books by Nicola Barker

Copyright

About the Publisher

I couldn’t even begin to tell you why, exactly, but my head was suddenly buzzing with the opening few lines of Jack Schaefer’s
Shane
(his ‘Classic Novel of the American West’. Remember?). I was thinking how incredibly
precise
those first lines were, and yet how crazily effortless they seemed; Schaefer’s style (his–
ahem
–‘voice’), so enviably understated, his artistic (if I may be so bold as to use this word, and so early in our acquaintance) ‘vision’ so totally (and I mean
totally
) unflinching.

‘I have huge balls.’

That’s
what the text’s shouting:

‘I have
huge
balls, d’ya hear me? I have
huge
fucking
balls
, and I
love
them, and I have
nothing else
to prove here.’

The rest- as they say- is all gravy.

Because let’s face it, when you’ve got balls that size, you automatically develop a strange kind of moral authority, a
gung-ho
-ness (for want of a better word), a special intellectual
certainty
, which is very, very seductive to all those tight-arsed and covetous Princess-Tiny-Meats out there (the Little-Balls, and the No-Balls-Good
God
, let’s not forget about them, eh?).

I don’t make the rules, okay? I’m just a dispassionate observer of the Human Animal. If you feel the urge to argue this point (you’re at
perfect
liberty to do so), then why not write a detailed letter to Ms Germaine Greer? (That’s it, love, you run off and fetch your nice, green biro…
Yeah
. And I’m sure she’d just love to read it, once she’s finally finished rimming that
gorgeous
teenager…)

Schaefer (to get back to my point), as a
writer
, simply jumps, feet-first, straight into the guts of the thing.

If I might just…
uh
…quote something, to try and illustrate (and this is entirely from memory, so bear with me)…

‘He rode into our Valley in the summer of ’89. I was just a kid back then, barely as tall as our perimeter fence…’

Yes
. So that’s a really (
Ouch
, no…I mean a
really
) rough approximation of the original (I can’t find my copy. And don’t sue me, Jack, if you’re still alive and misquotation is the one thing that keeps you up at night. Or- worse still- if you’re some crusty bastard working in the copyright department of some big-ass publishers in Swindon who just
loves
to get his rocks off prosecuting over this kind of harmless, well-meaning shite: it’s meant to be a
tribute
to the man, so will you maybe just cut me a little slack here?).

It’s a
rough
approximation (as I believe I already emphasised), but I’m sure you get the gist of the thing…

Let’s cut it right back to the bone then, shall we?

He
. Yeah? The first word: He. That’s
him
. That’s
Shane
: The Man.

Just a single, short breath into the narrative, and already he’s
here
. He’s arrived. It’s
Shane
. He’s standing right in front of us: completely (quite
astonishingly
) dimensional.

And in the
second
breath? (If you can just
try
and suppress your excitement for a minute.) In that second breath he’s…Oh. My. God. He’s coming
even closer
.

WAH!

He’s almost on top of you now (Smell the warm leather of his chaps–the sweat on his horse–the grease in his gun-holster).

Uh
, let’s rewind for a moment: the second word (
second
word, right?) is ‘rode’.
He
rode…He
rode
…(just in case some of you weren’t keeping up).

‘He rode into our valley…’

He
rode
…

And there you have it. In just two, short, superficially insignificant words, A Hero Is Born.

God.

It’s so fucking
humbling
.

Please
(pretty please) don’t let me harp on too long about all of this (because I will harp. Harping’s my trademark) but what absolutely
immaculate
styling, eh?

(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?).

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 in only the second week of Master Illusionist David Blaine’s spectacular Public Starvation Pageant,
Above the Below
(so how the fuck does he go about translating
that
into plain English, without sounding a complete twat?).

It’s day 8 or day 9–I forget which (can’t quite read it on that handy 44-day digital clock of his from where I’m currently sitting)–but it already feels like it’s been going on for ever (we’ve had the golf balls, the eggs, the girls baring their breasts, we’ve had the paint gun, the fences raised, the security doubled and Shiraz Azam with his all-nite bhangra drum…).

Don’t think (for a moment) that it’s just some lucky accident that I’m perched here (right in the
hub
, you might say), because I work (as a clerical assistant, much against my will, my instinct, my inclinations) in the only building directly adjacent to this psychotic happening (you might’ve seen us–in all the design magazines–early last year): a huge, grey-green-glass Alessi milk-jug of a structure (a tipsy fat penguin): the Greater London Authority Building (we were the centre of the world till they went and built that stupid gherkin near Aldgate. Now we’re just last night’s chip paper. Modernity’s like a badly trained dog: try and make it heel, even for a moment, and it turns and bites the hand that fed it.
Snap
).