Clear (13 page)

‘You do,’ he says, ‘Australian
flu
.’

‘
Urgh
’

Bly takes a step back.

‘But how can you possibly
tell
,’ I ask, ‘when I didn’t even cross your sweaty, petty, embarrassingly
opportunistic
palm with silver yet?’

He waves my insults aside: ‘It’s an especially
virulent
strain,’ he cants (causing shocked inhalations from the small audience which his bogus proclamations have already amassed).

‘Well lucky for me you’re sporting that industrial-sized
hanky
then,’ I say, pointing (somewhat gratuitously).

‘Done any inter-departmental
thieving
lately?’ he snarls (
Yup
. Old wounds).

‘Still have the name of a
girl
?’ I sneer.

‘I believe you’ll discover,’ Punk’s Not cordially informs me, ‘that Hilary is actually derived from the Latin,
hilaris
, which means “cheerful”. And up until the late nineteenth century it was used entirely by the male. There was both a pope
and
a fourth-century saint–’

‘And
then
it became a
girl’s
name,’ I interrupt, ‘and that’s all that matters
now
…’

‘Fuck off, germ-farm,’ Hilary scoffs.

‘…And not even a
nice
girl’s name,’ I continue, ‘but the name of a pear-shaped girl with no tits and fallen arches, who wears moccasins and
tweed
, and collects novelty
liqueur
bottles, and smells of radishes…’

(Novelty
liqueur
bottles?
Woah
, there.)

‘You ignorant, pointless, fluffy little
fop
,’ he splutters (plainly mortally offended for the girl he might’ve been).

I take a step closer, and pant, provocatively.

He cowers away from me, drawing some of his excess scarf fabric across his mouth, like a heavily bespectacled Lawrence of Arabia.

‘I’m going to
lick
you,’ I announce.

A booted foot kicks out at me.

The crowd steps back.

Then I jump, like a wildcat, and set my tongue to work on him.

What?

Has this man never troubled
acquainting
himself with soap and water?

Hmmn
. Is it just me, or does Punk’s Not have an unexpectedly
magisterial
aspect from down here?

So I got the flu. Bully for
him
. And it
is
virulent (just like he said): I have shooting pains in my head, my chest, my legs, my nuts. Fever, nausea, the runs.

Night sweats (really bad ones). Exhaustion. Chapping. Am skiing through a veritable
avalanche
of phlegm…

And the Illusionist thinks
he
’s doing it tough?

(Experiencing ‘A funny taste in the mouth?’
Eh
? While I lie shivering, in the foetal position, looking like Marilyn fucking Manson after three hours in make-up?)

Hey. But Bly
did
end up telling me about the 4x4/ Wakedavid connection (yeah–I
know
you’ve been literally on the edge of your
seat
over that one) although I’m far too ill now to know if it’s relevant or not (and if it
is
, what–if anything–it’s relevant
for
…).

I guess you could just say that I’m gradually building up some kind of basic, three-dimensional
jigsaw
inside my head; piece by tiny piece (as if David Blaine, the
rage
he’s generated, the logistics of his actual ‘stunt’, are some kind of magnificently fractured, profoundly perplexing, antique ceramic
pot
…

So will it hold together when I’m finally done? Will it be waterproof? Are all the fragments in place? Are my fingers clean? Is the glue strong enough?).

Okay.
Okay
. Try and be
kind
, will ya? I’m sickening. I’m gummed up.

Remember earlier,
much
earlier, before the plague?

‘All this damn
rancour
,’ Bly grizzles, once she’s hauled me off the pavement, apologised profusely (on my behalf), retrieved Hilary’s (not so ‘hilarious’
now
, eh?) headscarf from my frenzied clutch, returned it, and cluckingly dusted down the arms and elbows on my heavy-wear jacket, ‘what’s the
point
of it?’

‘Rancour?’

I do the wide-eyed act.

(My philosophy: if in
any
doubt, deny, and deny passionately.)

‘You
attacked
him.’

She gives me a reproachful look.

‘He kicked me first,’ I squeak, ‘and anyway, I only licked him. In most “advanced” cultures a lick is a sign of overwhelming benevolence.’

‘To a dog, perhaps.’

‘All that bloody
piety
,’ I growl (conforming to type), and setting my (now, slightly wonky) sights back on work again. ‘I mean who suddenly gave all these skanky New Agers such ready access to the fine, moral high ground? They have no
right
to it. They don’t pay any damn
rent
. They’re just Ethical
Squatters
…’

(Bly neglects to congratulate me on what I feel is my peerless use of morality-based real estate imagery.)

‘You’re honestly trying to tell me,’ she scoffs, ‘that Hilary offends your “Christian sensibilities” in some way?’

‘Yes,’ I gabble defensively, ‘
and
fucking Blaine, for that matter…’

‘How?’

Uh
…(Now I’m flummoxed. Just give me a second…I’m harbouring the
pox
, remember?). ‘Well…the
adverts
, for starters. The TV adverts. And before this whole thing even
started
, there he was, like the proverbial bad penny, hanging around town and behaving- at every opportunity- like a real celebrity
dick
. Cutting off his
ear
at a press conference. Getting tough-nuts on the streets to punch him in the guts. Prancing around on the London Eye. I mean big fucking
deal
. Is he meant to be an
Artist
, or some kind of low-rent
carnival
entertainer?’

I pause and cough.

(
Shit
, man, I’m pent
up
.)

‘Is it really any wonder,’ I continue, ‘that people’ve got so confused and pissed-off?’

‘The TV ads…’ she nudges me.

‘
Yeah
. The TV ads. They were
unbelievably
provocative…’

‘Not so’s I remember…’ she debunks.

‘You don’t have a problem, then,’ I gabble, ‘with some trumped-up, two-bit American magician–best mucker of those social
stalwarts
: Uri Geller and Michael Jackson–drawing casual but
explicit
parallels between his million-dollar, Sky sponsored, money-making antics, and the trials and tribulations of the Son of
God
?’

Bly merely cocks her head.

‘The dark
corridor
,’ I twitter, ‘the raised
arms
, the grandiose
music
, the portentous
voice
-over…’

‘So
what?
’ She throws up her hands. ‘Who cares?’

‘Who cares? Who
cares? Lots
of people care. Because it’s sacri-bloody-legious. It’s arrogant. It’s outrageous. It’s
wrong
.’

‘Oh.
Fine
,’ Bly snipes, caustically. ‘It’s suddenly against the law now,
huh
, to employ basic Christian iconography in other walks of life?’

(Iconography?!
Man
. What’s
happening
to these females lately?)

‘Yes.
Yes
. It
is
. Against the laws of good
taste
,’ I gurgle: ‘Just look what the Muslims did to
Rushdie
: a fatwa, for writing some crummy piece of undigestible
fiction
. But when Blaine compares himself–his so-called “struggle”, his theatrics–to the trials of Jesus Christ, we’re all just meant to go, “
Uh
, oh, good,
yeah
…”’

Bly puts up a hand to stop me: ‘
How
did he compare himself?’ she asks.

‘In
every
way. The imagery. The whole
presentation
of the thing. All the “forty-four days in the wilderness” malarkey…’

‘Forty days,’ she chips in.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Forty days,’ she yells. ‘You’re standing here as Christianity’s chief defender and you don’t even know the number of
days
involved.’

‘So Blaine cocks a snook at Christ by going
four days longer
!’ I exclaim. ‘Wow. You
surprise
me.’

We enter the foyer. ‘Okay…’ Bly pauses thoughtfully by the front desk. ‘I’m perfectly willing to concede to your idea that the Christ thing is implicit in what he’s doing…,’ she frowns, ‘but you already told me how it was the
Kafka
story that inspired the whole stunt. You were burning my damn
ear
about the subtle ramifications of the so-called “Korine connection” all bloody morning…’

‘So what?’ I shrug. ‘Blaine’s just cherry-picking. He’s trite. An opportunist. A cultural slut.’

‘Uh-
uh
,’ she uh-
uhs
. ‘It’s not simply a question of cherry-picking, it’s about experimentation, about pushing buttons, crossing boundaries. He’s
transgressing
.’ She pokes me in the chest with her beefy finger. ‘He’s making you
think
.’ Another poke. ‘He’s making you
question
. He’s being intellectually flirtatious…and–at some fundamental level–I think he’s probably just taking the
piss
a little…’

‘Maybe he is,’ I squawk (I hate this idea, somehow–to be the punchline of Blaine’s
joke
? How infuriating is that?). ‘Maybe he
is
taking the piss, but how can we possibly be expected to
tell
, when he’s so unreservedly smug and pious and American and
humourless
about it?
Funny
?!’ I point, dramatically, in the general direction of the Illusionist’s box. ‘You call
this
funny? Slumped in a plastic
tomb
, twenty-four/seven? Waving occasionally? I thought he was meant to be a fucking
show
man.’

‘That’s his style.’ Bly rolls her eyes. ‘That’s his trip. And maybe–bottom line–you just don’t get the joke. Or perhaps what he’s doing is more complicated than you think. Maybe it’s the very multi-layeredness of the whole thing which is putting your back up. He’s confusing you. He’s challenging your preconceptions. You don’t
like
that.’

I sneeze. She ducks.

‘We’re all such rugged bloody
individualists
lately,’ she murmurs, searching in her bag for something: ‘The ex I was just telling you about–
he
was a perfect case in point. And the people on that site you showed me, the stay-awake bullies,
they
all think they’re standing out from the crowd, that they’re
defending
something, that they’re really cutting a dash…’

She hands me a tissue: ‘But they’re not individuals at
all
. They’re just deluded conformists.’

‘How so?’

I cover my nose and blow.

‘Well this guy–my ex; his name was Steve–was completely obsessed by his Landcruiser. He lived in Stratford, for Chrissakes, and the parking was a nightmare. But he loved that car…’

I blow again.

‘…Because it was big, for starters, and utilitarian-looking, and tough, and it made him feel like an outsider, like someone who
would
drive over the pavement if he needed to–bend the rules a little, you know? He felt armour-plated in that thing, like an urban
warrior
.’

I look around for a bin to throw my soggy tissue in. There’s one by the lift. She follows me over.

‘I mean this guy was so anti-corporate–in his own mind–
hated
what he liked to call “The McDonald’s Mentality”, saw the rest of the “developed” world as burger-munching imbeciles. And there
he
was, standing out from the slavish crowd in his magical 4x4, guzzling his petrol, “up-grading” his tyres, threatening local schoolkids with his repulsive crash bars…’

‘You’re right. That
is
wack,’ I say, and press for my floor.

‘But the
hypocrisy
of these people! The ignorance! They think that just by
owning
something, by buying
into
something–a car, an idea, a certain type of boot, a Boxfresh
jacket
…’ She slaps at the open flap of my coat with her free hand…

Oi! Watch it!

‘…that they’re defining themselves against “the system”. But the system is all
about
people defining themselves through certain objects, or fads, and summarily rejecting others. That’s capitalism at its zenith. That’s the
disease
which consumes us…’

She pauses, dramatically. ‘And which we, in turn, consume.’

(Think this girl might have a future in politics?)

I gently remove the flaps of my jacket from her slapping orbit by zipping them up.

‘
Jesus
,’ I murmur, ‘I mean didn’t these fools even watch
The Matrix
?’

The lift arrives. We climb in.

‘Those Wakedavid people share that exact-same mentality,’ she sighs. ‘They honestly think they’re defining their mental toughness, their sacred individualism, their righteous
Englishness
, against something which–if they just stopped and thought, and took a proper
look
–is actually much more honest and individual and vulnerable and subversive than they could
ever
be…’

‘Too bloody
true
,’ I say.

‘Their hatred is just
jealousy
,’ she splutters.

‘Hear
hear
,’ I incant.

The lift stops. The doors open. I step out. She stays in.

‘See ya.’ I wave.

She nods, reaching out her hand distractedly for the fifth floor button. ‘He was right about the arm, though,’ she mutters ominously, ‘“Ethical Squatter” or
not
…’

(
Ah
. So she
was
listening…)

Then she suddenly frowns, peers into her bag, begins patting at her pockets, glances up.

‘Did I actually
finish
my ciabatta before?’

I nod.

The doors start closing.

‘Did I eat the whole thing without even
noticing
?’

I shrug, then nod again.

The doors close. Her voice is very muffled…

‘Are you
sure
?’

I mean where’s the
trust
between a man and a woman?