Clear (8 page)
Authors: Nicola Barker
I read (in some random newspaper article a while back) about how Blaine lost his own mother when he was 21. And I might be going out on a
limb
, here, but I can’t help wondering whether this wholesale matronly rejection might not really
sting
that lonely magician a little (
some
where).
Well get
me
, coming over all empathetic,
eh?
!
(ib) The Bridge
The real troublemakers like to stand on the bridge. On the right-hand side (at the southern end of Tower Bridge) is one of the best views available (Blaine is at eye level, here, but about twenty-five yards away). This is the place where the crazy-angry types like to stand and aim their laser pens, or hurl their eggs and their other consumables (no chance of the beefed-up security wrangling you here–too many stairs, too many exits, and then there’s always the opportunity to clamber into a waiting car and
scoot
etc.).
Their aim (like their fruit) is generally rotten. There’s a spot down below on the embankment (not even in the
park
) where their missiles tend to land, and usually it’s outside the cordon, slap-bang in the middle of the ‘Outsider’ contingent.
Egging their own people. But
still
they keep throwing–
Weird
, huh?
(ii) The Insiders
The Insiders must legally submit to being filmed (like I said before), both by the maverick Korine and by the TV people at Sky (who have a million dollar deal and access to Blaine 24 hours a day).
And you know what? The Insiders fucking
love
that shit. That’s partly why they’re here. They’re dizzy, fuckin’ extroverts. They just wanna come on down, pay homage, dance around, show off and be a part of the fiesta.
Yup
.
They’ve brought along their knapsacks and their fold-up chairs, their phones and their cameras. They’ve brought along their binoculars, their banners and their bunches of flowers (the gerbera is currently the Number One flower of Insider choice. I can only guess that this is (a) because of their cheerfully lurid–almost fluorescent–colours, (b) because of the big flower-head, which means that when you poke them through the wire–to suspend them,
for
David–they stay in place more easily, and (c) because these people are so obvious, so benign, so
craven
, and the gerbera has exactly that classic child-drawing-a-picture-of-a-flower-style-quality–a visual
naïveté
–which these credulous folk–in my lofty opinion–would instinctively go for.
Aw.
Blaine–of course–shows a slight preference for the Insiders. These are the fans. These are ‘his’ people.
But he doesn’t ignore the others. Already he has this dazed quality, this exhausted veneer, this kind of ‘wandering focus’. He sees a new face in the crowd, and he smiles, and he weakly lifts his hand. If it’s someone he knows, or a person of colour, or a beautiful woman, he might wave, then do a ‘thumbs up’, then the peace sign. It’s got to the point now where he doesn’t even think about it. It’s totally automatic.
So who’s conforming?
That’s
what I can’t help wondering. And who are the deviants? The Insiders or the Outsiders? Both? Or neither? Is it all just in the
context
? i.e. in the world, in general, the Insiders might be considered to be the erratic ones (the hippies, the Art-freaks, the slavish followers–take a straw poll right now, on any major UK high street and the vast majority will still say they think Blaine’s a total madman, a troublemaker, an opportunist, a maniac), but when you’re
here
(when you’re breathing it), it’s the Outsiders who come off seeming just that little bit buttoned-up (repressed, tight-arsed,
scared
). They’ve come to stand and to watch, but not to support. Not to commit. Not to take part. They’re the ghosts at the feast (
Uh
…Or at the
starving
, so to speak).
Above and beyond everything, the Outsiders seem to feel this overwhelming terror at the prospect of being ‘caught in a lie’. Or of being duped. Or diddled. Or bamboozled. (Blaine cut off his own
ear
in the pre-publicity for this stunt, didn’t he–in front of dozens of reporters? And it was all just a trick, a joke. He rode on the top of the London Eye, pretending he was risking his life–just like he is now, apparently–but he was actually wearing a harness, all the while. In terms of inductive knowledge–i.e. basing your views on what’s gone before–Blaine’s looking like a pretty poor bet to all those cynical Outsiders down here.)
Seems like the need for real ‘truth’ (whatever
that
is, in the bleak-seeming aftermath of the Iraqi war) has–at some weird level–become almost a kind of modern mania. Perhaps without even realising, this loopy illusionist has tapped into something. Something big. A fury. A disillusionment. A
post
-disillusionment (almost). He personifies this sour mood, this sense of all-pervasive
bafflement
. And he’s
American
. And what’s even more perplexing is that he’s starting–with the dark skin, the beard growth and everything–to look a tad, well,
like an Arab
.
He’s the ally
and
the enemy (which,
either
way, symbolically, is pretty bad news for the guy).
So is this thing real?
Is it an illusion?
He
can’t
lie, people are thinking, he’s
transparent
. And he’s
moving
. He’s
there
. He’s not a puppet, an imposter or a hologram. But how can we be sure? How can we possibly
believe
in a person whose very career (their wealth, their celebrity) is entirely based on casual deception? Even if we wanted to? Even if we
needed
to? How?
How?
The Haters
Now the way I’m seeing it, these certifiable anger-balls are standing
way
outside more than just
one
restrictive cordon. They’re outside Blaine’s world (that’s for sure), and almost (I said
almost
) outside the world of social acceptability (alongside the truant, the graffiti artist, the petty-criminal and the football hooligan). They live
inside
a tabloid feeding frenzy, where everything’s in bold and italics and capital letters–
FUUUUUCK! RUN, TONE. MATE! RUUUUN!!
They’re that tiny, violent, whistling and juddering release button on society’s pressure cooker. They’re serving a function. They’re expressing what Solomon might resignedly call ‘the Dionysian’. And they are
plump
with rage. They are
bloated
with self-righteousness. They stand tall and replete, in a world
stuffed
to its well-fed
gills
with jealousy and distrust and hatred and terror.
(
Man
, we’re living in the degenerate West–so where’s all this shit even
coming
from?)
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.
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…’
