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  She sighs. ‘The end of the Millennium kind of drew a line under that jumble of feelings…and yet, somehow, paradoxically, it also brought them back, ever more acutely.’

  Solomon merely snorts as he experiments with his second and third gooseberry. Jalisa starts counting things off on her fingers–‘First there’s all the Herzog stuff,’ she says, ‘which I think is terribly symbolic, and then the double irony of Blaine, in that tiny box–totally rekindling all those images of Jews being shipped in those cramped railway carriages to the concentration camps, without food, you know? The sense of something unspeakable taking place, but in public–and finally, there’s the fact of the “Jew”, Blaine, being guarded as he starves in that box by his beautiful German girlfriend…’

  Solomon chokes on his grated beetroot. ‘Now you go too far,’ he almost bellows.

  (What? The king of controversy, finally on the run? Arse-whipped by a woman?)

  Jalisa doesn’t turn a hair.

  ‘Why?’ she asks insouciantly. ‘This is just Art, after all…’

  I step in. ‘Do you approve of what Blaine’s doing?’ I ask.

  She rolls her eyes, boredly. ‘It’s not a question of liking or disliking,’ she says. ‘Good or bad. This kind of Art is like a Stop sign. You can either put on your brakes or decide to run through it. You don’t get angry with the sign itself, or love the sign. That’d be kinda inappropriate.’

  ‘So are Blaine and Korine feeling guilty or representing guilt?’ Solomon asks.

  ‘Both, of course,’ Jalisa says pertly, helping herself to another chunk of pie.

  ‘Well I suppose you should know,’ Solomon smiles, icily.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Jalisa glances up.

  ‘The headscarf.’

  Solomon enunciates his words so cleanly I can almost hear them squeaking. A short, tight silence follows. Then Jalisa merely shrugs. ‘You’re right,’ she says, ‘perhaps that’s just the culture we find ourselves in,’ she takes a defiant swig of her wine, ‘where looking back is, in a sense, our only real way of looking forward.’

  She gently puts her glass down again. ‘Everybody nowadays feels this overwhelming urge to source the root of their own perceived oppression,’ she says, ‘victimhood is the new black, or green or whatever…’

  Then she pauses, ‘But fuck you, anyway.’

  Solomon says nothing, but he’s plainly utterly delighted by the impact he’s had (am I just out of my depth here, or does this man have no idea how to secure himself a shag?).

  Man…

  You’d struggle to chip this atmosphere with an ice pick. I shift in my seat and look down at the table. It’s then that I observe how almost all of Aphra’s food has been casually ingested during the course of this ‘discussion’. And none of it by me.

  Jalisa suddenly gets up and stalks off to the bathroom. Solomon marches defiantly upstairs in the apparent pursuit of weed. I go to the fridge and grab myself a Coke (Nusrat Fateh howling away rhythmically in the background about the eternal love of bloody Allah–and only my heathen ears to hear him), when bugger me if I don’t turn around at the critical moment to see those three evil curs forming a vile, black tripod across the table and decimating the paltry remainder of Aphra’s fine repast. Bud even goes so far as to snatch a Tupperware container–holding the fragrant chicken–in his gnashing white teeth and carry it off.

  You fancy getting that thing back off him? Huh?

  Nope.

  Me neither.

  Five

  ‘There’s an apple pie in Shane, actually. The book. It features quite prominently in chapter 3. The narrator’s mother–Marian–bakes this huge, succulent, deep-dish pie, in the pathetic hope (at some level) of impressing “the dark stranger”, Shane, with it, but then she gets distracted and the pie burns and she goes absolutely loopy–in that fantastically “repressed housewife of the developing American West” sort of way.

  It’s a classic interlude…’

  Aphra–who is currently holding my (recently rediscovered) copy of Shane in her hoity hand, having just that second dug it out of her (recently returned) Premier Christian Radio bag–gazes up at me, blankly. Oh dear.

  So it’s the morning after the feast before and I’m just blathering on meaninglessly to a–frankly, strangely laid-back-seeming–Aphra as I struggle to explain why exactly I (or not I) demolished her succulent food-store.

  ‘While I’m incredibly impressed by your literary critique,’ she says (casually leaving the entire food-theft issue behind her–which I’m extremely grateful for), ‘Westerns don’t really ring my bell.’

  She tries to pass the book back over to me.

  ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ I say, taking a step back and refusing–out of principle–to take it from her.

  ‘I’m not a great reader,’ she says, scowling.

  ‘I’ll bet you a fiver,’ I say, ‘that you won’t be able to put it down after the first two chapters.’

  She rolls her tired eyes (been working the hospital night shift, maybe? I mean this girl has ‘nurse’ written all over her. Uh. Except for the feet part, where today she’s wearing the most alarmingly flirtatious pair of scarlet, patent-leather, pointy-toed, kitten-heeled creations I’ve ever beheld). ‘You honestly think I’m gonna be fatally seduced by the story of a burnt pie?’ she asks.

  ‘The pie is symbolic,’ I sniff.

  She merely shrugs, shoves the book roughly back into her bag again (it’s an early edition, for Heaven’s Sake), and glances down along the embankment wall where–about ten feet away from us–two rookie coppers are lounging disconsolately.

  ‘Looks like somebody took yesterday’s attack seriously,’ she observes.

  ‘Hmmn. They certainly seem over the moon to be here,’ I murmur.

  It’s a dull old autumn morning. Grey sky. Nippy wind.

  ‘Been here long yourself?’ I ask, shivering involuntarily, then sneezing, then yanking my short, beige, heavy canvas Boxfresh jacket even closer around me.

  ‘Bless you,’ she says (sidestepping my question with typical finesse), then casually adjusting the Tupperware bag in her hand, before pausing for a second to inspect the contents more closely.

  ‘How hungry were you?’ she asks, lifting out a badly mangled dish.

  ‘The dogs,’ I cringe. ‘Sorry. We all got a little distracted after my flatmate and his girlfriend had this unholy row about Blaine…’

  ‘Really?’

  (Is that a glimmer of interest?)

  ‘Yup.’

  As I speak her bleary eyes settle quietly just above my left shoulder (it almost feels as if I have an extremely entertaining parrot crouching there). The magician (for it is he who crouches, not a bird) is still asleep (yeah, not crouching then, so scrap that), bundled up inside his bag–corpsing it–just a dark, slightly poignant, elongated blob.

  ‘Remember what your friend Larry said yesterday?’ I ask. ‘About there being this whole, unspoken, anti-semitic agenda against Blaine?’

  ‘Larry who?’

  ‘Punk’s Not Dead,’ I say.

  ‘Yes it is,’ she snaps, then yawns again.

  ‘Well anyway,’ I continue (why’s it always such a battle with this girl? Is it simply dispositional? Is it her? Is it me?), ‘my flatmate’s girlfriend, Jalisa…’

  ‘Ja-who?’

  ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘…was saying how Blaine is actually very into all the Jewish stuff. She said this entire stunt had been devised as a consequence of Blaine’s friend Harmony Korine-the film-maker…’ (Absolutely no sign of recognition at this name.)

  ‘…having shown him a short story by the German-Jewish writer, Franz Kafka.’

  ‘What’s the story about?’ she asks (moderately interested).

  ‘Haven’t read it yet…’ I say.

  ‘Ah.’

  (The light inside her quietly switches off.)

  ‘But from what I can tell…’

  ‘He just
moved his hand,’ Aphra murmurs.

  I blink.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He moved his hand,’ she says.

  I turn around.

  Yup. There’s his hand. Out of the sleeping bag. Scratching weakly at his trademark mop of dark hair.

  The hand disappears again. I turn back around.

  ‘Gone,’ she says, mournfully.

  Her eyes return to my face for a moment. Sad eyes. Grey eyes.

  Okay…(So I’ve temporarily run out of steam. I open my mouth to say something but nothing emerges. So I inhale, deeply, and close it again.)

  ‘Were you clear?’ she suddenly enquires.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The clinic,’ she says, ‘were you clear?’

  I frown, somewhat taken off my guard (Now this is a whole other can of worms…)

  ‘Yes,’ I finally mutter, ‘I was, actually.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, her eyes sliding back over towards the Illusionist again.

  ‘How did you know?’ I ask (maybe a touch of aggression in my voice–which I try my best to temper on the grounds of our recent–and still potentially delicate–food-theft situation).

  She just shrugs. ‘An old friend of mine was temping there. I met her from work for a drink that night. I was with you in the waiting room…’

  She smiles. ‘…And because I’d already had the benefit of observing your antics around here…’

  She stops smiling.

  ‘Two and two, et cetera,’ she concludes.

  I scratch my head. She looks down at her watch.

  ‘Don’t you have a job to go to?’ she asks tartly. (Well that’s a Summary Dismissal if ever I heard one.)

  I half-turn but don’t move. Instead I pretend to busy myself with methodically fastening my jacket (it has one of those magnificently chunky, ‘work-wear’, lumberjack-style zips), then immediately unfasten it, then refasten it, like a boy standing outside his school science lab, debating whether to head inside for a practical, or bolt off across the playing field and down into the ditch beyond where all the bad kids like to hang, during lessons, and sniff solvents, and make out, and share a smoke (or was that just my school? My science class? Was that just me?

  Yeah?

  So fuck the universal).

  She straightens up and jumps down from the wall (plainly preparing to head off herself), and as she does, one of the security guards waves at her, jovially, from inside the fenced enclosure. She waves back.

  ‘See you later,’ she yells.

  He nods, does the thumbs up.

  (Great. Another rival.)

  ‘Hey…’ she suddenly murmurs (much softer, now, and in my direction).

  I glance up, briefly, from my zippering hell (man, all that friction’s starting to burn off my thumbnail).

  ‘So next time you want a free feed, MacKenny…’ She rattles her bag at me, smiling, rather tenderly…

  (Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus–is she actually gonna ask me round for dinner?)

  The smile suddenly drops. ‘Why not bring your own fucking Tupperware, eh?’

  Gets me every time, damn her.

  But come on, the shoes were hot.

  Back to last night:

  ‘She can cook,’ Jalisa informs me as she returns from the bathroom. ‘God knows she can cook.’

  (Solomon–too–is rendered virtually rhapsodic by some of the more ‘esoteric’ culinary productions.)

  ‘I mean everything in tiny pieces and portions,’ Jalisa murmurs, ‘as if prepared for a sickly child or a fussy dowager…’

  ‘Bizarrely aromatic,’ Solomon announces, ‘did you happen to notice that?’

  Uh…I cock my head (I mean I didn’t get to eat much yet, but smell…? Yeah. Maybe.)

  ‘Low-fat,’ Jalisa interjects, informatively.

  ‘And succulent,’ Solomon continues, ‘if unbelievably fussy…’

  ‘Yeast-free,’ Jalisa raises her voice slightly (Wow. Think that crack about her headscarf might still be stinging her?).

  ‘Yeast-fucking-free?’ Solomon scoffs.

  Jalisa stares at him, heavy-lidded (Ay. The hypnotic glare of the angry polecat).

  ‘And gluten free,’ she growls.

  ‘What about the bread?’ Solomon raises one sceptical brow.

  ‘Spelt flour,’ she hisses.

  ‘And the filo pastry?’

  Silence.

  ‘So you basically think that this food is intended to appeal to someone sickly?’ I jump in (before the actual blows commence- Hmmn. Is Aphra sick? She doesn’t look sick…)

  ‘Perhaps an allergy sufferer,’ Jalisa ponders, ‘or a very healthy hedonist…’

  ‘Given that we’re dealing with what could essentially be described as your basic south-east Indian cuisine here,’ Solomon shrugs his ridiculously manly, steel-grey-lambswool, John Smedley-encased shoulders, ‘by your estimation…’ he delivers Jalisa a pitying look, ‘the entire Indian sub-continent should be peopled by allergy sufferers.’

  Jalisa stares at him for a while, her expression, quizzical. ‘I’m not sure who built the road, Solomon,’ she eventually murmurs, ‘but you seem to be experiencing some kind of temporary charm bypass.’

  (No comment is forthcoming from the guy wielding the tarmac.)

  The overall impact of this scathing attack is marginally undermined by the fact that as soon as Jalisa finishes speaking she picks up a stray spoon and finishes off the rice pudding with it.

  ‘I wanted some of that,’ Solomon finally hisses.

  Jalisa smacks her lips, defiantly.

  (So he’s definitely not getting any tonight, eh?)

  I slowly tiptoe away from the table and towards the door, hands raised (perhaps) in the slightly defensive attitude of a frightened hamster.

  ‘Well this has been fun,’ I mutter, rapidly exiting.

  ‘Yes, hasn’t it,’ Jalisa tosses back.

  The guard’s name is Seth and he’s extremely garrulous. Within five minutes he’s told me where he’s originally from (Greenwich), which part of London he currently lives in (Battersea), what his last assignment was (some shonky American Wrestling deal at the London Arena), what his next will be (the new Bridget Jones film), how much he’s earning (£100 per day), the duration for which his mother breastfed him (Okay, so now I’m just showing off- the dude was bottle fed, as it happens).

  As I’m sure you can imagine, it doesn’t take a man of my subtle conversational abilities long to lure him around to the fascinating subject of Aphra.

  ‘Lovely girl,’ he says cheerfully, ‘but a total fucking nutter.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice yet, guv?’ he chortles.

  ‘Well, she’s certainly a little…’

  I raise my brows, suggestively (Could that possibly be constructed as ungallant?).

  ‘Believe it or not,’ he runs effortlessly on, ‘the first time she ever came here she didn’t have the first clue about who David Blaine was or what the fuck he was doing up there…’ He smiles, fondly, at the memory. ‘She’s like, “But why’s he in the box…?” “Won’t he get sick if he doesn’t eat for all that time?”, “And how will he go to the toilet?”, “What? With everybody just watching?”’

  He cracks up laughing, ‘I mean she was totally concerned for the guy. Just standing there, in her funny little shoes, open-mouthed, staring up at the box in sheer wonder. Like a kid at Christmas, pretty much.’

  ‘She’d never even heard of Blaine before?’

  I’m shocked.

  ‘Nope. Says she doesn’t have a TV. Never reads a paper. Didn’t have a clue, I swear. Like she’d just landed here from Mars, it was.’

  ‘But now she’s here most days…’ I casually muse (Sherlock, eat yer heart out).

  ‘Most nights,’ he corrects me.

  ‘Of course,’ I murmur.

  ‘Only comes when he’s sleeping,’ he sighs, glancing up towards the magician who has–just that minute–lifted his head on to his hand and
is now lying on his side, still warmly ensconced in his sleeping bag.

  ‘Arrives at around ten or eleven, most evenings,’ Seth continues, ‘then usually stays right through. Some of the other lads worry a bit about her–I mean it gets quite wild down here sometimes. But she’s fine. She told me once how she has a nice little flat just down the cobbles a way…’ he points.

  ‘She does,’ I confirm.

  He gives me a straight look. ‘Been there, huh?’

  (And I don’t think he means the flat, either.)

  ‘Why,’ I ask (quick as a flash), ‘have you?’

  He slowly shakes his head (and not a little regretfully).

  At this point one of his colleagues calls him over. He turns, waves his ready compliance, then glances, briefly, back at me. ‘Amazing nose, though, eh?’ he murmurs, in a strangely inscrutable parting shot.

  Amazing nose?

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, absolutely amazing…’ I bluster pointlessly after him.

  And the tits aren’t half bad, either.

  Did I just say that?

  I charge into the office, crash down in front of my computer, and dive straight on to the internet.

  Wham!

  Amazon…

  Bam!

  Bookfinder…

  After sniffing around for a while I pull out my Master-card and order:

  (1) The Complete Short Stories of Franz Kafka (Vintage Classics, £9.99).

  (2) Primo Levi, If This Is a Man/The Truce (Abacus, £8.99).