Clear Read Free Page B

thinner than an iced vodka slammer (and not half so digestible) and I’ve been using…
    No .
    I’ve been employing…
    No.
    I’ve been deriving…
    Score!
    … a certain amount of…
    Uh …
    …real…
    Scratch
    …serious…
    Scratch
    …active…well, pleasure , in getting my own back. On magicians. Per se . And on Blaine , specifically.
    And it isn’t (no it isn’t ) just opportunism. It’s so much more than that. It’s a moral crusade. It’s righting the wrong. It’s fighting the good fight– sniff !–for my trusty old dad .
    Ahhhh .
    (NB. Please don’t hate me, sensitive Girl Readers. Just try and understand–if you possibly can –that vengeance is never a pretty thing. But it still has to be done. I mean where would your girl-philosophy of ‘kiss ’n make up’ have left Shakespeare? Or Scorsese? Or Bridget fucking Jones. Eh?)
    So I’ve been ( uh …let’s put it this way) purposefully (and cheerfully) avenging Douglas Sinclair MacKenny (and myself , I guess, on him, in some strange, messed-up angry-only-son kind of way) in the most uninhibitedly primal manner, by cunningly employing the boxed-up Illusionist as my…
    Now what’s the word I’m searching for here…?
     
     
    ‘Pimp.’
    Pardon me?
    ‘Pimp.’
    A woman–average height, average build, average looks–is suddenly standing before me, grimacing, clutching her forehead, and pushing a plastic bag brimming with Tupperware on to my lap.
    Eh?
    I refuse to take the bag, rapidly yanking my headphones from my ears. What is this?
    ‘Pimp,’ she repeats. ‘You’ve been using that poor, starving bastard to pimp all the women around here.’
    ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say.
    ‘ You’re ridiculous,’ she says. Then she drops her Tupperware, groans, slithers down to the tiles, and lies slumped against the wall.
    I jump down myself, alarmed. But before I can ask, she waves her hand dismissively, and murmurs, ‘Migraine. Mild autumn. The dust .’
    She’s clutching her forehead with her other hand and rocking slightly. I give her the once-over. Hmmn . Strangely familiar. I’ve definitely seen her around. I gather up her Tupperware (about twenty small boxes, like the kind you can get at good Thai restaurants to take home your leftovers. Neat. Reusable. Microwave friendly) while I try to remember where , exactly…
    Nope .
    ‘Can I get you a glass of water, maybe?’ I ask. ‘I actually work in this building.’ I point. She has her eyes shut. She is deathly pale.
    ‘Did you ever get migraines?’ she asks vengefully.
    ‘No.’
    ‘I thought as much.’
    ‘I often get headaches, though,’ I squeak, defensively, ‘from the glare off my computer.’
    She snorts.
    I inspect my watch. Lunch is almost over.
    ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask.
    She waves her hand again, ‘I’m fine.’
    I lean forward, preparing to put her bag down next to her (and then scarper).
    ‘ Open me a box !’ she suddenly yells.
    ‘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,