Free Clear by Nicola Barker Page A

potty . Then Blaine waved at him. A friendly wave. Like he was totally unfazed by the whole situation.’
    ‘Really?’
    I hear my own voice, from the outside, and it sounds…well, almost disappointed.
    ‘Yup. That’s what they said. Totally unfazed.’
    ‘And he just waved?’
    ‘Yeah. The guy was psycho before , but the wave sent him completely loopy. He was just thrashing around, screaming, making a real tool out of himself. But Blaine was unflappable. The person who saw it all said he was very, very cool. He really handled himself. His behaviour was impeccable.’
    She smiles up at me.
    Uh . Hang on, now… Is that a smile?
    (So why’s this ridiculously amiable girl-pudding suddenly smirking ? And why am I the clueless recipient of her unexpected bitcheroony?)
    ‘Well that’s great,’ I mutter uneasily. ‘I’m pleased for him.’
    ‘Good,’ she says (still the smirk. Why the smirk?), then she glances down. ‘By the way,’ she whispers, ‘never really had you down as a Christian Radio kinda guy.’
    She saunters off.
    X-squeeze me?
    I frown. I scratch my head. I look around. I pause. I glance down.
    I slowly lift up Aphra’s Tupperware bag to eye level.
    Ah .
     
     
    Yes. Ha ha .
    Premier Christian Radio.
    Very funny.
     
     
    I mean is this girl determined to massacre my street credibility?
     
     
    It was full–the Tupperware. It was actually full of food (no, not of the regurgitated variety. I checked). And because I’m obliged to slog my way through lunchtime (Yeah. Big surprise), I do the neighbourly thing and try to drop it off at her flat in The Square after work.
    Major wash-out. Nobody answers the buzzer, and the porter’s clocked off, dammit , so everything’s firmly shutdown and locked up.
    I cut my losses and drag the bag (turned neatly inside out–a boy has his pride, doesn’t he?) all the way back home with me.
    When Solomon comes in (with his current main-squeeze; a fantastically ferocious, too-skinny, bespectacled, headscarf-wearing poetess called Jalisa–American, originally, but who currently ‘brings rhyme’ to the schoolkids of Bermondsey– some body has to, eh ?) he finds me seated in a deep meditation at the kitchen table.
    I am attempting to commune with the culinary Aphra. So who she ?
    Well, you tell me …
    We have the whitest , moistest, de-boned, de-skinned, de-everything-ed steamed chicken (flavoured, Solomon later tells me, smacking his lips, joyously, with handfuls of fresh bay). We have an intense green mango and shallot salad, dripping in lemon and dotted in mustard seeds. The most finely chopped (this girl must have a degree in manual dexterity… Ho-Ho ) coconut, cucumber and coriander concoction.
    Then there’s this–frankly, unbelievable–savoury dish made out of large, fat, fresh gooseberries, a series of chutneys, relishes and salsas–carrot and ginger, tomato and chilli–some tiny multicoloured worm-like slithers of grilled mixed peppers, two types of curry created principally out of mung beans, a side dish made from roasted yams, some fat, sloppy, deliciously singed tomatoes baked in spice, a huge tub of finely grated raw beetroot and lemon juice, another tub filled with the most delicately handmade filo triangles packed with spinach, onion and marinaded tofu. A quarter-portion of nut, seed and heavy- heavy -herb soda bread.
    Then, the desserts: half an apple pie (which Solomon later informs me is made with quince, cinnamon, and sultanas dipped in rum), and a phenomenal rice pudding–cold, thick, imbued with nutmeg, coconut milk and crunchy cashew nuts fried dark brown in butter…
     
    ‘Wha tha?’ Solomon asks, pointing at the assortment of plastic bowls which lie colourfully arrayed on the table before me.
    ‘Aphra,’ I say.
    He cocks his head, ‘Oh yeah?’
    He turns off the radio (Zane Lowe’s Radio One show, featuring a Strokes interview, which I was actively enjoying) and bangs on a CD by the unbearably tedious tub-thumping mystic