Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2018

  Published in this ebook edition in 2018

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  HarperCollins Publishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Text copyright © Steven Camden 2018

  Cover design © Leo Nickolls

  Cover illustration © Leo Nickolls

  Steven Camden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008168384

  Ebook Edition © 2018 ISBN: 9780008168391

  Version: 2018-01-25

  For Lenny,

  your music sparked a fire in me

  and I am forever grateful.

  I love you, man x

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Wednesday: 14 days left

  Thursday: 13 days left

  Friday: 12 days left

  Saturday: 11 days left

  Sunday: 10 days left

  Monday: 9 days left

  Tuesday: 8 days left

  Wednesday: 7 days left

  Thursday: 6 days left

  Friday: 5 days left

  Saturday: 4 days left

  Sunday: 3 days left

  Monday: 2 days left

  Tuesday: 1 day left

  Wednesday: Last day

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Steven Camden

  About the Publisher

  You’re almost twelve.

  Staring through the fire at Sean. The tips of the flames lick the top branches of the bush you’ve both spent all day hollowing out.

  You’re holding the stolen aerosol can. Sean’s nervous smile.

  Your willing apprentice.

  He can’t see me, even though I’m standing right next to him.

  You look at the can. Then at me. The flames dance in between us.

  “Do it,” I say.

  You smile at Sean, then throw it in.

  I’m sensing resistance.

  You are? That’s weird.

  You don’t think this is useful?

  I’m sure it’s amazing.

  That tone is what I’m talking about.

  You don’t like my tone?

  It’s not about what I like, Thor. This is about you. Your anger.

  Who’s angry?

  Shall we start?

  I thought we had.

  Why don’t you begin by telling me how you’re feeling, right now?

  Right now? I’m feeling tired.

  OK, and why is that?

  I dunno, maybe it’s something to do with the fact that I’ve spent the last week and a half working ten-hour days, demolishing a castle, by myself, my second this month, and tomorrow I’ll get a new job and it all starts again. Now, on top of that, I have to come here. For this.

  I could move your slot to the mornings if that’s better for you?

  Whatever you say, Adam.

  Alan. You understand the importance of these sessions though, don’t you?

  How old are you?

  Is that important?

  You seem young.

  You’re deflecting now, Thor.

  Am I?

  Have you been in any fights lately?

  Is that in the file?

  Yes.

  I don’t do that any more. I’m done with that. Haven’t fought for weeks. Months.

  That’s good. So knocking down empty buildings is enough to keep your hands busy these days?

  Do these look like hands to you?

  I’m sorry, paws.

  Look, Adam …

  My name is Alan.

  Whatever. I get it. This is your job, to “counsel”. That’s great, and yes, I’ve had issues with my temper in the past, but I’m done with that. I’ve accepted what happened. I’ve moved on.

  I’m glad to hear that, Thor, but this is still compulsory. You have two weeks until the fade. Those of us who were sent away by our makers have a different set of feelings to deal with to those who were simply forgotten.

  So you were sent away too?

  We’re here to talk about you. Can we do that?

  There’s nothing to say. Ten years ago, she made me. Six years ago, she sent me away; now, in two weeks, none of it matters anyway. I reach ten years, pass through the fade and then that’s that. I either grow old and bitter or lose my mind like the zoomers in the park.

  And those are the only two options?

  What do I know?

  That’s where I can help.

  Who says I need help?

  Everyone needs help when they reach the fade. Especially those who were sent away. Unresolved feelings will fester, trust me. If we can talk, I’m sure I can help you transition through it smoothly into the rest of your time.

  Just like that.

  Thor, I’m not trying to trick you. I understand the feelings. Our makers need us, then they don’t need us, and that can leave us lost, but, at the end of the day, we still live on.

  They don’t know what they need.

  OK, a thought, that’s good. Would you care to elaborate?

  Not really.

  Your maker is a girl, right? Marcie? Loves drawing.

  Loved.

  Right. It says she made you when she was seven, after her mother left?

  Nearly eight.

  OK, so quite late, and that would make her nearly eighteen now?

  I guess so.

  Good. See? We’re off and running.

  Whoopee.

  So, by my maths, that would mean she was nearly twelve when she sent you away? Why don’t we start with that?

  It’s all written in your file, isn’t it?

  Yes, but the point is talking about it. In your words. Can you tell me what happened that last time you were with her?

  No.

  Because you still feel guilty?

  No.

  Because you’re still angry with her?

  No.

  Then why?

  Because she’s an idiot.

  Nineteen lights up above the doors.

  The screech as the brake squeezes the lift cable and the weight in my stomach rises up into my chest. Doors open. The fur of my arms is flecked with purple plaster dust. The ashes of a castle. Press the warm bucket of chicken against my side and step off into the corridor.

  My shadow wipes away as the doors close behind me.

  This place is so grey.

  Charcoal-coloured doors line the pale, empty walls on both sides, stretching away to the end of the hall where it splits left and right to more walls and more doors.

  Some people get to live in castles.

  I got a tower block.

  As I reach mine, I see a black bin bag slumped against the wall outside next door. Dark and lifeless. Their door’s ajar. Must be someone new moving in.

  Don’t care.
Never spoke to whoever left anyway. Not interested.

  Just want to eat my chicken and sleep.

  Boots off. Close door. Lamp on.

  Grab my laptop and slump in my old armchair.

  I pop the lid on my chicken and take a deep breath of hot fried comfort. Rocco’s chicken is the greatest. I bite into a thick drumstick as I log into the work database.

  Glance at the phone on the floor. Think of Blue. Could call her. Should.

  Across the room, on the table under the window, the old typewriter sits, waiting.

  Ignore it.

  I sign off on the castle and request a new job. Got to stay busy. Log out.

  Everyone needs help when they reach the fade. Especially those who were sent away.

  Alan. What a dick.

  Feel the strings of guilt twang in my chest.

  Because you’re still angry with her?

  Drop the bone in the bucket and stare across at the table.

  The typewriter. Waiting.

  Do these look like hands to you?

  Walk to the window.

  Dark tower-block tops and the skeleton of a Ferris wheel against a purple-black sky.

  Way below on the fuzzy, lit streets, night workers and troublemakers go about their business. Another night in Fridge City.

  Sit.

  The old black box file of pages. How many are in there now? Enough for a book?

  One for every time that I’ve watched.

  Stare at the typewriter. Each letter pitted with dents from my claws.

  You wouldn’t believe it. Me. Writing.

  I close my eyes as I slowly stab at the keys, like every time.

  Close my eyes.

  To see.

  You’re on your bed. Legs crossed. Pyjama bottoms and hoodie. Hair up in the high bun you only wear at home. On the duvet next to you, your worn copy of Othello, scattered revision cue cards and your old sketchbook.

  Your bedside lamp sends a bat-signal beam up at your packed bookshelves. Shelves of ordered comics and graphic novels. Heroes and villains. The lost and the lonely.

  You slide the lid of your pen across your bottom lip like lipstick. Thinking.

  Tomorrow is your last exam. And you are nervous.

  You know what you want to do. But will you be able to do it?

  The front door closes downstairs and you hear keys drop on to the phone table. Coral calls up. She has food.

  You call down and stare at your sketchbook.

  I could help.

  I could be there. Nod at the right time. Let you know it’s OK.

  If you’d just want me.

  I’m right here.

  So close.

  In two weeks, I won’t even have this.

  Nearly ten years, Marcie.

  Do you even know?

  Wake up like I hit the floor in a dream about falling.

  Breathe.

  Sunlight strokes my bedroom wall. Warm glow on deep scratches.

  City sounds down on the street and the muffled chatter of a morning talk show from next door.

  I close my eyes and lie still. Let the morning sink into me.

  Hit my punchbag until my shoulders burn. The hiss of air with every connect. The chain link dancing in its bracket.

  Shower. Turn the dial until the hot water stings my neck as I scratch the grout between the tiles with my claw.

  Punisher T-shirt and my old jeans. Log into work and print out new job. Coffee. Thick and black.

  Feel it hitting my veins as I stare out at the city. Glass buildings twinkle. A sleepy dragon takes off, yawning.

  Another day in the not real.

  Touch the typewriter. Say your name.

  Grab the job printout. And gone.

  We look like a handful of X-Men rejects.

  A carriage full of forgotten friends heading to the jobs that nobody else wants.

  The skinny ghost guy who works by the docks. The bubblegum waitress with the four chunky arms. Moose boy. The old trench-coated hunchback who’s always opposite me, muttering to himself. I know everyone’s face and nobody’s name. The unspoken agreement is: we don’t need to speak. We just sit, avoiding eyes, as the high number six train snakes out of the city between impossible skyscrapers, grounded space rockets and hundred-storey tree houses. Jungle-covered pirate ships and giant sleeping dogs. Chocolate factories and looping water slides. Hover cars whizz past us. A flying lion pulls a sparkling carriage. The city circus in full swing.

  Another day. Another forgotten structure to destroy.

  I feel the same crackle in my gut that I always get on a new job. A fresh building to break down to rubble. Crunch some kid’s discarded dreams into dust. Good at it too. Nobody destroys unwanted things better than Thor Baker.

  Check my printout. Address is just on the other side of Needle Park. Four stops. Could’ve walked.

  Close my eyes.

  Alan. Everyone needs help. It’s good to talk.

  Ball my paws into fists. Yeah. It’s good to talk.

  But it’s so much better to smash.

  The street is narrow.

  Terraced houses with small, square front yards and shallow bay windows. One of those normal streets in among the madness. This won’t take more than a few days.

  I don’t see anyone, but I can hear Billie Holiday through an open window and there’s the warm, soapy smell of fresh laundry. Printout says number seven. Odd numbers are this side.

  It’s a bit like your street. Coral’s street. Different name, but familiar. Where are you now?

  Have you already left for school? Outside the gym with everyone else? People swapping last-minute quotes and pretending they haven’t revised? You standing silent, telling yourself it’s time?

  There’s a little inky black cat on the low wall outside number nineteen. It looks at me with a tilted head, trying to work out if I’m a threat. A boy with bear arms, carrying a backpack.

  I step forward, reaching out to stroke it, but it jumps down and scampers away behind two grey bins.

  “Screw you then, kitty.”

  The cat pokes its head out and stares. I stare back.

  “Didn’t really want to stroke you anyway, fleabag. Might eat you later.”

  Carry on walking. Can’t wait to start smashing now. Seventeen. Fifteen. Thirteen. Check my bag. The chipped sky-blue of my trusty helmet. If I properly go for it this morning, might even take the afternoon off. Go to the river or something. Eleven. Nine. Yeah. That’s a plan. Stop.

  Look at the house.

  And feel a wrecking ball hit my chest.

  The clock ticks.

  Ten minutes in

  and my page is still empty.

  All around me, a gym full of people, sitting in rows, heads bobbing like a gridded flock of feeding birds, speed-scrawling answers to questions we’ve spent months preparing for.

  Every few breaths, a head will pop up, like it heard something. The distant call of that great idea. That one quote that could turn forty UCAS points into forty-eight.

  This is it.

  Final exam. Sixth form’s last supper.

  Scan the room. Mouth everyone’s name.

  Most of us have been at this school since we were eleven. Some of us even went to the same primary school. How many memories do we share?

  Izzy Maynard. Tolu Clarke. How different are mine to yours? Eli Hanson. Hardeep Khan. How does it work? So many versions of everything that happens. Everything that happened.

  I remember play fights; you remember getting punched. You remember lunchtimes packed with hide-and-seek; I remember hiding in the craft cupboard and people forgetting about me.

  We all remember laughing when Simon Harris tripped and threw pink custard over dicky Mr Page.

  When you think about it, it’s thirteen years. More than two-thirds of our lives so far sharing the same space and, after today, most of us probably won’t see each other again.

  We’ll say we will, but we won’t.

  Maybe accidenta
lly in town, one random summer Saturday.

  Or five years from now, on a train platform at New Street, heading in different directions.

  Or maybe in middle age, at some badly soundtracked class reunion when we’re all swollen or wrinkled or both and crying into our gin and tonics about how we chose the wrong path. Isn’t that just a little bit weird? Has anyone else in here even thought about it?

  Sean is four across and two in front. I watch him scribble, then pause, scribble then pause. Scratching his head. Questioning himself, whether he’s following the right thought.

  Cara is two across and three in front. Even from behind, the calm in her slender shoulders is clear.

  Prepared. Sure. Tattooing her future on to paper. Ready for the rest of her life. When she’s finished, she’ll look back, checking in with me. That things are going to plan.

  I look down at my page.

  Still empty. Still waiting.

  I know what I’m supposed to do. And I know what I want to do.

  Last chance.

  My pen tip scratches the blank paper. Like a claw.

  And then I feel you.

  For the first time in years. Watching me. Knowing my thoughts.

  I look up.

  Across the room.

  And there you are.

  Outside.

  The tinted glass facade of reception.

  Me, reflected, sitting on the low brick wall, backlit by a fuzzy white afternoon sun.

  A life-size, full-page panel. Top left, one thought box.

  I did it.

  My pen is still in my hand. I actually did it. Can’t be undone now.

  No more school.

  No more lessons.

  No more sawdust-dry assemblies.

  No more cafeteria parade.

  Nearly seven years spent shuffling around this place, nodding at teachers, passing notes, hanging back in cross-country, swapping homework. Come September, somebody else will sit where I sat. Use my locker. Answer the questions I would’ve answered … And a new crop of wide-eyed Year Sevens will step on to the secondary conveyer belt, just as we step off. Into our futures.

  My skin is tingling, my whole body buzzing like a light bulb.

  And there you are. Behind me. Your reflected silhouette. Bigger than I remember. Broader. Just me and you in the frame. “I did it, Thor.”

  Your name is honey in my mouth.

  The sliding glass doors of reception part and you’re gone.