Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

  “Not particularly.”

  “Excellent.” He sips his coffee. “I’m getting closer, Mars, I can feel it.” He moves his fingers like he’s playing piano in the air.

  “That’s great, Dad.” I go back to the kitchen and pour coffee for me and Diane.

  “You sure you don’t have any weed? Even a little resin?”

  “Dad, please,” I say, carrying the mugs into the living room. “How many times? I don’t smoke.”

  “Well, you should. You’re nearly eighteen; you’ll be at uni soon. Poetry readings and squat parties.”

  “It’s not Greenwich Village in the fifties, Dad.”

  “Very funny, Mars. I’m just saying, you should be experimenting at your age. Poking out of the box.”

  “And what box is that, O wise one?”

  He takes a long pull on his cigarette. In his white vest and brown trousers, his unruly hair pushed back, he looks part beatnik, part mad scientist. A man who operates just off the pulse, who believes in conspiracy theories and who, some days, completely forgets to eat.

  “Well, if you have to ask, it might already be too late.”

  I exaggerate a sad face. “I guess I’ll just go downstairs and get back in my box then.”

  Dad’s face turns serious. “I’m proud of you, special girl. You did it.”

  I stare at the coffee mugs, feeling your name running down the corridors in my head. Scratching the walls. Banging doors. You did it.

  “Don’t be too proud yet, Dad. Results aren’t till August.”

  Dad shakes his head and picks a stray tobacco strand from his lip. “Please. Pass. Fail. F. A-star. Just labels, Mars. You’re not a can of beans. Life is process.”

  He smiles the kind of smile that makes it easy to imagine him as a cheeky five-year-old, crayoning the walls with ideas.

  “Get back to work,” I say, and I walk out of the room.

  “I’m getting close, Mars. Really close. I feel it!”

  I kick through the blank paper, heading back to the stairs.

  Once every ten years, a novel comes along that makes all the rest look at each other and say, “What the hell do we do now?” Baker’s daring debut is that book, and, if you are at all interested in where contemporary storytelling is heading, I advise you to read it.

  – Quentin Quince, the Times Literary Review, on Dark Corners by Karl Baker

  Karl Baker.

  Award-winning debut writer.

  Giver of half my genetic code.

  Barely capable of looking after himself.

  Still working on his second novel seven years later.

  “You OK, Marcie?”

  Diane’s face is wrinkled up like she’s trying to read Latin.

  “What? I’m fine.”

  I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, holding two coffees.

  “It’s just … you looked, well, drunk.”

  “I was just thinking.”

  I pass her a mug.

  “Thanks. Your phone beeped a couple of times.”

  Probably Cara. “Thanks.”

  “Just thinking, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hear you. So do you think you’ll be around more over the summer?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. Not much else to do.”

  “Great. That’s good.”

  We both stare out of the front windows either side of the shop door.

  Diane sips. “It’s nice to hang out, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Still staring.

  “Did he say anything, about me?”

  I sip. Hot, bitter coffee on my tongue.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. I like your shirt. Is it new?”

  “No.”

  “Cool.”

  The shop is one square room with the till in the centre next to a thick supporting pillar. The layout hasn’t changed since Dad bought it nearly three years ago – four small display tables, one in each quarter: new and contemporary fiction; classics and historical stuff; non-fiction; and children and teen.

  It used to be called Blue Pelican Books, but Dad sanded the name off the shopfront the day he moved in. He said you can’t trust any animal with wings.

  There’s never been what you’d call a steady stream of customers, especially on weekdays, and, since the new Foyles opened up in town, things on the outskirts have got even quieter. We still get new releases, just fewer copies, and people rarely wait for an order when there’s Amazon Prime two clicks away. Luckily, the romance of the underdog hasn’t completely died out so things just about tick over. Diane moved into the downstairs back room and basically runs the place, with me helping out on Saturdays and when I’m free. Dad pays me bits here and there, but I do it mostly for the peace. I can read, scribble stuff down if the mood takes me, or just do nothing. No questions or hassles. No Facebook updates or plans for the future. A haven.

  My haven.

  “I might go get a sandwich. Do you want a sandwich, Diane?”

  “Yes, sandwich. Definitely.”

  “Great.” I put down my coffee. “Crisps?”

  “Are you having crisps?”

  “Probably.”

  “Ooh, can we have Monster Munch?”

  I don’t even think she realises she’s speaking to me like I’m four. Some people can’t gauge tone at all. I nod excitedly. “Yeah! Let’s!”

  A stab of guilt from my own sarcasm. Then Diane claps, like actually claps, and for some reason so do I.

  We’re both clapping, like sugar-charged babies, about crisps.

  It’s funny how much of life can feel like a Year Ten drama exercise.

  Drake and Rihanna singing about work.

  I lay my basket on the self-checkout shelf.

  Things are changing.

  Scan an item to start.

  Tuna and sweetcorn on wholemeal bread. Beep.

  English Language and Literature, Psychology and Biology A levels. Beep.

  Pickled onion Monster Munch. Beep.

  Three grade As needed for entry to Psychology undergraduate degree. Beep.

  The old woman at the next till along can’t find the barcode on her slab of cheddar.

  Chicken, bacon and avocado roll. Beep.

  Leaving home. Beep. Following Cara.

  A skinny man with arm tattoos and a supermarket polo shirt comes to help her.

  Flamin’ Hot Monster Munch. Beep.

  New city. Beep.

  A mountain of student loans. Beep.

  Bottle of still water. Beep.

  Three more years of study. Beep.

  The foundation for a life. Beep. For what?

  Can of Coke.

  For who?

  Can of Coke.

  Hold it. Look at the rest of the stuff in my 5p carrier bag. Shop noise and an auto-tuned pop chorus. Work, work, work, work, work, work.

  Can of Coke.

  Rest of my life.

  Can of Coke.

  What have I—

  “Do it.”

  You’re standing behind me, half your face reflected in the screen.

  “Please scan an item, or press finish to pay.” The robotic teacher voice of the till.

  My heart.

  The businessman waiting behind me is head down in his phone.

  Stare at the can in my hand. Look at our reflection. Smiling. The crackle in my stomach.

  I press finish, resting the can on the edge of the barcode glass as I feed a ten-pound note into the machine. The whir. The guy with the tattoos is helping the old woman with the rest of her stuff. His back is turned. My change falls into the plastic tray like fruit-machine winnings.

  I lift the bag off the scales and put the stolen can inside, scoop out my change and walk away, leaving my receipt.

  Scattered pensioners, filing in and out of the charity shops.

  I can feel you over my right shoulder as I walk. This side of the street has the shade.

  Push my
phone on to vibrate and hold it to my ear like I’m making a call.

  “That was so stupid,” I say as I pass Subway and catch a waft of vacuum-packed vomit.

  “Felt good though, right?”

  I don’t look at you. “What do you want, Thor?”

  You move closer. “What do you want, shoplifter?”

  I swerve to pass a shuffling old man wearing three different shades of pastel blue.

  “I’m not a kid any more,” I say.

  “Neither am I.”

  You step up so you’re level with me. “Tell me that didn’t feel good though.”

  I stop walking.

  “It didn’t feel good.”

  You shake your head.

  “So why are you smiling?”

  Then my phone vibrates for real and slips out of my hand. I scramble to catch it, smacking my shopping bag on the pavement and nearly falling over as the phone lands in my palm.

  “Nice catch.” You stand there, clapping your paws.

  Cara’s face, beaming out from my phone screen.

  I stand up straight and compose myself. “This is a bad idea, Thor.”

  You nod.

  “Probably.”

  And then you’re gone.

  The old man tips his sky-blue flat cap as he slowly steps through the space where you were.

  I nod back, then answer the call.

  “Marcie! It’s a full house tonight!”

  Cara’s dad Ken always greets me like I’m an old schoolfriend he hasn’t seen for years.

  He’s a graphic designer and he looks like one. Bald like he did it on purpose, he’s got that flawless, poreless, older man skin that says water filters and gym membership. He’s holding an expensive-looking tea towel.

  “Full house?”

  Ken nods. “Morgan’s here. Hungry?”

  It smells amazing. Don’t think I’ve ever been to Cara’s house and Ken hasn’t been cooking. I’ve had so many foods for the first time here. Wild boar. Quinoa. Pickled herring.

  “Her highness is upstairs working on a new video. Dinner in a hour, OK?”

  “OK, Ken. Thank you.”

  And he’s off, back towards their massive kitchen, expensive tea towel over his shoulder, leaving me to close the front door, like I’m family.

  Cara already has the tripod and camera set up when I knock and walk in. She’s checking her camera angles, deliberating over which pillows to have in shot.

  “I’m not dressing up, Car.”

  Cara stops fluffing pillows. “Who said anything about dressing up?”

  I throw my jacket over the back of her 1970s super-villain swivel chair.

  Cara’s room is like a cross between an FBI investigation wall and a retro furniture shop. The walls are collages of magazine articles, photographs and old B-movie posters. I always think of people’s bedrooms being like the inside of their head. Cara’s is busy and full, but organised. She was made for her journalism degree. Her hair’s tied up in a stubby ponytail and she’s wearing her pre-planned “I just threw anything on” outfit for the camera: black leggings and one of Morgan’s old sweaters.

  “Morgan’s home?”

  “Apparently,” she says.

  “That’s early, no?”

  “Dunno. Haven’t seen him. Been in his room since he got back. If he’s home early, he must be broke.”

  “I haven’t seen him for ages,” I say.

  Cara cuts me a disapproving look on her way to her backstage-style dresser.

  “Don’t worry, you can stare longingly into his eyes over dinner. That’s if he even comes down.”

  “Shut up.”

  I try to think of the last time I saw Morgan. Maybe the Christmas before last. He rarely comes home from university in London.

  “Can’t we just hang out, Car?”

  “We are hanging out.”

  “Yeah, but I mean just do nothing. Exams are over. When was the last time we just did nothing?”

  Cara looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.

  Through her bedroom window, the sky is going dark. I picture the view from across the street. Camera on tripod, one girl fluffing pillows, getting ready, another standing nervously next to the bed. Some girls make thousands of pounds on their own in their rooms with their laptops.

  “What accents can you do?” she says, pulling two bottles of what look like shampoo out of a yellow Selfridges bag, one seaweed green, one milk-chocolate brown.

  “Accents? What are you talking about? What are they?”

  Her face lights up.

  “I had an idea.”

  What started as a simple Year Ten drama project quite quickly evolved into Cara’s performance-art YouTube channel Jumblemind.

  Jumblemind is basically a space where all of Cara’s social-commentary ideas are sporadically filmed and uploaded to an audience of 316 subscribers made up mostly of younger girls from school. Any little nugget of performance gold that’s been rattling around her head gets dumped out on film for her cult following’s consumption and, over the years, a high percentage of these nuggets have involved yours truly.

  October 3rd 2014: “Genderrorists” – The two of us stand back to back, reading extracts from The Vagina Monologues in balaclavas.

  February 9th 2015: “Pressure to Make Up” – Cara uses the latest, top-of-the-range L’Oréal products to paint my face to look like Heath Ledger’s Joker.

  My personal favourite though was this time last year, when Cara just sat in front of the camera for ten minutes, stuffing an entire Black Forest gateau into her mouth and crying.

  OMG! Don’t know why but can’t stop watching! So dumb but SOOO good! LOL!!!

  – YouTube comment on “Gateau Tragic” from Trixabell496

  “You’ll need to put your hair up,” she says. “There’s bobbles in the bedside drawer.”

  “Car, what are we doing?”

  “It’s a goodbye to school.” She holds up the bottles like she just won them in a raffle.

  “Face-pack Shakespeare!”

  The car still smells like new trainers.

  Cara’s humming along to Lana Del Rey, effortlessly driving down dark streets towards mine, like she’s had her own taxi for twenty years.

  It’s probably testament to her charm that getting a brand-new black Mini Cooper for her eighteenth birthday didn’t make me want to punch her in the face. I had the grand total of three empty supermarket driving lessons with Coral before we both decided I might be more suited to the passenger seat, for now.

  “I can hear you thinking, you know,” she says.

  “Imagine.”

  “He’s such a dick.”

  “Who is?”

  “My brother. Can’t even come down to dinner? Locking himself away in his room? You know, I probably won’t even see him before he goes back. He hasn’t asked about the exams once. Nothing.”

  “Maybe he’s busy.”

  “Oh, shut up. Stop defending your prince.”

  Her arm goes up to protect herself as she laughs. I just give her the finger.

  “We could drive up to Leeds?” she says. “For the day, start getting to know our new home before September.” Excitement radiates off her as she speaks. It’s hard not to be drawn to someone who’s completely sure of what they want. “I could maybe even get Dad to sort a hotel. He gets things on account sometimes.” She pulls into the petrol station forecourt and parks next to the pump. The stereo display goes black as she turns off the engine, then flickers back to life.

  High halogen floodlights turn up the contrast of the colours through the glass of the kiosk and make me think of that Edward Hopper painting, Nighthawks.

  “Mars? Are you listening?”

  “Did you ever have an imaginary friend?” I ask.

  “An imaginary friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like when I was a kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “You did, b
latantly, right?”

  I shrug.

  “Course you did,” she says.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I can see it: you in the park, talking to an empty swing.”

  “Thanks a lot, Car.”

  “No, it’s a compliment. I wanted one. Some super-badass flying ninja princess goddess. I just never did it. Too busy writing pretend newspaper reports on my family. I would’ve been so jealous if I’d known you back then. An imaginary friend would’ve been amazing!”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah! Someone who gets you? Who you don’t have to pretend with? What was her name, your one?”

  I squeeze my thumb in my lap.

  “I don’t remember.”

  Cara takes her purse from the tray under the stereo.

  “No matter, you’ve got me now, eh?”

  She smiles, then gets out.

  I lean over so I can see into the rear-view mirror. The empty back seat.

  Where are you right now, Thor Baker?

  How many times have I stood in this lift?

  Stared up at these numbers?

  Ten years. A decade. Decayed.

  Think of my first day. The day you made me. Crossing over after you fell asleep. Waiting in line. Filling out forms like everyone else. The grand City Hall full of fresh immigrants to the not real. Standing in our rows, staring forward, hands raised, reciting the oath.

  Less than two weeks to go, Marcie.

  What do I do?

  The fade is coming. I can’t fight it. Can I?

  No.

  I have to destroy the house. But, once it’s gone, so are you. Forever. A pile of rubble. And I just live out the rest of my days here, like the others.

  The lift doors open and I stare down my grey corridor. The fade is coming.

  And I don’t want to be alone.

  The doors start to close again and I let them.

  I know who’ll understand.

  “These blessed candles of the night.”

  Leyland’s voice has the velvet quality of cello notes. When most people quote Shakespeare, it sounds like they’re trying to seem clever. When Leyland does it, it’s like the words are his own.

  Leaning on the ledge of the roof next to him, looking down at the city, it feels like we’re on stage for an audience of night sky.

  The air is sharp.

  I don’t come up here as much as I used to. Blue thinks it’s weird that I still visit my elder at all, but just the right amount of time with Leyland can feel like the kind of dream you wake up from smiling.