Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr Baker?” he says.

  “Just wanted to see how you were,” I lie. “It’s been a while.”

  He looks at me.

  “What?”

  “You have many skills, my young friend, but sharing untruths is not one of them.”

  “It’s nearly ten years, Leyland.”

  “Ah. Of course.” His eyes widen. “The fade.”

  I push myself up to standing. I’m a full head taller and almost twice as wide, but when I’m around him I always feel like the nervous apprentice. Leyland turns his back on the city and folds his arms. “And you feel … scared?”

  “No! I’m not scared. Scared of what?”

  He takes a white packet of cigarettes out of his corduroy breast pocket. “Precisely.”

  Tapping one out like a private detective, he sparks it with his smooth silver lighter. He’s got one of those Philip Marlowe faces. Straight lines and deep creases. Thin lips and neck, dark eyes and slick hair. The kind of head that screams out for a fedora. He was my assigned elder when I was first made. Most people lose touch with theirs once they settle, but Leyland and I became friends.

  I picture the house. The stairs. Your bedroom door.

  “Ten years comes to us all eventually, Thor,” he says, turning to face the city again, leaning on the edge. “How long since she sent you away?”

  “Six years.” I pick at the rough stone with a claw. “I know I should be ready for it. I just feel … messy.”

  Leyland smokes slowly for a while, then says, “To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist.”

  I must’ve heard him speak hundreds of these kinds of quotes over the years. Each one somehow managing a perfect blend of just enough possible relevance mixed with a thick, cloudy ambiguity.

  “Is this what you felt like when you hit the fade?”

  Leyland does one of his dramatic, slow-motion blinks. “I’d have to imagine it was, yes. Long time ago now, of course, and I’m not sure how apt the word ‘hit’ is. I seem to recall it feeling more like crawling.”

  A metal aerial creaks behind us as he takes another long drag. “We are different from most others, Thor, you and I. You must remember that. We have to deal with things only those who were sent away can understand. To be simply forgotten is one thing, but to be sent away, to have the door slammed firmly in your face, that … that is an entirely different box of snakes.”

  I lean next to him. Cold air ripples through the hair on my arms.

  “The fade takes many forms for those sent away,” he says, pointing at me with his cigarette. “Each one of us gets our own test. And it always makes the most tragic of sense.”

  High above us, wisps of silver cloud drift across the darkness.

  “How long will I be angry, Leyland? How long were you angry?”

  Leyland closes his eyes. Smoke curls up past his face into the night.

  “Oh, I’m still angry, Thor, believe me. I’m still angry enough for the both of us.”

  The bin bag is still there, propped against the wall.

  Why haven’t they moved it? Who moved in?

  Don’t care. Not my problem.

  It’s past midnight. Didn’t tell Leyland about the house. About crossing over. Couldn’t face the lecture. I won’t tell anyone, Marcie.

  You’ll be asleep now. I won’t watch for long.

  Open my door.

  “Finally! I was about to leave.”

  Blue’s sitting in my chair sideways, her slim legs dangling over the arm, chunky silver headphones in her lap. I recognise her oversized black hoodie. It’s mine. My skull feels like it’s shrinking.

  “Are you coming in?”

  I drop my bag and kick off my boots. Blue swings her legs round to sit properly. Her perfect fringe is like a blonde roof for her pale, princess face.

  “You didn’t have anything to drink,” she says, holding up a brown paper bag.

  “I’m fine with the tap,” I say, closing the door, my body filling up with guilt.

  “Where you been?” she says, looking at me like a prosecution lawyer. I don’t blink.

  “Helping Leyland.”

  “How is the Mad Hatter?”

  “Don’t call him that. What time is it anyway?”

  Blue pulls the thin glass bottle out of the bag.

  “Time for a drink.”

  “We should talk, right?” I say, staring into the black mirror of the kitchen window.

  Blue’s at the counter, pouring something dangerous into coffee mugs.

  “That’s not why I came, Thor.”

  She holds out a mug, smiling. She’s pretty. Even more so because she tries to hide it. Princess Blue. Denier of powers. Hider of privilege.

  I lean against the sink. “Blue, listen, I’ve been meaning to call. I—”

  “Shut up, yeah? Talking doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  She takes a cowboy-style gulp, blinks and smiles again.

  I look down into my mug, the dark bronze of trouble. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  She finishes her drink and pours herself another one. “What, us hanging out? Just ‘friends’, remember? Wait, you thought I came here to …?” she frowns. “Don’t flatter yourself, Thor Baker.”

  She knocks back her drink in one, then pours another. I put mine down.

  “Hang out?” I say. “Don’t you have to actually like someone’s company to hang out?”

  Blue sighs. “Nope. I hang out with idiots all the time.” A wicked smile.

  “How’s work?” I say, and her shoulders slump.

  “Same, same,” she says. “We do what we can, but we’re basically babysitters. We bring supplies to the park, feed them and make sure they’re comfortable.” She downs her drink and pours again. “Anyway, enough violins. I’ve been leading some workshops with newbies.”

  “Really? You?”

  “Don’t looked so shocked, Baker. I have to try and balance things out, right? It’s just helping them find their feet.” She sits down at the little table with her drink. “Man, some of them are so small! Do you remember it, when you first came?”

  “Course,” I say. “So do the newbies know who you are?”

  “I’m Blue. What else do they need to know?”

  “Course. Don’t want anyone loving you for powers first, right?”

  She shakes her head, “Don’t want anyone loving me full stop.”

  Silence.

  I first met her at Needle Park. It was just before Christmas, the year I was sent away. She was handing out soup to a crowd by the fountain.

  Something about how she moved got me. A slow kind of grace. Like she didn’t need to try. Like someone who knows they can fly and chooses not to. In her case, literally. In a circle of people wishing they were more, the person wishing she was less shone like a diamond in a dumpster.

  We were never officially “a thing”, but stuff happened.

  “What about you?” she says. “You start your fade counselling yet?”

  I sit down opposite her, familiarity seeping into the room.

  “Started Wednesday.”

  “And?”

  “And what? Stupid pop psychology crap. Anger issues from being sent away. It’s good to talk. Blah-blah-blah.”

  “Helpful though, right? I remember it helping.”

  “Who says I need help?”

  Silence.

  I tap the table with one claw. “It’s not a big deal. I’m gonna hit ten years, like everyone does, and then just … carry on. It’s not like I’m gonna flip out or something.”

  Her look says it all.

  “That’s different,” I say. “The ones you work with, they’re …”

  “They’re what, Baker? Different? Weak? You think it can’t happen to you?”

  “Blue, I’m fine. I’ve moved on. Can we drop it now?”

  She finishes her drink and gets up to pour another. “So you’ve stopped watching?”

>   I fight my instinct to look away. Blue smiles like an older sister who already knows you’ve been in her room and touched her stuff. Lie? Truth? Lie? Truth?

  “I have actually. Are you planning on drinking the whole bottle?”

  Blue turns around with her mug. “So, if I were to walk in there right now and inspect that typewriter, it’d be covered in dust? And, if I broke open that box, I wouldn’t find new pages?”

  Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. “No.”

  Silence. “Go check if you want.” Straight face. Straight face.

  She shakes her head.

  “Good,” I say. “I told you. I’m done with her. She can do what she wants. My life is here.”

  Blue nods, tentatively. I need more.

  “I’m serious, Blue. I’m even knocking down her house, for God’s sake.”

  “What?”

  The release of finally telling someone, even for the wrong reasons.

  “Her house. They sent me there. New job. I’m demolishing the house she made me in.”

  The shock on Blue’s face melts into disbelief, then happiness, then comes back round to shock again.

  “Wow. And you’ve started already?”

  “Yeah. Today.”

  “And you’re OK?”

  I stand up. “I’m fine. It’s time. I told you, I’m done with her.”

  And she hugs me, standing on her tiptoes, pulling me down to her level, squeezing me, and I can feel the warmth of her relief. I try to push out my guilt and just enjoy the hug. The moment. It’s not until you get a good one that you remember how amazing hugs can be.

  Blue slips back down on to her feet, holding my paws in her hands.

  “Have you been fighting again?”

  “No. It’s from work. I’m done with the fighting too.”

  Guilt in my spine.

  She looks up at me. “Can I stop over?”

  “Blue …”

  “Just to sleep.”

  Smell the booze on her breath. See the hope in her eyes. Smile.

  “Course you can.”

  We hug again and she speaks into my chest. “I missed you, Thor.”

  Squeeze.

  “I missed you too, Blue.”

  And I have. Truly.

  So maybe I’m only half a liar.

  “Bad dream?”

  Blue on her side, smiling at me with sleepy eyes. I realise I’m gripping twisted duvet in my paws and let go. Breathe out. “I’m OK.”

  She strokes the fur on my shoulder. “Let’s go out by the river,” she says, covering her mouth with her other hand, worried about morning breath. “We could take some food. Drop rocks into the water, remember?”

  I do remember. Her skimming stones. Me shot-putting boulders. But I want you.

  “I have to work.”

  Her hand leaves my fur. “It’s Saturday, Thor.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not saying it has to mean anything. Just two friends hanging out by the river. It’ll be fun.”

  Sit up.

  “It’s not that, Blue. I have to put in braces on the side walls, so I don’t damage the buildings either side.”

  “But it’s the weekend.”

  “I know. The removals guys have to come first thing Monday and, if the braces aren’t in place, we can’t do the clearing.”

  She’s scowling.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “It’s not like a castle. It’s not all just mindless smashing up, you know. There is some skill involved. I’m not just some animal.”

  She smiles and touches my shoulder again. “I like you, animal.”

  I am a liar. Say something true.

  “I’ll cook later; you could come over?”

  “You’ll cook?”

  “OK, I’ll get Rocco’s. How long since we had chicken?”

  “Too long.”

  “Exactly. Say, nine?”

  She nods. I get out of bed, part of me wishing I could step out of my skin and leave the me she wants there with her.

  She deserves more than I really am.

  Dad looks like a scarecrow trying to defuse a nuclear bomb.

  I think I’ve seen him behind the till maybe three times since he bought the place.

  Customer service isn’t his calling.

  A woman and her little nursery-age daughter are in the children’s corner, looking at picture books. The old crooked man who’s in love with Diane is browsing classic fiction.

  “Marcie, thank God!” says Dad, holding his head. “This thing hates me.”

  I step behind the counter. The old monitor screen is showing “system error”.

  “What did you do, Dad?”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything. It’s this piece of shit!”

  He slaps the side of the monitor. The woman in the children’s corner gives us evils.

  “Easy, old man. It’s not a problem. I showed you, remember?”

  “I remember a simpler time, Mars, that’s what I remember.”

  I push the keys and the blue stock search screen comes back up. Dad groans. He’s still in his dressing gown. “You’re a genius.”

  “No, Dad, you’re a caveman. Why are you even down here? Where’s Diane?”

  On cue, something bangs upstairs. Dad points up.

  “Yeah. I’d better … You’re good here, right?”

  I nod. He goes upstairs.

  The little girl lifts up the Marvel Encyclopedia. “Look, Mummy!”

  The woman shakes her head. “No, Rosie, I said a proper book.”

  The girl puts the book back, frowning as she drags her feet over to where her mum is crouched in front of books for toddlers. Don’t worry, Rosie, superheroes will still be there when you’re old enough to choose.

  Muffled shouts bleed through the ceiling. Another lovers’ tiff.

  I load up Roy Ayers on to the turntable and sit on the stool behind the till. Crackle. Chants. Bongos. I turn it down to background level. Saturdays are the best days. Full of possibility.

  Blank pages, waiting to be scribbled on.

  I imagine the counter is the control desk for a spaceship, the two front windows either side of the door my navigation screens. I’m the captain. I could go anywhere in the universe.

  Where am I going? My mind’s blank. Just a month ago my head was so full of stuff.

  Stanley Milgram’s (1963) obedience experiments. John Bowlby’s Maternal Deprivation Hypothesis. The Loop of Henle and kidney function. The ambiguity of Iago’s motivations.

  All of it crammed in, facts and quotes and dates, loaded up, ready to regurgitate under exam conditions. Where is it all now? In a box tucked on to a shelf in the warehouse of my brain? Saved to the cloud?

  I close my eyes and picture a pile of rubbish as big as a house, rough and jagged edges sticking out, but, instead of broken pieces of furniture and antique crap, it’s just words, different-sized letters and sentences piled up on top of each other, a massive dark scribbled jumble of everything I’ve ever been taught. And I’m standing on the pavement in front of it, my hand reaching out, holding a lighter.

  Think of Cara. Want to tell her. I reach into my bag for my phone and find my sketchbook. I don’t remember putting it in here. Haven’t taken it out of the house for ages.

  You.

  You put it in.

  Someone stomps down the stairs and the moment is gone.

  Diane’s carrying a large navy-blue backpacker rucksack. Her face is flushed thunder.

  I push my sketchbook out of sight.

  The old man turns round, smiling, like he senses her presence. He’s wearing a full suit, eager to impress. Diane doesn’t even acknowledge him as she stomps over to me and drops her bag.

  “Excuse me, Marcie,” she says, taking the red strongbox from the shelf under the till.

  “Are you OK?” I say, like a child.

  She bangs the box on to the counter, then tips over the old mug that holds the pens, fishing the key from a puddle of paperclips and drawing pins.


  “I’m going to stay with my parents.”

  She opens the box and counts out a stack of notes. “Just what I’m owed,” she says. I nod.

  She gives me a sympathetic look, blows hair from her face, then waves her hand around like an untied balloon that’s just been let go.

  “Alton Towers has got nothing on that man, Marcie.”

  I glance at the door to upstairs. Why isn’t he trying to stop her leaving? Did he give up?

  “A rollercoaster’s only fun because you know you’re getting off at some point, right?” she says, folding the notes into her hip pocket. “Nobody wants a rollercoaster forever.”

  I’m supposed to say something. I can feel the old man watching from the shelves.

  “When are you coming back?” I say.

  Then she hugs me.

  It’s the first time she’s ever done it and it’s not the reserved, polite embrace I’d imagined it would be. It’s the kind of firm, animal hug of an older sister who’s going travelling and knows you’ll be getting all the grief she would have got from your parents.

  When she lets me go, we’re both on the verge of tears.

  “I’m sorry, Marcie.” She picks up her bag and wipes her nose with her sleeve. “Oh, a guy phoned up and ordered a couple of books this morning. I don’t remember his name, but it’s on the system. He’s picking them up on Tuesday.”

  “OK.”

  Diane looks at the doorway to the stairs.

  “Look after him, OK? He needs you.”

  And there’s another space for me to speak. But I don’t.

  I don’t say, Him? I can’t even look after myself, Diane.

  I don’t say, My head is playing games with me right now.

  I don’t say, Please stay. He’s been so much calmer since you’ve been around.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t even nod.

  I just watch her leave and, as the shop door closes, I catch the broken look in the old man’s eyes, like a young Bruce Wayne in that Gotham City alleyway.

  Quiet with Dad has its own quality.

  It’s not like the painful tumbleweed wasteland it is with other people.

  Growing up, I got used to him wandering off with a thought midway through a sentence and not looking back. Some new story idea that immediately superseded anything in the real world.