Sitting quietly with him while he stared out of the window, chewing over an idea, was as normal as watching TV.
This is different.
Watching him from the sofa, chin resting on his hands, he doesn’t seem like he’s lost in some plot point or character he’s trying to grow. This feels like the stilted silence of a man digesting what has just happened. That thick silence that leaks out through the cracks of a mistake.
If there’s one thing I think I’ve learned in my nearly eighteen years on this planet, it’s that there is no situation the wrong words can’t make worse. So I just sit with that double negative in my lap, staring across at the dormant fireplace.
Resting on the mantelpiece, in a cheap glass frame, is an A3, eight-panel, black-and-white comic strip. The first three panels are a creature that might be a bear, looking left, then right, then up. In the fourth panel, the bear looks at us and a speech bubble says, “Where Squirrel?” Five is him shrugging, six is him standing up, and in seven he turns around and half a squirrel is sticking out of his bum. Panel eight says “Lost Squirrel” by Marcie Baker. Age 7.
I laugh without meaning to. Dad looks over.
“Sorry,” I say, covering my mouth.
“Don’t be,” he says, and the ten-ton mood lifts just enough for me to slip a question underneath.
“Will you call her?”
Dad looks at his hands.
“Happiness can exist only in acceptance.”
“Dad?”
“Orwell. She’s made her choice, Mars.”
“What, and that’s it?”
He shrugs. “It is what it is.”
He glances at me, then goes back to the window. I swallow my frustration and just watch as the invisible elephant clomps into the room and plonks itself down in front of the fire, the word “MUM” painted in dripping red letters on its arse. I could say something. I want to.
But every sentence I run through in my head feels pointless.
Watching Dad like this, it’s easy to remember he’s a younger brother. The kind of boy who’d get escorted around by an older sister like Coral, taken to the playground, told not to wander off and pretty much left to his own devices. A boy who’d happily spend an entire afternoon inspecting leaves.
“Circles, Mars,” he says after a while, stubbing out his cigarette. “What has happened will happen again.”
“Bullshit.”
You’re standing where the elephant was, bear arms folded in front of the fireplace.
“Tell him that’s bullshit.” You’re gesturing at me like a sports coach giving a pep talk.
“Go on.”
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, willing you away.
“I’m not leaving till you tell him,” you say.
I open my eyes.
“Do it.”
“Dad—”
“Amor fati, Mars,” says Dad, starting on a new roll-up. “Amor fati.”
“Do it, Marcie!”
“Bullshit!”
You smile. I stand up. Dad drops his tobacco.
“The pitiful fortune-cookie lines I can just about handle, Dad, but when you start with the Latin … Get up.”
“What?”
“Tell him again.”
“I said, get up! Get your shoes on: we’re going out.”
I walk over to him. Dad looks almost scared.
“I don’t want to go out, Mars.”
“I don’t care what you want, Karl, we need air. This place stinks of self-pity.”
I take his jacket off the hook next to the kitchen door and throw it at him.
“Yes!” you say. “Go on, Marcie!”
And I feel good. Better than good. I look at Dad.
“Come on. We’re leaving.”
You’re eleven.
It’s the night before secondary school starts.
You’re sitting at Coral’s kitchen table with her and Dad. He’s now living in a bedsit nearer town. Coral’s made curried goat and rice and peas. Dad compliments the food for the twenty-fifth time. Coral ignores him. She looks at you and asks what you have to say. The windows are all open, but there’s still the faint smell of burnt polyester from the sofa.
You picture the green flames dancing as the paisley cushions ignited.
The light flickering in my smile.
You say you’re sorry. That you were conducting a science experiment and it got out of control.
Coral stares at Dad.
Dad stares at his food.
You slide your hand into your pocket under the table and feel the smooth envelope, its edges worn almost furry from being held.
Coral tells your dad to say something. That it’s getting ridiculous.
Your dad forces a smile and says a movie studio offered to buy the rights to Dark Corners. Coral asks how much. Dad says it doesn’t matter: a book is a book, and a film is a film, they’re not having it.
He raises his pineapple punch and says, “Screw Hollywood.”
Coral looks at you, and rolls her eyes.
“Thank you,” says Dad as we walk back down the high street.
It’s nearly six and everything is closed. A couple of hours’ walking quietly through the park is as good as any therapy session.
I drop my used wet wipe in the bin outside the British Heart Foundation shop, belly full of chicken and chips.
“No problem.”
We reach the shop and Dad starts patting his pockets.
“Maybe I should get a dog, with the park right there and everything?”
“Yeah? And who’ll be the one who ends up walking him?” I say.
He fingers his bunch of keys for the right one. “Not you. You’ll be gone.”
“Dad …”
“Don’t worry. I can handle myself.” He holds up the shop door key proudly. “See?”
There’s a sadness in his smile.
“Shall I come in for a bit?” I say. “I could wash up?”
“I’ll be fine, Mars. Tell Coral I said hi.”
He opens the door.
“I could come over tomorrow, cook you dinner?”
He shakes his head. “No need, Mars. You enjoy your Sunday off.”
“I’ll come on Monday then, help with the shop?”
I watch the realisation that Diane is gone sucker-punch him in the ribs. “Yeah. That’d be great.”
He hands me his keys.
“OK then, call me if you need me, Dad, yeah?”
He nods an autopilot nod and closes the door.
You’ll be gone.
I watch him through the glass. He looks older from behind, his body fading into shadow as he walks to the stairs.
Coral’s wearing eyeliner.
“Oh, hey! I just sent you a message,” she says, pointing back at the house. I can smell perfume.
“You look nice,” I say.
She looks down at her outfit – navy-blue trouser suit, shimmery white top. “You think? Not too much?”
“Not at all. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Nobody special. Dom from work, you remember him? He came to my work birthday meal?”
She brushes fluff from her arm. The light dances in her perfectly cropped Lego hair.
“I won’t be back late. Just a play and some food.”
“A play?”
“Yeah, it’s this Nigerian writer – she’s written something – I don’t know. Dom likes her work.”
“But you hate the theatre.”
“No I don’t! Where’d you get that?”
“You said it.”
She gives a sheepish grin. “Well, maybe it’s time for a change.”
Her nerves are cute. I imagine telling her, using the word “cute” to describe her, picture her face turning to rage and the carnage that would follow. “Cute” is one of Coral’s red-rag words.
“Well, have fun,” I say.
“Thanks, sweetie. You OK?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“How’s my little brothe
r?”
Picture Dad shuffling back to the stairs.
“Who knows?”
“Not me, Mars. We could all get lost forever in the right side of Karl Baker’s brain.”
“I think I’m going to help in the shop from Monday.”
“OK, save some extra money, good thinking.”
“Yeah. Dad’s busy with the book.”
Coral smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “Course he is.” She checks her purse for her phone. “I left a twenty on the kitchen table in case you wanted to order food, OK?”
“Thanks.”
“All right. Text me if you need to. I’ll be home by midnight.”
As she reaches the gate, she gives a nervous wave.
I wave back, feeling like a parent watching her only child leave for prom.
Shoes off. Laptop to the lounge. Connect Bluetooth to the stereo.
YouTube. Chance The Rapper – Acid Rap (Full Mixtape).
Skip ad. Volume up to thirty.
Slippers and house hoodie on.
Slide-dance to the kitchen. Freezer. Cookies and Cream Häagen-Dazs and ice cubes.
Blueberries and milk from the fridge. Banana from the bowl.
The growl of the blender. Get my old curly straw from the drawer. Detach the jug.
Open the back door. Lean on the wall and take a deep breath of dusk.
Drop my straw in and drink.
Cold and sweet.
I’m good.
“Course you are.”
I smile into my milkshake.
“You took your time.”
“Yeah, well. Not all of us have nothing to do.”
I turn round.
“Got a lot on, have you?”
“Yes, actually.”
Stare-off. Loser blinks first. Twista is speed-rapping from the other room. I see a small tick-shaped scar on the bridge of your nose. My dry eyeballs sting. You keep staring. Can’t hold it. Can’t hold it.
Blink.
“Ha! Still undefeated!”
“Shut up, Bearboy.”
“You shut up, Fartsy.”
Then we laugh.
And something inside me unwinds.
Sitting in your garden, waiting for the dark.
One of Coral’s deep-red scented candles burns safe in its fish-bowl glass. Some kind of bird is singing and the music from inside feels far away.
Me and you, Marcie.
Bliss.
“You know this is stupid, right?”
You don’t look at me as you say it, staring down the narrow garden. The dead apple tree sprouting out of the ground looks like a gnarled witch’s finger pointing at the sky.
“I’m nearly eighteen, Thor.”
I choose my words carefully, wary of bursting this bubble.
“Maybe being alone is stupid.”
You don’t reply. Have I ruined it?
“I’m not alone, Thor.”
The flickering flame in your eyes. My stupid mouth.
“I have people. Friends.”
I’m such an idiot.
“I know,” I say, looking down.
The bird stops singing just as the track from inside finishes. Quiet.
I won’t say anything else. I’ll just be here. Let me stay. Please.
Then you smile. “Not like you though.”
And my heart swells.
You reach your hand out. To me.
I lay my paw on top, feel your fingertips on my pads. My Marcie.
“No more dares though, Thor. OK? No more trouble.”
I nod.
And, right now, that feels like enough.
The six-train carriage is empty. It’s gone midnight.
Cutting through the night on its high track, it feels like I’m riding in the dark, graffitied belly of some massive metal worm.
Left you asleep on the sofa when I heard Coral’s key in the door. The end credits of Blade rolling up the TV screen. Still the best comic book to film adaptation ever. All this hype about Deadpool. Never liked him. Talks too much.
My reflection smiles in the dark glass.
Blue.
Shit.
We had plans. I completely forgot.
Idiot.
She’ll be mad. Should call her. Will call her.
But I won’t.
Feels like there’s no time.
The world turns quicker when you have a purpose. That sounds like a Leyland line.
Maybe some of his sensei persona is rubbing off.
The fade is coming.
I have to be clever. I’ll start with the roof, take that off first. If I rig the supports for the walls, that could take a couple of days. I’ll do the job, just really slowly. If anyone asks, I’m being careful. Precise. Respecting my craft. Keeping your bedroom door safe.
My passage to you.
You seem different.
What does that mean?
I’m not sure. Lighter.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Has something happened?
Like what?
I don’t know. Something good?
Alan, I’m sitting here at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning when I could be in bed, watching Freaks and Geeks, eating leftover chicken. What’s good about that?
You can talk to me you know? The reason you’re here is to tell me things.
I’ve got nothing to tell.
I see. What about the house?
What did you say?
The house. Marcie’s house?
How do you know about that?
Do I really need to answer that?
Are you spying on me?
Should I be?
Who do you think you are?
Thor, please.
Who was it? Someone from the train?
What train? Thor, sit down.
I don’t have to listen to you.
I’m afraid you do, Thor.
Says you. What the hell?
I’d like you to sit down.
What are you doing? How are you …? My legs, I can’t move my legs!
Thor …
It hurts.
Thor …
Stop!
So sit down. Thank you.
How did you do that?
We all have our gifts.
It felt like my legs … I couldn’t control them.
You don’t need to fight me, Thor.
No shit.
I’m sorry I did that. I don’t want things to be that way.
What, you mean treating me like a prisoner?
Thor, please calm down. I don’t want us to fight. This is a very important time for you and my job is to help you process it.
By forcing me to sit down?
No, by listening. Nothing you say in this room will go any further. It’s just between us. No judgements.
Don’t do that again, Alan.
I won’t, I promise. I just want us to talk.
I could get to you, you know? Before you even think whatever it is you think to make that happen. I’m quick. I could be over this desk and on you before you blink.
I don’t doubt it, Thor.
I’ll scratch your face off.
I understand. Now shall we talk about the house? About the door?
I don’t know what to say.
How did it feel, stepping through after all this time?
I don’t know.
Can you try and describe it? Did it feel good? Did it feel right?
It felt like coming home.
“I swear you were born in the wrong decade.”
Cara turns off the engine. It’s nearly half seven and we’re in the car park across the road from the Black Lion.
“You and my brother don’t even deserve mobile phones.” She’s only half joking.
“Has Morgan gone back to uni?” I say.
Cara checks her face in the rear-view mirror. “He was still in his room when I left. Probably holding out for a lift from Dad. Loser.”
“How i
s he?”
“How the hell should I know? Haven’t seen him once all weekend. He’s like a hermit crab.”
She neatens the edge of her lipstick with her finger and licks her top teeth. “That’ll have to do.”
“You look great, Car.”
“You have to say that. That’s why I keep you around.” She flashes me a smile. “Grab the stuff.”
“I just don’t see why we have to film it,” I say, picking up her camera and the tripod from between my feet. Outside the pub there’s already a small crowd of art-student-looking characters on the patio area, drinking and smoking and no doubt competing with each other over who has the best knowledge of Alt-J B-sides.
“I hate stuff like this,” I say, closing my door. “People who call themselves ‘artists’ are always full of it.”
“Oh, shut up, will you? That’s not even what you think. Your dad’s an artist.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Cara rolls her eyes. “Check the memory card. We’re here to support him. You know he cares what you think.”
“I know you care what he thinks.”
Cara’s gives me the middle finger. “I know I don’t give a shit about what you think I care about what he thinks, bitch.”
And I can’t stop myself laughing.
The room is through the back of the pub, up some stairs that smell like toilets.
We walk in to an old Motown-sounding song I don’t recognise.
A blonde girl behind a little table with too much glitter around her eyes ticks our name off Sean’s guest list and stamps the back of our hands with little red hearts.
The place is half full of people sitting and standing around, waiting for the night to start.
I watch Cara scan the dimly lit room. She points to the back left corner behind the rows of chairs, next to the low DJ booth.
“You set up there. I’ll get some roaming stuff on my phone. Do you want a drink?”
“Not really.”
“Have something – you’ll look weird otherwise.”
“Fine, get me whatever you’re having.”
She goes to the bar. I don’t see Sean as I go to my designated spot.
People seem impressed by the fact that I’m carrying a camera, nodding at me like I must be important. Guess that’s part of the appeal.
There are two mics on stands on the small corner stage, lit by one warm spotlight. It’s actually a pretty nice room. Almost feels like we’re in someone’s house, with a bunch of strangers.
The girl at the decks has a topknot and nose ring. She looks at the gear in my hands and nods her approval. I start setting up the tripod and spot Sean, over by the stage, talking to an older guy wearing a dark flat cap. He sees me and raises a thumb, saying something to the guy, then heading my way.
Nobody Real Page 5
