The song starts to fade.
You open your eyes and see me watching you. I wave. You go to wave back, but wobble. You try to steady yourself, but your dizzy momentum carries you into the film and music shelves and you fall back. The crash sends books tumbling down over your shoulders as you land on your backside, still looking at me. And I laugh so hard I almost pee.
You pick up a hardback that fell into your lap and start reading it like you planned the whole thing. I sit down next to you in the puddle of books, our backs against the half-empty shelves.
The record ends and there’s the mechanical sound of the needle loading itself back into its cradle and then the shop is quiet, except for our breathing.
“What you reading there, Mr Baker?”
“This?” You hold it up. “I’m glad you asked, Miss Baker. This is my first novel. I like to read my old work from time to time, just to get perspective, you know? It’s part of my ‘process’.”
“I see. It’s been a while since the novel was published, and we’ve had no new work from you in the years since. Would you say that you have perhaps been experiencing somewhat of a writer’s block?”
You nod, deadpan. “Some inexperienced outsiders might argue that, yes, although, as my first writing mentor always said to me, ‘Greatness is a mule that will not be rushed.’”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Wow. That’s very profound.”
“I know.” You hold up a paw. “Of course, with claws, it does take me nearly a day to type a sentence.”
I’m going to burst.
“Indeed. And can I ask what it is you’re working on right now?”
“Well, I don’t want to give too much away, but my new work which, I have to say, may be my most stunning to date, is shaping up to be a terrifically complex opus, something of a kind of post-dystopian, pseudo-utopian, erm …”
“Fallopian?”
And the roar of our laughter fills the shop. We are in our bubble. Together.
You wipe your eyes with the back of your paw.
“Let’s order pizza,” I say.
But you’re looking at your paw, frowning.
“Thor, what’s wrong?”
You stare at your paw, opening and closing your fist.
“Thor?”
“I have to go, Marcie.”
“What?”
“I have to go.”
“Go where? Why?”
You look at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“I had a meeting.”
“I know you had a meeting – at lunchtime. It’s nearly half five, Dad.”
“Is it?”
“So it went well then?”
“Waste of time.”
“How come?”
“Errand boys, sent by grocery clerks, Mars. That’s all they are. I don’t know what Oscar was thinking.”
“What does that mean? They didn’t like the story idea? Dad?”
“I don’t need them.”
“Will you meet another publisher?”
Dad looks round the shop. “How’ve you been? Busy?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s good.”
“Dad, are you OK?”
“I’m tired. I’m going to go upstairs.”
“OK. Shall I make you some dinner? Are you hungry? I could go get chicken?”
“No thanks.”
“We could watch a film? Something old. Harvey?”
“Not today, Mars. I think I might just read a while, then sleep.”
“All right then, so I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
“OK.”
“Thank you, for today, watching the shop. Big help.”
“No problem, Dad. I’m happy to.”
Light cuts through the dust on to my face.
I push the underlay and broken tiles out on to the roof. The scraping sound of them sliding down, the silence as they fall through the air, then the crash as they hit the ground out in front of the house. So satisfying. Adjust my feet and punch again.
You didn’t want me to go. I could feel it. The magic of it. The guilt.
Have to be careful.
Nine days left.
Knocking off the front of the roof means if anyone comes to inspect, they’ll see I’ve started. If I rig the wall supports today too, I can say that it was a longer job than I thought it would be. Old brickwork.
Who am I kidding?
What am I doing?
This can’t end well.
Won’t.
Truth hurts.
Standing on the attic beam, I push off enough gauze and insulation to stick my head out.
I can see all the way back to the city. A tapestry of weird and wonderful creatures. A collage of functional structures and unbelievable buildings, twinkling in the last rays of the fading sun.
I try to work out which tower block is mine, but, from this far away, they all look the same.
Being high up in the daytime feels different than it does at night. At night, it feels like a zooming-in, like the focus of everything is narrowing in on you, but in the day it’s more like moving out to a panoramic wide shot, and you can feel just how small a dot you are on the planet.
I’m struck by the vastness of the sky.
I wish you could see this place, Marcie.
I wish it worked both ways.
We could sit on the broken roof of your house, throwing tiles into the street until the sun goes down.
It’s nearly dark when I get back to the block. The deep red of the lobby carpet is a dance floor.
I stretch out my arms and spin as though I’m dancing. With you. Oh, Marcie.
The lift doors open and Blue is there.
I don’t know where to look.
“Lame, Baker. Just lame.”
“I’m so sorry. I got caught up.”
“Whatever.” She steps out, pushing past me into the lobby.
“Blue, wait. I was going to call, I swear, I just … when I’m smashing, I lose track of time. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“I won’t let you make me play the whiny, desperate girl, Thor.”
“I’m not. I promise. This is my fault. Wait, were you upstairs?”
“Yeah. I just left a note.”
“Saying what?”
“Saying fuck you, Thor, that’s what. Don’t make plans if you’re not going to see them through. I came. I waited. Nothing. And you couldn’t even call, all of yesterday?”
She goes to walk away. I grab her arm. She looks down at my paw on her and waits for me to let go. We both know she could tear me in half if she wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Blue. Really I am.”
She pulls her arm away.
“Good. Go be sorry by yourself.”
I can smell smoky bacon and coffee as I come down the stairs.
Coral usually has a breakfast smoothie on a weekday and she doesn’t drink coffee.
Bacon and coffee means it’s either my birthday or bad news.
It’s not my birthday.
“Morning, Marcie. Hungry?”
He looks like Nick Fury. Minus the eyepatch. His head is shiny smooth and he’s got the body of an army general, older, but still coiled for action. And he’s wearing Coral’s dressing gown.
A stranger in the kitchen feels weird. A stranger in the kitchen wearing Coral’s dressing gown, holding our frying pan, using my name, is just plain awkward.
“I’m Dom,” he says, holding out his free hand. “We met briefly once. I work with your aunt at the university.”
I wrap my cardigan tighter around my body and we shake.
“Coral’s in the shower,” he says, then just gets back on with preparing breakfast like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way he moves around as if everything is completely familiar takes the edge off the awkward and I sit down.
“Coffee?” he says, like a flight attendan
t.
“Yes, please.”
He pours me a mug.
“Sorry for the surprise appearance. We ended up having a drink last night and shared a taxi. Milk?”
His voice sounds a bit like the automated cashier recording at the post office.
Till number four, please.
“No, thanks.”
He hands me the mug and starts whisking eggs.
“Do you think she’d prefer an omelette, or scrambled?”
“Scrambled,” I say. “But make sure they’re well done. She hates them runny.”
He turns round and gives me a wink. “Thanks.”
And I like him. Just like that. That’s how my brain works. It only needs a minute.
“She doesn’t drink coffee though,” I say.
Dom stops whisking. “No?”
I shake my head. “Makes her sick. Chocolate too.”
Dom’s face screws up. “No coffee or chocolate? What kind of creature is she?”
I smile.
“The kind that loves fresh orange juice.” I point to the cupboard next to the sink.
“Juicer’s in there.” And I wink, because what the hell?
I can wink if I want to.
You look tired.
Late night.
In the real?
No. The park. Doesn’t matter.
OK. Let’s talk about what happened.
When?
When she sent you away.
Jeez, jump right in, why don’t you?
Time is of the essence, Thor.
Fine. What about it?
All of it.
All of it?
Yes.
Were you sent away?
I think it’s better if I ask the questions.
You were, weren’t you? That’s why you’re allowed to do this, I mean apart from the cliché beard and polo neck?
I’ve trained, Thor. I wasn’t “allowed”.
So you’ve sat here then?
No.
You didn’t have to?
Not in this room.
Somewhere else?
Yes. Now can we get back to you? Let’s go back six years. Tell me what happened.
You know what happened. It’s all in the file.
Yes, but, like I’ve explained, the point is me hearing it from you. How you see it, what you remember.
Like I could forget?
Thor …
Like I could just put what happened in a box on a shelf somewhere and get on with my life?
Thor, listen …
Is that what you did, Alan? Did you just forget?
Eight days.
What?
You have eight days. Until the fade.
So?
So, it might be worth making better use of our time together if you want to transition well.
You mean if I want to make sure I’m not standing in the park, screaming at the sky?
Yes, if that’s how you want to put it. I can help, Thor. Tell me what happened, and we’ll go from there, OK?
How come you’re fine with it, with me crossing over?
Because I trust you.
You hardly know me.
I know you better than you think. And I know that you’ll do what’s right when it’s time.
What does it feel like, I mean, the actual moment?
Everyone experiences it differently. And it’s less a moment and more a process. Separating from the mind that made you is complicated.
It’s crazy really, when you think about it. Isn’t it?
I can’t argue with that, Thor. But it’s the way it’s always been. And one thing I can say is that preparation will make it easier. I can vouch for that.
And knocking down the house is part of it? My final test?
Yes.
Will knocking it down make things easier?
No. Just clearer.
Still hurts though, doesn’t it?
Yes, Thor. It does.
I close the front door and the narrow hallway falls into shadow. Breathe in memories, and stare at the stairs. Stare at the stairs. Homophone.
I’m standing right here. Before.
I’m standing right here, calling after you as you run up these stairs. You’re eleven, and angry. Some girls caught you drawing in the library at lunchtime. Hunched over your sketchbook, lost in your art, you didn’t see them circling you. A snarling gang of other Year Seven girls who already know each other and think they run things. You tried to hide your picture, but they got it. Laughing. Cara wasn’t there. You haven’t become friends yet. Sean was out in the cages playing football.
You told me not to come when you’re at school.
I should’ve been there, Marcie.
Walking home, you wouldn’t tell me what they said. What you were drawing. I pushed and pushed. Asked if it was about your mum. Told you I would get them. You got angry. You started running. I ran too, but I couldn’t catch up.
I stretch out my right arm and drag my claws up the wall as I climb the stairs.
The short landing is as dark as it always was.
Bathroom on the left. Coral’s door at the end, the empty box room adjacent.
I reach your door.
There was a poster. Somebody in a mask. What was it? Just the bare white paint now. A couple of centimetres of wood between here and there.
Here and you.
I can feel the regular drop kick of my heartbeat.
How can I destroy this place?
Eight days.
Because I have to.
Starting now.
Then a noise from inside.
I hear it. Clear as a bell.
My name.
“Morning!”
Dad slides out of the kitchen and I almost jump out of my skin.
He’s holding a new cafetière full of coffee in one hand and a white mug in the other.
“Why would you do that?” I press my chest and feel my heart kicking.
“Good for the blood,” he says, tapping his head with the mug. “Remember?”
He’s wearing an open white shirt over his white vest and he has shoes on.
“Have you been out?”
“No point moping, Mars. Time to smack the day on the arse with a banjo.”
“What?”
He holds up the coffee. “I went to that new organic place by the optician’s. Columbian. High-end.”
“OK, doc. Is this where you tell me all about the flux capacitor?”
Dad spins round, puts the coffee and mug down on the table, spins back and grabs me by the shoulders.
“I had a thought. Last night, in bed.”
“That’s great, Dad. For the story?”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “You don’t make it rain by staring at the sky, Marcie.”
“OK …”
He squeezes my shoulders. “No more staring. I’ll see you downstairs.”
“What, you’re opening the shop?”
He gives a wide-eyed nod.
“But it’s not even half nine, Dad. We don’t open until ten.”
But he’s already off, striding to the stairs like a hunter heading into the woods.
I go to the table and sniff the cafetière. Somewhere else in the country, somewhere green, right now, Diane is sitting in her parents’ conservatory, sipping a coffee with her broadsheet paper.
I pour myself some of Dad’s high-end Columbian and raise my mug.
“To Alton Towers.”
I lean back in the wooden swivel chair. The high-end Columbian has got my brain feeling like a pinball machine. Through the high strip of window, the sky is tropical-ocean blue.
I swivel round and look at the doorway. The tumbling piano of Philip Glass coming from the shop. This won’t last. Sooner or later Dad will need me.
I feel like a private investigator waiting for a call.
MARCIE BAKER P.I.
NO CASE IS TOO SMALL.
IN FACT, SMALL CASES ARE BETTER.
LESS
WORK.
I put my hands behind my head like I’m sunbathing.
From the second she walked in, I knew she was trouble, see?
Five ten, expensive fur coat, lips the colour of fresh blood and hands like a lumberjack.
I lean further back in the chair and mime smoking a cigarette.
She looked at me like I was something she just scraped off her Jimmy Choo. “You don’t look like much, Marcie Baker,” she said, peeling off her coat to reveal a Coke-bottle body wrapped in a pure white dress.
“Yeah, well,” I said, pulling on my cigarette, “last chances don’t have to.”
I put my feet up on the desk. I’d make a brilliant private investigator. There should be a degree course for that. The chair wobbles, and I try to straighten up, but it’s too late; the wheels squeak, the seat squeezes forward and I fall flat on my back.
Pain spreads down through the base of my spine into my hips. Thousands of tiny nerve endings running screaming down the inside of my thighs like One Direction fans trying to get to the front of the stage. You make your own bed, and then you lie in it.
From this position, I can see the light caught in the cobwebs where the wall meets the ceiling. You should be here. Laughing at me. “Where are you, Thor Baker?”
“I’m here.”
You look down at me. “You’re on the floor.”
“I know that.”
You nod, then lie down next to me. Piano from the shop. The faint tap of the computer keyboard.
“How is he?”
“I have no idea.”
“Enigma.”
“What?”
“You taught me that word. You were drawing a monster sidekick. We were in your room. You said it was a killer rhino shark. I said, wouldn’t that mean he would just kill you? You said no, that he was nice to you, but deadly to everyone else. You said he was an enigma.”
“When was that?”
“You were nine. It was a Sunday.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember it all.”
I sit up.
You do the same.
“What’s wrong, Marcie?”
“I don’t know … I’m fine, I guess.”
Then you smack my knee. “Fuck fine!”
I cackle like an old woman.
“What’s funny?”
“Fuck fine?”
You look offended. “That’s what I said. What, I can’t swear?”
“Guess so.”
“I had puberty too, you know.”
Nobody Real Page 7
