“Good for you.”
You jump up on to your feet like a surfer catching a wave. “So fuckety, fuck fine! Fine will quietly fucking kill you, like a fucking gas leak.” You point at the filing cabinet. “What the fuck’s in there?”
“Boring!”
I duck as something red flies past me.
“Watch it!”
An A4 accounts log book smacks against the wall behind me and drops to the floor.
“What’s the point of a drawer with nothing in it?” you say, opening the second one down and rummaging inside. Typed pages and legal-looking documents start raining around me as you fling them.
“Thor! Stop it!”
“Aha!” you say. “That’s more like it!”
You hold up a thick marker pen.
“Yes.” You look at me, face full of mischief.
“No,” I say.
You go back into the drawer and pull out another.
“Leave them, Thor. They’re not mine.”
“So whose are they?”
“I dunno. Dad’s? Diane’s?”
You throw one at me and I snatch it out of the air just before it hits my face.
“Thor!”
Another pen comes flying my way. Then another. And another.
You slam the drawer closed and try to open the bottom one. It doesn’t budge. You pull harder, shaking the whole cabinet.
“It’s locked.”
You kick the drawer and the metal bang makes me look nervously towards the shop. Piano music, but no response from Dad. Maybe he’s with a customer.
“Keep it down!” I say.
You tread on the thrown papers as you pick up the pens.
“These should be enough for a start.”
“A start of what?”
But, watching you staring at the blank walls, I already know your plan.
“A robot’s face?” you say.
I punch your arm. “It’s a house! It’s your house!”
“Coral’s?”
“Yes! Look, the step, the sticky-out windowsill thing?”
“It looks like a robot’s face.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if you’d made me with actual hands, I might be a little bit more skilled with a pen.”
“I didn’t want another writer,” you say.
“Clever you. So let’s see you do better then. Artsy fartsy.”
You step back and survey the wall, tapping the pen against the back of your hand.
“I don’t know what to draw,” you say.
“Draw anything. Draw the killer rhino shark.”
“I’m not nine any more, Thor.”
“So? Draw something that a nearly-eighteen-year-old would draw then. Draw a university.”
“Funny.”
“I don’t know. Who cares? Draw a thought.”
“Like what?”
“Anything! Jesus, is this what school does to you? Give me the pen if you’re too chicken.”
I try to grab the pen, but you push me away and pull off the top.
I step back and watch. You stroke the wall, brushing it off like a giant page, then, with one swoop, you make a thick, wet, black line against the grey. The shine of it. I don’t know what you’re going to draw, but I know it’s going to be amazing.
“Knock knock.” Your dad is leaning in the doorway. You step back from the wall like you’ve just been caught by the police. I feel myself grinning.
“Dad, I–”
“I like it,” he says, looking at my house. “Robot?”
“It’s Coral’s house, Karl! Are all your family blind?” He can’t hear me. You nod.
“Yeah. Just thought I’d liven up the place a bit. I can paint it over if you want.”
“No you can’t! Wuss!”
Your dad shakes his head. “No, carry on. I love it. Make it yours. What’s this going to be?”
He points at your line. You put the top back on the pen.
“Nothing. Do you need me?”
“Yes, please,” he says, “if you’ve got a second.”
“We’re busy actually, Karl, if you hadn’t noticed. So, if you could just shit off, that’d be great.”
Evil eyes.
“Course. Is it the till?”
And you follow him out to the shop.
It takes me a second to register.
He looks tired, in that rock-star kind of way, dark curves under his eyes. His black hair is longer, falling down either side of his face, and he’s growing a patchy beard. His dark denim jacket is fashionably battered, over a faded black T-shirt with a distressed collar. He looks like he wants you to think he’s in a band.
“Marcie?”
“Hi, Morgan.”
I walk to the till, Dad following me like some kind of oversized spirit animal.
“You grew,” says Morgan, and I feel his eyes scan me up and down. “Do you work here?”
“Sometimes. Kind of.”
Dad leans over my shoulder. “It’s her shop.”
Morgan looks confused, like he’s trying to make the connection between his little sister’s best friend and a middle-aged mad scientist.
“This is my dad, Karl. It’s his shop.”
“You’re Karl Baker?” Morgan holds out his hand like he’s meeting royalty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Dad reaches his hand around me and shakes Morgan’s.
“No need for the formality. And it’s our shop.”
Morgan nods and lowers his hand. “Cool.”
“Well, I’ll leave you in Marcie’s expert hands. She’ll sort out your request.”
“Dad. What about running the till? Smacking the day with a banjo?”
“Sorry, Mars –” he taps the top of his head – “had an idea, got to get it down.” He starts backing away towards the stairs, shrugging as he goes.
“Good to meet you, sir,” says Morgan, almost bowing.
“No sirs here, son,” says Dad. Then he’s gone.
“This place is pretty cool, eh?” says Morgan, looking around. “How long have you had it?”
There’s no way Cara didn’t tell him when Dad bought the shop. Testament to an older brother’s selective attention.
“Just over three years,” I say, neatening up the counter.
Morgan nods like he’s viewing a property. “It used to be called something, right? I never came in here before. Nice music.”
I move behind the till, trying not to make it obvious that I’m taking him in.
Morgan Miles-Yeung. Former head boy. Two years into a Philosophy degree at UCL.
I swear he was taller.
“Not this guy.”
You walk in and lean on the counter next to me, pointing at Morgan. I don’t acknowledge you.
“Were you looking for something specific?”
Morgan walks closer.
“I bet he’s in a band,” you say, mocking. “Good evening, Glastonbury! We are Poet’s Knife!”
“I ordered two books the other day, over the phone. The lady said they’d be here by today?”
There’s a black string necklace against his collarbone.
I pick up the brown package and tear it open. A red-and-white book with black writing slides out.
“Bird by Bird: Instructions on Writing and Life.”
“It’s not self-help or anything,” says Morgan, embarrassed. “I gave my copy to someone and we, well … It’s really good.”
He flashes a smile and I’m twelve in their kitchen, cutting flapjacks with Ken and Cara, while fifteen-year-old him sits on the counter in a Chicago Bulls vest, novel in one hand, glass of milk in the other.
“Are you writing something?” I say.
Morgan shrugs. “Nah, not really.”
“Course he is. Look at him. He’s probably got Bukowski quotes sharpied up his arm!”
“Shut up.” The words slip out. Morgan looks over his shoulder. “Me?”
You start to laugh.
“No, I mean, shut up shop. I have to shut up
the shop, for lunch. I’ll just take for this. Are you paying with cash?”
“Oh, cash, yeah. Is the other one here too?”
There’s no other package.
“I don’t think so, sorry. They might have come from different places.”
“Oh.”
“I could text you when it comes in if you leave your number?”
“Oh yeah, subtle.”
He starts digging in his pockets. I seize my chance to flash you the middle finger. You put your paws up, pleading innocence.
“Yeah, OK. That’d be great.”
He writes his number down on a white bookmark. I ring up the sale.
“Do you want a bag?”
He shakes his head, “Nah, I’m good. Save the trees and whatnot, right?”
Is he nervous? Why would he be nervous?
“He’s not nervous. He’s creepy.”
“How’s uni?” I say, turning my back on you.
Morgan shrugs. “Yeah. Uni.” He pauses. “How’d your exams go?”
“Yeah. Exams.” I shrug. “Who knows?”
“Tell him what you did.”
Grit my teeth. Try to ignore you.
“Cara’s so excited about September,” I say, a little too loudly. Morgan nods.
“Yep. Stage one of the life plan.”
Awkward silence.
“And what about you?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, uni, leaving home, chasing your dreams? You up for it?”
“Yeah. It’ll be great.”
Dodge his eyes.
“What are you studying again?” he says.
“Psychology.”
He looks confused. “Not English?”
“What the hell’s with all the questions, Morgan?”
“I don’t like being told what to read,” I say.
Morgan nods, seemingly impressed. “Fair enough. Carve your own path, I guess.” He looks round the shelves. “Pretty sweet summer job too.”
“Guess so. Dad’s not exactly salesman of the year.”
Morgan shakes his head. “He’s an artist. He doesn’t need to be.”
You yawn. “Fartist more like.”
Another silence.
“OK, so you’ll text me when it comes, the book?”
I nod.
“Thanks, Marcie. Good to see you.”
You pretend to throw up. Morgan leaves.
“Never liked him.”
You’re sitting on the counter.
“Always thought he was so smart. Ooh, everybody, look at me, super-cool big brother university brainbox Morgan, now I’ve got a little beard and long hair, whoop di doo.”
I lock the door.
“You can’t do that, Thor.”
“You see him looking at you? Creep.”
“I saw you being a dick, that’s what I saw.”
“Me? I’m not the one buying self-help books, am I?”
“Maybe you should. Maybe you should buy one called How to Not Be a Dick.”
“Funny. What’s he sniffing round you for?”
“He wasn’t sniffing round me. He came for a book. You can’t say stuff when I’m with people I know. That was a rule.”
“Exactly, people you know.”
“I know him. He’s Morgan.”
“You don’t know him. Trust me. I’ve met people like him.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll be back. Probably write a song about you or some shit.”
“Shut up. You did it with Dad too.”
“Chill out, yeah?”
My stomach twists in on itself.
“Don’t tell me to chill out.”
“You always kissed his arse. I love your new trainers, Morgan. Cool T-shirt, Morgan.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yeah you did. Ooh, he’s so cool. I wish I had a big brother like him. He’s so fit.”
“You haven’t got a clue, Thor Baker. Why are you so bothered about Morgan anyway?”
“Sly way to get his number too, by the way. Ring him later. You could go and watch a French film together.”
“Enough! Look, I’m going upstairs to see my dad and make a coffee. Either you stop being an idiot or just leave.”
You stare at me. I stare back. You jump down off the counter, chest puffed up. You’re a full head taller than me.
“You’re not the boss of me, Little Marcie. I leave when I want to.”
“Yeah?”
Your chest deflates. “No, but come on. I’m just looking out for you.”
“Oh yeah? And since when do you do that?”
You step back like I pushed you. I go to the counter.
“I’m not interested in Morgan, Thor. This isn’t a YA novel.”
I throw the torn packaging into the bin. “I’m not a little girl any more.” I stare at you.
“I know,” you say.
“Yeah, well, you clearly don’t know everything, do you?”
Then you grimace, not offended, more in pain.
“What’s wrong?”
You shake your head. You look like you’re going to cry. “What is it, Thor?” I walk to you.
“It’s just …” You look down.
I put my hand on your shoulder. “Hey. It’s OK, you can tell me. It’s just what?”
You look up and point at my mouth. “It’s just … you’ve got spinach in your teeth.”
“What?” I pick at my teeth with a nail, then realise I haven’t even eaten any spinach.
You’re laughing. Paws above your head in triumph.
“So easy!”
I take a deep breath, and punch you in the stomach as hard as I can. You fold in half, wheezing like a punctured air bed.
“That’s what you get, Bearboy. Now get lost. Come back when you’re not seven.”
I watch anger and guilt fight it out in your eyes.
Your mouth opens, and I prepare myself for some barbed-wire comment.
Then you’re gone.
Dark landing.
Blurred corridor.
My heart is thumping. Deep breaths.
Look at your bedroom door. Something feels wrong.
Like a part of me is missing.
Like actual atoms from my body aren’t here.
I touch my stomach. My chest. My face.
What the hell was that?
“You have to come, Mars!”
We’re in the kitchen, eating an extra-large Domino’s pizza. My half pepperoni, Cara’s half vegetarian. She’s two slices behind. The patio door is open. It’s nearly eight o’clock. Coral’s text said she’s stopping at Nick Fury’s. Must be going well.
“Can’t he advertise or something? I’m sure there’s agencies for that.”
“This is my dad we’re talking about, Car. He’s quite particular.”
“Peculiar.”
“That too. Some stranger wouldn’t last five minutes.”
I scoop up a couple of pieces of stray sausage and add them to my slice.
Cara groans. “But it’ll be so cool! Leia said Jordan’s mum’s house is literally right on the beach, and we’ll have it all to ourselves!”
It does sound good. A week in Cornwall, no parents. Sea. Sun.
“It’ll be messy,” I say.
Cara nods excitedly. “Yeah! It will.”
Picture the gang of them. Bathing suits and bottled beers. Barbeques and beach towels.
Then I picture Dad. Sitting at his table, staring out of the window, surrounded by screwed-up paper. Him behind the till, looking lost, alone in the empty shop.
“I can’t, Car.” I drop my unfinished slice in the box. “But I want regular updates.”
Cara checks her phone.
“Sean will be gutted,” she says, trying one last poke at my guilt button. I see her watching him, across a beach fire, faces glowing, drinking and smoking, me fading into the background.
“He’ll be fine. He’ll have you to keep him
company.”
I smile, and wait for her to.
When she does, we both know it’s case closed.
I walk through the park.
The sun’s almost gone and the open green spaces are nearly empty. A few stragglers settling down on their chosen benches. An old couple, sitting defiantly on a chequered blanket, squeezing the last seconds out of a romantic picnic.
Come back when you’re not seven.
Yeah, because you’re so mature, right, Marcie?
I am what you made me.
My body still feels weird. Like I’m hungry, but don’t want to eat.
As I get closer to the middle of the park, the regular rhythm of tabla drumming and choral chants gets louder. The Lost are gathered like always, praying to be found.
The central quadrant with the rocket fountain is squared by a high wall of thick privets with just a door-sized gap on either side. I get a glimpse of the crowd inside as I walk past to the chalky path alongside the hedge. There’s the smoky smell and irregular crackle of a fire. I tune my ears and slow my steps, trying to make out their words.
It’s not a chant.
What I thought was a group chorus is actually a mess of separate voices all saying different things. All those people, gathered in the same spot, oblivious to the rest of us, maybe even oblivious to each other. I stop walking, put my ear right up to the bush, close my eyes and listen.
Broken pieces of sentences in different voices.
“Do not forget.”
“I am not gone.”
“Find me.”
“I am here.”
My brain fits together chunks of unconnected words to make lines of my own, until it feels like the sentences are outside and inside my head at the same time. The low, booming drum travels through me, and I’m swaying, pressed against a privet hedge at dusk.
Then one voice rises above the others. A voice I know, poking up out of the stream of sound.
He’s completely naked.
His pale skin almost ghostly in the twilight. His body is lean, but tired, the edges of muscles starting to droop, everything hanging low.
The fire is in the emptied pool of the fountain. Broken branches and belongings. A scruffy orangutan in a dirty white linen suit with circular mirror sunglasses and a grey beard down to his waist is sitting on the smooth stone edge, palming the drum between his thighs in a trance.
Maybe fifty other people and creatures are standing, sitting, dancing and kicking up dust from the floor, and in the middle of them, three metres in front of me, the only one with no clothes, is Leyland, standing with his eyes closed, arms raised above his head, speaking to no one.
Nobody Real Page 8
