Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

  Nobody even acknowledges me as I walk to him.

  “Leyland. What are you doing?”

  “I cannot steal what is mine. I am you, you are me.”

  I tap his shoulder. “Leyland.”

  He slowly opens his eyes. “Thor Baker.”

  He lowers his arms and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Where are your clothes?” I say, looking around.

  “I burned them.”

  “You what? Why?”

  Leyland shrugs. “I was hot.”

  “Are you high? Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  I put my arm around his shoulders, but he slips out and starts to dance. Lifting one foot off the ground, bobbing at the knees.

  “Leyland, let’s go. This is weird.”

  “So weird!” he shouts. “Weird with a capital woooo!”

  He claps his hands and beckons me to dance with him. What looks like a skinny panda dances closer to Leyland, seemingly tuning into whatever energy he’s giving off.

  “Leyland. Come on!”

  Skinny panda holds out a long paw for Leyland to take. Leyland goes to take it. I grab him before he can and throw him over my shoulder.

  The funny thing about walking through Fridge City at night with a naked, middle-aged man over your shoulder, mumbling nonsense and laughing, is: nobody even seems to notice.

  Welcome to the not real.

  I sit him down on the sofa and go to the grand wardrobe in the corner.

  “You should lock your door, you know.” I grab his dark dressing gown.

  Leyland’s place is smaller than mine. There’s no bedroom; his single bed folds down from the wall next to the door to the tiny kitchen. Bookcases run round the rest of the walls, shrinking the room even more. Piles of different types of paper and card, notebooks and brown box files are arranged in the kind of system that nobody else would understand. The thick desk holds the old-school guillotine, the glue press and balls of twine. The tools of a book-maker. Behind it, the door to the roof has slatted wooden blinds pulled down over the glass. Everything feels collected and full of meaning. Even the three faded brown damp rings on the low ceiling look like the empty puffs of a thought bubble from some ancient comic.

  “Come on, help me out, old man.”

  I ease him into the dressing gown. “Shall I make tea?”

  Leyland just stares out. I go into the kitchen and fill the kettle.

  “I need some Miles,” he says, finally.

  I’m in the armchair he usually sits in, across the thick coffee table, sipping my bitter green tea. “Yeah? OK. Which one do you want?”

  I go over to the shelf with his turntable and the small stack of vinyl.

  “Kind of Blue,” he says, taking a sip.

  I load it up and sit back down.

  Warm, sleepy piano crawls out.

  How many times have I sat where he’s sitting, scored by some old jazz album while I ask him for advice?

  A few.

  “You look tired, Thor.”

  “You too,” I say.

  He reaches for his cigarettes on the coffee table and smiles. “No need to panic, my young friend. I’m still me.”

  He taps one out and lights up.

  “So what was that then?” I say. “Research?”

  Leyland lets out a gentle laugh. “It’s all research, Thor.”

  “You don’t belong there, Leyland. With them.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’re not lost.”

  “Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” He stares at his lighter. “I’m getting old, Thor.”

  “So what? Everybody gets old. I’m getting old.”

  “That’s true, but, when you reach the point I have, the getting gets a little quicker.”

  He smokes. I sip, wishing I had something profound to say. Something that doesn’t make me want to reach down my own throat and pull my guts out. I don’t.

  I think of you. Where you are. What you’re doing.

  “I crossed over,” I say, feeling the crackle in my stomach.

  Leyland stares at me through the smoke.

  “I see.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”

  “And what would I say, Thor? That you’re making a mistake? That you’re dicing with tragedy?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  Leyland sighs. “You’re making a big mistake, Thor. You’re dicing with tragedy.”

  He combs back his hair with his fingers and I guess I should be relieved that he doesn’t launch into some sanctimonious lecture, but it’s annoying.

  “No big deal then,” I say, spreading sarcasm over my words. “Sorry I mentioned it.”

  “My final test was the book,” he says, pointing over to his desk.

  “What book?” I say. “I don’t see a book.”

  Leyland looks down at his hands like they’re an old photograph.

  “All I had to do was arrange the pages, set the spine, speak the first line, and I was there. In the real. Seven little words. Double-spaced. Courier font.”

  “What book, Leyland? What words?”

  He mutters something under his breath.

  “What did you say?”

  He leans forward and flicks his ash in an old saucer on the coffee table.

  “I said, We give ourselves, until the fade. We live for you, we are …”

  He waits for me to finish the line from the oath.

  “… the made.”

  “Thank you. Please collect two hundred as you pass go.”

  He sits back and takes a deep drag.

  “I know how much you want it, Thor. I remember. So badly, it burns. But you have to let it go.”

  Sitting in your garden. Your face as you took my paw.

  “I don’t want to, Leyland.”

  I stare across at him. My elder. Mentor. Tree of wisdom.

  Shrinking all the time.

  He stares back, and shakes his head.

  “Neither did I.”

  You’re ten.

  It’s the middle of the summer holidays.

  You’re in your pyjamas, standing in the hallway, looking down at the post on the welcome mat.

  Coral is in the kitchen, making breakfast.

  There’s a brown letter that looks like a bill, a glossy flyer for a local hardware company, and a thin white envelope, handwritten address, and your name. You look back down the hall towards the kitchen. Coral is singing along to Sade.

  You pick up the envelope and run upstairs.

  On your bed you look at the writing. The sloping black letters of your name look more grown-up than they ever have.

  The stamp is international and the postmark says Madrid.

  You turn it over. It’s too flimsy for a card. This is a letter.

  Handwritten to you.

  You picture her face, smiling as she pirouettes on the dark rug in your old living room, beckoning you to join her. You remember wanting to, but feeling nervous of getting it wrong.

  Coral calls you from downstairs.

  You pull the old box file from under your bed and take out your brown sketchbook. You pull off the elastic band, open the back cover and slot the envelope inside. You bite your bottom lip, feeling something between confused and excited, then close the book, wrap the elastic band round, lay it in the box and slide it back under your bed.

  You shout to Coral that you’re coming, then close your eyes, and smile.

  “Pssst. Yo. Wake up.”

  You look bigger in the dark. Light from my bedroom window gives your chiselled body a halo.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s late. Early. Who cares?”

  I sit up and rub my eyes. Everything is witching-hour quiet.

  “What are you doing here, Thor?”

  You step forward and light falls on your face. “I’m sorry. For before. In the shop.”

  Your face twitches as you say it. I fold my arms. “What�
�s the punchline?”

  “Shut up.” You sit down on my bed and look at me. “I’m sorry, Marcie. I don’t know why I did it.”

  And I can’t even laugh.

  “Where’s Thor Baker?”

  “I’m Thor Baker.”

  “The Thor Baker I know doesn’t apologise.”

  You reach out your paw. “This one does.”

  The shiny black pad of your palm. I lay my hand on top.

  You smile. “Cool?”

  I nod.

  “All right then. Now get dressed.”

  Moonlight dusts the grass like icing sugar.

  We sit on the outside edge of the bandstand, leaning against the railings, looking back down at the empty park, stretching out either side to the black of the trees. I haven’t sat here for years.

  “It’s not even scary,” I say, burrowing my hands into my hoodie pockets.

  “Of course not. I’m here.”

  “It’s kind of beautiful.”

  You let out a sigh. “Yeah. I might write a poem.”

  You move your leg just before I punch it. Way down at the bottom, past the arts centre, the cricket ground building looks like a giant silver pebble.

  I tilt my head back and look up into the bandstand rafters. A monochrome collage of peeling paint and pigeon shit.

  “I’m surprised they haven’t knocked this down.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because nobody comes here. It doesn’t do anything.”

  “That’s a pretty shitty way of looking at things.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Your foot brushes mine. We’re older now.

  “Ask me a question,” you say, staring out.

  “About what?”

  “Anything.”

  “I thought that wasn’t allowed. What about the rules?”

  “Screw the rules.” You scratch at the concrete between us with a claw. The air feels charged.

  “Could you see me?” I say. “Could you see me this whole time?”

  You look at me. “Only when I chose to.”

  I cross my legs.

  “I think I could feel it. When you did.”

  You cross your legs too.

  “I know.”

  Out of nowhere, a fox appears to our right.

  It looks our way for a moment, then cuts across the grass, about six metres in front of us, like a dark knife with legs. We watch it silently scurry all the way to the trees and it feels like we’re witnessing something magical.

  “You think he had George Clooney’s voice?” you say after the fox disappears into the dark.

  “What makes you so sure it was a boy?”

  There’s the faint sound of a breeze passing through leaves.

  “My turn,” you say.

  I squeeze my keys in my pocket. “Go on then.”

  “Are you sure it’s what you want? For them?”

  I bring my knees together and wrap my arms around them.

  “Yes.”

  Your dark eyes catch the moonlight.

  “So prove it.”

  And you smile. That first smile I remember. The night you arrived.

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Yeah?”

  You jump down on to the grass. “Why else am I here?”

  Then you spin round and smack my foot.

  “Ow! What’s that for?”

  “Lost time. This is way too grown-up. Let’s go scratch something into a tree.”

  Then you’re off, the same way the fox went.

  So I follow.

  And it feels just as good as I remember.

  The siren of my alarm.

  It was somebody’s job to design that sound. Somebody so annoying they just channelled their own natural frequency and put it in our phones.

  Lance. Lance Finchley. Face like a koi carp, heavy-handed with the Lynx deodorant. The kind of guy who corrects you when you say “borrow” instead of “lend”.

  Reach out. Off. “Shut up, Lance.”

  “Marcie?”

  A muffled voice.

  “Marcie?”

  It’s Cara, speaking from under my duvet. Wasn’t my alarm, it was an incoming call.

  “Hello?”

  “Were you sleeping?”

  Everything feels too bright. My eyes sting.

  “Are you even dressed?”

  I look down at myself. I’m still in my clothes. It was almost light when we got back. Passed out. Didn’t even take my shoes off. I can smell outside on my hoodie.

  “Yes. I’m dressed. What time is it?”

  “It’s nearly eleven.”

  “Shit.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the shop?”

  “Yeah. Overslept. Stayed up late.”

  “Doing what?”

  Your smile as you peeled away bark with your claws. Carving our initials.

  “Nothing. YouTube wormhole. Started on a Kendrick Lamar video, ended up on some Illuminati documentary.”

  “Nice. You wanna meet later? I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah, the beach. Yeah, what shall we do?”

  “Cinema? Or I could come over?”

  I sit up and rub my eyes.

  “Cinema sounds good. What’s on?”

  “Who cares? Come to mine when you finish at the shop, OK? I’ll buy the popcorn.”

  “OK. See you later.”

  “Oh, and, Mars?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who’s Sean’s favourite rapper?”

  It looks like a garage sale.

  Bits of equipment and bric-a-brac are spread out over every surface of the living room.

  A couple of outdated laptops. A sewing machine. Shoes. A dusty white lamp projector. Little towers of stacked books. Bin bags of clothes. Dad is on his knees, fiddling with the underside of his old electronic typewriter.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  Dad looks up at me, then round at the mess of the room. His hair is even more out of control than usual, sticking up in all directions like a jagged comic-book explosion.

  “I found it,” he says, patting the navy-blue plastic body. “It took me all night, but I found it.”

  “The typewriter?”

  “Exactly! THE typewriter. My trusty steed. None of this spellcheck, software update crap. Just a green screen. Black font. No excuses. If I can just get it working …” He digs into the battery cavity with a finger. “How’s the shop?”

  “I just got here, Dad.”

  “Cool. What time is it?”

  “It’s nearly twelve.”

  “Splendid. There’s coffee in the pot.”

  He looks like one of those people from the Channel Five programmes about hoarders. Some middle-aged guy who hasn’t thrown anything away for twenty-five years.

  “Are you OK, Dad?”

  “I need power.”

  “What?”

  “Batteries, Mars.” He stands up and puts the lifeless typewriter down on the table. I read the word “brother” in a stylised font next to the thin display screen. If I had a Sharpie, I could prefix it with “little”.

  “Does any of this stuff still work?”

  “I have no idea. Be fun to smash up if it doesn’t.”

  “But you’re OK though?”

  He walks over and hugs me. “I’m fine, Mars. Lots to do.”

  He lets go and smiles the kind of smile that could charm a lump of concrete.

  “Don’t worry about your old man. Unhinged works for him.”

  “And what about his daughter?” I say. “Is she half unhinged?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He nods gravely, then grins. “Luckily for her, she’s half something else too. That’s why she’s the hero of the piece.”

  £21.97

  That’s what I’ve taken for the till in nearly four hours.

  Roughly £5.50 an hour.

  I’m no Alan Sugar but I’m pretty sure that’s not great turnover.

  I look up at the cei
ling and try to imagine a conversation about money with Dad. The painful comedy sketch of the pair of us attempting to outline a business plan.

  I have a memory of going to the birthday party of two twin blonde girls in the Infants. I don’t remember their names. I do remember turning up to their house without a gift because Dad forgot, and I do remember him taking out a twenty-pound note, tearing it in half, handing a half to each girl, saying, “Ten for you, and ten for you.” The look on their faces. On their mum’s face.

  I open Google on my phone and type in “average university student debt”.

  … a typical student on a three-year course outside London might expect to graduate with around £35,000–£40,000 of student loans …

  I look across at the nearest display table and make the books stacks of banded notes like in Breaking Bad. How big a pile would £40,000 be?

  I know that it’s not like you graduate and then there’s these two massive loan-shark guys waiting by the door with baseball bats, saying give us our forty g’s or we kneecap you. I know you only start paying it back when you’re earning a certain amount and then it’s just a bit every month, but a debt is a debt, right? Doing something that puts you in somebody else’s pocket is bad practice, no?

  Like I even think like that.

  Like money is anything more than an idea to me, floating around, like religion or politics or rising sea levels. I know what they mean. I know they matter. But saying that I think about them on a daily basis would be a lie. Never had loads of money, never had none.

  Forty thousand. Fifty thousand. May as well be two million. It’s just some abstract number that people will bring up when trying to convince themselves that doing a degree is a bad idea.

  Truth is, no matter how unfair it is, if you really want to go, you’re going, massive debt or not.

  All that stuff can be worried about later. Right now, nobody is thinking past getting the grades, and knowing that they didn’t mess up. That’s the truth of it.

  I sound like you.

  Where are you right now? Passed out on your bed, wherever that is?

  Are you coming? Are you watching?

  I type “university clearing” into Google.

  Then Sean walks in.

  His head is freshly shaved.

  Black T-shirt, faded black jeans, battered black Vans. He’s holding a hemp shopping bag.

  You won’t come if Sean’s here. I know that.