Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

It always made sense, Alan. Just not a sense I was happy with.

  I know what you mean. I’m glad you came.

  Can I have some of that water?

  Of course. Let me pour.

  It’s fizzy.

  You don’t like fizzy?

  Tastes like farts.

  Sorry. I’ll get some still for next time.

  We have one more session after this?

  That’s what the schedule says, yes.

  How long did it take you, Alan? To get over it?

  I’m not sure any of us ever gets “over it”. I think it’s more about acceptance, and then getting on with the rest of your life.

  Getting on?

  Yes.

  Like a train.

  In a manner of speaking. A train to your future.

  One-way ticket.

  Yep.

  Last stop Death.

  I wasn’t going that way with it.

  Imagine if they knew, Alan? Imagine if they knew about all this? All of us? You ever think that?

  I’ve thought about it, yes. Not sure what it would change though.

  Maybe it wouldn’t feel so unfair.

  We live for them, Thor. It’s how it’s always been.

  I know. Doesn’t make it feel any less like a defeat though, does it?

  Is that what you feel, Thor? Like you’re losing?

  I kinda feel like I already lost.

  There’s space on the low non-fiction shelves to stack the books from the display.

  I push the empty table next to the sofa and rearrange the other three so that each one has two different categories on it. Getting rid of the symmetry seems to wake the shop up.

  By the time Morgan knocks on the door at nine forty-five, the shop is fully stamped with my touch.

  “It looks great!” he says, taking off his jacket. Distressed T-shirt colour for the day: marl grey.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  I boot up the till. “I think Dad probably wants to give the orders.”

  “He said that you were in charge. Told me to do whatever you said.”

  I look at the back door. Johnny Cash grins my way.

  “Course he did. OK, have you ever worked in a bookshop before?”

  “No.”

  “Right. But you’ve worked in a shop before?”

  “No.”

  “Pub? Bar?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Cafe?”

  “No.”

  “OK, so where have you worked?”

  I sip the last of my cold coffee.

  “Nowhere,” he says with a sheepish shrug. “Never had a job.”

  “Ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even a summer one?”

  “Pathetic, right?”

  “No. Yeah. A little bit.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. Your degree must be pretty full on.”

  “Twelve hours a week.”

  “That’s it? Are you kidding?”

  He nods sarcastically. “It was pretty tough.”

  “Was? So you’re seriously not going back?”

  “Nope.”

  I give him the suspicious detective glare. He just shrugs. “I’m not joking, Marcie.”

  “Man. What did your parents say?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Cara?”

  He shakes his head.

  I knew it. This is nuts.

  Picture Cara’s face, twisted in confusion. Morgan’s academic career was always carved in stone.

  “So what? You figured you’d just work in a bookshop?”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  He’s testing me. It’s annoying.

  “Whatever. It’s your life.” I try to bite my tongue, but I can’t stop the question popping out. “Why though?”

  “Lots of reasons.”

  “But you only had a year left.”

  “Yeah. Another whole year of my life that I wasn’t up for wasting. I just knew I had to leave. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense to someone about to set off on their own version, but … what’s wrong?” he says, staring at me like my face is revealing something without me knowing.

  “Nothing’s wrong. And nobody knows?”

  “Just the admin secretary and you. And Nayimah.”

  “Who’s Nayimah?”

  “One of the other reasons.”

  “Man. Great name.”

  His whole body slumps. “Yeah.”

  I grab my mug.

  “This is too much information in one go. I need another coffee. You want a coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Are you OK, Marcie?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sorry to throw my shit on you. I’ll shut up.”

  “Morgan, I’m fine. Milk?”

  “No thanks, one sugar though. Is your dad upstairs? Shall I go up?”

  “Nope. You’ve got your first shop test.”

  I point at the shelf of records. “Choose the music.”

  Morgan looks at the turntable. “All vinyl?”

  “Yep,” I say, stepping out of the way.

  He runs his finger along the edge of the albums, then looks at me. “Sweet.”

  I shake my head.

  “Not if you pick the wrong one. We open up in five.”

  Stare at my punchbag.

  The desire to hit it with everything I’ve got vs the knowledge of how much it will hurt if I do. I give my cast a tap and a depth charge of pain ignites in my bone.

  This is it. Waiting.

  Wednesday will come. I’ll feel something. Something weird.

  Something I’ve never felt before. Then it’ll be over.

  I remember them speaking to us that first week. Temporary, they said. Made to fill a gap. Bridge a trauma. Don’t expect too much, they said. A set period of time. Short-lived, and then done.

  Temporary.

  Like anyone’s not?

  Who isn’t temporary? Who’s permanent?

  We all just brushed it off. Yeah, yeah, temporary. Whatever.

  Man, the end looks different when you’re close to it.

  Typewriter smiles.

  No. Not today. Not any more.

  Stop it.

  There’s no point. Not for me.

  No.

  So what?

  It’s not about me any more.

  It’s about her, isn’t it?

  Isn’t it?

  Fuzzy, plucked guitar, ghostly strings and scratches.

  Portishead’s “Mysterons”. The sounds transport me back. I’m standing up in a cot, my face pressed between the bars, watching Mum and Dad read on their bed.

  Morgan smiles. “So, do I pass?”

  I hand him his mug and sit down behind the till.

  “Decent.”

  He nods back like a little kid. “Thanks. Whose records are these, by the way?”

  “My parents’ mostly. Some of the newer ones are Diane’s.”

  “Diane?”

  “She used to work here.”

  “Right. So you grew up listening to this stuff?”

  “Yep.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. You always seemed … older.”

  He leans on the counter. “So I’m off to a good start?”

  I point at the door. “Not if the sign says ‘closed’.”

  I show him the till. The card machine. Stock search. He nods along, attentive and excited. And it’s cool. Nice even. I feel busy. Responsible.

  About half an hour after we open, the old guy who loves Diane shows up. Same sharp suit and crooked spine. Same lost stare. Morgan says hello. The old guy seems shocked, glancing at me like he wants me to give the OK. I smile and pretend to be busy. Morgan asks his name, and I feel so stupid for not asking him before. He says William or Walter or something else, then heads over to classic fiction.

  Not long after, a tall man with a baby strapped to
his chest walks in. The two of them are wearing matching navy-blue bucket hats, the baby facing out. We watch the pair of them scan the shop, four eyes moving like they all belong to one two-headed creature. Both heads tilt the same way when they notice my hair.

  “Morning,” says Morgan, stepping out from behind the counter. “Can I help?”

  “Maybe,” says the man. “I’m looking for something on mindfulness, for my wife.”

  Morgan looks back at me. I point to the back corner.

  “This way, please,” he says, walking round. The man and his baby follow as another customer walks in.

  It’s the DJ girl from Sean’s gig. Rumer. Why do I even remember her name?

  You’re not here.

  She smiles as she walks over. I look back at Morgan with the tall man, then start to neaten up the counter.

  “Nice place,” she says. She’s wearing a violet sweater that’s at the perfectly worn-in stage.

  “Thanks.” I say. Miles Davis’s name in my head. “Are you looking for something?”

  She smiles again.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know what it feels like?” Morgan says, biting into his panini on the sofa. “It feels like being in a sitcom.”

  I crunch my Monster Munch. We didn’t lock the shop for lunch. It’s fine with two people.

  “You know what I mean?” he says.

  “I guess. So you’d be the privileged guy who’s never had a job before?”

  “Very funny. And what about you? The kooky comic-book girl?”

  He smirks. “I remember, Marcie. You and your graphic novels. I’ve seen Ghost World, you know.” I laugh by accident and his smile widens.

  “So what was that girl after?” he says, and my body tenses.

  “What girl?”

  “The one who came in before, with the funky hair. I’m always intrigued by strangers’ book choices.”

  He’s not grilling me, he’s genuinely curious.

  “She just … she wanted something on Miles Davis. We didn’t have it.” I slide the Post-it note with Rumer’s number on it under the keyboard. “I said I’d call her if we got it in.”

  I swivel round and run my finger along the records.

  “What if you’ve messed up, Morgan?” I say. “What if you’ve pulled the plug on your future?”

  Morgan frowns. “Oh no. Is my future a bath?”

  “You know what I mean. What if you regret it?”

  “I do regret it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Twice a day. Once when I wake up in the morning and think, what the hell did I do? And then again just before I fall asleep and I think, seriously, what the hell did I do?”

  He takes another bite.

  “That sounds like a mistake to me,” I say.

  Morgan wipes his mouth. “Maybe. But at least it’ll be mine.”

  A shudder runs through me. “What did you say?”

  Morgan looks at me. “I said at least it’ll be mine. From the book?”

  I feel like I’m sinking into the stool.

  “Have you really not read it?” he says.

  I crunch another crisp to compose myself. “No.”

  There’s a silence. One of those two-people silences when you can feel the other person’s brain trying to choose the right words.

  Morgan looks at me. “Is it because it’s about your mum?”

  And an arrow hits my sternum. I look down and reach for another crisp, but the packet is empty. I feel like a zoo animal. A lonely panda sitting on a concrete slab, spotlight shining in my face, exposed to the glaring public. I don’t know what to say.

  “Not at all, shit stick.”

  You’re standing behind the sofa, looking down at him. Your left arm is in a cast and there’s a scratch on your forehead.

  “Tell him no, Marcie. And say it like you mean it.”

  Morgan’s still watching me, oblivious to you. I keep a straight face. “No.”

  I scrunch up the empty crisp packet. “When you live with the chef, the food’s never as impressive.”

  “Nice.” You nod your approval. “Now get rid of him.”

  You smile at me. I rub my fingers on my thighs and stand up. “I think we’re done for the day.”

  Morgan looks confused. “Done? But it’s only lunchtime.”

  “I know. Half-day to start. Ease you in.”

  I step out from behind the counter. Morgan looks at his half-finished sandwich. I walk to the door. “You can eat that on your way, right? I need to speak to Dad.”

  You’re nodding. Morgan stands up. “About me?”

  “Say yes.”

  I open the door. “Yeah, it’s kind of an appraisal thing. Discuss how you did, whether you fit the shop ethos.”

  “Ethos?” He picks up his jacket and walks over slowly. “But the shop doesn’t even have a name.”

  I nod. “True, but we don’t get hung up on names here. We have a certain vibe we’re going for. It’s very subtle, you know? A delicate chemistry.”

  I shepherd him through the door.

  “Shall I come back tomorrow then?” he says.

  I tap my chin. “Let me talk to Dad. We’ll let you know. I have your number, right?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Marcie, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Thanks, Morgan. Speak later.”

  I close the door and flip the sign. He waits for a moment, then pulls his jacket on and leaves.

  “That was good.”

  You’re still behind the sofa. You look tired.

  I lean back against the door. “Fighting yetis again?”

  You move your cast behind your back. “Not exactly.”

  “I’m still angry with you, Thor.”

  “I know. Lock the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Shop’s closed for the day.”

  “Yeah? I think the owner might have something to say about that.”

  You smile. “No you don’t.”

  I lock the door.

  “I don’t feel much like dancing.”

  You shake your head. “Me either.”

  “What then?”

  You point to the back room. “Unfinished commission. We don’t have much time.”

  You offer me your arm. “If you’d be so kind, m’lady.”

  You’re ten.

  It’s summer holidays. The front door is open and you’re sitting in the dip on the front step, sketchbook in your lap. Down the corridor, Coral is at the kitchen table, marking essays, Billie Holiday playing from the back-room stereo, the warm, soapy smell of laundry.

  I’m sitting on next-door’s silver bin. Legs crossed. Watching you draw.

  “Talons of a peregrine falcon,” you say, smiling as you move your pencil.

  Good choice, I say, and scratch my chest.

  “Your turn, Thor Baker.” Your hair is in a tight knot on top of your head. You’re wearing light blue dungarees over a white T-shirt. The street is quiet.

  “Wings of a pteranodon,” I say. You frown.

  I lift my chin, proud and spread my arms. Wingspan over six metres.

  You smile.

  “You’re smart, Thor Baker.” You start on the wings.

  And the body of a robot! I add. You outline the body without even looking up. I am beaming. Everything is perfect.

  “I’m going to be a comic-book artist,” you say. “I will draw all day.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say. “What about the head?”

  You’re already starting it. I can see a snout.

  “What is it, Marcie?”

  You look up at me, squinting in the sunshine. “It’s a bear.”

  And it’s the best idea I have ever heard.

  Watching you feels just as magical as it used to.

  Your hand leads the pen over the wall like they’re dancing, leaving a trail of wet, shiny black as they go. The line that you started becomes the edge of the tower block. It takes up most of the wall. The grid of windows. Leyland’s shack and
the aerials on the roof. The Ferris wheel.

  I describe details, but you’re almost ahead of me, like you’re reading my mind. You layer the background with other buildings and make-believe structures. A monochrome skyline of the not real.

  You finish adding the final line of an aerial and step back, pushing the top back on to the pen. The high window casts a strip of yellow on to the tops of the buildings that looks like the sharp city sky.

  You sit down on the bed next to me and we both take in the wall.

  I nod.

  You take a deep breath. “There’s more, right?”

  You look at the wall to our left where the sofa used to be.

  I nod again.

  “Yep.”

  You roll you head back against your shoulders and twist your wrists.

  “Good.”

  I don’t want to stop.

  I wish the wall stretched out forever and I could never run out of ink.

  It feels like the pen is leading me. Like there’s music playing somewhere far away that only it can hear, and I’m just along for the ride.

  The lamp is on and the shadows have come to life. The city feels 3D.

  You describe buildings, shapes, and it’s like I can see them. Windows and bricks. Scales and ladders. Weird and wonderful structures that make no sense, but perfect sense, and as I draw it feels like I’m falling forward, letting things go. Flying through time.

  “It’s grand but not scary,” you say as I curve the lines of a path.

  “Like Wayne Manor?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But she lives in the shed?” I draw the curved arch of a main doorway.

  “She doesn’t like privilege.”

  I stop and look at you. You shrug. “She’s complicated.”

  I start a new line. “I like the sound of her.”

  I hear Dad coming down the stairs. You cross your legs on the bed and look at me, letting me know you’re not going anywhere. I nod, letting you know I agree.

  He’s got his jacket on, and shoes, and he’s happy.

  “Where you off to?” I say. “What time is it?”

  “Don’t know. Just to the garage. Holy shit! What’s this?”

  He steps in, checking out the walls. I look at you.

  “Fridge City,” you say, smiling.

  I put the top back on my pen. “It’s Fridge City.”

  Dad scans the pictures, drinking in details, smiling like a little boy. “It’s incredible!”

  A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, and I look down.

  “Get your head up, Marcie. Right now.”