Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

  So I do. And my embarrassment melts, leaving just the fledgling glow of pride.

  “Thanks,” I say, looking at you.

  Dad steps to the wall and traces a dry line with his fingertip.

  “Mars, it’s so good. I love it!” He looks at me. “And who lives in Fridge City?”

  You smile from the bed and wink at me.

  I shrug. “All sorts.”

  Dad pats me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. “It makes me so happy seeing you create.”

  And I feel close to him. My idiot artist father.

  “Double celebration then!” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Even more need for ice cream!”

  “Why?”

  Dad grins. “I think I finished my first chapter.”

  “Loads,” you say, through a mouthful of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie.

  I lick the back of the spoon and scoop out a fresh chunk.

  “But these ones are the main places you go?”

  You nod, digging a claw into the tub.

  Dad’s upstairs with his Cookies and Cream, reading over his first new full chapter in seven years. We’re on the floor, backs against the bed, looking over at eight hours’ work. My hand and wrist ache. The skin on my middle finger is raw from pen pressure. And I love it.

  A small shed in front of a mansion, an empty corridor, a fountain that looks like a rocket, an empty, tattered train carriage, the corner of a warehouse, the tower block and your picture of Coral’s house fill the foreground of the two walls. Behind them, a backdrop collage of dragons and water slides, castles and bridges stretching away, as though I could stand up and walk right into the city. It’s pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

  “Fridge City.”

  “Yep.”

  “With your friends?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Sean right now. In the kitchen. Or on the patio. Looking at Jordan. Looking at Cara.

  Trying to figure it out.

  “Did it work, Thor?”

  You spoon a brown glacier into your mouth. “Guess we’ll see.”

  You bang your forehead, trying to fight the brain freeze.

  “Will you be in trouble for sharing all this with me?” I say.

  You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for your brain to thaw. “Probably.” You hand me the spoon. “Doesn’t matter though.”

  “Why not?”

  You point at the walls. “This is your thing, Marcie. This is you.”

  I stare at the picture. The feeling of magic. Of purpose.

  “Maybe.”

  There are the scratching sounds of tiny claws on the hallway linoleum, then Calvin bounds into the room like she’s leading a carnival procession. She goes straight for the tub. I lift it out of her reach. “Not for you, monster.”

  You scrape some out with a claw and offer it to her. She hesitates, then starts licking.

  “You’re a bad influence, Thor Baker.”

  You smile. “I am what you made me.”

  Calvin finishes cleaning your claw and starts bouncing like she’s ready to go to war. I point to her scratching post. “Destroy!” She runs over to it and starts raining the pain, and I’m wishing I was a cat so bad.

  “It’s a big deal, right –” you point upstairs – “finishing a chapter?”

  “Huge,” I say, “and no flying furniture must mean he still likes it.”

  “Cool. You being close helps him.”

  I take another spoonful and feel Mum’s name float into the room like a lost fairground balloon.

  “Do you think I was a bit harsh with Morgan? He didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Who cares? It’s none of his business.”

  You dig in the tub again.

  “I can talk about her, Thor.”

  You eat.

  “It’s not like she’s some kind of forbidden topic.”

  You shrug and eat more.

  “It’s weird to people,” I say. “From the outside, it doesn’t make sense.”

  Calvin stops her attack and stretches out. You hand me the tub. There’s only a shallow crater of ice cream left. “Doesn’t make that much sense from the inside either.”

  Quiet.

  “When will you tell him?”

  “Not yet.”

  I drop the spoon into the tub.

  “What if it’s a mistake, Thor?”

  I stare at your wobbly drawing of Coral’s house. I can hear you breathing.

  I can hear you thinking. And you know I’m thinking the same thing.

  At least it’ll be mine.

  “He did it!”

  “Car? What time is it?”

  “It’s late. Early. Who cares? Can you hear me OK?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He kissed me, Mars!”

  “What?”

  “He kissed me! On the mouth! I kissed him! We kissed!”

  “Who did?”

  “What does that mean? Who do you think? Sean!”

  “Sean?”

  “It was perfect, Mars!”

  “When?”

  “Earlier. Last night. After the fire.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone to get the blanket and drinks – we’re gonna watch the sun rise. You should see it. It’s incredible.”

  “Wow.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “No, I mean it’s great! What about Jordan?”

  “Jordan? Did Sean call you?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know …?”

  “I don’t know anything. What happened?”

  “He tried it on.”

  “Jordan?”

  “Yeah. I told you he’s been weird since we got here, right? Like real forward. Like all of a sudden he fancies me.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “He didn’t say anything; that’s why it was confusing. We went out on his mum’s fella’s boat in the afternoon – him, me, Sean, Mya, Luke and Leia – and we’re just floating or whatever, and he’s getting all touchy and stuff. Acting like we’re three couples or something, like me and him, we’re a thing. Anyway, I told him to back off. He got all arsey. Sean stepped in. They start arguing.”

  “On the boat?”

  “Yeah. Not like, full on, but then, when we get back and we’re making dinner, they start arguing again in the garden and the next thing you know they’re proper going for it.”

  “Fighting?”

  “Yeah! Luke had to break it up. It was crazy.”

  “Why were they fighting?”

  “Because of me!”

  “What?”

  “Exactly! Crazy! Turns out Jordan likes me, or whatever, and Sean thought I liked him.”

  “Jordan?”

  “Yeah, I know! Anyway, who cares? He likes me! Sean likes me! He’s liked me for a while!”

  “And then he kissed you?”

  “No. Later. When it all calmed down. After the fire. He likes me! Can you believe it? Mars?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah. That’s great.”

  “I feel like I’m dreaming! I’m on the beach right now. The light is just … wow! I wish you could see it. Did you get the photos?”

  “What photos?”

  “I WhatsApped photos. Put WhatsApp on your phone.”

  “OK.”

  “Are you all right? You sound sad.”

  “No. I’m just. Tired.”

  “I’m taking a picture of this sky right now. It’s like some next-level kind of orange. We’re driving back tonight.”

  “Right.”

  “Aren’t you gonna say anything else? I kissed Sean, Mars. It might be a thing! Can you believe it?”

  “Course I can. I always did. Listen, Car—”

  “Oh, I can see him – he’s coming back. I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? Love you. It’s so perfect! Bye.”

  I put my phone on
the floor and stare at the wall, my eyes still adjusting to the light.

  Your tower block is pale and flat. Everything is quiet.

  “It worked,” I say.

  You reach your heavy bear arm around me. I’m the little spoon.

  I squeeze your paw to my chest, pressing my back against you.

  “You knew it would.”

  I stroke your fur. Feel you breathing. “You OK?”

  I close my eyes.

  “I don’t even know.”

  Dad’s hunched over the typewriter like he’s whispering to the keys. From behind, the string of cigarette smoke makes it look like his hair has caught fire. Burning with ideas.

  “Still going good?” I say.

  Dad gives a blind thumbs-up with one hand, still typing with the other.

  Calvin comes skidding out of the kitchen and rubs herself against my ankles.

  I scoop her up and go to the kitchen.

  As I spoon dark granules on to a new filter, I picture Cara and Sean kissing. The glow of the fire dancing on their skin. His hand on her face. Her hand on his chest. And I feel a weight. A heaviness. As though gravity decided to concentrate specifically on me. Pulling me down, from inside.

  Truth hurts.

  The dirty dishes in the sink look like the skeleton of an animal. Tiny smears of food on the bones. “I need to go back to the house, Dad, pick up a few things. No shop today.”

  I fill Calvin’s bowl with dry kitten food and top up her water. “Dad?”

  Dad doesn’t respond.

  I wash two mugs, pour black coffees, and leave one next to him on my way back to the stairs.

  Sun beats down on the guts of the house.

  The sky is a perfect HD blue-screen, swiped with animal clouds and vapour trails.

  I sit in Coral’s armchair, surrounded by waist-high piles of rubble.

  To my left, the stairs are now open-air. The entire outer shell is gone: no front, back or roof. Only the central wall behind me, and the perpendicular, load-bearing wall, keep the upstairs landing in place. Your bedroom door is now the highest point of the structure.

  It’s like somebody pulled all the petals off a house-sized concrete flower, leaving just the chipped brick stamen.

  Last night was perfect.

  Watching you draw. Lying with you.

  Being there.

  One more day, Marcie.

  One more day.

  I watch a plane cut a straight line aiming this way.

  How many people on board? Where are they going?

  Three hundred miles per hour looks like a snail’s pace from down here.

  Why have I never left the city?

  Truth is, I didn’t want to be far, in case I was called. Like a tiny part of me always knew it would happen, through all the years.

  Maybe I will now. Maybe, when the dust settles, I’ll get on a plane and fly somewhere else. Somewhere new.

  Reset.

  Restart.

  The plane keeps coming. Sure of its path.

  How far will they go? What will they see?

  Is it getting lower?

  Her hands are by her sides, dark hood billowing behind her head.

  She raises her arms like she’s on a crucifix and pushes her feet out in front, treading the air to slow down, then hovers above the house across the street.

  I clap. “Impressive.”

  Blue puts her hands in my old hoodie pockets and floats down across the street towards me, walking in the air, not breaking stride as she steps on to the thin landing strip of dusty brown carpet.

  “You’ve been busy,” she says.

  “Nearly done.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  “Course.”

  She holds her hand out and the rubble-covered sofa lifts up and tilts. Broken bricks and plaster tumble to the floor. She waves left, and the sofa turns in the air, under her control, then sets down next to me.

  “Not a bad way to travel,” I say.

  She brushes dust off the sofa arm and sits close.

  “Beats the train.”

  Shards of glass dotted in the rubble twinkle like diamonds. I lean forward and pick up a chunk of pale brick.

  “It used to piss me off so much, you know? Like, why would you make me and not have me fly?”

  I toss the brick on to the nearest pile.

  “We’ve all got our gifts,” says Blue, crossing her legs. “My thing was always, how come we can even see each other? All these different makers, these separate minds, and yet I’m here talking to you in the same space? Nobody could ever explain that.”

  “I asked the same thing. Leyland told me it’s because they’re all connected. They don’t always think they are, but they are. Shared memories. Instincts. All the stuff they don’t understand about their brains. I guess it makes sense.”

  “Maybe. How old is he now?”

  “I don’t actually know. Old enough to talk in pure proverbs with a straight face.”

  Blue smiles. “That’ll be you soon enough.”

  The faint sound of a siren wails somewhere back in town. The air is heavy with a sense of ending.

  “It’s tomorrow, right?” she says.

  I nod.

  “Does she know?”

  I turn and look at her. “She has no idea.”

  “They don’t realise the power they have, Thor. Any of them.”

  I close my eyes and feel you in my arms, your fingers stroking my paw.

  “Probably better that way.”

  “And are you ready?”

  Open my eyes. “Does it matter?”

  A cloud shaped like a sausage dog floats in front of the sun.

  “And has it felt different, this time?” she says.

  “Yeah. Now she knows what she wants.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Time. She wants time, for herself. For ideas. For not following plans.”

  “And you’re helping her get it?”

  “I’m helping her try.”

  Blue stares into her lap. “You love her, don’t you?”

  Your smile as you draw. Back then. Last night.

  “Yeah.”

  Blue nods to herself. I hold out my paw.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be what you want, Blue.”

  She looks at me. “I know you are.”

  She takes my paw and we sit, among the rubble.

  Old friends who don’t need to speak.

  “Do you remember the oath?” she says after a while.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought it this morning, haven’t done that for years. Just making a coffee and I realise I’m speaking the words. Funny, right?”

  “It’s ingrained in all of us, Blue.”

  “Yeah,” she squeezes my paw. “Good luck, Baker.”

  She lets go and stands up. “Come find me when you feel like a trip out to the river. I’ll buy the chicken.”

  The cloud passes and everything washes golden.

  “You’re too good for me, Princess Blue.”

  Blue smiles. “I know.”

  She floats up, until her feet are as high as where the ceiling should be, then shoots away like a firework.

  It’s too quiet.

  Like nobody has lived here for years.

  Standing in the dark hall, I breathe in memories. Dad’s face, waving goodbye. Coral on her knees, hugging me tight, pinning my arms to my sides.

  I stare at the stairs. Stare at the stairs. Homophone.

  Hold out my hand and stroke the wall as I climb.

  The bathroom door is on its side across the doorway to stop people falling.

  I lean in through the frame and stare down into the kitchen. The bath, smashed table and all the rubble have been cleared out ready to start the rebuild. Like the prep before surgery.

  A graft of new floorboards.

  I take out my phone and hold it over the edge, the urge to drop it swelling inside me.

  Just to see if it would smash.

&n
bsp; My room feels smaller somehow.

  I flop on to my bed and look up at my map.

  Coral helping me pin it up, pointing out how misleading it was. How Britain was only a third of the area of France in real life, but on a map is made to look the same size.

  “Same old imperial mindset, Mars.”

  Her stern face, thinking about white European colonialism.

  Me nodding, thinking about Star Wars.

  I smile to myself as I reach underneath the bed.

  It’s crazy that a box file feels like a safe place to keep important things. It has no real lock. No elaborate booby-trap defences. It’s just a cuboid of cardboard, built to hold paper. Tracing the edge of it in my lap, I look up at my shelves.

  Top two: graphic novels, comics and manga. The maroon letters of 100 Bullets. The yellow and black of Lady Snowblood. Middle shelf: favourites. Books I’ve read multiple times. The Outsiders. Marcelo in the Real World. The Basketball Diaries. Broken Soup. Bottom two shelves: everything else. Stuff from Dad. James Baldwin. Margaret Atwood. Raymond Carver. Murakami. Jean Rhys. Some I’ve read. Some I’ve tried to read.

  How many hours? How many characters? How many worlds?

  All of them ready, whenever I am.

  And there.

  Bottom right corner. Last one along. Thin grey spine.

  Like one rotten tooth, waiting to be pulled.

  The only one I’ve never opened.

  But can’t get rid of.

  The house casts its shadow down the lawn.

  I lean forward in the garden chair, box file between my feet, Dad’s book in my hands.

  The front cover is mostly empty grey space with the title at the top and, at the bottom, half a street-light bulb, the filament burned out red, and one quote.

  “Striking.”

  – the Independent

  The back cover shows the other half of the bulb and the corner of a flat, tarred roof.

  Written in the grey sky in white:

  The real us lives in dark corners.

  Seven words, courier font.

  It’s not much thicker than an exercise book. The smooth matt finish and perfectly unbent edges satisfying to stroke. As a thing, an object, it’s kind of gorgeous.

  I stand up.

  Arm back. Loaded. Ready.

  And I throw.

  The pages flutter briefly as the book arcs through the air. For a moment, it seems to hang. A dark, rectangular bird against the sky. Then it falls, spiralling down, and hits the grass next to the old dead tree.