Nobody Real

by Steven Camden

Cement in my stomach. Two parts guilt. One part relief.

  “Stupid books.”

  You’re standing behind the other garden chair.

  “They’re so smug. Ooh, look at us, we’re so clever. Too clever for you: you wouldn’t understand us.”

  “They’re not people, Thor.”

  “They don’t do anything.” You sit down. “They just sit there, waiting for you to pick them up and do all the work. Hundreds and hundreds of pages, just to get to the exact same two words. The End.” Your face seems to flicker. “Gimme a rock. Or a bat. Something useful. Something solid.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I had to finish something, at work.”

  “And is it done?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I look at you. “What’s going to happen, Thor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’ll be with me, right?”

  “Marcie, I …”

  Then you’re gone.

  Then you’re back.

  Like a jump in a film. A skipped frame. “Thor …”

  You look at me. “Marcie.”

  And disappear.

  Spread out on your landing.

  And I can’t move.

  Watching the fireflies hover above me, it feels like there’s a double-decker bus on my chest.

  Tell myself to stay calm. It’s fine. I’m already on the floor so I can’t fall. This will pass. Your face.

  You’ll be with me, right?

  Oh, Marcie. Why don’t you know?

  The fade is here.

  Deep breaths.

  I need to be clever. Limit my time.

  I reach out and touch your door. Want to get back to you.

  But not now. I’m too weak.

  I need to get home.

  I watch the empty chair, waiting for you to reappear.

  What was that? Are you OK?

  Look at my empty hand.

  Gimme a rock. Or a bat. Something useful. Like a pen?

  I reach into the box file and take out the letter from Mum.

  The faded postmark. My name.

  What will I say to her?

  “Hungry?”

  Coral’s holding a brown chicken-shop bag, leaning in the patio doorway, trouser suit matching her handbag. My Coral. Respected university psychology lecturer, with a chicken-shop loyalty card.

  I drop the letter on top of the box file and push it under my seat.

  “Day off?” she says.

  “Wanted to pick up a few things.”

  “Me too. They start on the ceiling tomorrow.” She sits down where you were.

  “Coral, listen …”

  “Shhh. Let’s not.” She takes out a flame-covered, family-sized box of chicken and smiles. “I got you wings.”

  “It’s good for you both,” she says. “Quality time.”

  I nod. The garden is almost fully in shadow, just a thin wedge of light down near the tree.

  “He’s finished a first chapter.”

  “That’s great. Maybe you’re the muse this time.” She smiles.

  I picture Dad, hunched over the typewriter, furiously tapping like the world is about to end.

  “I didn’t understand all the fuss, to be honest,” Coral says, shaking her head. “Maybe it’s the big sister in me.”

  I wipe my mouth. “I’ve never read it.”

  “Good for you.”

  We both stare down the garden. I can just make out Dad’s masterpiece in the shady grass.

  “I guess it was my way of getting him back,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “For letting her go.”

  “Oh, Marcie.” Coral’s maternal smile. “What a silly mess they made.”

  I look down between my feet at the letter. One line. Seven words. From a stranger.

  Coral closes the lid on the box of bones. “They were so young.”

  I twist my napkin in my fingers.

  “Is it us, in the story, Coral? Is it our lives?”

  “No. Yes. In a way.” She cleans between her fingers with a wet wipe. “Through the jumbled-up lens of a man who didn’t get the answers he wanted, so made them up.”

  “So it is about her?”

  “In part, yes, his version. He gave as good as he got, Mars, trust me. Those two. Man oh man. Artists …” She gestures, one hand moving down, the other moving up. “Two manic people only really meet when they’re heading in opposite directions.”

  “Artists?”

  A gentle breeze lifts the edges of the spare napkins. Coral stares off into a memory.

  “They used to call me ‘doc’. Laugh at me for studying so much while they hung out, quoting poets, smoking and listening to Led Zeppelin. Like I wasn’t allowed to ‘understand’ Miles Davis because I was academic.” She rolls her eyes. “They were so full of it, Mars.”

  “What if I found her, Coral? What if I knew where she was?”

  The last sliver of sunlight slips behind the house, and Coral’s expression turns harsh.

  “She left, Marcie. He stayed.”

  And I feel the fight rise in me. “What? Like he deserves a medal for that? Like that’s not just what he’s supposed to do? He’s my father, Coral.”

  “And she was your mother.” The air turns colder. One punch each.

  Whoever strikes next sets the tone. It’s her. “My love, it’s not a defeat to accept something you can’t change. Do you understand? It’s a strength.” She taps the table. “The man is flawed, Marcie, in many, many ways. But he loves you, more than anything.”

  I nod.

  “Look at me, Marcie.”

  I do. And her eyes are the same as that first night. Full of fire and love. “We can’t blame empty space. We can only blame who we can see.”

  She offers her hand. I take it.

  “My career was everything to me. Everything. Making a name for myself at the university, respect in the department. A woman has to work twice as hard in academia, I know you know that, and a black woman? I got to a point where having children felt like a ship that had sailed, you know? And then you came along and showed me what family is.”

  Her smile is shaking.

  Coral Baker.

  Doctor of psychology.

  Surrogate mother.

  Sure and strong. How much of her is in me?

  “I love you, Coral.” The words march out of my mouth. And she cries.

  Squeezing my fingers, she cries the kind of tears a mother cries when her child leaves home. “You’re going to do amazing things, Marcie Baker. You are special. Always have been.”

  She wipes her eyes with her free hand.

  “Coral,” I say.

  Can you see me, Thor? Everything is happening.

  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  There’s nothing as scary as feeling weak.

  Slumped in my seat, riding the empty six back to Central, that’s exactly what I feel. Like my body isn’t fully under my control. Like somebody turned all my senses down, muffling the world.

  Even the click-clack of the carriage wheels, that sounds so familiar, has taken on a different life. The steady rhythm of a turning grindstone now feels like the amplified, irregular beat of my own heart.

  The fireflies are hovering in front of me again. I try to swat them, but my paws feel numb. I watch my arms moving as though they’re separate from the rest of me, then my right paw passes straight through my left and a spike of cold terror shoots through me.

  I shake my head and try again. This time my pads touch and I grip tightly, squeezing hard in relief.

  The train pulls into Needle Park and the doors open.

  I press the seat either side of me, steadying myself.

  The old hunchback guy steps on. Must’ve clocked off early.

  He sits opposite and I see him smile through the cloud of spots. I nod, moving my paws to my lap as the doors close and the train starts to move.

  “How long?”

  I
hear the words without his mouth even moving. Did he speak?

  “Yes. I did.” Again, his mouth doesn’t move, but his voice is in my head, old and soft like low piano keys. “I’m Warren, Thor.”

  How does he know my name?

  He smiles and leans forward, the hump between his shoulders showing itself. I think about tomorrow, your bedroom floor, that first night.

  Warren gives a serious nod. “Of course. Soon.” He’s reading my mind. Speaking without speaking. He can hear my thoughts. All this time?

  All these years?

  And suddenly I’m sinking down into my seat. Through it. My feet and legs are disappearing into the floor of the carriage, an empty cold seeping through all of me.

  I reach out to Warren, filling with fear. Help.

  Warren takes my paws, gripping my wrists, and his touch is the only definite thing in the world.

  “It’s the fade.”

  He lifts his chin, straining, and there’s a kind of ripping sound, like cloth being torn, then his shoulders burst through his coat. Thick black stumps like horns, moving, growing. He’s not a hunchback.

  He has wings.

  His face contorted in pain, he rolls his shoulders back and long, glossy black feathers fan out either side of his thick body, each wing more than twice the length of him.

  He starts pulling, and my body lifts, sliding out of the chair like the sword from the stone. I look into his eyes and his voice is crystal clear in my head. “Home.”

  Then he bursts up, dragging me with him, smashing through the roof of the train.

  In and out of consciousness.

  Cool air and thin cloud all around me. Passing through me.

  The dull beat of Warren’s wings.

  I am falling forward through time.

  A sense of nothingness. Of air.

  Freedom.

  This is what it feels like to fly.

  We touch down on the roof.

  The disappointment of no longer flying is beaten down by the relief that my legs and feet feel solid again. I ball my fists and bang my paws together.

  “It will come in waves,” says Warren, wings swaying slightly either side of him. “You should go to bed.”

  I take a deep breath, and nod. “Thank you.”

  Warren smiles. “If you can’t let go, you’ll never fly.”

  He climbs up on to the ledge, and he takes off.

  Heavy black wings beating the air.

  Higher and higher.

  A dark shape, shrinking into the sky.

  Lock the shop door and breathe.

  Coral’s face when I told her. Shock turning into disbelief, morphing into anger, settling on concern. She didn’t like it but she understands.

  She wants to understand.

  Calvin scampers in from the back. I bend down to meet her, the box file tucked under my arm, then Morgan steps from behind the central pillar and I scream like Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower scene.

  Calvin spins round and darts back out.

  “No! Sorry! It’s just me. It’s Morgan.”

  He’s holding up one hand, the other pressing a tea towel against his head.

  “Jesus, Morgan. What happened? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry, Marcie. I didn’t know what to do.”

  I know it’s Dad before he says anything else. He wobbles to the till stool and sits down.

  I walk over and see a decent, egg-sized lump above his right eye, a small lightning bolt of red right in the centre. The tea towel has a patch of blood and there’s spatters on his T-shirt.

  “Holy shit! Are you OK?”

  Morgan checks the tea towel, then puts it back against the bump.

  “I’m all right. It’s stopped bleeding now.”

  “Let me see.”

  I step behind the counter and he moves the towel again.

  “Shit, Morgan. Are you dizzy? Did you throw up?”

  “No. I’m fine, seriously. It was my fault.”

  I lean on the counter. “What did he do?”

  Morgan dabs his lump with the towel. “Marcie, really, I shouldn’t have intruded. He was working.” I feel my blood bubbling as he pushes hair away from his face.

  “I came to see you really. To say sorry, for yesterday,” he says.

  “There’s no need.”

  “I wanted to. I was out of order prying. It’s none of my business. But you weren’t here. I knocked and rang the bell, but you didn’t come, so I was just gonna go when your dad came down.”

  “Was he mad?”

  “No. No, he was fine. Made me a coffee and everything. He said he didn’t know where you’d gone. I offered to watch the shop while he carried on working.”

  “It was really quiet, just that old guy Warren in the suit. He stayed a while, then left. Then I hear this crash, from upstairs. Then another one. Like a table being flipped or something, and stomping, and I didn’t know what to do. I mean, it’s a solitary thing, right? Writing? Somebody’s process is their process, especially someone as talented as he is. I mean, who am I to interfere?”

  He lowers the towel. The skin of the lump has that stretched shine to it.

  “But then it goes quiet and I hear something else.” A concerned look fills his eyes. “I think he was crying, Marcie.”

  Morgan looks down guiltily, like he committed a crime just by witnessing one of Dad’s swings.

  “Is he upstairs?” I say.

  Morgan nods. “I haven’t heard anything since I came back down.” He shrugs. “That was about an hour ago.”

  “I’m so sorry, Morgan. Do you want me to come with you to A&E?”

  “No. I’m good. Honestly. Just a bit of a headache. It was a good-sized ashtray. I mean, I should’ve ducked really. He’s a good shot, man.”

  He gives a weak smile. I shake my head. “He’s an idiot.”

  “What’s that?”

  He’s pointing at my box file. I move it behind my back. “Nothing. Just old ideas.”

  Morgan smiles. “They’re usually the best ones.”

  I look towards the stairs. Johnny Cash stares at me blankly.

  “Wait here,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  He’s huddled in the corner, between the sofa and the wall.

  The table is on its side again, typewriter and paper splashed on to the floor. The ashtray is near my feet in the doorway, a jagged glass planet circled by dark ash and crumpled butts.

  Brown streaks of coffee have dried on the window, a dirty filter on the end of the day.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Dad looks over. “Is he OK?”

  “No, Dad. You threw a glass ashtray at his face.”

  “I didn’t mean to hit him. I just threw it, and he was there.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then.”

  “Mars …”

  “I’m taking him to the hospital for an X-ray.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “No, you won’t, I’m embarrassed enough already. You can give me some money for a taxi.”

  His head goes down. “There’s cash in my jacket pocket.”

  I go to the coat hooks and pull out a handful of crumpled notes. Calvin walks in like she’s here to dust for prints. I look round the room.

  “You ever wonder whether it’s worth it, Dad?”

  He heaves himself up and sits on the sofa. “All the time. Sometimes I wish I could just turn it off—” he bangs his forehead with his palm – “stop myself living in here.”

  I take a step towards him, then remember Morgan is downstairs.

  “Dad …”

  “I deserve it, Mars.” He looks at me. “I deserve it all.”

  And I want to hit him. I want to run over to the sofa and smack him right in his self-absorbed, tortured-author face. Do it, Marcie, you’d say if you were here. Do it right now.

  I stare at him, the urge to smash something boiling inside my chest. Dad shakes his head, lost. “She wanted to leave, Mars.” His eyes are
filling with tears. “What could I do?”

  My hands ball into fists, strangling the notes. Choking the life out of something. Anything.

  “People do what they want, Dad, remember?”

  I stuff the money into my jeans pocket and look down at him.

  “And weak people do nothing.”

  Calvin miaows. I point at her. “Feed the cat.”

  And I leave.

  You’re watching a young nurse shine a light into Morgan’s eye.

  You repeat the story you told the woman at reception, that you were chasing him, messing around, and that he hit his head on the corner of a shelf. The nurse gives Morgan a disappointed look, then tells him he has a mild concussion. No stitches are needed, but it will be tender for a few days. He gives him a cold pack and lets you go.

  You accidentally step together into the revolving doors and have to shuffle slowly round, his body squeezed against yours.

  You get into one of the black cabs waiting near the ambulance bays. The taxi driver thinks you’re a couple. You both look out of your own window, embarrassed. Morgan tells him you are old friends, and it feels nice. The driver looks at Morgan and makes a distasteful joke about domestic violence. Neither of you laugh.

  Your phone beeps. It’s a text from Cara saying they’re halfway home, she has had the best day ever with Sean and that she has news.

  You wonder what you will say to her when you see her tomorrow. You think of what you said to Coral, but that was different.

  This is Cara. The girl with the plan.

  Morgan asks you if you’re OK.

  You stare out at the dark dual carriageway. The snake of regular street lights curving away into the night.

  You feel the crackle in your stomach. And tell him everything.

  I don’t write, like Dad.

  I draw.

  I scratch out what I see in my head. Press carbon on to paper. It makes more sense.

  Words feel too small. Too narrow.

  But sometimes I like to try.

  I think I’m five.

  Sitting against the inside railing of the park bandstand, I’m watching her dance in the middle. She spins and dips like only dancers can, twisting and falling; her body moves like a leaf caught in a breeze, her long brown hair trailing and rippling like a gymnast’s ribbon.

  It’s late afternoon and there’s nobody else around. The shadows of the bandstand pillars look like dark trees on the floor. I want to tell her it looks like she’s dancing through a forest, that it’s like watching a fairy tale, but her eyes are closed and I’m scared to break the moment.