Nobody Real

Three more years of study. Beep.

The foundation for a life. Beep. For what?

Can of Coke.

For who?

Can of Coke.

Hold it. Look at the rest of the stuff in my 5p carrier bag. Shop noise and an auto-tuned pop chorus. Work, work, work, work, work, work.

Can of Coke.

Rest of my life.

Can of Coke.

What have I—

“Do it.”

You’re standing behind me, half your face reflected in the screen.

“Please scan an item, or press finish to pay.” The robotic teacher voice of the till.

My heart.

The businessman waiting behind me is head down in his phone.

Stare at the can in my hand. Look at our reflection. Smiling. The crackle in my stomach.

I press finish, resting the can on the edge of the barcode glass as I feed a ten-pound note into the machine. The whir. The guy with the tattoos is helping the old woman with the rest of her stuff. His back is turned. My change falls into the plastic tray like fruit-machine winnings.

I lift the bag off the scales and put the stolen can inside, scoop out my change and walk away, leaving my receipt.

Scattered pensioners, filing in and out of the charity shops.

I can feel you over my right shoulder as I walk. This side of the street has the shade.

Push my phone on to vibrate and hold it to my ear like I’m making a call.

“That was so stupid,” I say as I pass Subway and catch a waft of vacuum-packed vomit.

“Felt good though, right?”

I don’t look at you. “What do you want, Thor?”

You move closer. “What do you want, shoplifter?”

I swerve to pass a shuffling old man wearing three different shades of pastel blue.

“I’m not a kid any more,” I say.

“Neither am I.”

You step up so you’re level with me. “Tell me that didn’t feel good though.”

I stop walking.

“It didn’t feel good.”

You shake your head.

“So why are you smiling?”

Then my phone vibrates for real and slips out of my hand. I scramble to catch it, smacking my shopping bag on the pavement and nearly falling over as the phone lands in my palm.

“Nice catch.” You stand there, clapping your paws.

Cara’s face, beaming out from my phone screen.

I stand up straight and compose myself. “This is a bad idea, Thor.”

You nod.

“Probably.”

And then you’re gone.

The old man tips his sky-blue flat cap as he slowly steps through the space where you were.

I nod back, then answer the call.

“Marcie! It’s a full house tonight!”

Cara’s dad Ken always greets me like I’m an old schoolfriend he hasn’t seen for years.

He’s a graphic designer and he looks like one. Bald like he did it on purpose, he’s got that flawless, poreless, older man skin that says water filters and gym membership. He’s holding an expensive-looking tea towel.

“Full house?”

Ken nods. “Morgan’s here. Hungry?”

It smells amazing. Don’t think I’ve ever been to Cara’s house and Ken hasn’t been cooking. I’ve had so many foods for the first time here. Wild boar. Quinoa. Pickled herring.

“Her highness is upstairs working on a new video. Dinner in a hour, OK?”

“OK, Ken. Thank you.”

And he’s off, back towards their massive kitchen, expensive tea towel over his shoulder, leaving me to close the front door, like I’m family.

Cara already has the tripod and camera set up when I knock and walk in. She’s checking her camera angles, deliberating over which pillows to have in shot.

“I’m not dressing up, Car.”

Cara stops fluffing pillows. “Who said anything about dressing up?”

I throw my jacket over the back of her 1970s super-villain swivel chair.

Cara’s room is like a cross between an FBI investigation wall and a retro furniture shop. The walls are collages of magazine articles, photographs and old B-movie posters. I always think of people’s bedrooms being like the inside of their head. Cara’s is busy and full, but organised. She was made for her journalism degree. Her hair’s tied up in a stubby ponytail and she’s wearing her pre-planned “I just threw anything on” outfit for the camera: black leggings and one of Morgan’s old sweaters.

“Morgan’s home?”

“Apparently,” she says.

“That’s early, no?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him. Been in his room since he got back. If he’s home early, he must be broke.”

“I haven’t seen him for ages,” I say.

Cara cuts me a disapproving look on her way to her backstage-style dresser.

“Don’t worry, you can stare longingly into his eyes over dinner. That’s if he even comes down.”

“Shut up.”

I try to think of the last time I saw Morgan. Maybe the Christmas before last. He rarely comes home from university in London.

“Can’t we just hang out, Car?”

“We are hanging out.”

“Yeah, but I mean just do nothing. Exams are over. When was the last time we just did nothing?”

Cara looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.

Through her bedroom window, the sky is going dark. I picture the view from across the street. Camera on tripod, one girl fluffing pillows, getting ready, another standing nervously next to the bed. Some girls make thousands of pounds on their own in their rooms with their laptops.

“What accents can you do?” she says, pulling two bottles of what look like shampoo out of a yellow Selfridges bag, one seaweed green, one milk-chocolate brown.

“Accents? What are you talking about? What are they?”

Her face lights up.

“I had an idea.”

What started as a simple Year Ten drama project quite quickly evolved into Cara’s performance-art YouTube channel Jumblemind.

Jumblemind is basically a space where all of Cara’s social-commentary ideas are sporadically filmed and uploaded to an audience of 316 subscribers made up mostly of younger girls from school. Any little nugget of performance gold that’s been rattling around her head gets dumped out on film for her cult following’s consumption and, over the years, a high percentage of these nuggets have involved yours truly.

October 3rd 2014: “Genderrorists” – The two of us stand back to back, reading extracts from The Vagina Monologues in balaclavas.

February 9th 2015: “Pressure to Make Up” – Cara uses the latest, top-of-the-range L’Oréal products to paint my face to look like Heath Ledger’s Joker.

My personal favourite though was this time last year, when Cara just sat in front of the camera for ten minutes, stuffing an entire Black Forest gateau into her mouth and crying.

OMG! Don’t know why but can’t stop watching! So dumb but SOOO good! LOL!!!

– YouTube comment on “Gateau Tragic” from Trixabell496

“You’ll need to put your hair up,” she says. “There’s bobbles in the bedside drawer.”

“Car, what are we doing?”

“It’s a goodbye to school.” She holds up the bottles like she just won them in a raffle.

“Face-pack Shakespeare!”

The car still smells like new trainers.

Cara’s humming along to Lana Del Rey, effortlessly driving down dark streets towards mine, like she’s had her own taxi for twenty years.

It’s probably testament to her charm that getting a brand-new black Mini Cooper for her eighteenth birthday didn’t make me want to punch her in the face. I had the grand total of three empty supermarket driving lessons with Coral before we both decided I might be more suited to the passenger seat, for now.

“I can hear you thinking, you know,” she says.

“Imagine.”

“He’s such a dick.”

“Who is?”

“My brother. Can’t even come down to dinner? Locking himself away in his room? You know, I probably won’t even see him before he goes back. He hasn’t asked about the exams once. Nothing.”

“Maybe he’s busy.”

“Oh, shut up. Stop defending your prince.”

Her arm goes up to protect herself as she laughs. I just give her the finger.

“We could drive up to Leeds?” she says. “For the day, start getting to know our new home before September.” Excitement radiates off her as she speaks. It’s hard not to be drawn to someone who’s completely sure of what they want. “I could maybe even get Dad to sort a hotel. He gets things on account sometimes.” She pulls into the petrol station forecourt and parks next to the pump. The stereo display goes black as she turns off the engine, then flickers back to life.

High halogen floodlights turn up the contrast of the colours through the glass of the kiosk and make me think of that Edward Hopper painting, Nighthawks.

“Mars? Are you listening?”

“Did you ever have an imaginary friend?” I ask.

“An imaginary friend?”

“Yeah.”

“Like when I was a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Why?”

“No reason.”

“You did, blatantly, right?”

I shrug.

“Course you did,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can see it: you in the park, talking to an empty swing.”

“Thanks a lot, Car.”

“No, it’s a compliment. I wanted one. Some super-badass flying ninja princess goddess. I just never did it. Too busy writing pretend newspaper reports on my family. I would’ve been so jealous if I’d known you back then. An imaginary friend would’ve been amazing!”

“You think?”

“Yeah! Someone who gets you? Who you don’t have to pretend with? What was her name, your one?”

I squeeze my thumb in my lap.

“I don’t remember.”

Cara takes her purse from the tray under the stereo.

“No matter, you’ve got me now, eh?”

She smiles, then gets out.

I lean over so I can see into the rear-view mirror. The empty back seat.

Where are you right now, Thor Baker?

How many times have I stood in this lift?

Stared up at these numbers?

Ten years. A decade. Decayed.

Think of my first day. The day you made me. Crossing over after you fell asleep. Waiting in line. Filling out forms like everyone else. The grand City Hall full of fresh immigrants to the not real. Standing in our rows, staring forward, hands raised, reciting the oath.

Less than two weeks to go, Marcie.

What do I do?

The fade is coming. I can’t fight it. Can I?

No.

I have to destroy the house. But, once it’s gone, so are you. Forever. A pile of rubble. And I just live out the rest of my days here, like the others.

The lift doors open and I stare down my grey corridor. The fade is coming.

And I don’t want to be alone.

The doors start to close again and I let them.

I know who’ll understand.

“These blessed candles of the night.”

Leyland’s voice has the velvet quality of cello notes. When most people quote Shakespeare, it sounds like they’re trying to seem clever. When Leyland does it, it’s like the words are his own.

Leaning on the ledge of the roof next to him, looking down at the city, it feels like we’re on stage for an audience of night sky.

The air is sharp.

I don’t come up here as much as I used to. Blue thinks it’s weird that I still visit my elder at all, but just the right amount of time with Leyland can feel like the kind of dream you wake up from smiling.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr Baker?” he says.

“Just wanted to see how you were,” I lie. “It’s been a while.”

He looks at me.

“What?”

“You have many skills, my young friend, but sharing untruths is not one of them.”

“It’s nearly ten years, Leyland.”

“Ah. Of course.” His eyes widen. “The fade.”

I push myself up to standing. I’m a full head taller and almost twice as wide, but when I’m around him I always feel like the nervous apprentice. Leyland turns his back on the city and folds his arms. “And you feel … scared?”

“No! I’m not scared. Scared of what?”

He takes a white packet of cigarettes out of his corduroy breast pocket. “Precisely.”

Tapping one out like a private detective, he sparks it with his smooth silver lighter. He’s got one of those Philip Marlowe faces. Straight lines and deep creases. Thin lips and neck, dark eyes and slick hair. The kind of head that screams out for a fedora. He was my assigned elder when I was first made. Most people lose touch with theirs once they settle, but Leyland and I became friends.

I picture the house. The stairs. Your bedroom door.

“Ten years comes to us all eventually, Thor,” he says, turning to face the city again, leaning on the edge. “How long since she sent you away?”

“Six years.” I pick at the rough stone with a claw. “I know I should be ready for it. I just feel … messy.”

Leyland smokes slowly for a while, then says, “To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist.”

I must’ve heard him speak hundreds of these kinds of quotes over the years. Each one somehow managing a perfect blend of just enough possible relevance mixed with a thick, cloudy ambiguity.

“Is this what you felt like when you hit the fade?”

Leyland does one of his dramatic, slow-motion blinks. “I’d have to imagine it was, yes. Long time ago now, of course, and I’m not sure how apt the word ‘hit’ is. I seem to recall it feeling more like crawling.”

A metal aerial creaks behind us as he takes another long drag. “We are different from most others, Thor, you and I. You must remember that. We have to deal with things only those who were sent away can understand. To be simply forgotten is one thing, but to be sent away, to have the door slammed firmly in your face, that … that is an entirely different box of snakes.”

I lean next to him. Cold air ripples through the hair on my arms.

“The fade takes many forms for those sent away,” he says, pointing at me with his cigarette. “Each one of us gets our own test. And it always makes the most tragic of sense.”

High above us, wisps of silver cloud drift across the darkness.

“How long will I be angry, Leyland? How long were you angry?”

Leyland closes his eyes. Smoke curls up past his face into the night.

“Oh, I’m still angry, Thor, believe me. I’m still angry enough for the both of us.”

The bin bag is still there, propped against the wall.

Why haven’t they moved it? Who moved in?

Don’t care. Not my problem.

It’s past midnight. Didn’t tell Leyland about the house. About crossing over. Couldn’t face the lecture. I won’t tell anyone, Marcie.

You’ll be asleep now. I won’t watch for long.

Open my door.

“Finally! I was about to leave.”

Blue’s sitting in my chair sideways, her slim legs dangling over the arm, chunky silver headphones in her lap. I recognise her oversized black hoodie. It’s mine. My skull feels like it’s shrinking.

“Are you coming in?”

I drop my bag and kick off my boots. Blue swings her legs round to sit properly. Her perfect fringe is like a blonde roof for her pale, princess face.

“You didn’t have anything to drink,” she says, holding up a brown paper bag.

“I’m fine with the tap,” I say, closing the door, my body filling up with guilt.

“Where you been?” she says, looking at me like a prosecution lawyer. I don’t blink.

“Helping Leyland.”

“How is the Mad Hatter?”

“Don’t call him that. What time is it anyway?”

Blue pulls the thin glass bottle out of the bag.

“Time for a drink.”

“We should talk, right?” I say, staring into the black mirror of the kitchen window.

Blue’s at the counter, pouring something dangerous into coffee mugs.

“That’s not why I came, Thor.”

She holds out a mug, smiling. She’s pretty. Even more so because she tries to hide it. Princess Blue. Denier of powers. Hider of privilege.

I lean against the sink. “Blue, listen, I’ve been meaning to call. I—”

“Shut up, yeah? Talking doesn’t get us anywhere.”

She takes a cowboy-style gulp, blinks and smiles again.

I look down into my mug, the dark bronze of trouble. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She finishes her drink and pours herself another one. “What, us hanging out? Just ‘friends’, remember? Wait, you thought I came here to …?” she frowns. “Don’t flatter yourself, Thor Baker.”

She knocks back her drink in one, then pours another. I put mine down.

“Hang out?” I say. “Don’t you have to actually like someone’s company to hang out?”

Blue sighs. “Nope. I hang out with idiots all the time.” A wicked smile.

“How’s work?” I say, and her shoulders slump.

“Same, same,” she says. “We do what we can, but we’re basically babysitters. We bring supplies to the park, feed them and make sure they’re comfortable.” She downs her drink and pours again. “Anyway, enough violins. I’ve been leading some workshops with newbies.”

“Really? You?”

“Don’t looked so shocked, Baker. I have to try and balance things out, right? It’s just helping them find their feet.” She sits down at the little table with her drink. “Man, some of them are so small! Do you remember it, when you first came?”

“Course,” I say. “So do the newbies know who you are?”

“I’m Blue. What else do they need to know?”

“Course. Don’t want anyone loving you for powers first, right?”

She shakes her head, “Don’t want anyone loving me full stop.”

Silence.

I first met her at Needle Park. It was just before Christmas, the year I was sent away. She was handing out soup to a crowd by the fountain.

Something about how she moved got me. A slow kind of grace. Like she didn’t need to try. Like someone who knows they can fly and chooses not to. In her case, literally. In a circle of people wishing they were more, the person wishing she was less shone like a diamond in a dumpster.

We were never officially “a thing”, but stuff happened.

“What about you?” she says. “You start your fade counselling yet?”

I sit down opposite her, familiarity seeping into the room.

“Started Wednesday.”

“And?”

“And what? Stupid pop psychology crap. Anger issues from being sent away. It’s good to talk. Blah-blah-blah.”

“Helpful though, right? I remember it helping.”

“Who says I need help?”

Silence.

I tap the table with one claw. “It’s not a big deal. I’m gonna hit ten years, like everyone does, and then just … carry on. It’s not like I’m gonna flip out or something.”

Her look says it all.

“That’s different,” I say. “The ones you work with, they’re …”

“They’re what, Baker? Different? Weak? You think it can’t happen to you?”

“Blue, I’m fine. I’ve moved on. Can we drop it now?”

She finishes her drink and gets up to pour another. “So you’ve stopped watching?”

I fight my instinct to look away. Blue smiles like an older sister who already knows you’ve been in her room and touched her stuff. Lie? Truth? Lie? Truth?

“I have actually. Are you planning on drinking the whole bottle?”

Blue turns around with her mug. “So, if I were to walk in there right now and inspect that typewriter, it’d be covered in dust? And, if I broke open that box, I wouldn’t find new pages?”

Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. “No.”

Silence. “Go check if you want.” Straight face. Straight face.

She shakes her head.

“Good,” I say. “I told you. I’m done with her. She can do what she wants. My life is here.”

Blue nods, tentatively. I need more.

“I’m serious, Blue. I’m even knocking down her house, for God’s sake.”

“What?”

The release of finally telling someone, even for the wrong reasons.

“Her house. They sent me there. New job. I’m demolishing the house she made me in.”

The shock on Blue’s face melts into disbelief, then happiness, then comes back round to shock again.

“Wow. And you’ve started already?”

“Yeah. Today.”

“And you’re OK?”

I stand up. “I’m fine. It’s time. I told you, I’m done with her.”

And she hugs me, standing on her tiptoes, pulling me down to her level, squeezing me, and I can feel the warmth of her relief. I try to push out my guilt and just enjoy the hug. The moment. It’s not until you get a good one that you remember how amazing hugs can be.

Blue slips back down on to her feet, holding my paws in her hands.

“Have you been fighting again?”

“No. It’s from work. I’m done with the fighting too.”

Guilt in my spine.

She looks up at me. “Can I stop over?”

“Blue …”