Steven Camden - Nobody Real

Resting on the mantelpiece, in a cheap glass frame, is an A3, eight-panel, black-and-white comic strip. The first three panels are a creature that might be a bear, looking left, then right, then up. In the fourth panel, the bear looks at us and a speech bubble says, “Where Squirrel?” Five is him shrugging, six is him standing up, and in seven he turns around and half a squirrel is sticking out of his bum. Panel eight says “Lost Squirrel” by Marcie Baker. Age 7.

I laugh without meaning to. Dad looks over.

“Sorry,” I say, covering my mouth.

“Don’t be,” he says, and the ten-ton mood lifts just enough for me to slip a question underneath.

“Will you call her?”

Dad looks at his hands.

“Happiness can exist only in acceptance.”

“Dad?”

“Orwell. She’s made her choice, Mars.”

“What, and that’s it?”

He shrugs. “It is what it is.”

He glances at me, then goes back to the window. I swallow my frustration and just watch as the invisible elephant clomps into the room and plonks itself down in front of the fire, the word “MUM” painted in dripping red letters on its arse. I could say something. I want to.

But every sentence I run through in my head feels pointless.

Watching Dad like this, it’s easy to remember he’s a younger brother. The kind of boy who’d get escorted around by an older sister like Coral, taken to the playground, told not to wander off and pretty much left to his own devices. A boy who’d happily spend an entire afternoon inspecting leaves.

“Circles, Mars,” he says after a while, stubbing out his cigarette. “What has happened will happen again.”

“ Bullshit .”

You’re standing where the elephant was, bear arms folded in front of the fireplace.

“ Tell him that’s bullshit .” You’re gesturing at me like a sports coach giving a pep talk.

“ Go on .”

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, willing you away.

“ I’m not leaving till you tell him ,” you say.

I open my eyes.

“ Do it .”

“Dad—”

“ Amor fati , Mars,” says Dad, starting on a new roll-up. “ Amor fati .”

“ Do it, Marcie! ”

“Bullshit!”

You smile. I stand up. Dad drops his tobacco.

“The pitiful fortune-cookie lines I can just about handle, Dad, but when you start with the Latin … Get up.”

“What?”

“ Tell him again. ”

“I said, get up! Get your shoes on: we’re going out.”

I walk over to him. Dad looks almost scared.

“I don’t want to go out, Mars.”

“I don’t care what you want, Karl, we need air. This place stinks of self-pity.”

I take his jacket off the hook next to the kitchen door and throw it at him.

“ Yes! ” you say. “ Go on, Marcie! ”

And I feel good. Better than good. I look at Dad.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

You’re eleven.

It’s the night before secondary school starts.

You’re sitting at Coral’s kitchen table with her and Dad. He’s now living in a bedsit nearer town. Coral’s made curried goat and rice and peas. Dad compliments the food for the twenty-fifth time. Coral ignores him. She looks at you and asks what you have to say. The windows are all open, but there’s still the faint smell of burnt polyester from the sofa.

You picture the green flames dancing as the paisley cushions ignited.

The light flickering in my smile.

You say you’re sorry. That you were conducting a science experiment and it got out of control.

Coral stares at Dad.

Dad stares at his food.

You slide your hand into your pocket under the table and feel the smooth envelope, its edges worn almost furry from being held.

Coral tells your dad to say something. That it’s getting ridiculous.

Your dad forces a smile and says a movie studio offered to buy the rights to Dark Corners . Coral asks how much. Dad says it doesn’t matter: a book is a book, and a film is a film, they’re not having it.

He raises his pineapple punch and says, “Screw Hollywood.”

Coral looks at you, and rolls her eyes.

“Thank you,” says Dad as we walk back down the high street.

It’s nearly six and everything is closed. A couple of hours’ walking quietly through the park is as good as any therapy session.

I drop my used wet wipe in the bin outside the British Heart Foundation shop, belly full of chicken and chips.

“No problem.”

We reach the shop and Dad starts patting his pockets.

“Maybe I should get a dog, with the park right there and everything?”

“Yeah? And who’ll be the one who ends up walking him?” I say.

He fingers his bunch of keys for the right one. “Not you. You’ll be gone.”

“Dad …”

“Don’t worry. I can handle myself.” He holds up the shop door key proudly. “See?”

There’s a sadness in his smile.

“Shall I come in for a bit?” I say. “I could wash up?”

“I’ll be fine, Mars. Tell Coral I said hi.”

He opens the door.

“I could come over tomorrow, cook you dinner?”

He shakes his head. “No need, Mars. You enjoy your Sunday off.”

“I’ll come on Monday then, help with the shop?”

I watch the realisation that Diane is gone sucker-punch him in the ribs. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

He hands me his keys.

“OK then, call me if you need me, Dad, yeah?”

He nods an autopilot nod and closes the door.

You’ll be gone .

I watch him through the glass. He looks older from behind, his body fading into shadow as he walks to the stairs.

Coral’s wearing eyeliner.

“Oh, hey! I just sent you a message,” she says, pointing back at the house. I can smell perfume.

“You look nice,” I say.

She looks down at her outfit – navy-blue trouser suit, shimmery white top. “You think? Not too much?”

“Not at all. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Nobody special. Dom from work, you remember him? He came to my work birthday meal?”

She brushes fluff from her arm. The light dances in her perfectly cropped Lego hair.

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