Steven Camden - Nobody Real

Loved.

Right. It says she made you when she was seven, after her mother left?

Nearly eight.

OK, so quite late, and that would make her nearly eighteen now?

I guess so.

Good. See? We’re off and running.

Whoopee.

So, by my maths, that would mean she was nearly twelve when she sent you away? Why don’t we start with that?

It’s all written in your file, isn’t it?

Yes, but the point is talking about it. In your words. Can you tell me what happened that last time you were with her?

No.

Because you still feel guilty?

No.

Because you’re still angry with her?

No.

Then why?

Because she’s an idiot.

Nineteen lights up above the doors.

The screech as the brake squeezes the lift cable and the weight in my stomach rises up into my chest. Doors open. The fur of my arms is flecked with purple plaster dust. The ashes of a castle. Press the warm bucket of chicken against my side and step off into the corridor.

My shadow wipes away as the doors close behind me.

This place is so grey.

Charcoal-coloured doors line the pale, empty walls on both sides, stretching away to the end of the hall where it splits left and right to more walls and more doors.

Some people get to live in castles.

I got a tower block.

As I reach mine, I see a black bin bag slumped against the wall outside next door. Dark and lifeless. Their door’s ajar. Must be someone new moving in.

Don’t care. Never spoke to whoever left anyway. Not interested.

Just want to eat my chicken and sleep.

Boots off. Close door. Lamp on.

Grab my laptop and slump in my old armchair.

I pop the lid on my chicken and take a deep breath of hot fried comfort. Rocco’s chicken is the greatest. I bite into a thick drumstick as I log into the work database.

Glance at the phone on the floor. Think of Blue. Could call her. Should.

Across the room, on the table under the window, the old typewriter sits, waiting.

Ignore it.

I sign off on the castle and request a new job. Got to stay busy. Log out.

Everyone needs help when they reach the fade. Especially those who were sent away.

Alan. What a dick.

Feel the strings of guilt twang in my chest.

Because you’re still angry with her?

Drop the bone in the bucket and stare across at the table.

The typewriter. Waiting.

Do these look like hands to you?

Walk to the window.

Dark tower-block tops and the skeleton of a Ferris wheel against a purple-black sky.

Way below on the fuzzy, lit streets, night workers and troublemakers go about their business. Another night in Fridge City.

Sit.

The old black box file of pages. How many are in there now? Enough for a book?

One for every time that I’ve watched.

Stare at the typewriter. Each letter pitted with dents from my claws.

You wouldn’t believe it. Me. Writing.

I close my eyes as I slowly stab at the keys, like every time.

Close my eyes.

To see.

You’re on your bed. Legs crossed. Pyjama bottoms and hoodie. Hair up in the high bun you only wear at home. On the duvet next to you, your worn copy of Othello , scattered revision cue cards and your old sketchbook.

Your bedside lamp sends a bat-signal beam up at your packed bookshelves. Shelves of ordered comics and graphic novels. Heroes and villains. The lost and the lonely.

You slide the lid of your pen across your bottom lip like lipstick. Thinking.

Tomorrow is your last exam. And you are nervous.

You know what you want to do. But will you be able to do it?

The front door closes downstairs and you hear keys drop on to the phone table. Coral calls up. She has food.

You call down and stare at your sketchbook.

I could help.

I could be there. Nod at the right time. Let you know it’s OK.

If you’d just want me.

I’m right here.

So close.

In two weeks, I won’t even have this.

Nearly ten years, Marcie.

Do you even know?

Wake up like I hit the floor in a dream about falling.

Breathe.

Sunlight strokes my bedroom wall. Warm glow on deep scratches.

City sounds down on the street and the muffled chatter of a morning talk show from next door.

I close my eyes and lie still. Let the morning sink into me.

Hit my punchbag until my shoulders burn. The hiss of air with every connect. The chain link dancing in its bracket.

Shower. Turn the dial until the hot water stings my neck as I scratch the grout between the tiles with my claw.

Punisher T-shirt and my old jeans. Log into work and print out new job. Coffee. Thick and black.

Feel it hitting my veins as I stare out at the city. Glass buildings twinkle. A sleepy dragon takes off, yawning.

Another day in the not real.

Touch the typewriter. Say your name.

Grab the job printout. And gone.

We look like a handful of X-Men rejects.

A carriage full of forgotten friends heading to the jobs that nobody else wants.

The skinny ghost guy who works by the docks. The bubblegum waitress with the four chunky arms. Moose boy. The old trench-coated hunchback who’s always opposite me, muttering to himself. I know everyone’s face and nobody’s name. The unspoken agreement is: we don’t need to speak. We just sit, avoiding eyes, as the high number six train snakes out of the city between impossible skyscrapers, grounded space rockets and hundred-storey tree houses. Jungle-covered pirate ships and giant sleeping dogs. Chocolate factories and looping water slides. Hover cars whizz past us. A flying lion pulls a sparkling carriage. The city circus in full swing.

Another day. Another forgotten structure to destroy.

I feel the same crackle in my gut that I always get on a new job. A fresh building to break down to rubble. Crunch some kid’s discarded dreams into dust. Good at it too. Nobody destroys unwanted things better than Thor Baker.

Check my printout. Address is just on the other side of Needle Park. Four stops. Could’ve walked.