“Is it smaller?” he says, looking round.
“Yeah, Sean. We shrunk it last year. I’m trying to make people think they’re going crazy. It’s like The Twits.”
“All right, I’m just saying. I guess we grew.”
“What do you want?”
“What, can’t you read my mind, Miss Psychologist?”
He waves his hands around his head.
“That’s not what psychology is, you idiot. I’m not Derren Brown.”
“Mind control?” he says, hopefully.
I shake my head. “Afraid not. Whose birthday is it?” I say.
“No one’s. Maybe I’m here to buy a book for me.”
“You don’t read, Sean.”
“Yeah I do! Sometimes. What’s this?”
He cocks his head, trying to work out what the music is.
“DJ Shadow. You have the album.”
“Don’t think so.”
“I copied it for you in Year Nine.”
Sean shrugs. “Lots happened since then. Here.”
He walks over to me and puts three graphic novels on the counter. It’s the first three volumes of Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s New 52 series for DC. I smile.
“You’ve already read them, haven’t you?” Sean says, disappointed.
“Yeah. It’s really good. There’s more too, if you like them?”
“Should’ve known. Some things don’t change, eh?”
“Nope.”
“So you’re not coming, to the seaside?”
I have to laugh.
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to call it ‘the seaside’ any more.”
He laughs. “That’s what it is! The seaside. What else am I gonna call it? The beach? That sounds like I think we live in California or something. Seaside still feels right to me.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re still seven.”
“Maybe I am. So stop trying to kill my magical seven-year-old outlook on the world, Mrs Mature.”
“That sounds like a brand of cheese.”
“Well, truth hurts, Mars.”
I throw my pen at him. He catches it and slides it into his pocket.
“How’s your old man?”
I look back to the doorway. Johnny Cash winks at me from the shelf.
“Still Dad.”
“Is he writing?”
“Always.”
We both look back at the stairs for enough time to change the subject.
“It suits you,” he says, making a camera frame with his fingers. “Bookshop hero.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. I’d trust your recommendations. I mean, if I read books.”
“You should try it some time.”
He picks up a grey novel from the corner of the display table. “Remember when you used to read to me?”
Hooks in my heart.
“Course.”
“What was that one, with the angel guy, in the shed?”
“Skellig.”
“Yeah. I liked that one. When was that?”
“Year Five. Miss Secker’s class.”
“Secker! Witch! Remember she used to make me read out loud? Said I was lazy.”
“You were lazy, Sean.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t why I was no good at reading. Racist.”
And we both laugh. Me and Sean Johnson. Kano lookalike. Lion-hearted idiot. Loyal enough to cover for me, through all that pain.
“I’ll miss this,” he says.
“What?”
“When you’re gone. I’ll miss hanging out.”
“We don’t hang out.”
“No, I know, not like before, but, I mean, we could’ve. When you’re gone though, you’re, well, gone, eh?”
He looks right at me like a lost puppy, and it is sad how things changed, but how could they not?
“How’s your nan?” I say.
“She’s all right. Still worrying. She misses you.”
“I miss her. I get a craving for her stewed chicken at least once a day.”
We both smile. Leona’s cooking is next level.
“She must be happy you finished A-levels though?”
“Yeah, but she wanted me to go to uni.”
“You still can. If you want.”
“I don’t think so, Mars. School and me are done. Over. I’m filing for divorce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. And she gets to keep the house.”
“And what do you get?”
“I dunno. Freedom?”
“Sounds good.”
Sean rolls his eyes, “Yeah. Filing documents in some accountant’s office for one of Nan’s church friends. World-changing stuff.”
“Don’t say that. A job is good.”
“No, doing nothing is good. A job is a ball ache.” He puts the book back. “It’ll mean I can give her a bit each week though. Help out.”
“Exactly, and you’ll have some cash for equipment and stuff too, right?”
“I guess. Could do with a decent mic.”
“See? Funding your art. That’s how it starts. You’ll write your best stuff on the back of tax-return printouts.”
Sean nods along, enjoying the idea.
“And what about your art, Mars? You just gonna stop?”
I think of the wall in the back room. The black pen. And I shrug.
“But you’re so good!” Sean says. “Why not an art degree? Or foundation or whatever they call it, instead of brain science?”
“I need to lock up,” I say.
“The offer for EP cover art is still there, you know? If you change your mind? We’ve got a bit of cash to pay you.”
“I don’t think so.”
I power down the till, and for a second I swear I see you in the corner.
“Come with us, Mars! It’ll be fun. You can draw on the beach. Your dad can watch the shop for a week, can’t he?”
“Leave it, Sean.”
He’s not giving up though. “Can I go say hello? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
He starts to head for the door. I come out from behind the counter and block his path.
You’re not here but I can feel you. Watching.
“He’s working. Better not.”
“Just a quick hello.”
“He’s in his little bubble, Sean. The only way he’ll get anything done is if there’s no other distractions, like running a shop.”
His shoulders slump, defeated. “OK.”
Your eyes, on me.
“I do need a favour though.” I say.
“Course. Anything. What is it?”
“Cara.”
Can you see, Thor?
“What do you mean?” says Sean.
“I just think … doesn’t matter.”
“What is it, Mars?”
The crackle in my stomach.
“She’d kill me if she knew I said anything to you.”
“About what?”
He’s genuinely oblivious.
I know you can see me.
“Marcie, what about Cara?”
Watch me, Thor.
I look right at Sean.
“She likes Jordan.”
You’re not quite in the back row but near enough.
Cara is sitting to your right, the popcorn jammed in the armrest between you. Ryan Gosling is on the toilet, sitting in a cubicle with his arm in a cast. Russell Crowe is banging on the door. The film isn’t very good, but Cara’s eyes are glued to the screen.
Her fingers reach for more popcorn and miss the tub, brushing your hand. She looks at you. You smile. She takes some popcorn and goes back to the film. You lean back in your seat and touch the back of your hand where her fingers were.
I pull the page out of the typewriter and add it to the rest.
My claws stroke the old box file as I stare out of the window at the dark violet sky.
I saw what you did, Marcie, in the shop.
<
br /> Just like you wanted.
Just like you said.
I’m not in denial.
If you say so.
I’m just saying, there’s no point moping around, right?
I suppose not. So long as you remember what’s happening.
Like I could forget?
Have you experienced any physical sensations?
Like what?
Like fatigue? Or an emptiness? Blurred vision?
I don’t know.
Which one?
All of them.
I see.
Is that normal?
Yes. How do you feel now?
I feel OK. Is that wrong?
No. You just need to keep hold of the situation. You’ll feel these things as you get closer to the fade. Time is ticking down, Thor.
I know.
So it’s going well, with her?
Yeah.
That’s good. Important to enjoy the time you have left.
I’m helping. I mean, I feel like I’m helping. We talked. It was good.
That’s great. What did you talk about?
Just stuff.
What kind of stuff?
Just, you know, stuff. I’m not going to go into details, Alan. It’s private.
You haven’t spoken about here, have you?
Our sessions?
The not real. You haven’t told her anything about this side?
No.
Good. You know how important that is.
Quite convenient though, isn’t it? That she can’t know. That she’s completely oblivious to all this. To here.
The rules are there for a good reason.
I know, I know. Not like it matters anyway. The fade’s the fade, right?
It matters, Thor. Trust me.
OK.
So I have your word?
Whatever.
I’m serious.
Yeah. And I’m late.
The sound of tap-dancing fingertips.
Dad’s actually typing.
He’s in just his vest and pants and his hair looks like the vertical trail of a meteorite. There’s an untouched coffee next to him and the ashtray isn’t even half full, which has to be a good sign.
I remember peeking into his room when I was little, seeing him hunched over, the whirring click-clack music of his story machine. Wanting to ask him things, knowing not to interrupt.
I start to tiptoe to the kitchen.
“Morning, Mars,” he says, not looking up.
“Morning. How’s it going?”
He shrugs, still typing. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“OK.”
He flashes a grin. “And it feels great.”
A wired, mad-scientist smile, and then he’s back to it, the letter-filled paper feeding up as he goes.
“I’m not sure, Thor.”
“Yes you are.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“So why are we here then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. Don’t chicken out now. It’s easy – you saw the YouTube video. I’ll help.”
“I’m scared.”
“You’re not scared, you’re excited.”
“I feel scared.”
“That’s because you can’t have excitement without fear. They’re part of the same thing. Like Two-Face.”
“That’s not what Two-Face is about at all. Harvey Dent was all about law and order, then he lost his mind and became obsessed with the arbitrary nature of chance. He’s—”
“Shut up! We’re doing it. Man, you think too much. Grab both bottles. It’s a good job I’m here.”
It’s blue.
Not the same gas-flame blue as the picture on the packet, but it’s blue.
My roots are lighter from the first bleach, then, after a couple of centimetres, the dirty blonde goes almost white before shifting into a deep Gatorade blue.
My scalp is tingling, and my hair looks like a technicolour latte.
We’re squished into the tiny downstairs bathroom by the back door of the shop. Your cropped hair came out darker than mine. Just a hint of turquoise. The A4 mirrored door of the medicine cabinet looks like the cover of a magazine. Me and you. Some kind of avant-garde musical duo.
I gently press the side. “It looks like a crap firework.”
You bump my shoulder. “It’s wicked!”
“It’s a clown wig, Thor. Yours looks good – I look like I’m wearing a peacock!”
You laugh, because it’s funny.
I laugh, because I’m an idiot.
“What did we do?”
“Relax. It looks cool, plus it’ll wash out eventually, right?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
“Exactly. New ground. You’re a pioneer!”
“Of my own head?”
“Best kind.”
Your reflection smiles over my shoulder. I’m fighting it but it does feel good.
Stupid and selfish and good.
There’s something about owning a mistake, claiming it as yours, that makes you feel like you’ve changed.
Like you’ve learned something about yourself. Something that lets you realise that you get to choose whether it was actually a mistake at all.
Right?
“Exactly.”
I feel like I’m on stage.
Sitting behind the counter, waiting for an audience.
A pudgy woman in a polka-dot raincoat comes in just after lunch.
Straight away I know she’s not going to buy anything. She does that annoying thing of indiscriminately browsing every single shelf with a completely fake conviction, then asks me if we have a book she already knows isn’t there.
When I tell her I can order it, she looks at my hair and does the disappointed tut. “I’ll go to the Foyles in town,” she says, like I’ve failed some kind of test.
“Yeah. Go to Foyles, fatso!”
I shake my head. You ignore me and get right up close to her. “They’ve got a cafe there too, full of food. For your belly!”
I manage to half disguise my laugh with a cough. The woman turns her nose up and walks out. You follow her to the door, pointing through the glass when it closes. “Blimp.”
“That wasn’t fair,” I say, neatening the non-fiction table.
“She was annoying.”
“She was a customer, Thor. We need those.”
“She looked like a beach ball.”
“Don’t be mean. If she’s an arse, it’s got nothing to do with her weight.”
“Why so touchy?”
I sit back down behind the till. “I’m not exactly a size six myself.”
“Shut up. You look amazing.”
Awkward pause.
We both look down like we dropped something.
“I mean, you look good. That’s all I meant.”
“Stop talking, Thor.”
“Sorry.”
Mid-afternoon, a guy who looks about the same age as Diane, dressed like a teacher, comes in looking for Roy Keane’s autobiography. Somehow we have it.
“It’s for my dad,” he says, as he pays. “Last-minute birthday gift.”
As I wrap it for him, I watch him consider my hair, mull over a possible compliment, then decide not to comment.
“I always mean to come in here, but never do,” he says, apologetically. “Didn’t you used to have a name?”
“Blue Pelican Books.”
“That’s it! So what are you called now?”
“Well, we’re still in discussions. But we’re here! So, now you’ve been, come again. And tell your friends.”
“I will,” he says, nodding as he leaves.
“Tell your friends?”
You’re at the fiction shelves.
“What? I’m drumming up business.”
“Bit desperate though, eh?”
“Do you see a queue?”
�
��Fair enough. This place is dry. We should do something to make it less dry.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno, do I? You’re the one with the imagination.”
You wink and point at me like a game-show host.
“Funny.”
“Let’s go show your dad, see his face.”
I sit on the stool and check my phone. “He’s working, Thor.”
No messages yet.
“They’ll be there by now,” I say, picturing Cara, Sean and the others giggling as they unpack the car like models on a catalogue photo shoot.
You glare at my phone.
“What?”
“Nothing. Do you reckon I could stack a pile of books taller than me?”
“Why?”
“Bet I can.”
“Doubt it.”
“Bet me then.”
“Bet you what?”
Your evil mastermind grin.
“I like it,” says Dad, nodding like a scientist reviewing test results.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Makes me want a cocktail. Marcie Colada.” He chuckles to himself. “Wish I could be there when Coral sees it.”
“Why don’t you come for dinner? She’d be happy to see you.”
Dad looks back at the table. There’s a small pile of typed pages on one side of the typewriter, a stack of blank paper on the other. “Not tonight, Mars. I’m right in it. The eye of the storm. Don’t want to break my rhythm.”
“Course not. Soon though? You haven’t been over in ages.”
“Yeah. Soon.”
He squeezes my shoulder, oblivious to you on the sofa, grinning the whole time.
Cara: This place is gorgeous! Wish u were here, Mars xx
Me: Have fun for me. Daily updates required;) x
Cara: Affirmative. Beach party tonight. Fingers crossed x
The pang of guilt.
The crackle of trouble.
I am seventeen.
I am seven.
“Holy shit!”
Coral stands in the living-room doorway, covering her mouth, like she’s wary of what else might jump out. I press pause on Mario Kart.
“I’m sorry,” she says, through her fingers. “It’s just … it’s blue.”
“Yep.”
“Wow. I mean, wow, Mars. What brought this on?”
“Dunno. I always wanted to try it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“I see.” She puts her handbag down on the dresser and walks over.
“Did you go to a salon?” she says, touching the side of my hair like it’s a newly discovered material.
“Nope. Did it myself.”
Nobody Real Page 10