Nobody Real. Steven Camden

dunno, maybe it’s something to do with the fact that I’ve spent the last week and a half working ten-hour days, demolishing a castle, by myself, my second this month, and tomorrow I’ll get a new job and it all starts again. Now, on top of that, I have to come here. For this.

       I could move your slot to the mornings if that’s better for you?

      Whatever you say, Adam.

       Alan. You understand the importance of these sessions though, don’t you?

      How old are you?

       Is that important?

      You seem young.

       You’re deflecting now, Thor.

      Am I?

       Have you been in any fights lately?

      Is that in the file?

       Yes.

      I don’t do that any more. I’m done with that. Haven’t fought for weeks. Months.

       That’s good. So knocking down empty buildings is enough to keep your hands busy these days?

      Do these look like hands to you?

       I’m sorry, paws.

      Look, Adam …

       My name is Alan.

      Whatever. I get it. This is your job, to “counsel”. That’s great, and yes, I’ve had issues with my temper in the past, but I’m done with that. I’ve accepted what happened. I’ve moved on.

       I’m glad to hear that, Thor, but this is still compulsory. You have two weeks until the fade. Those of us who were sent away by our makers have a different set of feelings to deal with to those who were simply forgotten.

      So you were sent away too?

       We’re here to talk about you. Can we do that?

      There’s nothing to say. Ten years ago, she made me. Six years ago, she sent me away; now, in two weeks, none of it matters anyway. I reach ten years, pass through the fade and then that’s that. I either grow old and bitter or lose my mind like the zoomers in the park.

       And those are the only two options?

      What do I know?

       That’s where I can help.

      Who says I need help?

       Everyone needs help when they reach the fade. Especially those who were sent away. Unresolved feelings will fester, trust me. If we can talk, I’m sure I can help you transition through it smoothly into the rest of your time.

      Just like that.

       Thor, I’m not trying to trick you. I understand the feelings. Our makers need us, then they don’t need us, and that can leave us lost, but, at the end of the day, we still live on.

      They don’t know what they need.

       OK, a thought, that’s good. Would you care to elaborate?

      Not really.

       Your maker is a girl, right? Marcie? Loves drawing.

      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