Nobody Real. Steven Camden

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.

       Close my eyes.

      Alan. Everyone needs help. It’s good to talk.

       Ball my paws into fists. Yeah. It’s good to talk.

       But it’s so much better to smash.

       The street is narrow.

       Terraced houses with small, square front yards and shallow bay windows. One of those normal streets in among the madness. This won’t take more than a few days.

       I don’t see anyone, but I can hear Billie Holiday through an open window and there’s the warm, soapy smell of fresh laundry. Printout says number seven. Odd numbers are this side.

       It’s a bit like your street. Coral’s street. Different name, but familiar. Where are you now?

       Have you already left for school? Outside the gym with everyone else? People swapping last-minute quotes and pretending they haven’t revised? You standing silent, telling yourself it’s time?

       There’s a little inky black cat on the low wall outside number nineteen. It looks at me with a tilted head, trying to work out if I’m a threat. A boy with bear arms, carrying a backpack.

       I step forward, reaching out to stroke it, but it jumps down and scampers away behind two grey bins.

       “Screw you then, kitty.”

       The cat pokes its head out and stares. I stare back.

       “Didn’t really want to stroke you anyway, fleabag. Might eat you later.”

       Carry on walking. Can’t wait to start smashing now. Seventeen. Fifteen. Thirteen. Check my bag. The chipped sky-blue of my trusty helmet. If I properly go for it this morning, might even take the afternoon off. Go to the river or something. Eleven. Nine. Yeah. That’s a plan. Stop.

       Look at the house.