Nobody Real. Steven Camden

       The lift doors open and I stare down my grey corridor. The fade is coming.

       And I don’t want to be alone.

       The doors start to close again and I let them.

       I know who’ll understand.

       “These blessed candles of the night.”

       Leyland’s voice has the velvet quality of cello notes. When most people quote Shakespeare, it sounds like they’re trying to seem clever. When Leyland does it, it’s like the words are his own.

       Leaning on the ledge of the roof next to him, looking down at the city, it feels like we’re on stage for an audience of night sky.

       The air is sharp.

       I don’t come up here as much as I used to. Blue thinks it’s weird that I still visit my elder at all, but just the right amount of time with Leyland can feel like the kind of dream you wake up from smiling.

       “To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr Baker?” he says.

       “Just wanted to see how you were,” I lie. “It’s been a while.”

       He looks at me.

       “What?”

       “You have many skills, my young friend, but sharing untruths is not one of them.”

       “It’s nearly ten years, Leyland.”

       “Ah. Of course.” His eyes widen. “The fade.”

       I push myself up to standing. I’m a full head taller and almost twice as wide, but when I’m around him I always feel like the nervous apprentice. Leyland turns his back on the city and folds his arms. “And you feel … scared?”

       “No! I’m not scared. Scared of what?”

       He takes a white packet of cigarettes out of his corduroy breast pocket. “Precisely.”

       Tapping one out like a private detective, he sparks it with his smooth silver lighter. He’s got one of those Philip Marlowe faces. Straight lines and deep creases. Thin lips and neck, dark eyes and slick hair. The kind of head that screams out for a fedora. He was my assigned elder when I was first made. Most people lose touch with theirs once they settle, but Leyland and I became friends.

       I picture the house. The stairs. Your bedroom door.

       “Ten years comes to us all eventually, Thor,” he says, turning to face the city again, leaning on the edge. “How long since she sent you away?”

       “Six years.” I pick at the rough stone with a claw. “I know I should be ready for it. I just feel … messy.”

       Leyland smokes slowly for a while, then says, “To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist.”

       I must’ve heard him speak hundreds of these kinds of quotes over the years. Each one somehow managing a perfect blend of just enough possible relevance mixed with a thick, cloudy ambiguity.

       “Is this what you felt like when you hit the fade?”

       Leyland does one of his dramatic, slow-motion blinks. “I’d have to imagine it was, yes. Long time ago now, of course, and I’m not sure how apt the word ‘hit’ is. I seem to recall it feeling more like crawling.”

       A metal aerial creaks behind us as he takes another long drag. “We are different from most others, Thor, you and I. You must remember that. We have to deal with things only those who were sent away can understand. To be simply forgotten is one thing, but to be sent away, to have the door slammed firmly in your face, that … that is an entirely different box of snakes.”

       I lean next to him. Cold air ripples through the hair on my arms.

       “The fade takes many forms for those sent away,” he says, pointing at me with his cigarette. “Each one of us gets our own test. And it always makes the most tragic of sense.”

       High above us, wisps of silver cloud drift across the darkness.

       “How long will I be angry, Leyland? How long were you angry?”

       Leyland closes his eyes. Smoke curls up past his face into the night.

       “Oh, I’m still angry, Thor, believe me. I’m still angry enough for the both of us.”

       The bin bag is still there, propped against the wall.

       Why haven’t they moved it? Who moved in?

       Don’t care. Not my problem.

       It’s past midnight. Didn’t tell Leyland about the house. About crossing over. Couldn’t face the lecture. I won’t tell anyone, Marcie.

       You’ll be asleep now. I won’t watch for long.

       Open my door.

       “Finally! I was about to leave.”

       Blue’s sitting in my chair sideways, her slim legs dangling over the arm, chunky silver headphones in her lap. I recognise her oversized black hoodie. It’s mine. My skull feels like it’s shrinking.

       “Are you coming in?”

       I drop my bag and kick off my boots. Blue swings her legs round to sit properly. Her perfect fringe is like a blonde roof for her pale, princess face.

       “You didn’t have anything to drink,” she says, holding up a brown paper bag.

       “I’m fine with the tap,” I say, closing the door, my body filling up with guilt.

       “Where you been?” she says, looking at me like a prosecution lawyer. I don’t blink.

       “Helping Leyland.”

       “How is the Mad Hatter?”

       “Don’t call him that. What time is it anyway?”

       Blue pulls the thin glass bottle out of the bag.

       “Time for a drink.”

       “We should talk, right?” I say, staring into the black mirror of the kitchen window.

       Blue’s at the counter, pouring something dangerous into coffee mugs.

       “That’s not why I came, Thor.”

       She holds out a mug, smiling. She’s pretty. Even more so because she tries to hide it. Princess Blue. Denier of powers. Hider of privilege.

       I lean against the sink. “Blue, listen, I’ve been meaning to call. I—”

       “Shut up, yeah? Talking