Nobody Real

“Dad, please,” I say, carrying the mugs into the living room. “How many times? I don’t smoke.”

“Well, you should. You’re nearly eighteen; you’ll be at uni soon. Poetry readings and squat parties.”

“It’s not Greenwich Village in the fifties, Dad.”

“Very funny, Mars. I’m just saying, you should be experimenting at your age. Poking out of the box.”

“And what box is that, O wise one?”

He takes a long pull on his cigarette. In his white vest and brown trousers, his unruly hair pushed back, he looks part beatnik, part mad scientist. A man who operates just off the pulse, who believes in conspiracy theories and who, some days, completely forgets to eat.

“Well, if you have to ask, it might already be too late.”

I exaggerate a sad face. “I guess I’ll just go downstairs and get back in my box then.”

Dad’s face turns serious. “I’m proud of you, special girl. You did it.”

I stare at the coffee mugs, feeling your name running down the corridors in my head. Scratching the walls. Banging doors. You did it.

“Don’t be too proud yet, Dad. Results aren’t till August.”

Dad shakes his head and picks a stray tobacco strand from his lip. “Please. Pass. Fail. F. A-star. Just labels, Mars. You’re not a can of beans. Life is process.”

He smiles the kind of smile that makes it easy to imagine him as a cheeky five-year-old, crayoning the walls with ideas.

“Get back to work,” I say, and I walk out of the room.

“I’m getting close, Mars. Really close. I feel it!”

I kick through the blank paper, heading back to the stairs.

Once every ten years, a novel comes along that makes all the rest look at each other and say, “What the hell do we do now?” Baker’s daring debut is that book, and, if you are at all interested in where contemporary storytelling is heading, I advise you to read it.

– Quentin Quince, the Times Literary Review, on Dark Corners by Karl Baker

Karl Baker.

Award-winning debut writer.

Giver of half my genetic code.

Barely capable of looking after himself.

Still working on his second novel seven years later.

“You OK, Marcie?”

Diane’s face is wrinkled up like she’s trying to read Latin.

“What? I’m fine.”

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, holding two coffees.

“It’s just … you looked, well, drunk.”

“I was just thinking.”

I pass her a mug.

“Thanks. Your phone beeped a couple of times.”

Probably Cara. “Thanks.”

“Just thinking, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear you. So do you think you’ll be around more over the summer?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Not much else to do.”

“Great. That’s good.”

We both stare out of the front windows either side of the shop door.

Diane sips. “It’s nice to hang out, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Still staring.

“Did he say anything, about me?”

I sip. Hot, bitter coffee on my tongue.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter. I like your shirt. Is it new?”

“No.”

“Cool.”

The shop is one square room with the till in the centre next to a thick supporting pillar. The layout hasn’t changed since Dad bought it nearly three years ago – four small display tables, one in each quarter: new and contemporary fiction; classics and historical stuff; non-fiction; and children and teen.

It used to be called Blue Pelican Books, but Dad sanded the name off the shopfront the day he moved in. He said you can’t trust any animal with wings.

There’s never been what you’d call a steady stream of customers, especially on weekdays, and, since the new Foyles opened up in town, things on the outskirts have got even quieter. We still get new releases, just fewer copies, and people rarely wait for an order when there’s Amazon Prime two clicks away. Luckily, the romance of the underdog hasn’t completely died out so things just about tick over. Diane moved into the downstairs back room and basically runs the place, with me helping out on Saturdays and when I’m free. Dad pays me bits here and there, but I do it mostly for the peace. I can read, scribble stuff down if the mood takes me, or just do nothing. No questions or hassles. No Facebook updates or plans for the future. A haven.