Nobody Real

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 tops and the skeleton of a Ferris wheel against a purple-black sky.

Way below on the fuzzy, lit streets, night workers and troublemakers go about their business. Another night in Fridge City.

Sit.