And will she know, Alan? Will she feel that I’m watching?
What do you think?
Something scratching. Metal on metal.
You open your eyes.
It’s early enough to still be dark.
You’re in the cot bed in the back room.
Dad is crouched down by the old filing cabinet. He’s wearing his jacket.
“Dad?”
“Hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. I was going to leave a note.”
There’s a click and the bottom drawer cracks open.
“You have a key? Where are you going?”
“Oxford,” he says, standing up, “Diane’s folks’ place.”
You sit up, rubbing your eyes. Your hair is flat on one side.
“Diane? Does she know you’re coming?”
He shakes his head. “I think it’ll work better if she doesn’t. She’s special, Mars. I just need to let her know.”
“What will you say to her?”
He sits down at the desk. “Haven’t thought that far yet.”
“What’s in the drawer?” you say.
He looks at it. “The real us lives in dark corners.”
“Dad?”
“That’s what she used to say, your mum. It was like her mantra for process. The real us lives in dark corners, Karl. If you’re not willing to go there, you shouldn’t even start.”
He looks at you. “No more secrets, Mars.”
Calvin scampers in from the hall.
Your dad scoops her up and stands. His shirt is buttoned up wonky.
“I thought, maybe, you could stay here, with us? This could be your room?”
His smile is nervous.
“Is that what the clearing-out was for?” you say.
He nods. “If she’ll come back, Diane will be in with me.”
You picture it. The three of you. The four of you. And it feels right.
It has felt right since the first night you slept here.
This is where you should be.
“I’d like that, Dad.”
Your dad actually appears to grow, like he just caught a power-up.
“I’ve left money on the table upstairs for food,” he says. “I’m taking this one with me.” He strokes Calvin’s head. “What’s a last-ditch quest of the heart without a feline sidekick?” He nuzzles her head with his nose.
“We might be back later if it doesn’t go well. I’ll call you. You’ll be OK for a couple of days if she lets me in, right?”
“Yeah. Course.”
He goes to leave.
“Dad, wait.”
You stand up and fix his buttons. Calvin purrs.
You smile. All around you, a backdrop of Fridge City.
“Tell her no more Alton Towers.”
Dad nods.
“Thank you.”
And he leaves.
You click on the lamp and squat down at the filing cabinet. You slide open the bottom drawer and see piles of old typed pages, bulging journals and files packed with clippings. The smell of old book.
On top of everything there is a Polaroid photograph, washed out by time. A woman with cropped black hair and a narrow face stands in front of an open fire, her body tilted, arms outstretched, as though about to dance.
You stare at her face.
She is looking to the side. At something beyond the camera.
Somewhere else.
You flip the picture over.
There’s no date. No scrawled words. No message.
You look at her again. At the piles of Dad’s old notes.
A drawer full of the past.
You drop her back in and push it closed.
Taking your sketchbook and pen from the desk, you get back into bed. Sitting up near your pillow, you open the book and look at your sketches. The buildings. The details. The characters. Me.
There is blank space. Waiting. You touch it. Feeling the possibilities, you grip your pen.
I see you, Marcie.
Do you feel me watching?
You look up.
Out.
Right at me.
“I feel you, Thor Baker.”
Then you smile.
And start to draw.
There is a door.
A simple panel bedroom door. It’s open.
Stepping out, a boy with bear arms finds that there is no floor. Only sky, all around. And he is not scared. He’s smiling as he reaches out for a girl. She’s smaller, wearing a dark hoodie that’s way too big. Her fringe is cut straight above her eyes, and she’s smiling too.
At the boy with bear arms.
Helping him to fly.
Oath of the Made
Born of purpose, formed to be
Parts of self, longed to see
Some to work, some to play
None shall speak, of where we stay
Let us listen, make us feel
Or send us off, from all the real
We give ourselves, until the fade
We live for you, we are the made.
Thank you for reading my book.
Writing can be lonely. Roaming through your own head with a notebook or at a laptop, trying to figure out what you are asking yourself and the universe, it’s easy to get lost in the woods. Luckily, I have amazing people close to me who get as excited about talking characters over breakfast and bath-time as I do, and help me find my way through every story I try to tell.
I call them my family.
They’re ace. Thank you. x
Yael, for being the person I trust with those most important things, ideas. I love you.
Sol, for the gift of Blue and your incredible comics. I love you too.
Dylan, for our big conversations about time and the universe that help me work out what I think. I love you too too.
Thank you,
Cathryn, for being Cathryn. I’m lucky to have you. Lily, for your skills. Nick, for your patience. Sam, for all your work with the details.
Jenny, for the walks.
Thank you, Barbara, for reading so much when we were seventeen that I started reading again to try and impress you.
And finally, thank you, Megan.
In a world full of bad news and angry headlines, vacuous posts and poisonous fluff, your email arrived at such a perfect time and gave me just the boost I needed to make this story the best it could be.
I am truly grateful.
Steven
About the Author
STEVEN CAMDEN is one of the UK’s most acclaimed spoken-word artists. He writes for stage, radio and screen and teaches storytelling. His creative company Bearheart leads story-based projects across different platforms. Steven moved to London for a girl, but Birmingham is where he’s from. He also has a thing for polar bears.
Follow Steven on Twitter:
@homeofpolar
Keep up to date with all Steven’s news at:
www.facebook.com/StevenCamdenTheAuthor
Hear from the author himself – Steven Camden’s spoken-word poetry can be discovered here:
bit.ly/itsaboutlove
Books by Steven Camden
IT’S ABOUT LOVE
NOBODY REAL
TAPE
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