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“I had an idea.”
What started as a simple Year Ten drama project quite quickly evolved into Cara’s performance-art YouTube channel Jumblemind.
Jumblemind is basically a space where all of Cara’s social-commentary ideas are sporadically filmed and uploaded to an audience of 316 subscribers made up mostly of younger girls from school. Any little nugget of performance gold that’s been rattling around her head gets dumped out on film for her cult following’s consumption and, over the years, a high percentage of these nuggets have involved yours truly.
October 3rd 2014: “Genderrorists” – The two of us stand back to back, reading extracts from The Vagina Monologues in balaclavas.
February 9th 2015: “Pressure to Make Up” – Cara uses the latest, top-of-the-range L’Oréal products to paint my face to look like Heath Ledger’s Joker.
My personal favourite though was this time last year, when Cara just sat in front of the camera for ten minutes, stuffing an entire Black Forest gateau into her mouth and crying.
OMG! Don’t know why but can’t stop watching! So dumb but SOOO good! LOL!!!
– YouTube comment on “Gateau Tragic” from Trixabell496
“You’ll need to put your hair up,” she says. “There’s bobbles in the bedside drawer.”
“Car, what are we doing?”
“It’s a goodbye to school.” She holds up the bottles like she just won them in a raffle.
“Face-pack Shakespeare!”
The car still smells like new trainers.
Cara’s humming along to Lana Del Rey, effortlessly driving down dark streets towards mine, like she’s had her own taxi for twenty years.
It’s probably testament to her charm that getting a brand-new black Mini Cooper for her eighteenth birthday didn’t make me want to punch her in the face. I had the grand total of three empty supermarket driving lessons with Coral before we both decided I might be more suited to the passenger seat, for now.
“I can hear you thinking, you know,” she says.
“Imagine.”
“He’s such a dick.”
“Who is?”
“My brother. Can’t even come down to dinner? Locking himself away in his room? You know, I probably won’t even see him before he goes back. He hasn’t asked about the exams once. Nothing.”
“Maybe he’s busy.”
“Oh, shut up. Stop defending your prince.”
Her arm goes up to protect herself as she laughs. I just give her the finger.
“We could drive up to Leeds?” she says. “For the day, start getting to know our new home before September.” Excitement radiates off her as she speaks. It’s hard not to be drawn to someone who’s completely sure of what they want. “I could maybe even get Dad to sort a hotel. He gets things on account sometimes.” She pulls into the petrol station forecourt and parks next to the pump. The stereo display goes black as she turns off the engine, then flickers back to life.
High halogen floodlights turn up the contrast of the colours through the glass of the kiosk and make me think of that Edward Hopper painting, Nighthawks.
“Mars? Are you listening?”
“Did you ever have an imaginary friend?” I ask.
“An imaginary friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Like when I was a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.”
“You did, blatantly, right?”
I shrug.
“Course you did,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can see it: you in the park, talking to an empty swing.”
“Thanks a lot, Car.”
“No, it’s a compliment. I wanted one. Some super-badass flying ninja princess goddess. I just never did it. Too busy writing pretend newspaper reports on my family. I would’ve been so jealous if I’d known you back then. An imaginary friend would’ve been amazing!”
“You think?”
“Yeah! Someone who gets you? Who you don’t have to pretend with? What was her name, your one?”
I squeeze my thumb in my lap.
“I don’t remember.”
Cara takes her purse from the tray under the stereo.
“No matter, you’ve got me now, eh?”
She smiles, then gets out.
I lean over so I can see into the rear-view mirror. The empty back seat.
Where are you right now, Thor Baker?
How many times have I stood in this lift?
Stared up at these numbers?
Ten years. A decade. Decayed.
Think of my first day. The day you made me. Crossing over after you fell asleep. Waiting in line. Filling out forms like everyone else. The grand City Hall full of fresh immigrants to the not real. Standing in our rows, staring forward, hands raised, reciting the oath.
Less than two weeks to go, Marcie.
What do I do?
The fade is coming. I can’t fight it. Can I?
No.
I have to destroy the house. But, once it’s gone, so are you. Forever. A pile of rubble. And I just live out the rest of my days here, like the others.
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.
