Shattered: A Shade novella Read online

  I try to smile, but my lips twist into a grimace. Luckily his eyes are still closed.

  ‘Of course I promise,’ I whisper. ‘I’m your son, aye?’

  He grunts a drowsy assent. I study his features, searching for the once-handsome face beneath gaunt flesh and sallow skin. Was it only eight months ago he’d a full crop of black and silver hair? Hair my mum used to tousle when she was peeved with him, a gesture provoking a half growl, half laugh.

  I run my hand over my own head, from chin to scalp. How can my hair still be thick, my skin still toned, when right now I feel as close to death as my father? If I look in the mirror, will I see a corpse staring back?

  In the kitchen, while I wait for the soup to heat, I text my MI-X contact, Agent Phillips, about my laptop.

  He replies immediately: I’ll send someone today to pick it up. I assume your father doesn’t know?

  I’d rather he didn’t. I’ll pay for the repairs.

  Not necessary. You’ll have it back Monday.

  Then I send Aura a text: Can’t chat tonight. Something’s come up.

  Her reply comes instantly too. You OK?

  I shut off the phone, then cross my arms on the worktop and press my face down hard upon them.

  I can no longer answer her. I can no longer fake okay.

  I can’t do this.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday evening I tell Mum I’m going out with Roland, since he’s one friend whose number she doesn’t have. She seems relieved to have an evening alone with Dad, or at least an evening without Martin and me avoiding each other.

  She assumes our ‘row’ is temporary, so she won’t let Martin move out. He’s slept on the sofa the last two nights, which means I’ve not slept at all, even with doubling my Xanax dose. Without his breathing, shifting – and yes, snoring – the dead-of-night silence is too loud, too much like that of 3A. Even music can’t drown out the hostile companion my thoughts have become.

  Aura’s pity. Finn’s disintegration. Martin’s judgement. I need to erase them all.

  One drink should do it, as I’m so exhausted I can barely drag my feet up the front stairs of Martin’s pub. It seems odd, on the one hand, to come here when I’m avoiding thoughts of him. But I feel safe in this place. I know where all the exits are.

  The manager, Judy, greets me with a smile as I approach the bar. ‘Zachary, how are you?’ The sentence starts as a routine cliche, but by the time it’s out of her mouth, she’s taken in my appearance. ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘Is it your father? I know how exhausting the carer role can be.’ Judy lays a gentle hand on my arm. ‘Let me know if I can do anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It’s a non-answer sort of answer, one I can give while calculating how many more words I must utter before ending the conversation. ‘That means a lot.’ I thank her again so I can move on.

  At the bar, Jamie sees to me straightaway. ‘Hey, Zach. Martin’s off the night.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m here.’ I laugh a bit, as if I’ve made a joke, but since it’s not funny, Jamie just looks confused. ‘Tennent’s, please.’

  He reaches for a pint glass, then stops. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He leans past the taps and lowers his voice. ‘Martin said no alcohol for you. He said you could have all the fizzy drinks ye want, on the house.’

  Hot shame sweeps up over my face. All the fizzy drinks I want. Like I’m a child.

  ‘Get you a Coke or something?’ Jamie asks. ‘Irn Bru?’

  ‘Get tae fuck.’ I turn and push through the crowd towards the pub’s front door. When I reach the vestibule, I stop to type out a hate text to Martin.

  A trio of lasses in their early twenties comes in, dressed for a night on the town. They slow as they pass me.

  ‘Too young?’ one of them asks.

  I look up and realise they’re talking about me, not to me.

  ‘No more uni first-years for you, Kristine,’ another chortles. ‘The last one didnae work out so well.’

  ‘But I fancy his hair. And his everything else.’

  I slip outside to escape. It’s drizzling, of course, so I put my phone away without sending the text. Sometimes when the screen gets wet, the whole contraption needs rebooting.

  It won’t take long to find a pub that’ll serve me. Martin couldn’t have warned every bartender in the West End.

  The wind blows harder as I stride down Byres Road, weaving to avoid getting poked in the eye with the tourists’ umbrellas, which are totally unnecessary in this light rain. I shove my fists into my pockets to keep from yanking the umbrellas away from their owners and hurling them into the street.

  Inside my pocket, my left hand wraps around a cylindrical object, but it takes a moment to realise what it is and what it means.

  I brought my Xanax with me in case I stayed out past midnight and needed another dose. The last one never took effect, so I’ve been jittery all evening. My eyes feel too sharp, like even my lashes could slice holes in my lids if I blink too hard.

  Now I don’t just want a drink. I need one.

  * * * *

  The first Ashton Lane pub I enter is completely jammed, with a long wait at the bar. But it’s Saturday night, when every pub is crowded, and since I’ve been here before with my mates – and have mapped out all the escape routes – I decide to stay. I just hope no one I know shows up.

  I order three pints to save myself the effort of queuing again later. Bunching the glasses together against my stomach, I retreat to the end of the high, chairless table ringing the bar’s perimeter.

  My table/shelf is not far from the ladies’ toilets, so a steady stream of girls and women passes, checking me out in my solitude. I glance awkwardly at the front door, as if expecting someone to join me.

  This was a stupid idea. I feel more alone than ever.

  But after the first pint, I start to relax, and when the next lass my age leaves the ladies’ and meets my eyes, I no longer want to cower under the table.

  She changes her course to come talk to me. ‘You waitin’ for someone?’

  I consider the truth and all variety of lies. ‘I was, but she stood me up.’

  ‘No! Someone like you?’

  I’m not sure of her meaning. Who is someone like me?

  The girl shrugs. ‘Anyway, her loss. Can I join ye?’

  Since I’m standing here with an extra pint, it’d be rude to say no. I push it towards her reluctantly. ‘I’m Zachary.’

  ‘I’m Jen.’ She lifts the glass, brushing wispy blond curls from her face. ‘Cheers!’

  I take a long sip, but smaller than before, since now I’ve no backup pint. ‘Are ye here with someone?’

  ‘My friend and her boyfriend. They’re waiting at the bar.’ She stands on her tiptoes and waves to someone I can’t see. Then she gives an exaggerated nod and holds up two fingers before turning back to me. ‘Brilliant, they’re getting two extra pints.’

  ‘Perfect.’ I take a longer gulp of my Tennent’s this time, secure in the knowledge of plenty.

  We chat about the music blaring from the speaker, as well as bands we’ve seen about town. She tells me of clubs I’ve never heard of, and to explain my ignorance, I confess I’ve been away to England and America the last four years.

  ‘I’d kill to live in the States,’ she says. ‘Is it true, how they fancy the way we talk?’

  ‘The girls love it.’

  She pouts. ‘Not the lads? I couldn’t get myself a suntanned California surfer boy wi my accent?’ Her sky-blue eyes reflect the recessed ceiling light, twinkling as she raises her pint to her lips.

  Why don’t I do this more often, hang out in bars and wait for pretty lasses to chat me up? Think of all the friends I’d have. Glaswegians are so aggressively amiable, almost like Americans. It makes me want to hug the entire city all at once. I should, before the end.

  Wait, where did that thought come from? From the rattle of pills in my pocket as I set do
wn my glass? Or from the thought of Americans, the worst of which damaged me forever, and the best of which has betrayed me?

  I can’t imagine ever talking to Aura again, pretending all is fine, knowing what she knows about me. She may have already left me in her mind and is only staying out of pity and a desire to go to Ireland to solve the mystery of the Shift. How can she still want me for me? How can she bear the burden of a broken man? After what happened to Logan, she deserves someone uncomplicated. Someone truly alive.

  ‘Zachary? You seem a million miles away.’

  I drag myself out of the blackness to speak to Jen. ‘It’s hard to hear with all the noise.’

  She steps closer, her right hip pressing my left. ‘Is this better?’

  It’s louder. Now my left arm hangs awkwardly. If I use it to drink, I’ll elbow her in the face. Putting it around her is not an option – some small part of me needs to remain faithful to Aura, despite my rage – so I angle myself to face Jen straighter on. But now her tits are taking up all the space between us, and with the difference in our heights, it’s become impossible to look down at her face without getting an eyeful of cleavage.

  Jen is dead cute, with lovely curves begging to be caressed. Any other lad would be on full alert, trying to score. Yet I feel nothing but a vague gratitude, like she’s a warm shelter in a blizzard.

  ‘Finally! That queue was totally mental.’

  I turn to see a short girl and a tall lad, both of them dark-haired and roughly my age. They’re each cradling three pints against their stomachs like I did.

  The guy sets his beers on the table. ‘Hiya, I’m Gordon. This is Amy.’

  ‘This is Zachary.’ Jen pushes two of the new pints towards me and takes one for herself. ‘He’s from Maryhill, but tell them where you lived before that.’

  I’ve had enough talk of the United States. I give Jen a pointed glance as I tell them, ‘Three years’ boarding school in the south of England.’

  ‘Boarding school?’ Amy gasps. ‘Was it like Hogwarts?’ There’s a teasing gleam in her eye.

  I return her smirk. ‘Aye, just like Hogwarts, minus the magic and the lasses.’

  ‘So more like, em, what do they call it?’ Gordon says. ‘Prison?’

  We all laugh. ‘Exactly,’ I tell him. ‘Especially at first, when I’d the Scots beaten out of me on a daily basis.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Jen puts her hand on my arm. ‘The English lads did that to ye?’

  ‘Them, and the boys from Edinburgh and Aberdeen, who said ma Weegie accent was an embarrassment tae aw Scotland.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Gordon says.

  ‘Aye, it was.’

  ‘But ye don’t sound English now,’ Jen observes, ‘so it turned out well.’

  Amy jabs her boyfriend’s shoulder. ‘Gordon’s at uni down at York. He fancies it, though.’

  ‘It’s no sae bad.’ He drapes his arm around her. ‘But thank God for weekends.’ They kiss with the confident sort of hunger that knows it’ll soon be fed.

  ‘Cos there’s nae place like home,’ Jen proclaims, ‘especially when yer home is Glesga.’

  As we all drink to that, I remember the last mention I heard of Yorkshire. Finn’s hospital is there.

  No, I’m not to think of him tonight, I resolve as I reach for my third (fourth?) pint. I’m not to think of how I put him in that place for children who grow up worse instead of better.

  A waitress swoops by, the first I’ve seen tonight. ‘Youse doing awright or you ready for—’

  ‘Shots!’ Jen declares at the top of her lungs. My brain begs to differ, but it’s outnumbered here.

  The shots come, I’m not sure how many, as after two I lose both the ability and the desire to count. Over the next hour (only an hour? Dunno, as I’ve not checked my phone for the time or messages since I walked in here. An excellent sign. I don’t need anything or anyone but my new mates.), Jen, Amy, Gordon, and I forge what feels like the deepest, most permanent bond ever. We’ve so much in common, like … well, it doesnae matter, I love them all so much.

  The waitress strides in our direction carrying food on a tray, and I realise I can’t remember when I last ate. This morning? Yesterday?

  As she passes, the scent hits me, burgers with chips and onions. I stagger with the sudden need to either eat or boak.

  ‘You awright?’ Jen says. I can barely feel her hand on my arm. It’s like my skin’s grown an extra ten layers. ‘Ye look ill.’

  ‘No, I just—’ Suddenly I need to piss like a mad thing. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Inside the gents’, my fingers are so numb and my head so swimmy, it takes all my focus to hit the inside of the urinal. I can tell by the spray patterns that others before me have had worse control.

  On the wall before my eyes is a sticker: Problems with alcohol? Get help here. There’s a phone number beneath it, though I don’t know how they think drunk people are supposed to remember it, or how someone with prick in hand would be able to write it down.

  ‘My problem with alcohol’, I tell the sticker, ‘is that I don’t have it more often.’ I look at the nearest lad, two places over. ‘Right?’

  He studiously ignores me. I’ve broken the cardinal rule of the gents’: never talk to strangers at the urinal.

  But he doesn’t look like a stranger. His ginger hair and pale, freckled skin remind me of Martin. No, his hair’s much lighter than my best mate’s. It’s closer to the colour of …

  Finn’s.

  When you saved him, mate, you destroyed him.

  I shake my head at Martin’s words as I zip up and head for the sink. ‘What if I’d not saved him?’ I murmur. ‘What if he’d died? He’d have stayed a shade forever. That’d be worse, aye? There’s no coming back from—’

  A thought freezes me, my hands under the flowing tap. In the mirror, I stare into my own horror-stricken, bloodshot eyes.

  What about me? What happens if I die suddenly – in an accident or from a heart attack – and become a ghost? I’ll never be able to get away from myself. I’ll become a shade, miserable and angry forever.

  My only chance to avoid eternal misery is to die from a slow disease like Dad’s. Research has sorted all this out in the eighteen years since the Shift: people who know death is coming are prepared for it. They don’t need to be ghosts, even if they want to be. It’s not an existence one can choose by—

  Oh.

  A sudden calm washes over me. Disease is not my only chance. There’s another way to make sure I’ll never be a ghost or a shade. There’s one way to be sure my death won’t come as a surprise:

  I must cause it myself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The one empty cubicle in the men’s toilet has a broken door that won’t lock. How fitting. I lean back against the door to keep it shut, then slip my hand into my pocket. The pills are still there.

  Erasure. The solution to every fear, every pain, everything that’s wrong with me. I’ll never return in my mind to that place, never see another look of pity. I’ll never hurt another living or dead human again.

  My numb fingers try to turn the pill bottle’s lid, but it’s one of those childproof devices, so all my strength can’t open it. I bring it close to my face, trying to read the instructions, though why I should need guidance for something I’ve done a hundred times, I don’t know.

  The letters are white plastic on white plastic. My vision swims.

  Brilliant. I’m too drunk to kill myself. I have officially failed at everything.

  ‘Zach? It’s Gordon. Jen sent me in to see if you’re okay.’

  Startled, I drop the pill bottle. It rolls under the door and out towards the sinks. ‘Ah, naw …’

  There’s a rattle, then a gasp.

  ‘Zach, what the fuck are you doing?’

  The world around me narrows so fast, I’ve no time to breathe before I’m sucked back There. I sink against the door, grasping for a handhold, but it’s smooth and cold and—

  They took my
Q-Tips.

  I tear off my pillowcase and turn it inside out, then rip the sheets from the thin mattress, choking back a howl. How could I fail to protect the one thing that let me mark time, the one thing that kept me sane?

  Behind me, the door of the loo clicks shut. The cleaning woman must be in there now.

  I lunge over and pound on the door. ‘Give them back! The swabs, I need them. Just let me have a look at the rubbish – at the trash – for one minute.’ My voice pitches up like a wean begging for sweets. ‘I promise I’ll be good. I promise!’

  I slide down the smooth, cold door, pressing my ear to it. Water runs, bristles scratch porcelain, a woman sighs – with fatigue or exasperation or perhaps even compassion.

  Finally her footsteps recede. A door opens and shuts on the other side of the loo, the door to the outside corridor.

  The lock on this door clicks, and I shove it open. Beneath the sink I find a treasure of cotton balls, tissues, toilet paper, soap – and Q-Tips.

  I dump them on the floor and spread them in front of me. ‘Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve …’ and so on. ‘… Thirty, thirty-two, thirty-f—’

  Wait. Is that right? Is that too many? How long …?

  Oh. Oh. No. No.

  I’ve lost track of time.

  Time’s lost track of me.

  My breath comes in gasps. This is it. This is forever. This tiny, undifferentiated universe of white is all that’s ever existed or all that will ever exist.

  I lift my eyes towards the camera in the ceiling. For weeks I’ve pleaded and raged and wept in its direction. But it’s as indifferent as God itself.

  That’s when I see my salvation, sitting on the sink: a bottle of drain cleaner.

  A few swallows and they’d never save me in time. It would be painful but quick. Not like the slow starvation I’ve been at for … two weeks? Three weeks?

  I grab the bottle and unscrew the cap.

  ‘Zach, what the fuck are you doing?’

  I drop the bottle. Thick blue liquid splashes across the scattered Q-Tips.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I shout at the ceiling camera.