Shattered: A Shade novella Page 4

  Friday night I sit at my desk, preparing for my midnight chat with Aura. It’s only 10.14 p.m., but I’ve lots to keep me busy.

  To my right is a jumbled stack of papers and notebooks, clues to the mystery of the Shift. It’s a bit of a mess.

  To my left, though, lies one neat sheet of graph paper, upon which I’ve charted how much saner I need to become each week in order to be reasonably normal by the twentieth of December, when Aura and I plan to reunite in Ireland. My calculations assume a continuous but nonlinear growth in mental health – slow at first, as 3A digs in its claws and refuses to let me go; then faster, as my medication, therapy, and sheer force of will allow me to heal from the damage I’ve sustained.

  I will measure my progress in quantifiable ways. Subtracting from my sanity score will be number of nightmares, panic attacks (which each count as two nightmares), and flashbacks (worth five nightmares, if today’s was any indication). Adding to my score are things I can control: hours of exercise and sleep, as well as weight gained, since eating and drinking must surely be signs of good mental hygiene.

  So I’ve a goal and a plan, with clear, rational variables. I almost wish I could show this graph to my old calculus teacher, the one who told me – in front of Aura – that I’d never be a scientist because I’m such crap at higher maths.

  Thinking of Aura reminds me of another task. I pull out a pad of sticky notes and write 117 on the top one. Then 116 on the next, and so on, ending with 0. Each night I’ll discard another note to display the number of days until Aura and I are together again.

  I tear off the top four sticky notes, one for each day I’ve been out of 3A. There, I’ve accomplished something already.

  The clock reads 10.26 now, so I go to my bed and pull a large manila envelope from under one of my pillows. Inside are the letters written to me while I was in 3A, from Aura, my parents, and Martin. Letters the DMP didn’t give me until I was released. (God forbid I should have had proof I was remembered and loved. Fascist bastards.)

  On the flight home, I devoured the letters all at once, but now I reread only one per night, the better to savour each.

  Tonight’s is from Aura, the first she wrote me, on the fourteenth of July:

  Dear Zachary,

  I miss you so much. I’d give anything to bust down your door and be in your arms again. But the world doesn’t work that way right now. Please stay strong, stay safe, and stay there.

  Love, Aura

  She explained yesterday that this letter had been a warning not to try to escape. She and her friends had sneaked into the outskirts of the 3A complex and discovered it surrounded by an invisible electric fence, marked by the corpses of small electrocuted animals. They also discovered that 3A was protected by Nighthawk, the same ‘private spies’ that bombed the flight my parents and I should have taken.

  I run my finger over the letter’s top edge, a row of jagged holes where the page was torn from a spiral memo pad. Aura could’ve been killed by that fence or shot by those mercenaries. The thought twists my stomach, until I have to lie down on my side to stop the pain.

  I crush the letter against my chest with both hands, as if Aura’s determination can seep out of the paper and into me. She still wants to conquer our vast array of enemies, while all I want is to forget them.

  ‘Zachary?’ Mum knocks on my half-closed door.

  I sit up quickly, smoothing my hair. ‘Yes?’

  She eases the door open. ‘Just wanted to let you know I’m away to bed now.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ I offer her what feels like a serene smile, then make a mental note to add smiles to my list of positive sanity variables. ‘If Dad needs anything, let me know and I’ll take care of it. I’ll be awake late anyway.’

  ‘No, you need your sleep.’

  ‘I can sleep mornings after his nurse comes. You can’t, because of work. Let me take the overnight shift from now on.’ When she hesitates, I add, ‘Please, Mum. I’ve no job or school to fill my time. I want to help Dad. I need to help.’

  A thoughtful look crosses her face. ‘I suppose I could use the rest. Do you remember what to do?’

  ‘Of course. I helped you care for him in Baltimore. He’s no sicker now than he was then.’

  ‘True.’ She smiles at me. ‘Thank you, Zachary.’ She turns away, her hand still on the knob.

  ‘No!’ I leap off the bed, scattering the letters. ‘Don’t close it!’

  Mum yanks her hand away as if it’s been burned. ‘I wasn’t, I-I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay. Goodnight.’ As I watch her back away down the hall, into the loo, my thumb pushes the latch into the door again and again, comforted by how easily it slides in and out.

  Which reminds me …

  I wait inside my bedroom until I hear my mother start brushing her teeth. Then I hurry downstairs to the front door.

  Just like last night, I disengage the deadbolt, then turn the knob to unlock that, too. Quietly I open and close the door. Leaving it unlocked, I repeat the process on the door to the back garden, then on all the ground-floor windows. Finally I put the kettle on for tea, one of the simple, everyday rituals denied to me this summer.

  And then …

  I stand here, holding my breath, eyes darting between windows – first the small one over the sink, then the larger one in the dining room.

  So. Fucking. Quiet. I could be the only person in the world right now.

  Slowly my arms curl around my waist. Not alone not alone not alone. But even I feel far from me at this moment.

  On the stove, the kettle rattles as it starts to heat. I reach to place my palm on its stainless-steel body. If I burn, I exist.

  The briefest flash of pain makes me draw back. I press my hands to my face in relief.

  My fingers still hold the warm brass scent of the door locks. It reminds me that here, metal exists. Here, some things are hard and unyielding, not all soft and padded like they were in 3A. Here, I could use hard things to make myself stronger, or to destroy myself.

  Today, I choose strength.

  Chapter Five

  My mates and I are taking the long way home from Firhill Stadium, where the Jags have just won a match. Aye, Jags won – one doesn’t often see those words beside each other.

  Due to the club’s shitey season thus far, it was a sparsely attended event, so the crowds didn’t overwhelm me like I’d feared. Martin had told Niall, Frankie, and Graham that I was still on edge from ‘prison’, so they were not to bring it up or subject me to our usual roughhousing. But once they saw that my time away hadn’t touched my ability to analyse football – or colourfully insult the referees – they accepted me back into the fold.

  Right now we’re on the footpath beside the Forth and Clyde Canal, discussing how far we’d live from Maryhill and still support Partick Thistle.

  ‘All the way to Govan, I think,’ Niall says, ‘or East End somewhere.’

  ‘Only a few miles?’ Martin asks. ‘You’re a fickle bastard, so you are.’

  ‘Not me.’ Graham taps his fist against the thistle logo on his jersey. ‘I’d support Jags even in Edinburgh – not that I’d ever live there on purpose.’

  ‘Mind now, Graham,’ Frankie says. ‘Niall’s girlfriend’s from Edinburgh.’

  ‘Rose’s not my girlfriend, ya bawbag.’ Niall skelps Frankie in the shoulder. ‘Anyway, she’s from here in Glesga.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Frankie stops to light a cigarette, turning his back to the wind. During the pause, I take in the lush green trees on either side of the canal, as well as the family of ducks paddling against the light current. I still can’t get over this wonderful world I’ve reentered. It seems too good to be true.

  Graham unscrews the cap from a bottle of Buckfast, takes a swig, then offers it to Martin. With a bartender’s snobbery, Martin wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.

  I hold up a hand to keep Graham from giving me the bottle. ‘Aren’t youse a bit old for this pish? Buckie’s for weans, not eighteen- an
d nineteen-year-olds like yersels.’

  ‘Didn’t we tell you, Zach?’ Frankie tosses the match over the weeds into the canal. ‘We were all frozen in time the moment you left. Cheers for coming back and un-stunting our growth.’

  ‘At yer service.’ I give a gracious mock bow, complete with hand flourish.

  ‘Ye didn’t answer our question,’ Niall says to me. ‘How far widje go before Jags lose you?’

  ‘I supported them when I lived in Baltimore, and in England before that, so I guess they cannae lose me.’

  They jeer and heckle. Graham shouts, ‘You’re nuthin’ but a fuckin’ martyr.’

  I smile, thinking of how my mates in America used to call me that when I turned away other girls, waiting for Aura to return my feelings.

  I pull out my phone to check the time (6.31 p.m.). The battery’s almost dead. Also, Aura’s not returned the celebratory text message I sent her twenty-one minutes ago at the end of the match. It’s Saturday, so she’s not in class. Why wouldn’t she reply?

  ‘So where we going the night?’ Frankie asks. ‘Zachary’s homecoming deserves the best.’

  I scan my memory of last night’s video chat. Did Aura mention going somewhere today? I should’ve paid better attention.

  ‘There’s The Sorry Dog,’ Graham says. ‘They’ve a good whisky bar.’

  Frankie scoffs. ‘Aye, and fuckin’ expensive. Besides, we spend too much time in there, we’ll turn into hipster pricks.’

  ‘Too late for you.’ Niall cracks.

  A horrible thought strikes: what if the DMP took Aura to 3A? What’s to stop them? Certainly not me.

  Suddenly I must know now that she’s alright. I send her another text: You there?

  As my mates weigh the pros and cons of local bars, I watch my phone for Aura’s reply. I can’t ring her – international phone calls cost too much. We’d both get in trouble.

  ‘Lads.’ Martin clears his throat. ‘I cannae go out with youse the night.’ He scuffs the sole of his shoe against the grass. ‘Me and some other friends are, em …’

  I look up from my phone. Is this it, when he finally comes out to all of them?

  ‘Whaur ye gaun?’ Graham says.

  ‘Em … to Relic.’ He bites his lip. ‘For dancing and all.’

  Of the others, only Niall isn’t confused. He bows his head, rubs the back of his neck, and sighs. Like this is a moment he’s been dreading.

  ‘Relic?’ Graham says. ‘Is that new? Whaur is it?’

  ‘Merchant City.’

  Now Frankie goes still. He knows what sort of clubs populate much of that section of Glasgow.

  But Graham blethers on. ‘Why can’t we come? Too posh a place for yer old mates?’

  ‘Ye wouldn’t like it,’ I snap. ‘It’s a gay club.’

  Everyone goes totally silent. Then Graham says to Martin in an astonished whisper: ‘You?’ Martin nods, then glances at me, which makes Graham turn my way. ‘Not you, too? I thought you’d a lass.’

  ‘I do.’ At least, I hope so.

  For several moments, the four of them look off in different directions, as if suddenly fascinated by the water and ducks and trees. They look like band members posing for an album cover.

  Finally Graham clears his throat. ‘Frankie, gies a fag.’

  I tense before remembering that here, fag means cigarette.

  Usually Frankie won’t let go of his smokes. He’ll possessively hold out the packet to let somebody take just one, then he’ll light it for him. But now he drops the packet and the matches into Graham’s palm, coming nowhere close to touching his hand.

  Graham lights the cigarette. ‘Well, that’s …’ He blows the smoke out hard and high, then turns away without finishing the sentence.

  ‘We could all play fitba the morrow,’ Martin suggests. ‘Weather’s supposed to be good.’

  ‘Let’s do that,’ I say in a hurry. ‘Rain or shine.’

  The others murmur noncommittally. In the brief lull, I check my phone again. No message. My mind spins through a kaleidoscope of terrible fates that could’ve befallen Aura.

  Niall says to Martin, ‘Ye sure you’ve time fur us, mate?’ He emphasises the last word, mocking it. ‘Won’t yer new friends want tae go see an art gallery, maybe take in an opera or two?’

  Martin’s lip curls. ‘Ye know, they might. But I’ll be sure and tell them I’d rather slum with you lot.’

  The others recoil, which is odd. We spend most of our time taking the piss out of one another. Insults are the currency of our camaraderie. But something’s changed.

  Niall snorts, his eyes full of hostility. ‘Go on, then, ya mad wee poof.’

  My vision turns red. I drop my phone and lunge at Niall, shoving him against a tree trunk. ‘What’d you call him?!’

  Before he can answer, I punch him in the stomach, a hard left, then deliver a right swing up under his chin. It feels good to hit something, so I keep doing it, even as I’m dragged off onto my heels.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Zach!’ Graham pushes between us as Frankie pins my arms behind me.

  My rage turns to panic. ‘Stop! Don’t touch me!’

  ‘Too late for that,’ Frankie snarls.

  Niall straightens up, coughing, then dabs the blood from his lips and glares at me. ‘Why don’t ye go out with yer girlfriend here tonight? Leave us be.’

  He walks away down the path, spitting blood onto the grass. Frankie and Graham dump me on my arse, then follow him. None of them looks back.

  Martin glowers down at me, hands on his hips. ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘They insulted you.’

  ‘It would’ve passed. We would’ve been fine if you’d left it alone.’

  ‘I’m not sorry.’

  He comes over, holds out his hand to help me up. I ignore it and get to my feet on my own.

  The moment I’m standing, Martin punches me in the face.

  ‘Augh!’ I stagger back, barely keeping upright. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘For being my knight in shining fuckin’ armor. I don’t need one, and I don’t want one.’ He rubs his knuckles. ‘Also, that’s how ye punch a mate.’

  I check my face for blood, but there’s none. Probably won’t even be a bruise. My own knuckles are throbbing, though. ‘I wasn’t trying to hurt Niall.’

  ‘Well, ye were trying tae hurt someone.’

  I shake my head hard to dispel the image of DMP agents dragging Aura away. The gesture sends an ache through my right cheekbone.

  I retrieve my phone from where it fell. Not only does it still work, but there’s a reply from Aura: Sorry, I was at the movies with Aunt Gina. Yay Jags!!

  My shoulders sag with relief. Martin and I start walking again. Far ahead, our mates are crossing the white wooden footbridge. All of our gang but me live north of the canal.

  ‘So much for my homecoming,’ I mutter.

  ‘You could always come wi me to Relic.’

  I don’t love the idea of another crowded place, but anything’s better than solitude. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘If you’re worried about lads chatting you up,’ Martin adds, ‘I could punch some more of the pretty aff yer face.’

  * * * *

  Martin doesn’t punch me again, and by the time we enter the Merchant City dance club, my cheek has stopped aching.

  The music pounds from the speakers in a steady trance techno beat I can feel through the soles of my shoes. Relic’s a large place, so the faux stone walls don’t seem uncomfortably close. The coloured lights draped over them shimmy and streak in a mesmerising pattern.

  And there’s nothing but lads. It’s an all-ages night, so most are late teens and early twenties like us. Dancing, drinking, kissing, laughing. I’m swept with an odd sense of belonging-yet-not-belonging that somehow soothes me.

  ‘It’s not too crowded,’ I tell Martin. ‘I was worried.’

  He visibly relaxes, seeing me do so. ‘That’s why we’re here early. We’ll leave when it gets bad for you.’
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  ‘I don’t want to keep you from having a good time.’

  He grins at me. ‘Impossible.’

  If I were a student of body language, rather than a newly returning student of having a body, I’d be taking notes. Martin is carefully guarding my personal space, placing himself between me and the other lads in a way that says ‘Back off’ without saying ‘He’s mine.’

  The three guys we’re with aren’t chatting us up so much as they’re, well, chatting. They’re not much different to our mates back in Maryhill, except a wee bit better groomed.

  They all want to know about America.

  ‘Is it true everyone carries a gun?’ asks the short, dark-haired one on the other side of Martin (I think his name’s Robert, but it’s so loud in here I missed the intros and it’d be awkward to ask again).

  ‘Naw, only guns I saw were carried by the polis. And even they’d not as many weapons as the constables in Derry or Belfast.’

  Everyone nods. Most Glaswegians know someone from Northern Ireland, where even now, body armour is worn by most officers.

  ‘Zachary lived in Baltimore,’ Martin says with emphasis. ‘Remember that programme The Wire? With the drugs and all? Baltimore’s where it takes place.’

  Now they’re impressed. I shrug. ‘Baltimore’s like Glasgow. It’s perfectly safe if ye know where not to walk at night.’

  This time their nods are mixed with frowns. It occurs to me that this lot has to take extra care where they walk at night. Martin says Glasgow’s pretty gay-friendly, but guys holding hands in public is still Not Done outside a few small areas and times.

  ‘One odd thing about Americans,’ I tell them. ‘They’re always toting around bottles of water. Not just when exercising. Like, all the time.’

  They squint at my change in topic. Clearly I’ve lost the art of conversation by talking to no one but myself for eight weeks.

  ‘You mean sparkling water?’ asks the one with bright-blue eyes, standing across from me.

  ‘No, still water. They seemed in constant fear of dehydration. I suppose that’s why their bathrooms – their toilets, I mean, heh – were so large. As much as they drink, they must spend all their time pissing.’