Shattered: A Shade novella (15 page)

‘I’ll
ring you in the morning if I need. But I’ll probably come home then. Now take a
taxi, please. The buses aren’t safe this late.’

‘They’re
perfectly safe.’

‘Just
humour
me, alright?’

‘
Awright
,
awright
.’ I can tell she
wants to embrace me, but every nerve of mine is on edge. I’ve just looked at
the clock – 12.16 a.m. – and
realised
Martin won’t finish work at the pub until nearly four.

For
the first time since leaving 3A, I’ll be home alone.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

In
the taxi, I text Martin and Niall to let them know my father’s okay. Once
inside the house, I go straight upstairs to bed, rather than wait up for Martin
with the television blaring. I’ll prove to myself I can handle the solitude.

I lie
awake rereading the letters Aura sent to me in 3A, though I’ve
memorised
them all. The sheets are crumpled now from lying
under my pillow for weeks. Perhaps I should call her, but I don’t want news of
my dad to ruin her night out with her friends.

The
house is too dark. I get up and turn on the light at the top of the stairs. There,
now Martin won’t trip when he comes in.

I go
back to bed.

The
house is too quiet. I switch on my phone’s MP3 player and select the mellowest
of Martin’s playlists. It starts with a Glasgow indie band, Olympic Swimmers. I
should suggest them to Aura for her next volume of
Musical Valium
, the playlist she uses to calm herself before an
exam. There’s something about them that makes the world feel
cosy
and safe.

The
wistful soprano voice, with the aid of my own very real medication, lulls me
into drowsiness. I try not to think of this empty house, and especially not how
one day, when my dad doesn’t come home, it will be much, much emptier.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

Billy
is smothering me.

He
burrows his white-sheeted self up my nostrils and down past my tongue. I can’t
scream or even gag. My hands flop at the ends of my arms, flailing far from my
body, as if they’re trying to escape without me from this tiny white cell.

I
wake, choking, still feeling Billy’s fabric body stuffed inside my throat.

With
one coughing bark, air rushes out, then in. ‘Unh!’ is all I utter before my
slamming heart obliterates all speech.

Martin’s
sleep-slurred voice reaches me. ‘
Awright
, mate.’

I
gulp breaths, unable to answer. I need to tell him goodbye.

‘Zach?’
he says, first with fear, then calm. ‘Zachary, breathe. Like
yer
doctor taught ye, remember?’

I
can’t remember, and besides, breathing
is
the problem. I’m doing nothing
but
–
fast, hard, shallow, like a hamster on a wheel.

‘Meantime,
I’ll get
yer
meds.’ The bedside light comes on.
Martin flips the sheet on the notepad, then curses. ‘Cannae have another
Klonopin
till eight, and it’s only five. Want some water?’

My
stomach cramps at the thought. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

‘Let
me think.’ He takes a deep, slow breath – I hate him for that ability
– then shifts into my line of sight. ‘If I touch ye, will ye punch me?’

My
limbs feel full of needles, and seem to weigh a hundred pounds each. ‘Can’t.
Move. So. No.’

Martin
lays his hand on my stomach, palm over my navel. ‘Breathe from here,
ya
numpty
, no
yer
chest.’

I
try, but it makes me even dizzier.

‘Breathe
in for four seconds,’ he says, ‘then hold it for four.
Naw
,
that was half a second. We’ll start low. Can you
gies
a two-second inhale?’

I
manage to lengthen just one breath to two seconds.

‘Quality,
mate,’ he murmurs. ‘This time three seconds. Ready? I’ll count. One, two,
three.’

I
focus on his hand and his voice. He starts speaking in Gaelic, for the first
time since I’ve returned home. ‘
Aon,
dhà
,
trì
.
S’math
sin.
Now hold for three.
Aon,
dhà
…’

The
simple phrases take me back to the beginning of primary school, when we first
met. We always thought it funny that
S’math
sin
(
That’s good
) sounded like
smashing.
We’d say it with a posh
English accent and get in trouble.

‘
Aon,
dhà
,
trì
,
ceithir
.
S’math
sin
, now hold.
Aon,
dhà
,
trì
,
ceithir
.
Now breathe out.
’
 

My
lungs seize, then heave. It’d be a sob if I weren’t too terrified for tears.

He
whispers,
‘
Shhhh
,’
which is the same in every language. Martin lifts his other hand to stroke my
hair. ‘This’ll pass, mate. It’ll all pass.’ His thumb draws slow circles over
my temple. The stabbing sensation in my chest eases a fraction.

We
count my breaths, Martin out loud and me silently. His voice is
mesmerising
, and soon my lungs unclamp from my ribs. My
heart’s still racing, but at a marathoner’s speed now instead of a sprinter’s.

Finally
I lift my left hand, trembling and chilled. It’s like I’m operating someone
else’s body with a remote control. I stare at it, front and back.

‘
Dè
tha
ceàrr
?
’ he asks.
What’s
wrong?

‘It
all feels far from me.’ I wave my hand through the air. ‘Like I can’t tell
where my body ends and the world begins. I feel I could just … dissipate.’ I flex
and stretch my fingers quickly, as if doing a magic trick.

‘Don’t
dissipate.’ He lies on his side next to me, the front of his face pressing my
pillow. ‘Sounds
awfy
painful.’

‘Can’t
be worse than these panic attacks.’ I drop my arm, knocking it against his. His
hand is still on my stomach, rising and falling with my breath. I tuck my hand
between us, over top the sheets.

‘This
was a bad one, wasn’t it?’ he asks.

‘The
worst. Felt I was going to die.’ I don’t add,
I still feel that
. His calm is the only thing keeping me from
panicking again. ‘I’m all wrung out, twisted up.’

As if
punctuating my sentence, my legs spasm, then my shoulders. Martin gasps in
surprise, an almost comical sound.

‘Go
back to sleep,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be okay.’

‘Someday
ye will be, but not tonight.’

I
cover my face with my right hand, the one not wedged between our bodies. ‘Ach,
I hate for you to see me like this, again and again.’

‘It’s
awright
. A good distraction from my own problems.’

Speaking
of distractions. ‘What problems?’ I ask him, hungry for a topic that isn’t me.
‘
Yer
man? Or
yer
parents?’

‘There’s
nae
man at the moment. Which I suppose
is
a problem, but not the big one. Ma
rang me today, said I’m to come with her and Da to see Finn next week. But he
hates when we visit. He hates us. He hates everything.’

I
remember what I learned earlier tonight (Was it only tonight? Edinburgh feels a
million years ago). ‘Niall told me about your cat.’

Martin’s
breath catches, and when he speaks, his voice is cold and hard. ‘Now you know
why I hate my brother.’

‘He
wasn’t himself after the accident. The old Finn would’ve never—’

‘The
old Finn was a
bawfaced
cunt. The new one is … a
monster.’ His hand on my stomach curls into a fist. ‘I was there. It happened
so fast, Penny was dead before I even knew what Finn was doing. Sophie started
screaming, hitting him, and he pushed her off, said he’d kill her next. So I
grabbed him and started punching him in the face. He got his knee up into my
baws
, but somehow I kept hitting and shaking him, banging
his head on the floor until he stopped moving.’ Martin’s face twists, his
freckles stark against his pale skin. ‘I beat my nine-year-old brother
senseless,’ he chokes out. ‘I could’ve killed him. I wanted to kill him.’

‘You
were defending your six-year-old sister, so there’s
nae
shame in it.’

‘She
ran and got Ma, and Finn was gone in an hour. I didn’t visit him for more than
a year. Sophie still hasn’t seen him.’ Martin sniffles. ‘Look at me, having a
greet over a wee cat.’

‘I’m
sorry.’ I should offer him a comforting shoulder pat or whatever people do when
someone cries. But I’m still frozen here on my back, drained from the panic. ‘I
always liked Penny.’

‘She
liked you too. You were one of, I
dunno
, three people
outside the family she’d let pet her.’ He attempts a smile, but it quickly
fades.

‘She’d
a great life. She was loved. Try to remember the good years, not the bad
seconds.’

‘I
do, but it makes me miss her more. It’s easier now, living in your house, where
she never was.’ He gives a weak laugh. ‘So
dinnae
chuck me onto the street for snoring,
awright
?’

‘I
wouldnae
chuck you for anything.’

He
lifts his chin to look at me straight. I’m suddenly conscious our faces are just
a few inches apart. If I move away, he’ll take it wrong. But it’s hard for me
to be this close to anyone without panicking. Even Martin. Even now.

‘Mum
and Dad love having you,’ I add.

He
blinks, then pulls his hand off my stomach. We’re so near, though, he has
trouble finding a non-awkward place to put it.

Without
thinking, I take it in mine, then bring them to rest between us. It’s the
second hand I’ve held tonight. My father’s was cold and fragile, while Martin’s
is warm and strong.

But
it’s too much. I jerk my head away, making my neck spasm.

‘
Augh
!’ I wince, rubbing the spot between my neck and
shoulder. ‘Got all knotted up in the stupid panic attack.’

‘That
won’t work. You’re straining the same muscles you’re trying tae relax. ’Mon,
turn this way.’

The
movement sends stabs of pain from the base of my skull out into my arms, but
somehow I shift onto my left side facing him. Martin frowns as he tries to dig
his thumb into the taut cords of tissue atop my shoulder. His right hand slips
beneath my neck, steadying my head.

It
occurs to me that he could snap my spine in this position. A sudden
vulnerability sweeps over me.

Unable
to speak, I take his wrists and pull his hands from my neck. But I don’t let
go. Instead I press my forehead to his knuckles, trying in vain to steady my
breath. Finally I move one of his hands to my chest and place his palm over my
racing, stuttering heart.

‘Fuck’s
sake, Zach. It’s beating a million miles an hour. Am I making it worse?’

‘No.
Maybe. It’s not you. It’s … being touched. I wasn’t, for so long, this summer.
It feels … dangerous.’

His
fingers twitch, then curl, bunching the cloth of my T-shirt. ‘It’s not
dangerous.’ One finger extends to trace below my collarbone. ‘Can I show you?’

I
shiver, thinking of Aura. What if I’m like this with her in Ireland? What if on
our big night, during our precious short holiday, I still can’t bear to be
touched?

I let
go of Martin’s wrists, a silent assent.

His
right hand stays over my heart, perhaps monitoring my reaction, as his left
moves to the side of my neck, up into my hair. His thumb outlines my earlobe,
tracing my shape back into existence, showing me where I end and Else begins.

I
close my eyes as he skims my brows, cheekbones, jaw. His ring and index finger
drift over my lids, middle finger skating down my nose. They join together at
my lips, just long enough to circle once. And then they’re gone.

‘Should
I stop?’ he whispers.

‘No.’
This is working. For the first time since I woke, my body seems the right place
to be. For the first time since I left 3A, I’m not afraid.

His
hand drifts over my shoulder, then my arm, reshaping me. Slowly he sculpts my
wrist, hand, and fingertips. It’s from there, a few inches of skin, that life
begins to spread through me again. I shift my legs beneath the covers, and it
doesn’t hurt a bit.

Martin
hesitates, his palm against mine. ‘Promise you’ll say if ye need me tae stop.’