Shattered: A Shade novella (18 page)

I broke Finn.

Arcturus
is the fourth brightest star in the
northern sky. Its name means ‘Guardian of the Bear’ in Ancient Greek.
Inuits
call it the Old Man.

I broke …

Arcturus
is classified a red giant. It’s the
zenith star to the Hawaiian Islands. And it’s home to the
Arcturan
Megafreighters
in my
favourite
novel,
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the
Galaxy
. I read that book for the first time – and for the second,
third, fourth, and fifth time – in this very room.

There,
a place of peace. I exhale, pushing away the last remnants of that day in the
canal. I shove it up through the ceiling, into the sky where it can’t hurt me.

Martin
speaks my name in an odd voice. I turn to him. He seems to be waiting for a
response to something.

‘Okay,’
I say, then move past him into the hall. I need to move, feel my feet on the
floor. I’m Here, so everything’s alright.

Martin
repeats my ‘okay’ but adds a bewildered question mark to the end. I walk down
the stairs, stepping over piles of clothes. Why did I put them there when we’ve
a perfectly good laundry chute?

At
the front door I see Dad’s book and my umbrella. I need to bring those to a
place. But where?

My
phone will know. Sure enough, the circled day on the calendar says
Chemo
, with the cancer
centre
address beneath it. Right. I was there today. Then I
came home and …
no
.

‘Zachary?’
Martin calls from upstairs, his voice tinged with fear.

My
mind turns away.
Pick up the book. Pick
up the umbrella. And go.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

When
I return to the hospital, Dad takes one look at my face and asks, ‘What’s
wrong?’

I sit
beside him, hand him his novel. ‘Martin and I had a row.’

‘About
what?’ When I don’t answer, he opens the book. ‘
Awright
,
none of my business.’

I
remember pieces of it, and the bare facts – Martin and Aura have been
emailing for weeks, and oh, by the way, I broke his brother – but I feel
nothing. It’s like my ribs have turned to titanium, sealing off my heart from
further damage.

By
the time Dad and I get home from his chemo session, Martin has gone to work.
His packed suitcase sits in the corner of the living room.

There’s
no time to think of him or Aura or Finn now. I need to stay by my father’s side
as the benevolent poison works its way through his body. Thank God for this
preoccupation.

I
help him upstairs to bed and get him lying on his left side where he’s most
comfortable. Then I find the track on the audiobook corresponding to the place
he left off at the cancer
centre
.

‘Already
read this bit,’ he grumbles.

‘It’s
the beginning of the same chapter. Consider it a wee recap.’ I head for the
door. ‘I’ll make you some soup. Cock-a-
leekie
okay?’

‘Aye.
Sgàire
?’ When I stop and turn, his eyes drift shut.
‘Sorry I took you away.’

‘I
don’t mind going with you to appointments.’

‘I
mean from Scotland. Years ago. Took you from your home, your mates, your
school.’

I
touch the framed photo on the wall by the door, one I made when I was eight. It
shows the Duke of Wellington statue outside the Glasgow Museum of Modern Art.
Usually the duke’s got an orange traffic cone on his head, a duty of anonymous
mischief shared by all city dwellers. But that day, the cone had been placed on
his horse’s head instead. So on the matte beneath the photo I wrote, in such
careful handwriting it looks like a printer’s typeface:
Glaswegian Unicorn
.

‘If
it helps,’ I tell him, ‘I mostly blame Mum.’ I mean it as a joke, but it’s
sorta
true.

‘You
shouldn’t. Our move had more to do with my career than with her desire to find
you new mates.’

‘Perhaps.
Anyway, if I’d stayed here, I’d never have met Aura.’

The
heavy silence fills in the rest of that thought for both of us:
and I’d never have ended up in 3A.

‘Nonetheless.’
He clears his throat. ‘Sorry I was a bastard today.’

 
I can’t take this conciliation from him.
He sounds like he’s making amends on his deathbed.

‘Dad.’
I go and kneel at his side to speak to him at face level. ‘I like when you’re a
bastard. I like when we fight. It’s normal. It’s what living people do.’ I set
my hand near his. ‘Promise you’ll always be a bastard?’

 
He doesn’t respond. The weight of the day
has stolen him from me already. I should let him nap while I make soup, but I
need an answer.

I
poke his arm. ‘Dad?’

‘I
promise I’ll always be a bastard,’ he murmurs. ‘One condition.’

‘What’s
that?’

‘Promise
you’ll always be one too.’

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.’