Shattered: A Shade novella (2 page)

heid
(
head
)

nae
(
no
, as in
lack of
)

naw
(
no,
as in the opposite of
yes
)

no (
not
)

pish
(
piss
)

polis (
police
)

tae (
to
)

whaur
(
where
)

whit (
what
)

wi
(
with
)

widje
(
would you
)

ye (
you
; the
pronunciation is closer to
yeh
than
yee
)

yer
(
your
)

yersel
(
yourself
)

Scots is not to be confused with Scottish
Gaelic, a language related to Irish and spoken mostly in the Highlands and
Hebrides. In the ‘Shattered’ scene in which Gaelic is spoken, the words are
italicized.

You might notice Zachary’s Scots usage
varies along a spectrum from none (with his mum) to some (with his dad) to lots
(with a large group of his mates). Pretty typical seventeen-year-old boy, aye?

Author’s
Note 2:

Punctuation, grammar, and spelling

I chose to follow British English rules
rather than American English, to give ‘Shattered’ that extra Zach-y
flavo
(u)r, and because I’m a bit of a masochist.

The
New
Oxford Style Manual
was used for copyediting and proofreading purposes, but
I’ve undoubtedly made a few errors out of ignorance. Those knowledgeable in
British English should feel free to email corrections to
[email protected]
.

Shattered:
a Shade novella

by Jeri Smith-Ready

‘Being deeply loved by someone
gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.’

― Lao-Tzu

Chapter
One

You’re free. You’re safe. You’re going
home.

I
silently recite the words I was told upon landing at London Heathrow half an
hour ago. My escort and temporary physician (Tina? Tara? Can’t remember her
name.) thought those phrases would reassure me in my ‘disorientation’.

Disorientation
doesn’t … quite
… cover it.

After
eight weeks of complete solitude, the opposite is almost harder to bear. The
crowds lining the international arrivals corridor are putting me on edge,
despite the sedatives my doctor gave me. My brain feels like it could pop out
of my ears.

So I
keep my focus straight in front as I stride towards my mother, who waits apart
from the throng. She must have been warned I needed space.

At
the sight of me, Mum’s hopeful smile twists with sorrow, but she raises her
arms for an embrace. I stop short, perhaps ten paces away.

During
my first month in Area 3A’s solitary confinement, I craved a thousand things
– fresh air, television, the sight of my girlfriend, Aura – but
those longings paled next to my need for human touch. I would beg for a
handshake, a hug, even a beating.

The
second month changed me. Now the thought of another’s flesh against mine makes
me feel I could disintegrate.

Mum
drops her arms, but only for a moment. Then she lifts her chin and holds out
her hands again, this time supporting rather than pleading.

I
step forwards. Perhaps it’ll be different with her than it was with my guards
when they brought me out of my white-grey cell yesterday morning, or when the
doctor checked my pulse on the plane. Perhaps Mum’s touch won’t send me
spinning.

‘Zachary,’
she whispers when I’m within reach. ‘You’re here.’

‘Aye.’
I take her hands. Her fingers are cold like mine, but soft and strong. I lean
over and kiss her cheek, and as I do, I smell her, same as always, that
mysterious mix of perfume and lipstick and sometimes sugar. The smell of home.

‘Mum.’
My knees bend so my arms can wrap around her. She hugs me hard, exhaling all
the way so that not even the air in her lungs comes between us. For one moment
it’s perfect.

Then
panic hits me, quick and sharp and staggering as lightning. My pulse pounds and
my arms spasm. I let go quickly, afraid to shove her away, but even more afraid
to crush her. Taking a step back, I curl my arms around my own waist, an
instinct I can’t fight.

Mum
tries to speak, pale lips trembling. Was her hair always so silver, the skin
round her eyes so creased? How long was I gone, again?

I
save her with an easy question: ‘Where to now?’

She
blinks, then clears her throat. ‘It’s, eh, Terminal One. Our flight to Glasgow
leaves in two hours.’ Mum reaches for my hand as if I’m a six-year-old wean,
then thinks better of it.

‘Need
the toilet first. Then ring Aura.’ I move away, leaving her with my doctor, who
can update Mum on my state of mind. (Two words: Un. Balanced.)

On my
way to the gents’, I check the arrivals board for the time and date. One minute
before five a.m. on the twenty-sixth of August. I repeat these facts with each
step,
memorising
them so as to confirm later that
time has moved forwards.

Just
inside the loo, a businessman stands before the full-length mirror, adjusting his
tie, so it’s easy to avoid a look at myself as I pass. When my captors cleaned
me up with a shave yesterday morning, I saw a reflection of the pale, thin,
feral-eyed beast they’d created.

I
lurch into the closest cubicle and slam the door shut. With my forehead and
palms pressed against the cool metal divider, I try to calm my breath.

‘You’re
free. You’re safe,’ I whisper. ‘You’re going home.’

I was
going home once before, with Mum and Dad, on the twenty-second of June. But
when the ghost of my girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend, Logan, appeared to me at
Baltimore-Washington International Airport, I couldn’t miss the chance to go
off and speak with him in private. To make peace, for her sake.

You’re free
, inhale.
You’re safe
, exhale.

The
delay saved our lives. We missed our flight, which soon crashed, leaving no
survivors. Since my family’s escape was my fault, we became suspects in the
disaster; it was assumed I’d been forewarned by the bomber.

You’re free
, inhale.
You’re safe
, exhale.

Stunned
at our slip from tragedy’s grasp, I went quietly into custody at first –
until the authorities threatened my mother and my sick father, at which point I
may have said, ‘If you fucking touch them, I’ll punch you so fucking hard,
you’ll have eyes in the back of your fucking head.’ Or something like that.

That
was the last I saw of my parents, or anyone I knew—

You’refreeyou’resafeyou’refreeyou’resafeyou’refreeyou’resafeyou’refreeyou’resafe.

—until
yesterday. After the DMP released me, the kind folks at Immigration let me visit
with Aura for five short minutes. As we spoke through a thick pane of glass
– and then didn’t speak, when words became unnecessary – my eyes
devoured every detail: her dark, wavy hair bunched up on one side as if she’d
just woken, her slightly chapped upper lip, her shirt collar brushing the
hollow of her throat (the place on her body I most loved to kiss).

You’re free
, inhale.
You’re safe
, exhale.

I
hold onto this memory of Aura with all the strength left in my mind. My breath
turns slow and even, and my pulse softens from a throb to a thrum. I stand up
straight, then wipe away the sweat my palms and forehead left on the cubicle
wall.

I
will
see Aura again someday, and when I
do, I’ll be the lad she fell in love with. Not this cracked shell of myself. I’ll
find a way to fix things. For us.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

‘Zachary,
we’re home.’

I
wake from a light doze to find us taxiing towards the gate at Glasgow Airport.
As we pass a small white-and-blue jet with
Loganair
on its side, I feel an
inexplicable urge to smile. Then I shut my eyes against the mass of humanity
around me, poised to leap up the moment we stop. When they do, they’ll make
this plane so very, suddenly tiny.

‘What
time is it?’ I ask my mother.

‘About
half seven.’

‘“About”
half seven?’ Not good enough, after two months with no clocks or calendars.
‘What time is it exactly?’

‘Just
a moment. My phone’s still powering up.’ There’s a vibrating sound and an
electronic beep. ‘It’s seven twenty-eight. I’ll ring your father and tell him
we’re getting off last, so he won’t worry. Martin’s there to keep him company.’

The
seat belt sign dings. ‘Martin Connelly?’ My best mate’s name feels far away,
even as it trips off my tongue.

‘Yes,
he drove our car. He’s been to the house quite a bit this summer, entertaining
Dad for a few hours when I’m at work, or fetching what we need from the shop.
He’s ever so concerned for you.’

I
open my eyes but glue my gaze out the window as the other passengers get to
their feet. ‘Does Martin know where I’ve been?’

‘We
couldn’t tell anyone, for fear of
jeopardising
the
negotiation for your release. Your friends all thought you were in prison for
disorderly conduct – wrongly accused, of course. That was the official
story.’ She lays her hand on my seat’s armrest, then hesitates, tapping her
ring nervously against the surface. ‘Now you’re out, you can tell the truth.’

Not the whole truth. Not even half of it.

‘Of
course,’ she continues, ‘some of your friends might think it “pure dead
bril-yint
” you were in prison.’

I
grimace at her remark, not just for its mockery of my old mates. The English
are shit at Scottish accents, and my mother’s no exception. But it’s sort of a
relief to know some things haven’t changed.

‘How
are you feeling?’ she asks twelve minutes later, as we’re making our way from
the gate towards the exit.

‘Fine.’
It’s a relative term.

‘I’ve
told your father you’re feeling a bit sensitive at the moment. He knows to give
you your space.’

Fuck
that. I
will
hug my father, no matter
how hard it is. And I’ll shake Martin’s hand, clap him on the back like always.
Otherwise he might think I’ve gone all homophobic or something.

(On
the other hand, this is Britain, where no one touches if they can help it. So
there’s an out if I need, God Save the Queen.)

‘There
they are.’ Mum points. ‘Near the WH Smith.’

My
mind grasps for what a WH Smith is.
Doesn’t
matter. Look for a sign that says that.

Ah. I
didn’t see them at first because I was searching for a man on his feet next to
a fourteen-year-old boy.

But
Dad’s in a wheelchair, and Martin’s, what, seventeen? Eighteen? His birthday’s
the tenth of August. (Which day is it now?) His ginger hair is darker than it
was years ago, with barely a hint of orange remaining.

As I
approach, Dad struggles to stand, his pale-green jumper hanging loose on his
frame. Should I help him, or would that injure his pride? What if he clutches
my arm too tight and I panic?

‘
Sgàire
.’ My father utters my Gaelic name in a surprisingly
strong voice, growling
SKAR-uh
deep
in his throat.

I put
my arms around him carefully. The touch of another body feels like spikes
against my chest, like I’m trapped in a medieval iron-maiden torture device.