Shattered: A Shade novella (20 page)

‘Don’t do this to Aura. To go through
this twice, with two different boyfriends, would kill her. Not that you mean as
much to her as I did, but still.’

The voice must be coming from the
speakers. They’ve found someone to imitate Logan, just to torment me.

I step out of the loo into my bedroom,
searching for the source, then
realise
: the voice was
just as loud with my ears covered. So it can’t be coming from—

The door slams shut behind me. I lunge
for it, but the lock clicks. A woman beyond says, ‘Thank God. They would’ve
killed me.’

‘No …’
 
I yank the indented handle, but it won’t
budge. I slam my shoulder and hip against the door, again and again and again
and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again
and again and again and again and again and again.

Finally the lock clicks. I open the door.
The loo is empty, the sink bare.

Forever is forever again.

I
return to Now with Gordon’s finger at the back of my mouth. I try to push him
away, but it’s too late. The beer and whisky scald my throat on the way up.

When
it’s over, he peers into the toilet. ‘There’s
nae
pills! I’m calling an ambulance. Ye need
yer
stomach
pumped.’

I
shove him back against the cubicle wall. ‘There’s
nae
pills
cos
I didn’t take any!’

‘How
was I supposed to know that? I asked how many you’d taken, and ye just kept
blethering
about Q-Tips. You
were
gonnae
take those pills, weren’t
you?’ Gordon sways a bit – not surprising, since he’s as drunk as I am.
‘Is that why ye came in here, to top yourself?’

‘Maybe.’
I’m suddenly hot. I try to take off my jacket, but there’s no room.

Gordon
guides me from the cubicle and helps me out of my coat. ‘I’m putting these in
here.’ He slips the pill bottle into the pocket of my jacket, which he grips
tightly. ‘Now wash up. We’ll be waiting for ye at our table.’

I
splash cold water on my face for well over a minute before reaching for a paper
towel. They’ve the blue ones here, like many places. That’s new since I left
Scotland years ago. I vaguely remember Niall saying they’ve green ones in
Dublin. Patriotic paper towels. God.

I
feel totally wrecked. All I want is to lie down in my own bed, even if it’s
alone.

When
I return to the bar, Jen’s speaking on my phone. ‘
Awright
,
thanks very much!’ She hangs up and hands it to me. ‘
Yer
mate Martin’s coming to get you. I’ll wait outside with you till he comes,
okay? You probably need fresh air.’

I
squint at the phone, then at her. My brain feels full of cold porridge. ‘What?’

‘We
thought ye could use a friend to take ye home,’ Amy says. ‘An old friend, not a
new one.’

I
look at Gordon. ‘New ones are good too.’

He
gives me a combination handshake/back pat as he hands me my jacket. ‘Best of
luck to ye, mate.’

On
wobbly legs, I follow Jen to the pub exit. Outside, the cool, moist air is a balm
to my sweaty face. We sit on the windowsill of the shop next door.

‘How’d
you know to call Martin?’ I ask Jen.

‘I
looked up the last person you contacted. You sent him a text earlier tonight.’

‘I
did?’ I check my phone. ‘Oh, no.’ Apparently I did hit Send on the hate text
after all, fifty-one minutes ago. ‘Did you read this?’

‘No,
I’m not nosey.’ She gives me a grim smile. ‘Are ye
gonna
be okay? Other than being
hungover
the morrow, like
the rest of us?’

‘I
have to be okay. I’ve people depending on me.’ I tell her about my dad’s
illness, since it’s a normal thing to have wrong with one’s life.

‘They’ve
support groups for that, you know,’ she says when I’m done. ‘My cousin went to
one when my aunt had cancer. Ye can complain all ye want about
yer
sick person, and no
one’ll
judge ye.’

‘I’ll
think about it. Maybe take my mum.’

‘Go
on
yer
own.’ She gives me a gentle elbow jab. ‘So you
can be honest.’

‘Zachary!’

I
look up to see Martin running awkwardly over the uneven surface of the lane. He
nearly twists his ankle.

‘Ach!
Fuckin
’ cobblestones. Christ.’ He comes up to Jen.
‘You the one rang me?’

‘Uh-huh.’

He
pulls her into a long, hard hug. When he releases her, she staggers out of his
grip, embarrassed.

Then
she smiles at me. ‘
Gies
a call if you want to hang
out again. With less alcohol next time. Maybe none.’

‘Oh.’
I reach for my phone. ‘I don’t—’

‘I
entered our numbers into your contacts.’ She winks. ‘I put mine in
yer
favourites
list.’ Jen struts
away, with astounding grace for one so
blootered
.

Martin
watches her go. ‘Cheeky wee besom, so she is. ’Mon, let’s get ourselves home.’

‘Sorry
about that text,’ I tell him as we walk down the narrow lane, stepping up onto
the strips of normal, flat pavement on either side of the cobblestones. ‘I didn’t
mean it.’

‘Yes,
you did.’

I
steady myself on the whitewashed wall. ‘I was drunk when I sent it.’

‘But
not when you wrote it. I could tell
cos
there were
nae
typos.’

We
find a taxi in no time, it being Saturday night in the West End. I put on my
safety belt, and for once Martin doesn’t mock me for it. Perhaps it’s an
encouraging sign to him, that I want to live. But it’s mostly that I don’t want
to die suddenly.

I hit
the privacy switch next to my seat so the driver can’t hear. ‘I’m sorry I broke
your brother.’

‘Ah,
Zach.’ Martin rubs his forehead hard. ‘I
cannae
believe I said that. What happened to Finn wasn’t your fault, it was mine. If
I’d not been so drunk that day, I could’ve saved him myself, and maybe he’d be
okay. And you
wouldnae
have this.’ He taps his own
chest in the spot where my scar lies.

‘What’s
done is done.’ My head pounds harder, and I just want to sweep it all away
– the past, present, and future. But more needs to be said. ‘Also, sorry
I tried to chuck you out of the house. I said I’d never do that.’ When Martin
doesn’t answer right away, I add, ‘You probably thought telling Aura about my,
em
, condition was the right thing to do.’

‘It
was the right thing to do. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t also wrong. I – we
– I made you a problem tae solve, just like ye said.’ His whisper twists
with self-incrimination. ‘I reduced you.’

I
sink down in the seat, swallowing another wave of nausea.
Reduced.
That’s exactly how I felt. Small enough to fit on a
microscope slide.

‘But
I protected you too,’ Martin adds. ‘I never told Aura how bad things really
were. I gave her enough tae seem like honesty, so she’d stop questioning you,
but she
doesnae
know the half.’ He braces himself
against the door as the taxi takes a hard turn onto our street. ‘And I’ll never
tell her about tonight.’

Tonight.
There’ll be a reckoning for what I almost did to myself. ‘Don’t tell Mum and
Dad either, okay? About the pills?’

Martin’s
silent. It’s too dark to see his expression, but the faint red glow of the taxi
meter reveals the hard set of his jaw. He’s got limits to his secret-keeping
when my life is at stake.

‘Don’t
tell them,’ I repeat, ‘
cos
I need to tell them
myself.’

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

I
knock softly on Dad’s half-closed door, then push it open. He’s still awake,
sitting up in his corner bed reading the latest Ian McEwan novel. Mum’s in the
other bed, watching something on her laptop.

They
glance up at me, then stare with alarm. Mum yanks out her earphones.

I
must look a mess. Probably smell like it too. My mouth is desert dry, and my tongue
feels like a wool sock. But it’s time for them to know how bad it is. I’ve lost
the strength to pretend.

So I
tell my parents about the evening’s adventures, and the events leading up to
them. I omit what I learned about Finn’s brain damage due to my redness, as
well as what happened to me in 3A. I leave in the fight with Martin, the
drinking, the flashback in the loo, the attempt to end my own life.

I was
prepared for their tears, but not for my own. The last time I cried was the day
I arrived in Glasgow. Since then I’ve wanted to weep, could sometimes feel my
eye sockets ready to burst from pressure, but tears would never come.

Now
they won’t stop. They clog my nose and throat, threatening to steal my voice,
but I push on, punctuating the story with gasps and sobs.

When
I’m done, Mum and Dad hug me and tell me we’ll get through this together, that
they’ll make sure I have the help I need, that everything will be alright. I
know they mean it, but those phrases still feel empty to me.

What
did I expect? That I could tell them barely half the truth and they’d magically
understand the depths of my damage?

‘Okay,’
I murmur as I pull away. ‘Goodnight.’

I
stop at the door and look back. Their heartsick faces are tinged with relief,
not just at my survival but at my newfound honesty, such as it is. I’ve finally
reached out, and now they can do something.

Maybe
they’re not totally wrong. It is a step forwards, small but sure.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

I go
downstairs to find Martin lying on the sofa under his blanket, facing the TV.
He’s watching
The Snowman
, an
animated children’s Christmas
programme
made before
we were born.

I
stand behind the couch. ‘Channel 4’s showing this already? It’s only …’ The
twenty-second of November? The twenty-third?

‘I
bought the DVD yesterday.’

‘I’ve
not seen it in years.’

‘Me
neither. Always used to watch it with Finn and Sophie on Christmas Eve. Moira,
my older sister, she never liked it. Made her cry.’

He
bends his knees so the end sofa cushion is free. I sit in the space his feet
leave behind. On the television, the wee ginger lad won’t stop gazing out the
window at the snowman he built, even as he brushes his teeth for bed. His
mother tucks him in and kisses him goodnight.

‘Can
we start again?’ I ask.

Martin
lifts his head. ‘Sorry?’

‘The
programme
. It’s not far into it, aye?’

‘Oh.
No, only about five minutes.’ He points the remote at the screen, and we watch
the child
unbuild
the snowman in fast motion.

I rub
my arms. ‘It’s Baltic in here. Do ye want tea?’

‘Cocoa.’

I go
to the kitchen, make cocoa for him – with a sprinkle of cinnamon over the
wee marshmallows he likes – and some ginger tea for my twisting stomach.
My body feels turned inside out, and I can’t stop shivering.

When
I come back to the living room, Martin’s sitting up, tucked into the corner of
the sofa. I take the middle cushion so we can share the blanket.

The
TV screen is frozen on the opening credits, a
watercolour
snow owl swooping forwards. Martin hits play and says, ‘So what’s next for
you?’

‘
Dunno
. See my doctor Monday first thing.’

‘Do
ye want tae get better?’

‘Of
course I—’

‘Think
carefully before you answer. I want the truth.’

I
watch the boy on the screen slowly wake to what he knew would be a magical day.
He hurries to dress, eat breakfast, yank on his boots to play in the snow.

I can
remember Better from before, but there’s no going back, only forwards. I’ve
been crawling through this tunnel for months, searching for Better and finding
only Worse.

Finally
I say, ‘I’m just so … tired.’

‘I
know, mate.’ He shifts the throw pillow onto his lap. ‘
Here.
’

I
finish my tea in one scalding gulp, then set the mug on the floor. Gravity
helps me tip over, none too gracefully, until my head lands on the pillow. It
smells faintly of my mum’s perfume.

Martin
tucks the blanket around my back and over my feet. ‘Better?’

Not
really. My body is rigid as steel, as if muscle has frozen into bone. Another
violent shiver rips through me.