Shattered: A Shade novella (4 page)

How the
fucl
did you
finr
out?
Delete
delete
delete
.

I
type with a single finger, one hand steadying the other:
Sorry?

I did research, and I got info from
Nicola.

Nicola from DMP? You were spying?

Not spying. Investigating.

I
want to strangle her (Nicola, I mean, not Aura. No, Aura as well).
You could go to jail!

I did this for you.

I
shove my chair from the desk and stagger to the window. Need air. Now.

Long-buried
muscle memory reminds me to pound the right side of the sill twice so the
window won’t stick on the way up. It opens with a loud squeak.

I put
my head out, and for a moment, I forget everything but the miracle of an open
window. The light rain cools my face. I close my eyes and listen to the patter
of drops on leaves and pavement.

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

But
at what cost? How could Aura be so brave and stupid on my behalf?

I
force myself back to the computer to type one spiteful sentence:
I’m not worth that.

The
length of her pause tells me I’ve stunned her. I want to take back the words,
or better yet, send them into the past to stop her mistake.

Can I see you?
she asks.

I have to go now.
I slam the laptop
shut.

It
takes only a moment to regret this. ‘You stupid bastard,’ I whisper to myself.
After what she did for me, I couldn’t even thank her. She saved my life.

But
how much of my shattered self has she really saved? Pieces of me are already
calling out:
We’re still here. You’re
still here. You’ll never really leave.
They’re huddled under starched white
sheets, nestled into the spotless corners where my bleary gaze so often rested,
and tucked inside the bathroom cabinet, amid Kleenex and toilet tissue and
Q-Tips, soft clean items that made up my only belongings.

I
pick up my phone, trying to stay in the present.
Aura, I’m sorry
, I text.
I
love you.

Immediately
she replies:
I love you too. Are you mad?

Not at you
, I tell her.
Never at you.

If you need to talk …

I can’t. Not yet.
Fuck me, why did
I add ‘Not yet’?

When you’re ready.

I stalk
out of my room, towards the stairs, intending to leave this house, to run until
I collapse.

Instead
I pause outside my parents’ empty bedroom. Like the one they had in Baltimore,
it’s
accessorised
with medical equipment, tools that
keep Dad alive and mobile as long as possible. We fight his mesothelioma, not
for ultimate victory – it’s virtually incurable – but rather for
points, like in a video game. Rewards include a night without coughing up
blood, or the ability to walk stairs on his own power. Small victories are
everything in this war of attrition.

The
sight of his battle calms me. Mine is not the only struggle in this house. And
if I can’t deploy my full arsenal of weapons for myself, I can do it for Dad. I
must be strong, for his sake.

I
text Aura a two-word promise:
I will.

Chapter
Three

Friday
morning, Martin’s waiting outside to take me to my first psychiatrist’s
appointment. Mum said going alone wasn’t an option, and Martin was an
infinitely more acceptable choice than her or an MI-X escort. Besides, she
needs to go back to her job. We all need normality.

He’s
sitting on my front steps, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Starbucks. When I
come out, he hands me my own cup. ‘Help you wake.’ He looks pure knackered
himself – the pub where he works only closed six hours and thirteen
minutes ago.

‘Thanks.’
I sip through the small hole in the lid, then promptly spit out the brown
liquid. ‘What’s this?’

‘Coffee.’

‘I
was expecting tea.’

He
shrugs. ‘Thought
you’d’ve
started drinking coffee in
America. Anyway, it’s more caffeine than tea.’

‘What
are you drinking?’

He
curls his hands protectively around his cup. ‘Tea.’ When I hold out the coffee,
he sighs and swaps with me.

I do
need the caffeine, desperately. In the three nights since my return, I’ve slept
a total of seven restless hours. It’s just jet lag, I tell myself – my
brain’s still on Eastern Daylight Time. Also, after yesterday’s trip to the
barber, it hurts a bit to put my head on the pillow, the close-cut hairs like
wee needles poking my scalp.

Or
perhaps it’s the fact that whenever I close my eyes in bed, no matter how
tightly I swaddle myself in sheets, I feel like I’m floating away in a thousand
pieces. Or perhaps it’s my fear that if I sleep, I’ll wake up in 3A and
discover this is all a dream.

No,
it must be the jet lag. And the hair.

I
follow Martin down the street, holding my tea in one hand and using the other
to shield my eyes from what seems like the brightest sunlight ever. The terrace
homes around us gleam in various tones of red, brown, and white. When my dad
was young, most Glasgow buildings were covered in century-old soot, before the
city had them all scrubbed. Traces of black remain on the bricks and stones,
but I’ve always thought the smudges added to their beauty.

Martin
stops at the corner of Fergus Drive to hail a taxi.

‘We’re
not taking the bus?’ I ask him as the black car pulls to the
kerb
beside us.

‘They’ll
be too full.’

Right.
Rush hour. I’d be packed in with a hundred other people. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘It
was
yer
ma’s idea.’ He opens the taxi door for me.
‘Though it’s true I’m a genius.’

My
tea’s lacking in sugar, but I drain the whole cup as I take in the passing
sights. This summer, part of me wondered if I’d ever see the Botanic Gardens or
the River Kelvin again. Our slow journey down Great Western Road reveals
several new-to-me trendy shops and eateries, yet the feeling I get is the same
as always: this is home.

Then
the taxi turns onto St. George’s, coming alongside the M8. The sight of so many
cars queued on the motorway makes my head spin. As I stare into the dark
underpass ahead, my knees turn to gelatin.

Suddenly
this psychiatrist visit seems impossible. How will I find the strength to
protect my secrets when I’m not sure I can even stand?

We
arrive at the doctor’s office in
Sauchiehall
Street.
In a fog of fear, I manage to climb out of the taxi and cross the pavement to
her front door.

Inside,
the waiting room is empty. We sit, Martin leaving a chair between us. Two women
are murmuring behind a closed office door to my right, but a ceiling speaker
plays classical music to mask what they’re saying. Still, if I were to put my
ear to the door – if someone put
their
ear to the door while
I
was in there
– surely words would leak.

Martin
starts tapping his thumbs against his cardboard coffee cup in an off-cadence
rhythm. I notice a black-Sharpie smiley face drawn under his name, on the cup
originally meant for me.

‘
Jags’ve
a match at
Firhill
tomorrow,’ he says. ‘The whole lot of
us’s
going, but
Roland can’t make it. You want his ticket?’

A
football stadium full of people. Seeing all the lads at once, fielding their
questions. The thought alone doubles my dizziness. ‘Maybe next time.’

The
office door opens. I grip the arms of the chair and keep my gaze on the floor,
away from the departing patient. I envy her, that she gets to walk out now.

 
‘Welcome, Zachary,’ says
Dr
McFarlane with a smile. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

My
psychiatrist looks about my mother’s age, and her eyes hold a similar kindness
and strength. Her salt-and-pepper hair is tied up in a loose bun, neat but not
severe. She doesn’t look like a torturer, but then again, who does?

‘I’ll
meet ye outside at eleven,’ Martin says quietly as he slips away.

I
follow the doctor into her office and reluctantly shut the door behind me. I
take a step towards the sofa, then reach back to check the door handle. It
turns easily, a surreal experience.

Dr
McFarlane takes a seat in a chair beside her desk. I
sit on the center cushion. This is not the sort of psychiatrist’s couch I’ve
seen in films, the sort you lie on while spilling your guts. I’ll have to look
at her when I speak.

‘Before
we begin,’ she says, crossing her legs and straightening her skirt, ‘I want you
to know two things. One, as you’re seventeen and considered an adult in this
country, you are here entirely by your own choice. If you decide at any time
that we’re not a good match, I can recommend another psychiatrist, no hard
feelings, okay?’

I nod
and try to take a deep breath, but my tight chest won’t allow it. It feels like
every molecule of caffeine in that tea has taken my muscles hostage.

‘Secondly,’
she says, ‘though I work with MI-X, everything we say here is between the two
of us, unless I feel you present a danger to yourself or others.’

I nod
again, though I don’t believe her. MI-X could be recording us right now. I
would if I were them. The DMP could’ve brainwashed me or turned me into an
American spy.

I
sign papers acknowledging what
Dr
McFarlane just told
me. Then she asks a litany of basic questions: my age, family situation, where
I live, how long I’ve been abroad, if I’ve plans for my gap year. She’s
probably establishing a baseline of honest responses, like interrogators do.
She wants to see how I answer when I’m not lying, so she can see it in my body
language when I
do
lie. I know these
tricks.

As I
answer, I keep my hands folded in my lap, stealing glances at the contents of
her bookshelf. Most deal with trauma, abuse, and neglect, especially of
children. That explains the teddy bear sitting beside me on the sofa.

Then
medical questions: how I’m sleeping, eating, if I’ve heart palpitations,
light-headedness, muscle aches, etc. I answer ‘aye’ to nearly every symptom.
Christ, I’m a mess.

But
it’s just that I’ve got a rebellious body. Medicine will surely take the edge
off. It’s no different to taking antibiotics for an infection.

 
‘And how about nightmares?’ she asks.

BOOM.
My arms start to wrap around my
waist, but I cover the gesture by scratching my elbow. ‘Nightmares,
em
, yes. A few.’

‘A
few per week or a few per night?’

A few per hour.
‘Per night,’ I
answer, looking at her shoes.

I
bounce my heel against the floor, bracing myself for the next question:
what do you dream of?
I can’t tell her,
because I only dream of that place, that nothingness. If she asks, I will run,
or vomit, or perhaps curl up in a ball on this sofa, clutching the teddy bear.
But I will not answer.

To my
surprise,
Dr
McFarlane just nods thoughtfully, then
puts on her glasses to make notes.

I use
the brief respite to try to pull myself out of this spiral, step away from the
haunting remnants of my nightmares.
That’s
all they are, just dreams. They can’t touch me here in the daylight.

A
trickling noise captures my attention. There’s a small ceramic fountain on
Dr
McFarlane’s desk. I watch the water dribble out of a
tilted pitcher to flow over a bowl of smooth stones. As I count the blue
pebbles, then the brown ones, my nightmares loosen their grip, and my next breath
is smooth and slow.

‘Now,’
she says, ‘excluding the events of the summer, have you experienced any
outstanding traumas in your life? When you were younger, perhaps?’

‘You
mean besides three years of English boarding school?’

She
laughs loud and full, a pleasant surprise. Amusing my psychiatrist will come in
handy.

‘Aye,’
she says, ‘besides three years of English boarding school.’

My
memory seizes upon something to distract her from ‘the events of the summer’:
the near-drowning of Martin’s wee brother, Finn. I tell her how I saved him,
how we both almost died, how the accident made my parents move me away from
everyone and everything I knew and loved. How I still bear the scar.