Shattered: A Shade novella (6 page)

Martin
scoffs. ‘I
wouldnae
worry them on purpose if ye
begged me.’

I
fall silent, thinking of the things I’d beg of him, especially after what just
happened: don’t walk away without telling me, don’t fail to return my calls or
texts.

Don’t
leave me alone.

Chapter
Four

Friday
night I sit at my desk, preparing for my midnight chat with Aura. It’s only
10.14 p.m., but I’ve lots to keep me busy.

To my
right is a jumbled stack of papers and notebooks, clues to the mystery of the
Shift. It’s a bit of a mess.

To my
left, though, lies one neat sheet of graph paper, upon which I’ve charted how
much saner I need to become each week in order to be reasonably normal by the
twentieth of December, when Aura and I plan to reunite in Ireland. My
calculations assume a continuous but nonlinear growth in mental health –
slow at first, as 3A digs in its claws and refuses to let me go; then faster,
as my medication, therapy, and sheer force of will allow me to heal from the
damage I’ve sustained.

I
will measure my progress in quantifiable ways. Subtracting from my sanity score
will be number of nightmares, panic attacks (which each count as two
nightmares), and flashbacks (worth five nightmares, if today’s was any
indication). Adding to my score are things I can control: hours of exercise and
sleep, as well as weight gained, since eating and drinking must surely be signs
of good mental hygiene.

So
I’ve a goal and a plan, with clear, rational variables. I almost wish I could
show this graph to my old calculus teacher, the one who told me – in
front of Aura – that I’d never be a scientist because I’m such crap at
higher
maths
.

Thinking
of Aura reminds me of another task. I pull out a pad of sticky notes and write
117
on the top one. Then
116
on the next, and so on, ending with
0
. Each night I’ll discard another note
to display the number of days until Aura and I are together again.

I tear
off the top four sticky notes, one for each day I’ve been out of 3A. There,
I’ve accomplished something already.

The
clock reads 10.26 now, so I go to my bed and pull a large manila envelope from
under one of my pillows. Inside are the letters written to me while I was in
3A, from Aura, my parents, and Martin. Letters the DMP didn’t give me until I
was released. (God forbid I should have had proof I was remembered and loved.
Fascist bastards.)

On
the flight home, I devoured the letters all at once, but now I reread only one
per night, the better to
savour
each.

Tonight’s
is from Aura, the first she wrote me, on the fourteenth of July:

Dear Zachary,

I miss you so much. I’d give anything to
bust down your door and be in your arms again. But the world doesn’t work that
way right now. Please stay strong, stay safe, and stay there.

Love, Aura

She
explained yesterday that this letter had been a warning not to try to escape.
She and her friends had sneaked into the outskirts of the 3A complex and
discovered it surrounded by an invisible electric fence, marked by the corpses
of small electrocuted animals. They also discovered that 3A was protected by
Nighthawk, the same ‘private spies’ that bombed the flight my parents and I
should have taken.

I run
my finger over the letter’s top edge, a row of jagged holes where the page was
torn from a spiral memo pad. Aura could’ve been killed by that fence or shot by
those mercenaries. The thought twists my stomach, until I have to lie down on
my side to stop the pain.

I crush
the letter against my chest with both hands, as if Aura’s determination can
seep out of the paper and into me. She still wants to conquer our vast array of
enemies, while all I want is to forget them.

‘Zachary?’
Mum knocks on my half-closed door.

I sit
up quickly, smoothing my hair. ‘Yes?’

She
eases the door open. ‘Just wanted to let you know I’m away to bed now.’

‘Goodnight.’
I offer her what feels like a serene smile, then make a mental note to add
smiles to my list of positive sanity variables
.
‘If Dad needs anything, let me know and I’ll take care of it.
I’ll be awake late anyway.’

‘No,
you need your sleep.’

‘I
can sleep mornings after his nurse comes. You can’t, because of work. Let me
take the overnight shift from now on.’ When she hesitates, I add, ‘Please, Mum.
I’ve no job or school to fill my time. I want to help Dad. I need to help.’

A
thoughtful look crosses her face. ‘I suppose I could use the rest. Do you
remember what to do?’

‘Of
course. I helped you care for him in Baltimore. He’s no sicker now than he was
then.’

‘True.’
She smiles at me. ‘Thank you, Zachary.’ She turns away, her hand still on the
knob.

‘No!’
I leap off the bed, scattering the letters. ‘Don’t close it!’

Mum
yanks her hand away as if it’s been burned. ‘I wasn’t, I-I’m sorry.’

‘Okay.
Goodnight.’ As I watch her back away down the hall, into the loo, my thumb
pushes the latch into the door again and again, comforted by how easily it
slides in and out.

Which
reminds me …

I
wait inside my bedroom until I hear my mother start brushing her teeth. Then I
hurry downstairs to the front door.

Just
like last night, I disengage the deadbolt, then turn the knob to unlock that,
too. Quietly I open and close the door. Leaving it unlocked, I repeat the
process on the door to the back garden, then on all the ground-floor windows.
Finally I put the kettle on for tea, one of the simple, everyday rituals denied
to me this summer.

And
then …

I
stand here, holding my breath, eyes darting between windows – first the
small one over the sink, then the larger one in the dining room.

So.
Fucking. Quiet. I could be the only person in the world right now.

Slowly
my arms curl around my waist.
Not alone
not alone not alone.
But even
I
feel far from me at this moment.

On
the stove, the kettle rattles as it starts to heat. I reach to place my palm on
its stainless-steel body. If I burn, I exist.

The
briefest flash of pain makes me draw back. I press my hands to my face in
relief.

My
fingers still hold the warm brass scent of the door locks. It reminds me that
here, metal exists. Here, some things are hard and unyielding, not all soft and
padded like they were in 3A. Here, I could use hard things to make myself
stronger, or to destroy myself.

Today,
I choose strength.

Chapter Five

My mates
and I are taking the long way home from
Firhill
Stadium, where the Jags have just won a match. Aye, Jags won – one
doesn’t often see those words beside each other.

Due
to the club’s
shitey
season thus far, it was a
sparsely attended event, so the crowds didn’t overwhelm me like I’d feared.
Martin had told Niall, Frankie, and Graham that I was still on edge from
‘prison’, so they were not to bring it up or subject me to our usual
roughhousing. But once they saw that my time away hadn’t touched my ability to
analyse
football – or
colourfully
insult the referees – they accepted me back into the fold.

Right
now we’re on the footpath beside the Forth and Clyde Canal, discussing how far
we’d live from
Maryhill
and still support
Partick
Thistle.

‘All
the way to
Govan
, I think,’ Niall says, ‘or East End
somewhere.’

‘Only
a few miles?’ Martin asks. ‘You’re a fickle bastard, so you are.’

‘Not
me.’ Graham taps his fist against the thistle logo on his jersey. ‘I’d support
Jags even in Edinburgh – not that I’d ever live there on purpose.’

‘Mind
now, Graham,’ Frankie says. ‘Niall’s girlfriend’s from Edinburgh.’

‘Rose’s
not my girlfriend,
ya
bawbag
.’
Niall
skelps
Frankie in the shoulder. ‘Anyway, she’s
from here in
Glesga
.’

‘If
you say so.’ Frankie stops to light a cigarette, turning his back to the wind.
During the pause, I take in the lush green trees on either side of the canal,
as well as the family of ducks paddling against the light current. I still
can’t get over this wonderful world I’ve reentered. It seems too good to be
true.

Graham
unscrews the cap from a bottle of
Buckfast
, takes a
swig, then offers it to Martin. With a bartender’s snobbery, Martin wrinkles
his nose and shakes his head.

I
hold up a hand to keep Graham from giving me the bottle. ‘Aren’t
youse
a bit old for this
pish
?
Buckie’s
for weans, not eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds
like
yersels
.’

‘Didn’t
we tell you, Zach?’ Frankie tosses the match over the weeds into the canal. ‘We
were all frozen in time the moment you left. Cheers for coming back and
un-stunting our growth.’

‘At
yer
service.’ I give a gracious mock bow, complete with
hand flourish.

‘Ye
didn’t answer our question,’ Niall says to me. ‘How far
widje
go before Jags lose you?’

‘I supported
them when I lived in Baltimore, and in England before that, so I guess they
cannae
lose me.’

They
jeer and heckle. Graham shouts, ‘You’re
nuthin
’ but a
fuckin
’ martyr.’

I
smile, thinking of how my mates in America used to call me that when I turned
away other girls, waiting for Aura to return my feelings.

I
pull out my phone to check the time (6.31 p.m.). The battery’s almost dead.
Also, Aura’s not returned the celebratory text message I sent her twenty-one
minutes ago at the end of the match. It’s Saturday, so she’s not in class. Why
wouldn’t she reply?

‘So
where we going the night?’ Frankie asks. ‘Zachary’s homecoming deserves the
best.’

I
scan my memory of last night’s video chat. Did Aura mention going somewhere
today? I should’ve paid better attention.

‘There’s
The Sorry Dog,’ Graham says. ‘They’ve a good whisky bar.’

Frankie
scoffs. ‘Aye, and
fuckin
’ expensive. Besides, we
spend too much time in there, we’ll turn into hipster pricks.’

‘Too
late for you.’ Niall cracks.

A
horrible thought strikes: what if the DMP took Aura to 3A? What’s to stop them?
Certainly not me.

Suddenly
I must know
now
that she’s alright. I
send her another text:
You there?

As my
mates weigh the pros and cons of local bars, I watch my phone for Aura’s reply.
I can’t ring her – international phone calls cost too much. We’d both get
in trouble.

‘Lads.’
Martin clears his throat. ‘I
cannae
go out with
youse
the night.’ He scuffs the sole of his shoe against
the grass. ‘Me and some other friends are,
em
…’

I
look up from my phone. Is this it, when he finally comes out to all of them?

‘
Whaur
ye
gaun
?’ Graham says.

‘
Em
… to Relic.’ He bites his lip. ‘For dancing and all.’

Of
the others, only Niall isn’t confused. He bows his head, rubs the back of his
neck, and sighs. Like this is a moment he’s been dreading.

‘Relic?’
Graham says. ‘Is that new?
Whaur
is it?’

‘Merchant
City.’

Now
Frankie goes still. He knows what sort of clubs populate much of that section
of Glasgow.

But
Graham
blethers
on. ‘Why can’t we come? Too posh a
place for
yer
old mates?’

‘Ye
wouldn’t like it,’ I snap. ‘It’s a gay club.’

Everyone
goes totally silent. Then Graham says to Martin in an astonished whisper:
‘You?’ Martin nods, then glances at me, which makes Graham turn my way. ‘Not
you, too? I thought you’d a lass.’