Shattered: A Shade novella (5 page)

The
more I tell, the more hope rises in my heart.
This
will be my salvation:
Dr
McFarlane
will teach me how to deal with my old trauma, then I’ll apply the same method
to my new trauma. I can cure myself without anyone knowing what happened at 3A.
Fuckin
’ quality, as Martin would say.

I
almost smile as she gives me an array of scripts to fill at the chemist, as we
arrange our next three appointments, as she suggests exercise and meditation to
combat my anxiety until the pills can take effect.

I can
do this.

Martin’s
waiting outside. He hastily puts out his cigarette when he sees me. ‘
Awright
, mate?’

I
know it’s merely a greeting, the equivalent of ‘Hey’, and he’s not literally
asking me if I’m alright. But after sixty-one days of solitude, the mere
acknowledgement of my existence feels like an embrace. Here’s a human being who
sees me, a human I can see in return. Something so basic, yet peculiarly
marvelous, like a gift on a day that’s not your birthday or Christmas.

‘I’ll
go with
youse
tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘It’ll be good
to watch live football again.’

Martin
smiles. ‘Ye might take back those words after ye see how
Partick
Thistle’s playing.’ He elaborates on the Jags’ recent difficulties,
illustrating his points with mind-spinning statistics. I absorb every word, as
if no information has ever been so important as
blootered
shots, stinging tackles, and sitters missed.

It’s
life, these numbers. Actions and reactions on the football pitch, as real as
the ebb and flow of
Sauchiehall
Street traffic. The
smell of car exhaust and cafes, the rumble of wheels over concrete and the whir
of breeze through the trees, it’s all so worldly. I suddenly can’t get enough.

I
turn to Martin. ‘What time do you have to be at the pub for work?’

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

Dr
McFarlane said to exercise, so here I am, dragging
my
arse
(and Martin’s) to run about the main loop of
the Botanic Gardens, one of my
favourite
parts of
Glasgow. Then again, on this, my fourth day out of captivity, everywhere feels
like my
favourite
part of Glasgow. I never want to
leave.

I
wonder if Aura would like living here. As an Italian-American, sunshine is in
her blood. Would the light in her eyes grow dim after days on end of Scottish
rain?

No,
not once I’ve shown her the brilliant reds, yellows, and pinks of these
gardens. The vivid green of the sloping lawn almost hurts my eyes, accustomed
to nothing but white-grey walls. I can’t stop watching the puffy clouds scoot
across the blue sky (the
sky
, fuck’s
sake – I can see the
sky
!).

The
wind blows harder against our chests, making it even more difficult to climb
this hill at a decent pace. After less than a quarter mile, my lungs and legs
are shrieking.

At
least I’m not alone.

‘
Auugh
.’ Martin halts and bends over, clutching his stomach.
‘Quit now or I’ll
boak
.’

We’ve
stopped just outside the Kibble Palace greenhouse. The closest bench is
occupied by a young mum with a toddler, and the next one over holds a trio of
elderly men with matching Jack Russell terriers.

I
usher Martin into the greenhouse, where we collapse on a long bench near the
goldfish pool.

‘I
remember when exercise used to
give
me
energy,’ I say once I’ve caught my breath.

‘It
should be easier for you than me.’ Martin pats the paunch at his gut. ‘You’ve
less weight for
yer
legs to drag about.’

‘Too
little weight these days.’

He
pants for several seconds, examining the snow-white statue of Cain to his left.
The man’s figure is bent over in spiritual agony that seems to match our
physical one. ‘So, why
are
ye so
thin?’ He says it like it’s not a loaded question.

‘I
stopped eating for a while.’

Martin
squints at me, wiping sweat from his temple with his sleeve. ‘What made ye
start again?’

‘It
was—’ I try to remember but come up blank. ‘I’m not sure.’ My skin
prickles a warning to stay away from that memory. I change the subject. ‘How’re
things at home?’

‘Ach,
funny ye should ask. Ma told me last night that I’m to start paying rent to her
and Da.’

‘Rent
to your own parents? Why now?’

‘Hm.’
Martin scratches his ear and glances away. ‘I might’ve brought someone home one
night last week, and Ma might’ve walked in on us.’

‘Shit.
You think she’d be as pissed off if you’d been with a lass?’

He
looks amused. ‘Perhaps, but there’s
nae
testing that
theory.’

‘So
this lad you brought home, is it serious with him?’

‘I
thought so.’ His finger traces the wrought-iron squirrel on the bench’s
armrest.
 
‘But he
didnae
.’

‘Oh.
Sorry.’

He
shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’ve looked at flats closer to my job at the pub. Figured if
I’m to pay rent, might as well have my freedom, aye? But prices on the West End
are
fuckin
’ mental. It’s dead trendy now.’

‘Then
come live with us.’

Martin’s
eyes widen. ‘
Naw
, I couldn’t. Not
wi
yer
da so ill.’

‘You’d
be good for him. You make him laugh. Besides, our house is nearer to your job.’
And I’d be that much less alone at night.
‘You can stay in the guest bedroom. My parents won’t charge you, though they’d
probably appreciate a few pounds a week for food.’

‘Well,
of course. I’m no a charity case.’

‘No,
you’re my best mate.’ I’ve a sudden need to confirm this fact. We’ve been apart
for years, and by now, one of the other lads – Niall, perhaps –
could’ve taken my place of
honour
. ‘I’m still your
best mate too, right?’ I feel like a seven-year-old lass for asking.

Martin
breaks into his signature wide grin. ‘Aye. In both senses of the word.’

A
warmth grows in my chest as I
realise
he means both
‘aye’, as in the Scots word for ‘yes’; and ‘aye’, as in the Scots word for
‘always’.

Martin
slaps the bench between us. ‘’Mon. Ah know whit
yer
skinny wee
arse
needs.’

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

I’m
greeted by the smell of grease and fish and grease and potatoes and grease. One
step inside the
chippy
and I can almost get a full
meal by licking the air.

We
eat fast, without speaking. It’s magnificent.

Halfway
through the meal, I check the time on my phone again. 1.36 p.m. I send Aura a
quick
I love you
text, though she
won’t receive it until she goes outside for lunch. Her high school – once
my high school – is lined with the
BlackBox
technology that repels ghosts. It provides peace for post-Shifters like Aura
and everyone younger than her, but also keeps out mobile phone signals.

Martin
and I finish lunch, then stagger uphill towards home, unable to hurry despite
the threat of rain. The fish and chips lie in my stomach like wet concrete, but
it feels good to be full of something.

We
pass a newsagent, where I pick up a copy of
The
Skinny
, our free entertainment weekly. I open to the music section. ‘Is it
just me, or are there lots of new Scottish bands?’

‘Tons.
Glasgow’s the best music scene in the UK, maybe all Europe. It’s the Brooklyn
of our side of the Atlantic.’

Perhaps
Aura would love it here after all. I could take her to shows. We could dance
our legs off.

But
what if concerts reminded her of Logan? Would she want to share that with me?

‘The
fact you even ask if there are lots of new Scottish bands’, Martin continues,
‘means you need a strict diet of nothing but. I’m making you playlists
fuckin
’ pronto.’

‘Okay,’
I hear myself whisper, as if from a distance. In front of me, a musician who
looks like Logan stares out from the pages of
The Skinny
. My eyes fix on the spiky, black-streaked,
bleached-blond hair; on the eyebrow ring glinting in the camera’s flash; and on
the half-hostile, half-charming gleam in his gaze.

The
longer I stare, the more his image sharpens and my surroundings fog, as if the
clouds have descended to street level. My vision begins to spiral.

Martin’s
voice fades. Is he walking away? I should follow him, but my feet won’t move.

The
spiralling
sensation overtakes me. The world narrows, then
turns to white.

‘I thought you passed on,’ I tell Logan,
knowing my captors are probably watching me right now, sitting alone on my bed,
talking to a … ghost? A voice in my head? Or what?

‘I did pass on,’ he says. ‘I guess this
is my new gig, keeping idiots like you from offing themselves.’

Now I know he’s not real – my mind
lifted this from
It’s a Wonderful Life
.
‘So you’re a guardian angel now, then? Is this how you earn your wings? Are you
going to show me how crap the world would be if I’d never been born?’

‘First of all, I can’t bust you out of
here to show you anything.’ His disembodied voice wanders about my tiny cell,
as if he’s examining its contents. There’s not much to see besides walls, a
bed, and a wee desk that once held a stack of books before I tore out their
pages. ‘Second, you’re only seventeen, so you really haven’t done much. You
saved Aura’s life, but if it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t have been in danger
in the first place.’

This is madness. I pull my blanket tight
around my body and press my back to the wall.

‘Third,’ he continues, ‘we don’t get
wings. That’s stupid.’

‘What do you get, then?’

*WHAP!*

With
a heaving gasp, I find myself standing on the pavement near the newsagent.

‘Mate,
wake up.’ Martin slaps the paper in my hands, making the same noise that just
pulled me out of – where was I?

He
snaps his fingers in front of my face, provoking a blink. ‘There you are. What
happened?’

‘Skateboard,’
I whisper.

‘Sorry?’

A new
skateboard. That’s what Logan said he hoped to get instead of angel wings. For
keeping me alive.

Laughter
gurgles up from my throat. It doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like a
maniac’s. I gag on it, feeling my stomach twist. ‘I-I think I’m—’

‘You’re
gonnae
boak
. Here, this
way.’ Martin points me towards a low iron fence bordering a front garden. I
grasp the fence posts and heave my lunch onto a bed of pink and white flowers
(mostly yellow now, thanks to the fish and chips).

Martin
pulls a lint-covered tissue from the pocket of his hoodie and hands it to me,
along with his cup of Coke. ‘Better?’

I scan
the sky as I wipe my mouth, cold spikes of fear jabbing my spine. I’m in
Glasgow in broad daylight. I’m supposed to be safe. I’m supposed to be
Here
.

But
for a moment I was There again. Like in my nightmares, but with no shield of
surreality
.

I
take a sip of Martin’s drink to keep from screaming. ‘Much better,’ I croak as
I start walking again. Need to move, to think.

‘Nothing
like regurgitating half a
chippy
menu to welcome
yourself back to life.’ He catches up to me and asks in a lower voice, ‘Was it
my imagination, or did you leave this world for a few moments? Ye went totally
glaikit
, with
yer
eyes out of
focus and all.’

‘Aye,
I was … there again.’ My voice is shaky, or at least it sounds that way in my
head. I touch my throat to still it. ‘In that place, from this summer.’

‘Like
a flashback?’

I
stop short. Is that what it was? A way for 3A to touch me in daylight, with my
eyes wide open?

No
no
no
no
no
.

‘Maybe.’
I force myself forwards, managing a shrug. ‘I’m sure it’ll sort itself out with
my medication.’ Not that I’d ever tell
Dr
McFarlane I
had a flashback. She’d have me committed. ‘Don’t tell Mum and Dad.’