Shattered: A Shade novella (7 page)

‘I
do.’
At least, I hope so.

For
several moments, the four of them look off in different directions, as if
suddenly fascinated by the water and ducks and trees. They look like band
members posing for an album cover.

Finally
Graham clears his throat. ‘Frankie,
gies
a fag.’

I
tense before remembering that here,
fag
means cigarette.

Usually
Frankie won’t let go of his smokes. He’ll possessively hold out the packet to
let somebody take just one, then he’ll light it for him. But now he drops the packet
and the matches into Graham’s palm, coming nowhere close to touching his hand.

Graham
lights the cigarette. ‘Well, that’s …’ He blows the smoke out hard and high,
then turns away without finishing the sentence.

‘We
could all play
fitba
the morrow,’ Martin suggests.
‘Weather’s supposed to be good.’

‘Let’s
do that,’ I say in a hurry. ‘Rain or shine.’

The
others murmur noncommittally. In the brief lull, I check my phone again. No
message. My mind spins through a kaleidoscope of terrible fates that could’ve
befallen Aura.

Niall
says to Martin, ‘Ye sure you’ve time fur us, mate?’ He
emphasises
the last word, mocking it. ‘Won’t
yer
new friends
want tae go see an art gallery, maybe take in an opera or two?’

Martin’s
lip curls. ‘Ye know, they might. But I’ll be sure and tell them I’d rather slum
with you lot.’

The
others recoil, which is odd. We spend most of our time taking the piss out of
one another. Insults are the currency of our camaraderie. But something’s
changed.

Niall
snorts, his eyes full of hostility. ‘Go on, then,
ya
mad wee poof.’

My
vision turns red. I drop my phone and lunge at Niall, shoving him against a
tree trunk. ‘What’d you call him?!’

Before
he can answer, I punch him in the stomach, a hard left, then deliver a right
swing up under his chin. It feels good to hit something, so I keep doing it,
even as I’m dragged off onto my heels.

‘Fuck’s
sake, Zach!’ Graham pushes between us as Frankie pins my arms behind me.

My
rage turns to panic. ‘Stop! Don’t touch me!’

‘Too
late for that,’ Frankie snarls.

Niall
straightens up, coughing, then dabs the blood from his lips and glares at me.
‘Why don’t ye go out with
yer
girlfriend here
tonight? Leave us be.’

He
walks away down the path, spitting blood onto the grass. Frankie and Graham
dump me on my
arse
, then follow him. None of them
looks back.

Martin
glowers down at me, hands on his hips. ‘Why’d you do that?’

‘They
insulted you.’

‘It
would’ve passed. We would’ve been fine if you’d left it alone.’

‘I’m
not sorry.’

He
comes over, holds out his hand to help me up. I ignore it and get to my feet on
my own.

The
moment I’m standing, Martin punches me in the face.

‘
Augh
!’ I stagger back, barely keeping upright. ‘What’s that
for?’

‘For
being my knight in shining
fuckin
’ armor. I don’t
need one, and I don’t want one.’ He rubs his knuckles. ‘Also,
that’s
how ye punch a mate.’

I
check my face for blood, but there’s none. Probably won’t even be a bruise. My
own knuckles are throbbing, though. ‘I wasn’t trying to hurt Niall.’

‘Well,
ye were trying tae hurt someone.’

I
shake my head hard to dispel the image of DMP agents dragging Aura away. The
gesture sends an ache through my right cheekbone.

I
retrieve my phone from where it fell. Not only does it still work, but there’s
a reply from Aura:
Sorry, I was at the movies
with Aunt Gina. Yay Jags!!

My
shoulders sag with relief. Martin and I start walking again. Far ahead, our
mates are crossing the white wooden footbridge. All of our gang but me live
north of the canal.

‘So
much for my homecoming,’ I mutter.

‘You
could always come
wi
me to Relic.’

I
don’t love the idea of another crowded place, but anything’s better than
solitude. ‘Perhaps.’

‘If
you’re worried about lads chatting you up,’ Martin adds, ‘I could punch some
more of the pretty
aff
yer
face.’

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

Martin
doesn’t punch me again, and by the time we enter the Merchant City dance club,
my cheek has stopped aching.
 

The
music pounds from the speakers in a steady trance techno beat I can feel
through the soles of my shoes. Relic’s a large place, so the faux stone walls
don’t seem uncomfortably close. The
coloured
lights
draped over them shimmy and streak in a
mesmerising
pattern.

And
there’s nothing but lads. It’s an all-ages night, so most are late teens and
early twenties like us. Dancing, drinking, kissing, laughing. I’m swept with an
odd sense of belonging-yet-not-belonging that somehow soothes me.
 

‘It’s
not too crowded,’ I tell Martin. ‘I was worried.’

He
visibly relaxes, seeing me do so. ‘That’s why we’re here early. We’ll leave
when it gets bad for you.’

‘I don’t
want to keep you from having a good time.’

He
grins at me. ‘Impossible.’

If I
were a student of body language, rather than a newly returning student of
having
a body, I’d be taking notes.
Martin is carefully guarding my personal space, placing himself between me and
the other lads in a way that says ‘Back off’ without saying ‘He’s mine.’

The
three guys we’re with aren’t chatting us up so much as they’re, well, chatting.
They’re not much different to our mates back in
Maryhill
,
except a wee bit better groomed.

They
all want to know about America.

‘Is
it true everyone carries a gun?’ asks the short, dark-haired one on the other
side of Martin (I think his name’s Robert, but it’s so loud in here I missed
the intros and it’d be awkward to ask again).

‘
Naw
, only guns I saw were carried by the polis. And even
they’d not as many weapons as the constables in Derry or Belfast.’

Everyone
nods. Most Glaswegians know someone from Northern Ireland, where even now, body
armour
is worn by most officers.

‘Zachary
lived in Baltimore,’ Martin says with emphasis. ‘Remember that
programme
The Wire
?
With the drugs and all? Baltimore’s where it takes place.’

Now
they’re impressed. I shrug. ‘Baltimore’s like Glasgow. It’s perfectly safe if
ye know where not to walk at night.’

This
time their nods are mixed with frowns. It occurs to me that this lot has to
take extra care where
they
walk at
night. Martin says Glasgow’s pretty gay-friendly, but guys holding hands in
public is still Not Done outside a few small areas and times.

‘One
odd thing about Americans,’ I tell them. ‘They’re always toting around bottles
of water. Not just when exercising. Like, all the time.’

They
squint at my change in topic. Clearly I’ve lost the art of conversation by talking
to no one but myself for eight weeks.

‘You
mean sparkling water?’ asks the one with bright-blue eyes, standing across from
me.

‘No,
still water. They seemed in constant fear of dehydration. I suppose that’s why
their bathrooms – their toilets, I mean,
heh
– were so large. As much as they drink, they must spend all their time
pissing.’

An
uncomfortable pause follows as no one comments. I have failed at Society.

‘Do
ye miss America?’ Possibly-Robert asks.

I
take a sip of
Irn
Bru
to
hide the surge of rage I feel towards the country that tortured me. Then I hold
up the bright-orange soft drink. ‘Not as much as I missed this.’

They
laugh, and the blond one sidles closer, almost touching me. I resist the urge
to inch away.

‘There
must be something you miss about the States,’ he says.

‘You
mean besides my girlfriend?’

He
glances at Martin without turning his head. ‘Is he serious or just winding me
up?’

‘I
told you Zach was my mate. That
wasnae
a euphemism.’

‘Why’s
he here, then?’

‘For
the music. And there’s
nae
chance he’ll cheat on his
girlfriend in this place.’

‘We’ll
see about that.’ Bright Eyes keeps his gaze locked with mine as he sips his
beer.

My
face heats, but in a good way. Flirting will make me feel like myself again.
‘Am I in danger of distraction?’ I ask him.

‘Not
from us.’ He looks past my shoulder and tilts his chin up. ‘Those
burds
, maybe.’

I
turn to see them entering, led by one in white lace, suspenders, and sequins. A
hen party, crashing the place. Well.

They
parade past us to the other end of the bar, squealing and laughing. I crane my
neck to watch. After my incarceration, my eyes are hungry for all sorts of
beauty.

Then
I return my attention to the lads, who regard me with dismay, except for Martin
who, as always, regards me with amusement.

‘Sorry,’
I tell them. ‘What were we talking about?’

A new
song comes on, one I’ve not heard, and the blond lad closest to me says, ‘It’s
my
favourite
– ’
mon
,
Martin!’ My best mate looks back with concern as he’s dragged away, but I wave
him off.

Bright
Eyes and Possibly-Robert share a glance, then look at me. I shake my head. ‘
Youse
go on too. Maybe I’ll join you for the next.’

I
stand alone by the bar watching the crowd on the dance floor, including –
okay, especially – the hen-party girls. My interest in them, however,
soon fades to annoyance. They were clearly
pished
out
of their minds before they arrived, and now they’re taking up more room than
groups of lads twice their size. The bride-to-be keeps whipping her long
sparkly veil into people’s faces as she spins. Those wee beads must sting on
impact.

The
song changes to a slower, more sensuous tune. I avert my eyes from Martin and
his lad as they grind away at each other – not because it makes me
uncomfortable, but because Martin’s such an awful dancer, it’s a struggle not
to laugh.

‘Another
Irn
Bru
?’

I
turn at the sound of the bartender’s voice, then follow his gaze to the empty
bottle in my hand. I’ve peeled off the entire label, which lies shredded at my
feet. Perhaps I’m more anxious than I thought.

Enough
caffeine. ‘
Tennent’s
this time,’ I tell him.

He
hesitates, probably deciding whether to ask for my ID. Technically the drinking
age is eighteen, unless the drinker’s buying a meal, which I’m not.

‘Please,’
I add with a smile I hope doesn’t look desperate. My personal charms are rusty,
to say the least.

‘Of
course.’ He flips a pint glass and grins at me as he moves to the tap. I watch
the pale lager fill the glass and suddenly remember that all my meds say
DO NOT CONSUME ALCOHOL
. But one pint
shouldn’t hurt, right?

‘What
are you doing here?’

I
turn to see a ginger-blonde nearly my height and perhaps a few years older. Her
dark green dress plunges deep at her neck and rises high on her thighs.

I
self-consciously kick aside the pile of
Irn
Bru
-label remnants. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘This
place has got the best DJ in the city, they say. And Corrine – that’s our
bride – she just wanted to dance and not be molested by lads who think
she’s out for one last secret shag.’ As she speaks, she slides a fingertip just
inside her dress’s neckline, her red nails reflecting the lurid bar light as
they descend. ‘So what’s
yer
excuse for coming?’

I
lean my elbow on the bar, feigning casualness. ‘What makes you think I don’t
belong here?’

‘You’re
the first lad tonight who’s looked
through
my clothes instead of
at
them.’

I
glance away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m
not.’ She shifts closer, inside my personal space. My pulse spikes with fear.
It was one thing to watch her from a distance, but now I wish a trap door would
open beneath my feet.