Shattered: A Shade novella

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  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.

  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?’

&nbs
p; * * * *

  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.’

  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