Shattered: A Shade novella

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  One look out my wet window tells me the weather’s pure dreich today. It’ll only get worse as winter approaches with its cold, damp cloak. If I’m to outrun the black dog of depression, I’ll need to find a new path.

  I walk down the hall and pound on Martin’s door. ‘’Mon, ya lazy shite! Time tae join a gym.’

  * * * *

  ‘Are we to race?’ Martin asks as I lead him towards a pair of empty treadmills on the far side of the large, fourth-story room. ‘Cos if so, you win, mate. I’ve no ego whatsoever when it comes to fitness.’ Passing a well-built man doing leg lifts, Martin adds, ‘which is not to say I’ve no interest whatsoever.’

  ‘I thought you might change your mind once we came.’

  ‘Figured we’d end up here one day.’ He hands me a pair of earphones with a very long cord. ‘So I made us another playlist: good Scottish exercise music.’ As we mount the treadmills, he plugs his own earphones into the other side of the splitter. ‘This way we can listen to the same thing at the same time.’

  I attempt to decipher the machine’s touchscreen, which features fancy animations of an oval track, a mountainside, and a nature trail. ‘It’s trying to make us forget we’re in a gym.’

  ‘Like that’s possible.’ Martin examines the controls on his own treadmill. ‘Is there a negative kilometres-per-hour setting, so I can do less than nil effort, just be sorta carried along?’

  ‘You said you wanted to join me.’

  ‘Never said I’d do it without whingeing. That’s the best part.’

  Soon we’re off and running – literally. I lose myself in the whir of hydraulics, in the rhythmic stomp of feet on rubber, and in the upbeat, electronic thump of Martin’s music. Through the window twenty feet in front of me, I can see south into the Partick section of town, to the looming white facade of the closest hospital, Western Infirmary.

  My breath is steady, in and out, in and out, and my legs and arms move smoothly. After four weeks, running is finally starting to feel like something my body was made to do. I can imagine myself a machine.

  But here in the gym, something’s missing. There’s no wind against my face, only a void. It’s almost like …

  The rain-streaked window begins to blur. I blink, and it turns pale. I’m back in 3A, running in place, getting nowhere.

  step step gasp step step gasp

  I shake my head, and I’m here in the gym again. I look down at the treadmill’s touchscreen to see how far I’ve travelled around the animated oval track.

  But instead of a track, the screen shows a white-grey wall. The music in my ears fades until there’s no sound but the ones I’m making.

  step step step gasp step step step gasp

  I can fight this. I turn up the speed to a sprint and increase the incline. The screen flickers, then displays a trail through dark woods. I turn my head to look for Martin –

  – and see only a white door with no handle.

  ‘Logan?’ I whisper, slowing my jog. ‘Where’d you go?’

  ‘Exercise is boring, dude,’ his voice says. ‘But don’t let me stop you. I can tell you’re gonna pork out in about ten years if you’re not careful. Aura won’t like that.’

  ‘Piss off.’ I was pudgy in primary school, and I’m still a wee bit sensitive about my weight.

  ‘I’m just sayin’, keep up the running. And keep eating, for God’s sake. If you die, they win.’

  The ground beneath me lurches. I crash into an unyielding object.

  Martin takes his hand off the treadmill’s red emergency stop button. ‘Mate, ye trying tae kill yersel?’

  I grip the railing I just collided with, then touch the monitor, which displays the oval track again. Everything is as it should be: the window looking out on Glasgow, the elliptical machines rocking behind us, the music pulsing in my ears. And Martin beside me, as always.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell him.

  ‘Good.’ He hits the reset button, adjusts the speed to a leisurely five kilometres per hour, then returns to his own treadmill.

  Could Martin tell I just had another flashback? It’s only the second one he’s witnessed. Usually I’m alone when it happens, or at least not with anyone who’d notice.

  Last week shopping at the Tesco, as I reached for a box of shortbread, I fell back into the day Logan and I had a tea party. It was my happiest moment from 3A, so when I returned to reality there in the biscuit aisle, I wasn’t a quivering, sickened mess. I might have even been smiling.

  But only for a moment, before the fear hit me. Just like now. If I can’t control these flashbacks, how can I ever go out in public? What if one strikes me while I’m crossing the street? Must I hole up in my house like the hermit I long to become?

  I wrap my clammy palms around the cool metal section of the treadmill grip, the part that measures heart rate.

  Two hundred twenty beats per minute. I jerk my hands away and lean to the left so Martin can’t see the readout before it disappears.

  I keep walking – what else can I do? – and try to focus on the here and now. Slowly my panic subsides. Ten minutes later, I recheck my heart rate: a hundred fifteen beats per minute.

  The song changes to a familiar tune from before we were born. I look at Martin. ‘Seriously? “500 Miles”?’

  ‘It’s an iconic Scottish pop song.’

  ‘It’s a stereotypical Scottish pop song.’

  ‘Whitever. I fancy it.’

  ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ I tell him. ‘If you run for the entire song, we keep it on the playlist. If you start walking, it’s gone.’

  ‘You’re a mad wee prick, but I’ll do it. For the Proclaimers!’ He raises a fist as he speeds up. Then, when the chorus arrives, he starts singing along. At top volume.

  ‘This is what I get,’ I murmur, shaking my head.

  ‘Sing wi me, Zach. It’ll be like those chants soldiers do when they run. It’ll give ye strength!’

  I glance at the treadmill to my right, where a woman is looking askance at Martin. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Only if ye do it half-heartedly.’ Martin pounds his chest, panting. ‘Give it yer all.’

  I sing with what breath the running leaves me, trying in vain to match his volume. In the window’s reflection I see weight machines, ellipticals, and stationary bikes slow to a halt as their operators turn to stare at us – or glare at us, more likely.

  The chorus ends after the da-da-DA-daaaa bit. ‘Are we done?’ I ask him.

  ‘Never!’ Martin starts to sing the verse.

  I surrender completely, belting out the backup vocals in as broad a Scottish brogue as I can muster (and I can muster quite a bit). I wonder if he’s making me sing because he knows it keeps me grounded in this world. Perhaps he’s done his own research on flashbacks. I wouldn’t put it past him, the clever bastard.

  As we reach the second chorus, the woman on the next treadmill joins in, softly at first, then louder as an older man on a bike to Martin’s left sings as well. One by one, voices rise around us, until the final crescendo, when it sounds like the entire gym is singing along with this silly old pop tune. It’s like a flash mob, or a scene from a cheesy Hollywood film.

  The song ends. ‘Finally!’ Martin jabs at his screen to lower the speed. ‘I’m gonnae die.’

  ‘You won’t die.’ I slow my own pace to a brisk walk, hearing scattered voices repeating the ‘500 Miles’ chorus. ‘Think of the dance-floor stamina you’re building up.’

  ‘I won’t live tae dance again.’ He grasps the heart-rate measuring bars. ‘See? One-ninety-five. According to this chart here, I’m already deid.’

  ‘It’ll get easier.’

  ‘Aye, when I stop.’

  ‘Are ye saying ye won’t come back with me?’ The thought makes me nervous.

  He spies the gorgeous weightlifter in the sleeveless shirt, who’s headed our way. ‘I’m no saying that at all.’

  The man approaches, a towel draped around his neck. Martin increases his sp
eed, throws his shoulders back, and puffs out his chest. The beefcake doesn’t stop, but rather proceeds towards the free weights behind us. As the man passes, Martin turns his head, then his upper body, to keep him in view, then stumbles –

  – and falls on his face.

  The treadmill dumps him off the end onto the floor. He lands with a loud grunt.

  I shut off my own treadmill and stand on the sidebar, clutching the railing to stay upright. The bodybuilder glances back, bewildered, then moves on, barely breaking stride.

  ‘Martin, you okay?’ I try to ask, but I’m laughing too hard.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ He sits up, covering his mouth. ‘I bit my tongue.’

  ‘If it leaves a scar, I’ll tell everyone you got it saving an old woman and an orphan from a mugging. My story will have a price, of course.’

  Unable to talk without spitting blood, he flips me off with two fingers, British style. The gesture’s so old and familiar, like the song, that I feel suddenly, swooningly at home.

  * * * *

  Late that night, I set the kettle on the stove for Dad’s ginger tea. He’s up sick again from last week’s chemo. Mum had to interrupt my chat with Aura to get my help, but Martin was there to keep my girlfriend company. Bitten tongue or no, he’s never at a loss for words.

  Before we were interrupted, Aura told me how she changed the shades to a ghost at the moment of the equinox, how they made her sick, and how she wants to try again when we’re in Ireland on the winter solstice. She’s got a noble purpose in life now, to ease the suffering of the dead. I wonder what possible good my own ghost-repelling powers could do. They only seem to hurt.

  ‘Thanks for fetching your dad’s tea,’ Mum says as she enters the kitchen, her slippers slowly scuffing the floor.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ I tell her. ‘It’s half three.’ In fact it’s only 3.29, but I’ve learned that reciting exact times out loud draws strange looks.

  ‘My stomach’s in knots. I’ll take a cup of that ginger tea too.’ She drifts over to the back door, sighing. Without a word, she draws both bolts to lock it.

  My heart starts to pound in my ears. Must she do that in front of me?

  I hold up the teapot. ‘How much goes in this for two people?’

  ‘You asked me that yesterday.’

  ‘I’m asking again. Is it two or two-and-a-half teaspoons?’

  ‘Two and a half, unless it’s the Assam, then two. Perhaps you could write it down.’

  I slam the teapot on the granite worktop. It cracks into half a dozen pieces. Cursing under my breath, I sweep them into my hands and cross to the rubbish bin.

  ‘That was my mother’s.’

  I look at her stony face, the pieces still in my cupped palms. ‘Sorry. I’ll fix it.’

  She rubs her temples, looking older than I’ve ever seen her. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you for being forgetful. I know you’re still not sleeping well. None of us is.’

  Cos I wake you screaming.

  ‘Zachary, are you angry with your father and me for leaving you behind in the States?’

  ‘You’d no choice.’ I take another teapot from the cupboard. ‘They deported you.’

  ‘That doesn’t change the fact you were abandoned by your own parents. Perhaps you feel you can’t show your anger to Dad because he’s sick. So I end up taking it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Those words seem to be all I say to my mother these days.

  ‘Don’t be. I can take it.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have to.’ I turn away. ‘I’ll bring this up when it’s ready.’

  She takes the hint and leaves me alone. As I open the cupboard to fetch the tea, I realise Aura and Martin have been chatting a long time. I may have, em, mischaracterised to her what happened between our mates and us. Not lied, exactly. I’d never lie to her.

  Ach, I’m lying to myself even thinking that. Now that I’ve started, by hiding how bad things really are, I don’t know how to stop.

  I stare into the cupboard. What was I looking for? The kettle whistles. Oh, right. I reach for the tin of tea.

  ‘Hey!’ Martin’s voice startles me, and the tin tumbles out of my grasp onto the floor. ‘Ye told Aura we weren’t speaking to our mates cos of me?’

  ‘I told her there was a fight.’ I pick up the tin, the lid of which luckily stayed on. ‘She must have drawn her own conclusions.’

  ‘She said I should make peace with them, for yer sake.’

  Of course Aura would bring it up with Martin, try to solve one of my problems. ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I improvised. Called them bawbags. She likes that word, by the way. Then I changed the subject.’ He sticks his hands in his front pockets. There’s a rustle of paper in one. He draws his hands out again and looks away.

  ‘So she doesn’t know I hit Niall?’

  ‘Not unless you tell her.’

  ‘I will. Someday.’

  ‘Aye, right. You tell her nothing, do you?’

  ‘I don’t want to worry her. She’s got enough problems of her own.’

  Martin snorts. ‘So courteous of ye.’ He turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me alone again.

  He thinks my silence is about my pride. But it’s life or death. One small confession to Aura, like my punching Niall, or my extreme insomnia, could lead to more questions, which could lead to bigger secrets.

  Including the one that could destroy her.

  Chapter Seven

  Date: 9 October

  Weight: 66 kg

  Hours sleep in last week: 14

  Nightmares in last week: 9

  Flashbacks in last week: 3

  Panic attacks in last week: 2

  Days since 3A: 45

  Days until Aura: 72

  It feels good to shave. Orderly, regular, normal. Sometimes, like tonight, I use twice the amount of lather I need, just because I can. Often it’s these small freedoms that please me most.

  I slide the straight razor – the sort my dad prefers, so I’ve come to use it too, and it’s true it gives a closer shave, once one gets used to it – over the curve of my chin, where I find it trickiest. There. Perfection.

  It’s always a challenge to fill these late hours, after Mum and Dad are away to bed and Martin’s still at work. The house becomes too quiet, and my thoughts too loud. It’s hard to believe that before my captivity, I used to relish my time alone.

  The water in the sink has turned green from the shaving-gel suds. I rinse the blade again and start under my left jaw. For some reason, that’s the only side where the hair grows below my face; on the right side, it stops at my jawline. Puberty is an odd, unfinished business.

  I feel a slight sting, as if from the world’s smallest bee. A spot of red blooms amid the white lather. As I stare at it, the mirror starts to cloud around the edges, the creeping frost of a flashback.

  Look away, I tell myself. Do whatever it takes to stay here.

  But I’m already lost.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ The barber – or whatever he is – wipes a spot of blood from the edge of my jaw, near my left ear. ‘It’s hard not to nick someone who has three weeks of growth.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ I tell him. I’m so happy to have someone touch me and speak to me, I don’t care if he makes a thousand cuts to my face. ‘Why am I being cleaned up? Is this a regular thing now?’ Perhaps the DMP has seen fit to treat me more humanely. Perhaps I’ll be let out of my cell every day, for exercise or recreation or … anything. I’d even welcome an interrogation.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ says a man behind me.

  I start to turn my head, but the barber catches my jaw. ‘Hold still so I can finish.’

  ‘An attorney.’ The voice comes closer. ‘She’s here with a representative from the British consulate.’

  My heart leaps. ‘I’m going home?’

  ‘No.’ The man steps in front of me, tall and wiry, in a midnight-blue uniform with no insignia. I’ve never seen a DMP agent dr
essed like this. His face isn’t a pleasure to look at, but at this point, all I care is that it’s human. ‘They’re here to assess your welfare,’ he says.

  So that’s why I’m having a shave. To be presentable. To not look like a prisoner of war.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I ask the man in blue. ‘Why am I alone? Am I being punished?’

  The barber clucks his tongue. ‘Please hold still.’

  Now I’ve started talking, I can’t stop. ‘If I’ve broken the law, then put me in a real prison. Put me somewhere with people!’

  The man in blue holds up a finger and pauses, looking like a professor about to expound on a theory. ‘Listen carefully, Mr Moore,’ he says finally. ‘If you tell the consul you’ve been kept in isolation for three weeks, he’ll be busting down the door of our State Department demanding your release. The United Nations believes that holding prisoners in solitary confinement for more than fifteen days is, well—’

  ‘Torture.’ I’ve not said the T word out loud yet, and even now it hurts to admit I’m a victim. ‘So if I tell the truth, I’ll be set free?’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Why would you tell me this?’

  ‘If you were released, we’d need a similar subject for our tests.’

  A similar subject. A chill washes over me. ‘You mean …’ In my panic, her name slips further from my mind.

  ‘Aura. Yes. If you ever tell anyone the first thing about your experience here, she will be taken.’ He leans closer, enunciating each syllable. ‘Everything you’ve undergone, she will undergo too.’

  A dog barks, high and sharp, bringing me back to the present. I blink hard. It barks again, through the open window.

  Right. The neighbour’s old Sheltie. Always has to piss at 3.05 a.m., like clockwork.

  I grimace at my half-shaven face in the mirror. Why can’t that place stay in the past? Why must it invade today? These flashbacks, they’re not like remembering, not like seeing it Then. They’re like reliving, as if it’s happening Now. As long as I remain silent – and I must, to keep Aura safe – 3A will lurk inside me, attacking with no warning or remorse.