Shattered: A Shade novella

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  ‘Ten seconds.’

  I turn back to Aura. ‘I’m sorry. He’s impossible. Can I ring you back after he’s in bed?’

  ‘No, you should go to sleep. I have a massive physics test tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘Good luck.’ I angle the monitor up so she can see my face. ‘I love you. Again, I’m sorry. For everything.’

  ‘I love you too.’ Aura touches her fingers to her lips, then to the camera. ‘And please stop saying you’re sorry.’

  Chapter Nine

  Date: 8 November

  Weight: 66 kg

  Hours sleep in last week: 48

  Nightmares in last week: 1

  Flashbacks in last week: 2

  Panic attacks in last week: 2

  Days since 3A: 75

  Days until Aura: 42

  Martin’s phone rings beside my bed at 9.46 a.m., finally putting an end to his snoring. I used to hear it through the walls when he was in the guest room. Now it’s like sleeping next to a jackhammer. A reeking jackhammer. But my morning breath is probably just as bad, and I’m the world’s most restless sleeper, so we’re calling it a draw.

  He rolls over and grabs his phone. His mumbled ‘Aye?’ is followed a few moments later by a groan. ‘Judy, I worked a double yesterday, and the day before that … I know, but are ye sure Jamie’s got the flu? Not another hangover?’ He sees I’m awake and covers the mouthpiece. ‘They want me to work the day and the night,’ he tells me.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘Ye sure? Saturday’s our one night oot.’

  ‘I’ll survive somehow.’ I mean it sarcastically, but he gives me a doubtful look before speaking into the phone again:

  ‘I’ll be there by half ten. Aye, I know I’m an angel. Whaur’s my fuckin’ wings?’ He hangs up with a beep, then lays his forearm across his eyes. ‘Christ, I’m so shattered. Feel like I went to sleep two minutes ago.’ Then he looks at me. ‘Sorry, I know it’s not as crap as you feel.’

  ‘I’ve not got a monopoly on exhaustion. Besides, I’ve slept better since you’ve been here.’ Once Martin realised my father couldn’t give a toss about us sharing a bed, he’s spent the night regularly, since my room’s warmer than his, plus it saves him the run down the hall when I wake screaming. ‘Despite your snores,’ I add.

  ‘I’ve been told my snoring’s adorable,’ he says, climbing out from beneath the covers. ‘It’s a snore to adore.’ He gives me a mock flirtatious look over his shoulder.

  ‘More like a snore to abhor.’

  Martin slaps his pillow onto my face, then switches on the lamp. ‘By the way, ye don’t need to leave this on for me at night. I can use my phone to find my way about.’

  ‘It’s not for you, it’s for me. Turning off the light is like telling myself, “Sleep! Now! Do it!” Can’t take the pressure.’ I wrap an arm around his discarded pillow. ‘Then I lie awake, too fuckin’ lazy to turn the light back on so I can read. But if I just leave it on, I can read till I fall asleep. And if I wake, I can read more. Or not.’ It makes the border between sleep and waking more casual.

  ‘You’ve aw sorts of tricks, haven’t ye?’ Martin stands, stretches, scratches himself through his boxer briefs. ‘Ring Niall, see what he’s doing the night.’

  ‘Does he want to talk to me?’

  ‘Dunno, it’s a mystery!’ he says on the way out of my room.

  I compose, then delete, ten versions of a text message to Niall. When I returned to Glasgow, he and I had only a few hours to rebuild our friendship before I stomped it into the dirt.

  Finally I find an approach that sounds like us: Sorry I beat the shit out of you. Buy you a drink? - Z

  My phone rings. It’s Niall: ‘Buy me five drinks, ya wankstain.’

  * * * *

  When I finally get up at noon, I go downstairs to find my mother sitting alone in the living room. She’s flipping through some sort of binder, ignoring the television.

  ‘Can I go to Edinburgh with Niall tonight?’

  Mum casts a nervous glance at the ceiling. ‘What time would you be back?’

  ‘When do you want me back? There’s trains a few times an hour.’ I can’t be annoyed she’s asked when I’ll return, since I do it to her every time she leaves the house.

  She waves her hand. ‘Whenever you like. It’ll be good for you to get out of town. I’m glad to hear you and Niall are friends again.’

  Odd. Mum never cared for Niall – or Martin, for that matter – when I was younger. Their rough language made her flinch, especially when I dared to use it myself in her presence. Have my mates become such model citizens in her eyes now they’ve regular employment, or has she herself softened?

  I notice the front door is locked and immediately rectify the situation. ‘Is Dad alright? Relatively speaking, I mean.’

  Mum looks at the door, then away, quickly. ‘He’s been very tired this week, you know that.’ She takes off her reading glasses and rubs her right eye, as if to say, So am I.

  Her behaviour gives me a sense of foreboding, that perhaps I shouldn’t leave town. Then again, everything gives me a sense of foreboding, so I no longer trust my instincts.

  Besides, I need to get away, be a normal lad for one night, not PTSD Boy or the son of Cancer Dad. I’d hoped coming home to Glasgow would make me better, but my city’s betrayed me. It’s not been an escape or a haven. It’s just … life. Perhaps in Edinburgh I can find a few hours of peace.

  I head for the kitchen to microwave some porridge. ‘Want tea?’ I call over my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I gulp my breakfast standing before the stove, waiting for the tea to steep. I’m using the pot I broke last month, for the first time since I glued it together. That should make her happy. Perhaps these wee gestures can make up for my general failure as a son.

  When I return to the living room with the tea tray, she’s staring past the television in the corner. Football Focus is on BBC One. They’re discussing tonight’s match between my favourite English Premier League club (Liverpool) versus Mum’s (Chelsea). Brilliant, something we can talk about besides … everything.

  ‘Should be a good match.’ I set the tray on the coffee table and sit beside her. ‘Tied for fourth now, aren’t they?’

  Mum blinks, then focuses on the screen. ‘Oh. I don’t know. I’ve not been following this season.’ She picks up the teapot and goes to pour.

  The pot disintegrates in her hand. Steaming brown liquid cascades over the sides of the tray, onto the table and carpet.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ I grab the tray. ‘I thought I fixed this blasted thing.’ I run to the kitchen and shove the tray into the sink before all the tea can slosh out through the handle holes. I take the roll of paper towels back to the living room—

  —where Mum is still holding the handle of the broken teapot. And crying.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I step towards her, though my feet want to do the opposite. ‘Guess I used the wrong glue. The heat from the water must’ve weakened it. I’ll fix it again and do it right this time.’

  She keeps crying, not bothering to wipe her tears with tissues from the box at her side.

  ‘Mum? What’s wrong?’ Such a stupid question when the answer is everything. ‘Is it Dad? News you’ve not told me?’

  ‘It’s not your father, it’s you.’

  ‘But I’m fine.’

  ‘Zachary, you’re not fine!’ She hurls the teapot handle at the table. It shatters into more pieces than I’ll ever be able to glue. ‘Look at this!’

  She takes the binder from her lap and holds it up. It’s a photo album, with a framed four-by-six on the front cover, of her and Dad and me when I must have been about five years old. I’m wearing a parka and wooly cap, leaning across both their laps in the middle of a snowdrift.

  Seeing them hold me so tightly, even in just a picture, makes my muscles twist and my skin creep.

  ‘Remember when you were a boy?’ She gasps between sobs, trying to catch her breat
h. ‘How when you had nightmares, we used to make a grand show of searching your room for monsters?’

  ‘Aye,’ I whisper.

  ‘We’d swipe a broom under every inch of your bed – monster sweep, we called it,’ she adds with a rough laugh. ‘Then we’d open the closet and turn on the light, show you every corner. When you were convinced, I’d tuck you in all snug, and sing to you until you fell asleep again. Do you remember?’

  I only nod.

  ‘Now I can’t even tell you there’re no such things as monsters. Because the monsters took you and they’ve not given you back. They devoured you, like we always promised they could never do.’

  I cover my face with both hands. Is that how she sees me? Devoured? I’m the same on the outside as inside? Then I’ve not only failed at coping, I’ve failed at pretending to cope. Everyone sees. My parents, Martin, probably even Aura.

  She catches her breath, sniffling hard. ‘All I want is to be your mum again. Is that so wrong? I just want to hold you and tell you everything will be alright.’

  I’m overcome with a sudden longing to let her do just that – take me in her arms, make me feel safe and warm. Lie to me. But things will never be alright again, and no embrace can change that.

  ‘I don’t know how to get you back,’ she whispers.

  I drop my hands and look her in the eye. I will not be devoured. I’ll slay all the monsters, or die trying.

  ‘I’ll get myself back,’ I tell her. ‘I promise.’

  Chapter Ten

  I was right: all I needed was to get out of Glasgow.

  On the train to Edinburgh, Niall and I caught up on four years apart and have settled into our old familiar patterns of patter. Now our separation feels more like four days.

  ‘So this American burd of yers, what’s her name again?’ he asks me as we follow the Saturday night crowd across Waverley Bridge. Above us, on the long high spine of Castle Rock, a spotlit Edinburgh Castle gleams before a dusky sky.

  ‘Aura. Aura Salvatore,’ I add with a flourish.

  ‘Italian?’

  ‘Aye, one hundred percent. Her dad was Sicilian, no less.’ I of course don’t mention he was also a ghost.

  ‘Hot. So she’s a temper, then?’

  ‘A wee bit. No more than me.’

  ‘You think you’ve a “wee bit” of a temper? My ribs beg to differ.’ He hugs his side where I punched him.

  ‘I was holding back. Otherwise you’d be in hospital and I’d be in prison.’

  ‘Naw, I’d’ve had my foot down your throat in another five seconds if the lads hadn’t pulled you off.’

  ‘Then why’d it take three of them to do it?’

  And so on.

  As Niall blethers about his new job at an estate agency, I keep glancing up at the castle, remembering how my mother took me there when I was eight. Perhaps I should buy her something while I’m here, especially since my gesture with the ‘repaired’ teapot didn’t work out.

  Maybe not. I’d probably fuck that up as well and give her something to make her cry even more.

  ‘Stop it! Stop!’

  My heart suddenly freezes, then starts to pound.

  I turn on my heel to see what’s wrong with the girl walking behind us. She’s laughing, hands in front of her face as her friend tries to take her picture.

  ‘Speaking of American lasses,’ Niall says. He studies them for a moment, then keeps walking, towards a long staircase leading up to the Royal Mile. ‘Oh! Here’s an interesting fact.’

  I follow him, but my legs feel like they belong to another body. ‘What?’

  ‘All this, in medieval times?’ He gestures to the Princes Street Garden on either side of us. ‘Was literally a giant river of shit.’

  I scan the neat rows of trees and flowers, hoping the colours will keep me here. But they’re fading at the edges of my eyes. There’s something about that girl behind us ….

  ‘Niall?’ I croak, but he can’t hear me over the chatter of people. I try to think of a song to sing, like Martin taught me that day in the gym.

  ‘See, cos the yins up there on the Royal Mile would dump their buckets outside their houses once a day and let it all run downhill. Obviously the richer you were, the higher up you lived.’

  I drag my hands down my face. Stay here. Listen to Niall.

  He chuckles. ‘Can’t imagine being an estate agent back then. “Here, madam, we’ve a lovely wee flat in a delightful part of town.”’

  ‘Help me,’ I whisper.

  ‘“It’s hip, trendy, and the crap on yer doorstep is guaranteed to be only from Edinburgh’s finest arseholes. Sorry, no pets, but cable TV is included.”’

  We’re almost at the staircase. I reach for the wrought-iron railing. It’ll be solid, cold, here. It’ll save me.

  ‘Stop it!’ the girl behind us shrieks again. ‘Stop!’

  And then I’m gone.

  I sit alone in this ordinary, wood-paneled room, but I can see them through the glass. A woman in a white DMP uniform is seated near a microphone. A man stands behind her, arms crossed. Beside him is a girl my age, perhaps younger. The man and woman stare at me, but the girl’s looking at something on the floor to my right:

  A simple disc made of clear quartz. A ghost summoner, a device that calls ghosts to places they never went during their lives. Aura dealt with these contraptions when she worked as a translator in courtrooms, speaking the words of the dead to judges and juries.

  I know what they’re doing. The girl there is younger than me, a post-Shifter like Aura. She can see and hear ghosts.

  ‘No,’ I tell them in a half command, half whimper.

  The disc starts to glow with a pure white light.

  I try to rise, but I’m strapped down like a condemned man in an electric chair. ‘Don’t bring a ghost here. It won’t—’

  The girl beyond the glass screams. She clamps her hands over her ears. ‘Stop it! Stop! Let it go. Please, stop!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, though she can’t hear me over her own shrieks and that of the ghost that must be trapped in here with me. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The female DMP agent tries to comfort the girl. The man reaches out and hits a switch. Everything goes silent in here, but I can still see the girl wail as she pulls her hair and drags her fingernails over her tear-streaked face. When she vomits all over the female agent’s white uniform, I finally shut my eyes.

  My life is over. Now they know. They know my mere presence causes a ghost unimaginable torment, worse than the BlackBox technology or the red items that keep them at bay.

  They know I’m made of red.

  I find myself sitting on a bottom stair, face pressed to my knees, staring at pavement. A steady stream of pedestrians squeezes past.

  ‘Is he okay?’ asks Aura. I try to look up at her, but I can’t lift my head. Please don’t go, now I’ve found you at last. But how can she be here? Where is here, again?

  ‘Aye, he’s fine,’ says a familiar voice. Niall. My friend. Right. ‘Just an allergic reaction to some food.’

  ‘Oh my God, does he have an epi pen or something?’

  ‘It’s no sae bad, really. Just made him dizzy.’

  ‘I have Benadryl in my bag.’

  I shake my head, my neck tight and my heart heavy. It’s not Aura after all, only the same accent and kindness.

  ‘That’s sweet of you,’ Niall says. ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Karen. This is my sister Jessica.’

  ‘Hiya.’ Niall’s smile comes through in his voice. ‘Do youse have dinner plans tonight?’

  He’s trying to chat up Kind Karen and her silent sister, two hours before we’re to meet up with his girlfriend (or whatever she is). Same old Niall. At least his audacity has brought me fully back to this world.

  ‘I thought you already ate,’ Karen says. ‘Didn’t he have a reaction to the food?’

  ‘Come on,’ says a bored-sounding Jessica. ‘They’re, like, ten years too young for us.’ I realise t
hat Jessica was the lass behind me who shrieked about having her picture taken. She’s the one who sent me spiralling into another flashback.

  ‘Better now?’ Niall asks me once the girls have moved on. ‘You weren’t with us for a few seconds.’

  Only a few seconds? ‘Fine.’ I lift my head and grip the banister, trying to ground myself. ‘Were they cute?’

  ‘Both pure gorgeous. And older. I like an experienced woman.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Ach, Zachary, you’ve been gone a long time. You’ve missed a lot.’

  I missed you. I missed all our mates. To be here, doing something normal, means everything. And I’ve already gone and brought 3A with me.

  Get tae fuck, brain. You’ll not ruin my evening.

  * * * *

  ‘Follow my lead.’ I stride into one of the many cheesy ‘— of Scotland’ souvenir shops on the Royal Mile and head straight for the register.

  Niall’s right behind me, murmuring, ‘This should be good.’

  Interrupting the clerk mid-transaction, I ask in an east-coast American dialect, ‘Hey, you guys got any, like, miniature Buckingham Palaces?’

  The young woman’s transition from shocked frown to patient smile is nearly seamless. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says with a genteel Edinburgh brogue. ‘We don’t sell those. That’s more of an English thing.’

  ‘Well, what about shamrocks? I promised my mom I’d get her something with shamrocks on it.’ I look at Niall, who’s pretending he has a fierce itch on his upper lip to cover his smirk. ‘Dude, what was the other Scottish thing she wanted?’

  ‘Sheep.’ Niall nods at his own answer, then adds thoughtfully, ‘Yeah, sheep.’

  The clerk brightens. ‘Ah, sheep! Those we do sell, at the other end of this centre aisle. We’ve all sizes and configurations.’

  ‘Configurations?’ It turns out, this is a difficult word to say with an American accent.

  ‘That is, different sheep-themed products.’

  ‘Sweet.’ I offer a thumbs-up as we hurry down the aisle. She beams at me before continuing to ring up her customer.