Shattered: A Shade novella (8 page)

‘Here’s
yer
Tennent’s
.’ The
bartender nudges my elbow with a cardboard coaster and sets the glass upon it.
He points two fingers at his eyes, then mine, then his again. ‘
Gies
a look if you need anything else.’ He winks before
turning away.

The
girl’s narrowed gaze darts between me and him. ‘Ah. Perhaps you fancy both?’

‘We
all love bartenders, aye?’ I take a long gulp of lager, hoping it’ll calm my
racing heart. At least with this lass, I’ve no obligation to be friendly. I can
just walk away if it’s too much.

And
it is, so I will.

I
take a step to the left. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m—’

‘I
don’t mind.’ She moves to block my escape. ‘My name’s
Kenzie
.’

My
eye sockets throb with a rush of rage. I feel I could shoot optic blasts out of
them, like X-Men’s Cyclops. Anything to get
Kenzie
away from me without touching her.

‘So
how about a dance?’ she asks.

‘With
you?’

‘
Naw
, with Margaret Thatcher’s corpse. Aye, with me.’

‘I
can’t, I’m-I’m not available.’

‘It’s
just a dance,’
Kenzie
says, but her eyes promise
more. She reaches for my arm.

‘I
said no!’ I raise my glass to smash it on the floor in front of me.

‘Ah,
there you are.’ Martin pops his head between us. ‘
Hiya
,
lass. Sorry, this yin’s taken.’

She
tosses her hair. ‘Yours, then?’

I set
down my pint with a trembling hand. ‘Aye, I’m-I’m his.’ I lift my arm as if to
put it around his shoulders, but it won’t fall. Instead it hovers awkwardly,
then drops to my side.

Kenzie’s
lips form a thin, hard line. ‘You’re not
fooling anyone.’

‘He’s
fooling everyone. It’s what he does.’ Martin holds out his hand. ‘You’ve rested
long enough, lad. Come dance again before someone steals me.’

Our
eyes meet, and his soften in an
It’s okay
I won’t hurt you
expression. I seize his hand.

He
guides me through the crowd, steering us clear of other bodies. We find an
empty space, and he tugs me close enough to speak over the blare of music.
‘Sorry, it seemed the only way tae save you.’

‘Thanks.
I needed saving.’

‘You
also need dancing.’ He lets go of me and starts to rock his body in a
ridiculous way, giving me a goofy grin. ‘’Mon, show us what ye got!’

He’s
right, I do need dancing. A new song’s begun, one I heard on the radio while
driving with Aura that last night together. I close my eyes and let the music
take over, remembering how she sang along, shimmying her shoulders, and how she
put her hand on my thigh during the second chorus and kept it there until we
arrived at our old stargazing field. I pretend she’s here, pressed close to me.
I tell myself I’d never shy away from her touch like I did from
Kenzie’s
.

As
the song fades, I feel almost part of myself again, that this blood is my blood
and this breath is my breath. That this body is my body.

Then
the music changes, to an unfamiliar tune. My feet lose the rhythm. I stop
dancing, dazed, and for a moment just watch everyone around me.

Martin
notices and asks, ‘Ye tired? Want a break?’

‘No.’
This feeling’s not fatigue, it’s … unnerving but
unnameable
.
‘Thank you for bringing me tonight.’

He
just smiles and keeps dancing, with an
unself
-consciousness
that makes my heart ache. I want that freedom, that joy, for my own.

So I
keep dancing too.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

This
dream won’t even grant me walls. It’s just blank white, with no ups or downs.

Standing
(sitting? tumbling?) in the void, I hold up my hands. They look false, laid
against no one else’s skin.

The
fading starts at my fingertips. Nothingness devours them, turning my knuckles
to air. Then my palms, my wrists. I scream at my arms to fight back. They flap
and flail until they’re gone as well, and the nothingness is at my throat,
swallowing the shrieks.

I sit
half up in bed, choking, my gut leaping towards my mouth. This time, I’m
certain breath won’t come. This time, I’m certain I’ll die.

‘Zachary?’
A touch on my elbow, which apparently still exists. My arm snaps out, my fist
making solid, wet contact.

A
woman screams. This stops my struggle at last, but I still can’t pry open my
eyes.

‘What
is it? What happened?’ My father’s voice. Why is he here? Where
is
here?

A
bright light flashes on, and I finally open my eyes. Dad stands on the
threshold to my bedroom, clutching the doorjamb, horror coating his face.

But
he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the floor beside my bed, where my
mother sits crying. My knuckles feel fresh pain.

‘Oh
God. Mum!’ I try to lurch out of bed, but the covers are wrapped about my legs,
so I roll halfway onto the floor and rest suspended,
arse
over head. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You
should be sorry!’ My father kneels beside her, with difficulty. ‘How could you
strike
yer
own mother?’

‘It
wasn’t his fault,’ she sobs. ‘Zachary, I didn’t mean to frighten you. You were
screaming again. I only wanted to make the nightmare stop.’

‘You did.’
I wrench myself back onto the bed and start untangling my legs. ‘Are you hurt?
Let me get you some ice.’

She
dabs at her forehead and around her eye. ‘I’m not bleeding. But ice would be
lovely, thank you.’

I
dash downstairs, clutching the banister to keep from spilling forwards. My feet
are numb – as if that blasted blankness of the dream really did devour
them – but my legs ache from last night’s dancing.

It
wasn’t a perfect evening, our trip to the club, but it was good. I was ninety
percent normal and managed to control my intermittent impulses to run and hide.
So I went to sleep feeling like I was on the road to recovery.

And
now this.

I
grab an ice pack from the freezer, along with a tea towel to wrap it in. At the
bottom of the steps, I hear my parents’ voices in the upstairs hall toilet. I
climb quietly, avoiding the creaky spots.

‘Ian,
stop fussing,’ Mum says from behind the door. ‘It’s barely a scratch.’

‘You’ll
have a black eye for days,’ Dad growls.

‘That’s
what makeup is for. I’m more worried for Zachary. He’s changed.’

‘The
therapy and medicine will get him back on his feet.’ There’s a sound of a soft
kiss. ‘
Dinnae
worry, love. If he can find his old
self again anywhere, it’s here.’

I
sink onto the top step and look straight down the dark wooden staircase. Every
inch of this house is part of me. I know which kitchen cupboards stick and
which have loose knobs. I know exactly how far to turn each shower tap to get
the perfect temperature. Outside, I know which cracks in the pavement grow dandelions
and which grow only tufts of grass.

But
whether my old self is still here – that’s one secret this house won’t
share.

Chapter
Six

Date:
September 22 (autumnal equinox)

Weight:
 
64kg

Hours
sleep in last week: 16

Nightmares
in last week: 7

Flashbacks
in last week: 2

Panic
attacks in last week: 2

Days
since 3A: 28

Days
until Aura: 89

‘Here
ye go.’ I set a plate before Dad on the kitchen table. ‘Dinner from last night.
And remember, I cooked, so no slagging the food while I’m in the room.’

He
frowns at the array of steamed vegetables, herbed couscous, and grilled salmon.
‘Have ye still got
yer
old microscope? I need help
finding the meat.’

‘Mum
says you’ve got to eat healthier.’ The microwave beeps, signaling my porridge
is ready. Most days I eat breakfast while Dad eats lunch. Over the last three
weeks, the four of us – me, him, Mum, and Martin – have settled
into a comfortable routine. It helps numb my mind, which is all I want.

‘What’s
the point of eating healthier? It’s not as if it’ll add years to my life.’

‘Ye
never know.’ I take my bowl and sink into the chair across from him. ‘If you’re
stubborn enough to stay on this earth till the new year, there’ll be that
immunotherapy trial.
That
could add
years to
yer
life.’

‘Even
if I qualify, it’s just an experimental treatment.’

‘Penicillin
was once an experimental treatment. Now eat,
widje
?’
I check my phone – under the table, since my parents hate when I use it
during meals – for messages from Aura. The autumnal equinox is tonight,
when she’ll try to turn a shade back to a ghost, like she did for Logan six
months ago. Ghosts transform into shades when they’re overcome with rage and
bitterness. But once they’ve gone shade, they can’t go back, and only ghosts
can eventually pass on and find peace beyond this world.

If
Aura succeeds, it could change everything. There could finally be hope for
those tortured souls trapped in the eternal despair of
shadedom
.

‘What
are you doing?’ Dad asks.

‘Nothing.’
I put away my phone, which contains no new messages, then start to eat.

To my
relief, Dad joins me, though only in wee bites that wouldn’t fill the baby
spoon my mum used to feed me with (which she still keeps in the kitchen
drawer). ‘You’re putting weight back on, I see.’

‘It’s
from eating all your leftovers,’ I quip, avoiding the subject of why I needed
to regain weight in the first place.

It
used to be easy to dance around personal topics with Dad. We’re men, after all.
We only ever spoke of Aura because it was his job to protect her from Them. The
ones he couldn’t protect me from. The ones he won’t stop asking about.

Silence
thickens the air. My brain grasps for the latest football scores to keep the
conversation casual, but I can’t even remember who played yesterday, much less
who won.

Dad
reaches for his cup of water. I let him, though his fingers tremble. He hates
being helped, but hates even more having to
ask
for help, so I’ve learned to spot the tiny hesitations that tell me he needs a
hand. It’s a fine line, and on either side lie rage and sorrow. Not to mention
prolific profanity.

He
sips and sets the cup down. ‘Zachary, you’ve been home four weeks. I know it’s
difficult for you to talk about … that time, but I need to know what happened.’

‘Why?
It’s over. I’m free and safe now, or so you and Mum keep telling me.’

He
drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter. ‘Because I want to make them
pay!’

‘I
don’t need revenge.’ My voice is as quiet as his was loud. ‘I just need to
forget.’
If everyone would let me.

‘I’m
sorry, but I
can’t
forget how they
turned my son into a shadow of himself. Not when I see ye float around the
house every day like a – like a ghost.’

‘I’m
just tired.’ I scrape the tip of the spoon back and forth against the bottom of
the ceramic bowl. ‘
Dr
McFarlane and I are trying
different combinations of meds.’ According to her, I’ve something called acute
stress disorder, which is post-traumatic stress disorder that’s lasted less
than a month. Four more days till I level up to PTSD. Huzzah.

I
thought I’d be better by now. Not completely better, of course – I know
these things take time. I’ve read accounts of those with PTSD, mostly soldiers
or victims of assault. Their symptoms are terrifyingly familiar: flashbacks,
nightmares, insomnia, detachment, rage. And eventually numbness.

Problem
is, they’re all
traumatised
by Things That Happened.
Me, I’m haunted by No Thing That Happened. So what right have I to put myself
beside those who’ve suffered beatings, rape, and war? Why was I so weak to let
this Nothingness follow me home?

‘It’s
not just fatigue, lad.’ My father’s voice is soft now. ‘I see the fear in your
eyes. I hear you doing your “perimeter checks”, as you call them, every night.
You’re not the same.’