Shattered: A Shade novella (9 page)

I
keep stirring, pushing the porridge into one corner of the
squarish
bowl like a
snowplough
cleaning a car park. ‘Have I
failed to care for you? Am I not doing what you need?’

‘You’ve
done more than I could ever ask. But for your own good, you—’

‘They
never delivered
yer
letters, did ye know that? Every
day for two months, I waited for them to come and tell me you were dead.’ I
don’t add that by August I would’ve welcomed it, or any words from another
human. ‘I didn’t know if I’d be released during
my
lifetime, much less yours.’ I leave the spoon in the bowl,
sticking straight up from the thick porridge. ‘So it’s true I’ve changed, that
I’m more afraid of losing you than ever. But that fear’s not from anything done
to me, other than being kept in the first place. I was not … harmed.’

My
voice almost breaks on the lie. I
feel
harmed, whether I’ve a right to or not.

‘Okay.’
Dad picks up his fork. ‘You’ll talk about it when you’re ready. I won’t ask
again.’

‘Thank
you,’ I tell him, and mean it with all my heart.

‘But
please know this, son: you’re safe now. From the DMP, Nighthawk, all of them.
You’re safe.’

Perhaps
I am. But Aura’s not. And if my silence can keep her safe, then it can shatter
me, smother me, slay me. I don’t care.

I
will carry on.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*

The
next morning I’m awakened at 11.24 a.m. by a triumphant text from Aura:
It worked! Details tonight.

She
did it. She turned a shade back to a ghost, perhaps saving its soul in the
bargain.

I
praise her with a
Gaun
yersel
, hen!
text, then try to sleep another half hour. But waiting for her ‘details’ makes
me restless. I need to run, burn off this nervous energy, or I’ll go mad.

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 speed,
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.