Shattered

by C. S. Kane

  “Liam,” I gasped as I spun around to look at him.

  “What?” he said anxiously.

  “It’s Claremont Street.”

  “What about it?”

  “24C Claremont Street has no fire escape.”

  15

  We walked in silence down The Avenue. My mind was racing over the fact that we were living in a death trap. Liam, it seemed, was unimpressed by my “overreaction.” I was huffing and he was puffing and by the time we had reached the twenty-four-hour hatch at the shop, neither of us wanted to ask the other what the other wanted. Liam went first, and then stepped aside.

  “Hiya, Marty,” I said as I approached.

  “Hi, half-pint, what’s new?”

  “Nothing, shock horror.”

  “You are getting too predictable, chick-a-dee. What do you want?”

  “A bag of Humbugs and a Curly Wurly.”

  “Whoa, living on the wild side. Who would have thought you’d rise to the challenge?”

  “I’ll have you know I was a wild child, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it.” I laughed as Marty ran to my goods.

  “Speaking of smoking pipes, you two should get home. It’s coming up on pothead hour.”

  “Message received loud and clear. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of the zombie munchie-attack frenzy,” I said as I grabbed my stuff and walked over to Liam, offering him a sweet.

  He smiled and took the treat. We sauntered casually down the road.

  “Sorry for freaking out,” I said.

  “Sorry for being grouchy.”

  “It’s okay. I spoiled the night, I guess.”

  “No, it’s not that. Just, lately you’ve seemed very distant and—”

  “And what?”

  “On edge…you’re always on edge.”

  “I haven’t adjusted to moving here very easily.”

  “It hasn’t been a breeze for me either.”

  “I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”

  “So are you with uni. How is it going?”

  “Fine,” I lied.

  Liam put his arm around my shoulders, and I nuzzled into him, enjoying the warmth. He smelled so good and the closer I snuggled into him, the harder he hugged me.

  “What’s that?” Liam said.

  “What?” I muttered, straining to get out of my comfortable nook.

  “Those people huddled at the end of our street.”

  I gazed down The Avenue and saw a large group of people had gathered at the entrance to Claremont Street, gawking like rubber-neckers at an accident. As we ran closer to them, flashes of blue then red shone on their pale faces.

  “I think it’s…it’s…a fire truck,” Liam said with an air of disbelief.

  “Let it be burned down, let it be burned down,” I repeated as I caught up with him.

  I was wheezing when I finally reached Claremont Street. Hand in hand, we pushed through the crowd. The farther down the street we got, the more we realized the fire was close to our flat. In fact, the fire engine was parked outside our building.

  Liam approached an idle fireman. “What happened here?” he asked.

  “Kids,” the fireman replied, rolling his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you see the end terrace there?”

  “Yes, our flat is on the top floor.”

  “The little pricks lined a few bins up against the side wall, filled them with rags and lighter fluid, then chucked a match in. It’s lucky we got here ’cos those old Victorian houses have timber frames. If it had caught, this entire street would be burned down.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Liam said, glancing at me.

  I felt the color drain from my face.

  “Don’t worry about it, mate,” the fireman continued. “Claremont Street is a regular. We’re ready every weekend for the call out to this particular hot spot, mind the pun. I’ve got to go, mate, we’re packing up, but you’re free to go on inside.”

  “Come on,” Liam whispered to me as we entered the building.

  I reluctantly ascended the steps, ready to take up my duty as our sentinel, our protector. My post was taken up in our bed, where I lay with eyes open, waiting for the break of day, listening to the infernal creaking that constantly rose from the lower floors and flinching at every moan and groan the damn house made.

  16

  Liam had left in a mood to do his day shift. We had an intense argument about the flat. It was bad enough it was a shithole, but Liam had taken to leaving his dishes and clothes lying around. So it all started with me tripping over his work boots. It had ended with me in tears after screaming and kicking some boxes around. He had done his fair share of shouting too. Normally I was the placid one and he was the hothead, but due to a combination of lack of sleep and stress, I had snapped. It seemed to me he just wasn’t about, and when he was, it felt like he didn’t want to be with me at all. It seemed like he didn’t care enough to even notice how miserable and unhappy I was becoming. He had laughed it off.

  “No one was hurt. It was no biggie,” he had said about the fire.

  I wanted to kill him.

  “It’s hurting me being awake every goddamn night in case something happens and I have to get you out!”

  “You haven’t stopped moaning about this place since we moved in. And now you just sound like a paranoid bi—” he shouted.

  I kicked his stupid work uniform box and told him how selfish and nasty he was. He stomped out in a huff. I grabbed my library books and headed straight out into the autumn air.

  I scurried briskly up the steps into King’s Library, self-conscious of my puffy face and bloodshot eyes from all the crying. I don’t need this shit. I had enough to worry about, never mind my fiancé’s lackadaisical attitude toward my well-being. I needed peace and quiet.

  The library was a monstrosity of a tower block, housing a number of essential reading texts I simply couldn’t afford to buy. The big cement cube was attached by an elevated glass walkway to the old library building that stood there originally. It was a tiny ornamental Victorian building that housed the books of law, science, and math. In the sixties, they decided to erect the horrific monolith Rubix-cube-shaped disaster due to expanding student numbers and demands. Shelves and shelves of sociology, art history, English, and theology literature were crammed into never-ending rows. I often found myself gathering a stack of these books and using the elevated glass walkway to get to the Victorian side of the library so I could find a secluded corner, breathe in the musty smells, and evoke the inspiration that had aided many scholars in its time. I rushed in that direction as quickly as I could for fear of seeing somebody I knew. Rather successfully, I stuck to the shadows and entered into a wing of the library I had never stepped inside before. A worn brass plaque marked this area as the MCCABE WING. It was dark and cool. A large rusty red Emily chair sat beside a small table near the window and I took a place there.

  I opened my laptop and stared at the glaring blank virtual page, running my fingers over the keyboard, urging them, willing them to type something, anything.

  But nothing came.

  My fingertip hovered over the mouse pad and then, of its own accord, clicked the Internet icon instead. Within moments I had opened my e-mail account and began typing furiously:

  Dear Dr. King,

  Due to unforeseen personal issues, I am afraid I have been unable to complete the requested work. I apologize profusely and as soon as I have something substantial to submit, I will.

  Regards,

  Stacey

  I clicked send and took a heavy breath, as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For the first time in a long time, I felt them loosen slightly.

  I gazed out the window and stared at the chimneys of Claremont Street.

  Do I want to know the truths behind that place? I typed the words into the search engine: CLAREMONT STREET.

  I scanned the results quickly. Claremont Street, London. No. Ballast Neurology
Hospital. No. I thought about the word I wanted to add… Finally, I pressed the space bar after my original search terms and typed MURDER.

  A number of chronicles from the Ballast Telegraph archive jumped out at me. I entered the website but quickly discovered that if you wanted to access the digital files, you had to be a member. Damn it. I had come to a dead end.

  I clicked back to my e-mail and noticed a new message:

  Dear Stacey,

  I understand you have personal problems at the moment, which has become evident through your absence and lack of attention when you are in class. You have, however, been an exemplary student until now, so I would like to see you posthaste to discuss the matter at four p.m. on Wednesday afternoon.

  Yours,

  Dr. King

  Shit. How the hell am I going to cope with this on top of everything else? I pushed the screen down and noticed my hands were shaking uncontrollably. My chest tightened. My heart began to pound in my rib cage. I couldn’t breathe. Get out! my mind screamed at me. Droplets of sweat began to seep from the creased frown on my brow. I felt permanently cemented to this ghastly old chair and yet my mind was pushing me to move all at once. Mind over matter is the common saying and so I heaved myself up with shaking legs and grabbed my computer. I did what my mind told me to do and I ran from the McCabe Wing, through the old library, the glass runway, pelted through the prisonlike cement library and out the revolving doors.

  17

  The evening air was fresh and crisp. I gasped, sucking in as much as I could while trying not to vomit in public. My head was starting to throb again.

  What am I going to do? I couldn’t tell Liam how badly things were going. He had enough on his plate.

  I pushed into the hall of the house and scanned the mail. One envelope addressed to me, which I ripped open immediately.

  Dear Ms. Sheldon,

  In response to your letter with regard to 24C Claremont, I would like to arrange a viewing of the house. Unfortunately, due to council business, I will be away for two weeks. I have taken note of your telephone number and I will call to arrange a suitable time upon my return. Apologies for the delay.

  Regards,

  Mrs. H. Brown

  Environmental Health Officer

  “Great,” I muttered as I ran up the stairs and entered the flat.

  My mobile began vibrating in my pocket. I answered it begrudgingly.

  “Stacey, are you all right?” Liam said.

  “Yeah fine, just a long day.”

  “I’m heading home now. Just stopped at the burrito joint in The Avenue so don’t be putting anything on for tea.”

  “Cheers for the heads-up. I couldn’t be bothered starting to cook now. It’s freezing in here.”

  “Go put the heat on. I got you some extra hot salsa too. See you shortly.”

  “Bye,” I said in a clipped tone.

  I could tell he was trying to get around me for the way he had been earlier. We had never really fought much. Not before we came here.

  I threw my laptop on the floor and winced at the thud it made. The kitchen was so cold I could see my breath. I snapped down the flap on the gas boiler and pushed the ignition button. Nothing happened. I don’t believe this.

  I snapped. I could feel the hairs all over my body stand on edge. My teeth clamped together and my fists were clenched so hard that my nails dug deeply into my palms. I reached out and lifted the frying pan off the stove. For a moment I contemplated what I was going to do. Then I did it.

  “You piece of shit!” I screamed as I battered the boiler.

  The vibrations shook through my bones. I swung as hard as I could and as soon as the pan impacted with the boiler, the handle splintered in my hands.

  Blood gushed from my palm. The scab from the wineglass cut had torn open violently, but I didn’t feel any pain. Only rage. I screamed and punched the cupboards and counters, streaking my blood across the woodwork and the tiles. Then I spun on my heels and faced the poster of Audrey Hepburn.

  “What are you looking at, bitch?” I yelled. I placed my fingertips behind the poster and yanked it from the wall. I stood with my hands by my sides, staring at those cryptic scratches once again.

  My breathing slowed steadily as I gasped for air. I raised my now-throbbing, bloodied hand to the wall and pressed the pads of my fingertips against the markings. What the hell is this? I traced the rough lines in the plaster, pulled my hand away and tilted my head. With a light step to the right, I looked hard from a side angle.

  My voice cracked as the realization dawned on me. “No more. It says, no more.”

  I sank to the ground. I couldn’t take my eyes off the scratches. At the same time they became blurred as my eyes filled up with salty tears. My body shook uncontrollably. The sobs racked my entire being. I held my face in my hands and I could feel the sticky warmth of blood on my cheeks.

  “Jesus Christ!” I thought I heard someone say.

  I looked up and saw Liam, his face contorted in horror.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked, panic stricken.

  “No more,” I mumbled.

  “No more what?” I heard Liam ask, but his voice seemed distant.

  The room was spinning. I was light-headed, frozen on the floor. The words from the wall reverberated round my skull. I winced as a flash of pain shot behind my eye and through my head. The air felt thin. I began to gasp, trying to get a breath. The room was too small. A metallic taste flowed around my mouth. I had bitten into my tongue. The warm blood rolled around the inside of my cheeks. Nausea rose in my gut and I began to heave.

  “Christ, Stacey! Just breathe. Can you hear me? Breathe for God’s sake. Spit the blood out!”

  My muscles tightened as he rubbed my back, but I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t want anyone to touch me. I was scared. Of the marks on the wall, of the blood in my mouth and of the lack of air in the room. Liam grabbed me roughly and lifted me from the floor, dragging me into his arms and carrying me to the bedroom.

  He laid me down gently. “Just relax and try to get some sleep.”

  After a few moments of deep breathing, I shut my eyes and drifted into another restless, nightmare-plagued slumber.

  18

  “Dr. Bain’s clinic, how may I help you?”

  “Uhm, I was wondering if the doctor was available at all today. I really need to see him,” I stammered.

  “Actually, there has just been a cancelation at nine thirty tomorrow morning. Would that be all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Name, please.”

  “Stacey Sheldon.”

  “Thank you, good-bye,” she said.

  Efficient, I thought as I hung up.

  My hands trembled as I typed in another number. The phone rang for a few moments. I began to regret making the call and then I heard a click on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, New Waves,” Hope said politely.

  “Hi, Hope, it’s Stacey Sheldon.”

  “Oh hi, how are you?”

  “I was hoping you could pop round maybe for some coffee or something. You know…if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “I close the shop at five so I will head around straight after. Everything all right? You sound upset.”

  “I just really need to talk to someone.”

  “It’d be nice to have some company this evening. I will see you soon, all right?”

  “Great. I’ll text you my address,” I said.

  19

  I sat on the stoop waiting for Hope. I had desperately wanted to light up my one emergency cigarette but seeing as I had managed to quit for two years—since I met Liam, I recalled—I decided against it. The darkness was drawing in quickly. A pale lilac and slate gray mesh of clouds rolled overhead.

  The door to the adjoining house opened a crack, a sliver of darkness apparent in the eave. I stood ready to meet my neighbor at last and then abruptly and unceremoniously the door was slammed shut again. So much for that
.

  “Stacey, hi!” Hope said as she grabbed my shoulder. Her smile faded into a look of concern as she studied my face.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Debatable.”

  “Lucky I brought some green tea from the shop then, huh?”

  “Yeah, come on in,” I said as I led her into the house.

  I gestured for Hope to sit in the comfortable seat as I flicked the kettle on and gathered a couple of mugs from the windowsill.

  “Strange to keep your kettle and everything in here. Do you not have a kitchen?” she asked curiously.

  “I don’t go in there anymore,” I said bluntly.

  She accepted the chunky mug I offered. “Oh. It’s been a while since I saw you in the shop. How have you been keeping?”

  “You know…it’s a lot different than back home.”

  “When I first moved here, I didn’t know anyone. I suppose I still stick out like a sore thumb,” Hope said as she brushed down her tie-dyed skirt.

  “I really appreciated your kindness, Hope. You were so nice to me that day when I came into the shop. Although, I have to admit I thought it was all a little strange.”

  “If someone had reached out to me when I first came to this city, then maybe things wouldn’t have been so tough for me.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I was young when I arrived here. Sixteen. I had no money, no friends, no job, no home.”

  “I don’t understand. You have the shop.”

  “Yes well, I had to sacrifice a lot to get it. Suffice it to say I understand pain and I understand kindness.”

  I sipped the tea and felt warmth for the first time in weeks. “Is that why you’ve been so kind to a stranger like me then?”