Good God, it’s true: they’ve got stuffed sheep in all colours, sheep salt-and-pepper shakers, sheep in a can (?!?), fuzzy sheep slippers, some substance called ‘sheep dip’, even licorice sweets meant to look like sheep shit.
From a nearby shelf, Niall picks up a foot-tall doll wearing a kilt and bushy ginger whiskers. ‘Ye know, I’ve never even seen a real live sheep.’
‘Talkin’ aboot? We saw flocks of them on the way here.’
‘That doesnae count. A train window might as well be a TV screen.’ He positions the doll on the shelf next to the sheep, then reaches for another.
I see what he’s on to and decide to contribute. As we construct our project, I tell him, ‘My gran’s got sheep, up in Skye. Ever been there?’
‘Naw. Is it cool?’
‘It’s like another world. I suppose I should go and see her, but she’s gone a bit off in her old age.’
He adjusts a doll. ‘Off? Like Alzheimer’s?’
‘No, just daft, maybe from talking to naebody but her sheep most days.’ I pick up another kilted man, one with a Scottish flag instead of a sporran dangling across his crotch. ‘Not that I can judge, right?’
Niall shrugs. ‘Zach, ye were always a wee bit daft. Dunno why ye think us lads’d suddenly judge you fur it.’ He shifts one of the larger sheep. ‘Put that yin here. It matches.’
So it does. ‘Are ye saying I provided entertainment for you lot?’
‘Top-notch. Speaking of entertainment, we’ve an extra ticket for We Were Promised Jetpacks at Barrowlands next Wednesday. You should come.’
‘That’s a big venue.’ Perhaps bigger than I can handle. ‘Whose ticket?’
‘Roland’s. He’s aye got his heid stuck in his uni books, says he can’t take aff one night. I worry about him, studying aw the time. Reminds me of you.’
And that reminds me I need to apply for university soon. It’s hard to plan next year when I’m just trying to survive the week. But right this moment, I feel ready to start.
‘There.’ Niall tilts his head as he steps back to examine our handiwork. ‘You hungry?’
‘Starving.’ I take a postcard that reads Rush Hour in Scotland under a flock of sheep crossing the road. This way the clerk won’t come over here straightaway and see our own ‘configurations’ of all the kilted dolls fucking the stuffed sheep.
I hold up the postcard, flip her a pound coin and tell her to ‘Keep the change, babe.’ She beams at me again.
The moment we’re out the door, Niall and I run across the street, stumbling from laughter.
‘God, Zach, I thought I was gonnae piss myself when you asked for fuckin’ shamrocks.’
‘Me? You wi the sheep. Christ.’ I can’t stop laughing.
‘It was one word I knew I could say with nae accent. Yer American’s spot on, by the way. Ye should be a spy or something.’
It starts to rain, but it doesn’t dampen our mood as we stop to spit on the Heart of Midlothian for good luck, per tradition. Then we head down George IV Bridge, past the wee cafe where Harry Potter was allegedly written (I take a picture with my phone for Aura – okay, mostly for me).
Niall takes me to a British comfort-food restaurant he says serves ‘pure ideal sausages’. We eat ourselves into near comas, then head to his girlfriend’s pub in time for its nightly trad-music session. She waves and blows Niall a kiss across the bar before turning back to her current customer.
He frowns at the whisky menu. ‘Can’t decide, they’re all so fancy. I’ll let Rose choose.’ When I reach for the menu, he pulls it away. ‘Naw, Martin said not tae let ye drink.’
‘Since when are youse even speaking?’
‘We never stopped. Hiya, lass!’
‘Niall!’ His girl’s even more adorable close up, with blond pigtail braids like a manga heroine. ‘Who’s yer mate? Is he staying over?’
‘Sorry, you’re stuck wi just me the night. Rose Taggart, Zachary Moore. Him and me and Martin went to primary school together at Glasgow Gaelic. Then his ma and da moved him to England and America.’
‘Ah, lucky globetrotter.’ She gives me a warm smile. ‘So what’s to drink? Belhaven Stout, Niall, or ye feeling adventurous?’
‘I’ll have a Rose Taggart whisky surprise. Zach’ll have an Irn Bru.’
When she trots off, I turn to Niall. ‘You let me have a beer at dinner.’
‘Cos it’s legal for yer seventeen-year-old arse to drink with a meal. Suddenly now Martin’s a bartender, he cares about these stupid laws.’
Then Martin didn’t tell him about my medications. ‘So you and he are cool now?’
‘We never weren’t cool, except when he was pissed off at me for being pissed off at you. I was like, ‘Zach’s the one punched me, so why should I apologise?’ and Martin was like, ‘Cos Zach’s the one who needs—’ He cuts himself off.
‘What? What do I need?’
‘I think “understanding” was the word he used.’
This creates an uncomfortable moment. ‘Martin should mind his own fuckin’ business.’
‘Mate, you are his business.’
‘Then he needs a hobby. Maybe a boyfriend.’
‘I think the last one put him off relationships for a wee while.’
I’ve no idea who Niall means, which makes me feel like a complete shitebag. Before I can ask for details, Rose delivers my Irn Bru and Niall’s whisky.
He gives the glass a skeptical sniff as she walks away. ‘Roland and I’ve known about Martin almost as long as you have. Dunno why he didnae tell Frankie and Graham till now.’
‘Cos they’re eejits?’
‘Maybe. But why’d you think I’d care he’s gay?’
‘Other than the fact ye called him a “poof”?’ I gesture to the crucifix about his neck. ‘You’re the only one of us still goes to church Sunday mornings.’
‘Not tomorrow. Tomorrow morning I’ll be worshipping at the altar of Rose’s sweet fanny.’ He clinks his glass against my bottle, saluting himself. ‘As for the “poof” thing, Martin knew it was a joke. I was just trying tae break the tension. I didn’t know ye were gonnae go all psycho on me.’ He gives me a quick look. ‘Wait, am I allowed to say “psycho”, or is that like “retarded”? I can’t sort what’s offensive these days.’
‘I’ll allow it.’ The word reminds me of someone besides myself. ‘Have you seen Finn Connelly since he went into the psych hospital?’
Niall’s eyes widen. ‘Naw, I’ve not seen that mad bastard since the day he was committed. The day he killed their cat.’
My bottle freezes halfway to my lips. ‘He did what?’
‘Martin didn’t tell you? He was there. It was—’ He shudders. ‘It was a bad scene.’
My phone rings. Niall looks relieved for the interruption. As I pull it from my pocket, he quips, ‘It’s Martin, telling us to stop talking about him.’
It’s not Martin. My stomach drops to my ankles.
‘On second thought,’ Niall says, ‘Martin likes people talking about him, so—’
‘Shut it.’ I lift the phone to my ear. ‘Mum, what’s wrong? Where are you?’
‘At Western Infirmary.’ She chokes out a sob. ‘Your father’s collapsed.’
* * * *
I take the world’s longest fifty-one-minute train ride back to Glasgow. Niall offered to come with me, practically insisted, but I told him to stay with his girl. For once, I needed to be alone.
Of course, once I was alone, I wished I weren’t. Now I’m sitting curled up against the wide train window, my feet propped crookedly on the table between the seats, face buried in my knees. Brilliant, I’ve become that person on the train.
My father could be dead right this moment, and I’m not with him. Not because I’m held captive, but because I tried for one night to be normal, to go out with a mate other than Martin, my partner in codependency. To loosen my death grip on existence. And this is what happens.
My phone buzzes. A message from Martin: Niall texted me. You
OK?
Yes.
How close are you?
Not. Just left Linlithgow.
So how crap was Edinburgh?
He’s trying to distract me. But it’s Saturday night – his pub must be packed. He doesn’t have time for this.
Too crap for a text msg, I tell him.
I can work while you type.
It’s like he can read my mind. So I write a long chain of text messages about the flashback, and the twenty-something American sisters Niall tried to chat up, and the sheep in the ‘— of Scotland’ shop, and the quality sausage, and the fiddler I could barely hear over the noise in Rose’s pub. By the time I finish, another twelve minutes are gone, and I’m past Falkirk High, over halfway to Glasgow.
Sounds shit, Martin texts back, but if you fancied it, that’s what matters.
I almost laugh, but it feels like a sob, so I hold my breath until the impulse fades.
Martin adds: I’ll come to the hospital soon as I can.
I pocket my phone, shut my eyes, and ask myself for the millionth time, Why Dad? It was almost easier when I thought it had something to do with Newgrange, that whatever happened there which caused the Shift also caused the cancer in my father and Aura’s mum. But Maria Salvatore had already had cancer before she went to Newgrange, and Dad’s mesothelioma came from the asbestos they used in the council-estate flat where he grew up. People raised in poverty have to pay twice in life, and no paranormal phenomenon can change that.
So there’s no mystery in Dad’s illness for me to solve, only the unwavering fight to keep him comfortable and alive as long as the disease will let us. Tonight we might lose that fight once and for all. My psychiatrist says there’d be nothing wrong with feeling relief at the end.
But I wouldn’t feel relieved, only robbed, cos there’s still so much to say.
Chapter Eleven
I stare through the window into my father’s ICU room, watching my mother speak to him, wiping tears from her own face. The piano intro of Death Cab for Cutie’s ‘What Sarah Said’ tumbles through my mind, but I won’t let myself think of the lyrics that describe this exact scenario. Those words could break me.
Mum finally turns my way. I wave at her. She stands quickly, then kisses Dad’s forehead and squeezes his hand before coming to the door.
I’m at her side in an instant. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s stabilised.’ She shuts the door behind her, then raises bloodshot eyes to mine. ‘You can go in for a few minutes.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘Enough to know you’re here.’ Mum reaches for my hand, then pulls her own back, remembering she can’t touch her son. As she turns away, I reach for her, but it’s too late.
Her shoulders slump as she shuffles towards the waiting-room chairs. She looks as alone as I feel.
I open my father’s door, which makes no sound, then cross to his bed. He appears tiny as a Hobbit but half as robust, his body sunken into the bedding and surrounded by machines.
I sit beside him, my heart pounding as I lift my hand. I can do this.
When my fingers touch his, his eyes flutter open.
‘It’s me.’ My whisper gets lost amid the beeps and whirs. ‘It’s Sgàire.’
The corners of his eyes crinkle in response. He can’t talk, what with the oxygen mask over his mouth.
‘I love you’ is all I can think to say. It’s the only thing I know for certain, the only statement not made of false hope and weak guesses.
He lays his hand atop mine, pats it gently. Always the protector.
I stare at the bleached hospital sheet, stark beneath the black sleeve of my leather jacket. I’ve not seen sheets so white since …
Not now. Not here.
I clutch my father’s hand, just as I did as a wean, when he’d pick me up after a bad fall on the football pitch. His touch keeps me in this room, short-circuiting the flashback, so that only my memory travels back to 3A. Back to Billy.
I named my companion – I suppose you could call him a doll – after the unstuck-in-time hero of Slaughterhouse Five. Billy consisted of a knotted pillowcase, forming the head and body, as well as a folded paper hat made from a page of one of the tedious books they gave me. (I couldn’t draw Billy a face, because by that point, they’d taken away my pens and pencils – fearing I’d gouge out my carotid artery with them, I suppose.)
From those books, I also made over a thousand paper aeroplanes. They would disappear each week when my room was cleaned, but I kept a tally by dog-earing the corresponding page number in a separate book. I’d learned the hard way to have a backup counting system.
The door shushes open behind me. It’s the doctor, a man even older than Dad.
‘Good news, Mr Moore,’ he says to my father. ‘Your lung function is normal – well, normal for someone in your condition. You’ve not had a case of full respiratory arrest, you’re simply dehydrated. Also weakened by a bladder infection.’ He checks the machines. ‘We’ll get you some more nutrients and some antibiotics. You should be ready to go home in a day or two.’
It takes me a moment to absorb his meaning. ‘So – he’s going to be alright?’
The doctor gives me an odd look, and I realise that’s a tricky question concerning someone like my father.
Dad pats my hand again and nods at me.
‘We should let him rest a wee bit,’ the doctor says. ‘He needs his strength.’
I lean over and kiss my father’s forehead, just as my mother did, then squeeze his hand, just as she did. He winks at me, the old bugger.
The doctor follows me out to join Mum in the waiting room. She’s smiling, so he must’ve given her the good news before telling us.
‘What I meant to ask,’ I say to him, ‘was that Dad’s not dying, right? Not tonight?’
‘Not tonight. Of course, his lungs are always vulnerable, and the chemo makes him susceptible to infection, but we’ll take every precaution to keep him protected while he’s here.’
After a few more reassuring words – which I don’t hear, my mind is so swamped with relief – the doctor leaves us to visit another patient.
Mum turns to me. ‘I’m going to stay. You should go home, though.’
‘I’m not leaving you alone.’
‘I’m not alone. Your father’s here. I’ll sleep better if I’ve only him to worry about.’
Shame sweeps over me. I’m another problem for her. ‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘I’ll ring you in the morning if I need. But I’ll probably come home then. Now take a taxi, please. The buses aren’t safe this late.’
‘They’re perfectly safe.’
‘Just humour me, alright?’
‘Awright, awright.’ I can tell she wants to embrace me, but every nerve of mine is on edge. I’ve just looked at the clock – 12.16 a.m. – and realised Martin won’t finish work at the pub until nearly four.
For the first time since leaving 3A, I’ll be home alone.
* * * *
In the taxi, I text Martin and Niall to let them know my father’s okay. Once inside the house, I go straight upstairs to bed, rather than wait up for Martin with the television blaring. I’ll prove to myself I can handle the solitude.
I lie awake rereading the letters Aura sent to me in 3A, though I’ve memorised them all. The sheets are crumpled now from lying under my pillow for weeks. Perhaps I should call her, but I don’t want news of my dad to ruin her night out with her friends.
The house is too dark. I get up and turn on the light at the top of the stairs. There, now Martin won’t trip when he comes in.
I go back to bed.
The house is too quiet. I switch on my phone’s MP3 player and select the mellowest of Martin’s playlists. It starts with a Glasgow indie band, Olympic Swimmers. I should suggest them to Aura for her next volume of Musical Valium, the playlist she uses to calm herself before an exam. There’s something about them that makes the world feel cosy and safe.
The wis
tful soprano voice, with the aid of my own very real medication, lulls me into drowsiness. I try not to think of this empty house, and especially not how one day, when my dad doesn’t come home, it will be much, much emptier.
* * * *
Billy is smothering me.
He burrows his white-sheeted self up my nostrils and down past my tongue. I can’t scream or even gag. My hands flop at the ends of my arms, flailing far from my body, as if they’re trying to escape without me from this tiny white cell.
I wake, choking, still feeling Billy’s fabric body stuffed inside my throat.
With one coughing bark, air rushes out, then in. ‘Unh!’ is all I utter before my slamming heart obliterates all speech.
Martin’s sleep-slurred voice reaches me. ‘Awright, mate.’
I gulp breaths, unable to answer. I need to tell him goodbye.
‘Zach?’ he says, first with fear, then calm. ‘Zachary, breathe. Like yer doctor taught ye, remember?’
I can’t remember, and besides, breathing is the problem. I’m doing nothing but – fast, hard, shallow, like a hamster on a wheel.
‘Meantime, I’ll get yer meds.’ The bedside light comes on. Martin flips the sheet on the notepad, then curses. ‘Cannae have another Klonopin till eight, and it’s only five. Want some water?’
My stomach cramps at the thought. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.
‘Let me think.’ He takes a deep, slow breath – I hate him for that ability – then shifts into my line of sight. ‘If I touch ye, will ye punch me?’
My limbs feel full of needles, and seem to weigh a hundred pounds each. ‘Can’t. Move. So. No.’
Martin lays his hand on my stomach, palm over my navel. ‘Breathe from here, ya numpty, no yer chest.’
I try, but it makes me even dizzier.
‘Breathe in for four seconds,’ he says, ‘then hold it for four. Naw, that was half a second. We’ll start low. Can you gies a two-second inhale?’
I manage to lengthen just one breath to two seconds.
‘Quality, mate,’ he murmurs. ‘This time three seconds. Ready? I’ll count. One, two, three.’
Shattered: A Shade novella Page 9