Shattered: A Shade novella by Jeri Smith-Ready Read Free Book Online Page A

Sorry, I was at the movies
with Aunt Gina. Yay Jags!!
    My
shoulders sag with relief. Martin and I start walking again. Far ahead, our
mates are crossing the white wooden footbridge. All of our gang but me live
north of the canal.
    ‘So
much for my homecoming,’ I mutter.
    ‘You
could always come wi me to Relic.’
    I
don’t love the idea of another crowded place, but anything’s better than
solitude. ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘If
you’re worried about lads chatting you up,’ Martin adds, ‘I could punch some
more of the pretty aff yer face.’
     
    *    *    *    *
     
    Martin
doesn’t punch me again, and by the time we enter the Merchant City dance club,
my cheek has stopped aching.  
    The
music pounds from the speakers in a steady trance techno beat I can feel
through the soles of my shoes. Relic’s a large place, so the faux stone walls
don’t seem uncomfortably close. The coloured lights
draped over them shimmy and streak in a mesmerising pattern.
    And
there’s nothing but lads. It’s an all-ages night, so most are late teens and
early twenties like us. Dancing, drinking, kissing, laughing. I’m swept with an
odd sense of belonging-yet-not-belonging that somehow soothes me.  
    ‘It’s
not too crowded,’ I tell Martin. ‘I was worried.’
    He
visibly relaxes, seeing me do so. ‘That’s why we’re here early. We’ll leave
when it gets bad for you.’
    ‘I don’t
want to keep you from having a good time.’
    He
grins at me. ‘Impossible.’
     
     
    If I
were a student of body language, rather than a newly returning student of having a body, I’d be taking notes.
Martin is carefully guarding my personal space, placing himself between me and
the other lads in a way that says ‘Back off’ without saying ‘He’s mine.’
    The
three guys we’re with aren’t chatting us up so much as they’re, well, chatting.
They’re not much different to our mates back in Maryhill ,
except a wee bit better groomed.
    They
all want to know about America.
    ‘Is
it true everyone carries a gun?’ asks the short, dark-haired one on the other
side of Martin (I think his name’s Robert, but it’s so loud in here I missed
the intros and it’d be awkward to ask again).
    ‘ Naw , only guns I saw were carried by the polis. And even
they’d not as many weapons as the constables in Derry or Belfast.’
    Everyone
nods. Most Glaswegians know someone from Northern Ireland, where even now, body armour is worn by most officers.
    ‘Zachary
lived in Baltimore,’ Martin says with emphasis. ‘Remember that programme The Wire ?
With the drugs and all? Baltimore’s where it takes place.’
    Now
they’re impressed. I shrug. ‘Baltimore’s like Glasgow. It’s perfectly safe if
ye know where not to walk at night.’
    This
time their nods are mixed with frowns. It occurs to me that this lot has to
take extra care where they walk at
night. Martin says Glasgow’s pretty gay-friendly, but guys holding hands in
public is still Not Done outside a few small areas and times.
    ‘One
odd thing about Americans,’ I tell them. ‘They’re always toting around bottles
of water. Not just when exercising. Like, all the time.’
    They
squint at my change in topic. Clearly I’ve lost the art of conversation by talking
to no one but myself for eight weeks.
    ‘You
mean sparkling water?’ asks the one with bright-blue eyes, standing across from
me.
    ‘No,
still water. They seemed in constant fear of dehydration. I suppose that’s why
their bathrooms – their toilets, I mean, heh – were so large. As much as they drink, they must spend all their time
pissing.’
    An
uncomfortable pause follows as no one comments. I have failed at Society.
    ‘Do
ye miss America?’ Possibly-Robert asks.
    I
take a sip of Irn Bru to
hide the surge of rage I feel towards the country that tortured me. Then I hold
up the bright-orange soft drink. ‘Not as much as I missed this.’
    They
laugh, and the blond one sidles closer, almost touching me. I resist