Read Online Shattered: A Shade novella by Jeri Smith-Ready - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeri Smith-Ready
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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.
‘My
stomach’s in knots. I’ll take a cup of that ginger tea too.’ She drifts over to
the back door, sighing. Without a word, she draws both bolts to lock it.
My
heart starts to pound in my ears. Must she do that in front of me?
I
hold up the teapot. ‘How much goes in this for two people?’
‘You
asked me that yesterday.’
‘I’m
asking again. Is
– 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.
‘My
stomach’s in knots. I’ll take a cup of that ginger tea too.’ She drifts over to
the back door, sighing. Without a word, she draws both bolts to lock it.
My
heart starts to pound in my ears. Must she do that in front of me?
I
hold up the teapot. ‘How much goes in this for two people?’
‘You
asked me that yesterday.’
‘I’m
asking again. Is
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