Shy: A Novel

SHY

Also by Max Porter

The Death of Francis Bacon

Lanny

Grief Is the Thing with Feathers

SHY

A Novel

MAX

PORTER

Graywolf Press

Copyright © 2023 by Max Porter

First published in 2023 by Faber & Faber Limited, London

The author and Graywolf Press have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify Graywolf Press at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund. Significant support has also been provided by the McKnight Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks.

Published by Graywolf Press

212 Third Avenue North, Suite 485

Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401

All rights reserved.

www.graywolfpress.org

Published in the United States of America

Printed in Canada

ISBN 978-1-64445-229-5 (cloth)

ISBN 978-1-64445-230-1 (ebook)

2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1

First Graywolf Printing, 2023

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022946113

Jacket design: Carlos Esparza

Jacket photograph: Fernando Lavin

SHY

Up and at ’em, Shy.

The rucksack is shockingly heavy.

The floorboards complain.

He checks again: the spliff is diagonal-snug in the empty Embassy box.

The daytime check is a half-dream away.

The room is molten soft. Tempting.

Jumpy.

The rucksack is shockingly heavy.

It’s 3.13 a.m.

It’s a full bag of rocks, of course it’s heavy.

The average flint is about 600 million years old, said Steve.

Snapping point. Creaking straps.

Walkman ready.

Pandemonium Andromeda Tour, Plymouth 1994, Tape 1.

Randall back2back Kenny Ken.

Express how you’re feelin.

Jungle.

The pinnacle.

The Amen.

Almighty.

A way of life.

Big hot and heavy.

600 million years, and we think we’re tough lasting one hundred tops. He can’t hold it still in his head.

Size.

Butterflies in his tummy.

Time.

Slightly needs a shite.

He leaves the room dark. Shy’s room minus Shy. Eve 1965 carved in the beam. A wonky heart carved in the beam. 1891 carved in the beam. Shy 95, fresh and badly scraped in the beam, with a jagged S like a Z. Couldn’t even get that right.

The future is here, Shy. It’s yours.

He stays in the middle of the carpet down the corridor to avoid the squeak.

Jamie never sleeps, but he’ll have his headphones on. Steve, Amanda, Owen downstairs, Benny, Posh Cal, Paul, Riley, Ash.

The rucksack is shockingly heavy.

Sneaky little dickhead.

His shoulders are killing him.

One step then another.

Easy does it.

Smell the chilli con carne from earlier.

Armpits and food carpets farts.

Your mum.

Tex-Mex and old-damp stone.

He stops at the bottom and nibbles on his thumbskin.

Shwooshtick-Shwooshtick, the electric meter like a slowly rewound break.

Caught between times. In the fold. Escaping.

Little Shy at thirteen o’clock with the last of his skunk and his favourite tape. Boy on the stairs, stepping through. Tom’s Midnight Garden. That’s what it feels like, fuckinell that’s exactly it. He hasn’t thought about that book for years.

‘This is Shy. He’s usually to be found here, in the snug, with his headphones on, chatting to himself. He’s asked not to be filmed. But say hello, will you, Shy?’

If the straps go then it’s game over, a hundred flints clattering on the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. Listed stairs, listed floor, listed history, pissed-off teachers.

Shitty Reebok rucksack he’s had forever.

Lynx Africa.

His heart is bomp-bomp-bomping like he’s scared.

Idiot drama with no audience. Overthinking overlapping voiceovers.

We made such good progress today, Shy. I’m really delighted.

He’s sprayed, snorted, smoked, sworn, stolen, cut, punched, run, jumped, crashed an Escort, smashed up a shop, trashed a house, broken a nose, stabbed his stepdad’s finger, but it’s been a while since he’s crept. Stressful work.

‘Psychologically disturbed juveniles requiring special educational treatment, or a bunch of teenage criminals on a taxpayer-funded countryside retreat?’

He’s through to the conservatory, carpet-quiet nine careful steps to the tall window behind the skanky floral curtain. This’ll be some posh twat’s kitchen next year. The old windows don’t open. The newer windows, sixties upgrades, open nice and silent. He steps out of the musty house and puts his hood up.

[The camera pans across the lawn.] ‘An ordinary bunch of teenagers kicking a ball about, or some of the most disturbed and violent young offenders in the country? Here at the unconventional Last Chance school, it’s reiterated time and time again: they can be both.’

He could jog, to be out of view faster, but the stones would be noisy, so he keeps on creeping. He peers back at the house and thinks of them all in there. Tucked up. Owen and the overnight staff and the boys. Out for the count til alarm, guffing and breathing and dreaming of whatever stressed or violent or sweet and easy shit they dream of. Everyone always says they sleep mad deeply here. New kids talk about their fucked-up dreams and then the ghost stories do the rounds (Mrs Nash who watches over you while you’re sleeping and sips your nightbreath; the skinny old man in the nightie who walks up and down the back stairs dripping piss) and the true story of Sir Henry Radcliffe who murdered a servant in the top locked bedroom and that’s why everyone hears a scream when they first move in, dead of night, a single scream, a welcome to the house from its own traumatised past. Everyone’s heard it, and if they haven’t they pretend.

For such a clever boy, you really are intent on crashing your own train, aren’t you?

The night is huge and it hurts.

Chippy little twat all of a sudden, aren’t you? Thought you were depressed?

He turns his back and wanders