Jozef
Before Blackheath was Blackheath, he had a first name. And that name was Jozef.
This story is part of the Seeking Souls series of stories. In the chronology of the story, it takes place before Seeking Souls, but should be read after Thaw to get the most from it. Or Blood Sacrifice. But at least Thaw.
Warnings: MM themes. Violence, Language, General morbidness – it's Blackheath we're talking about here, after all.
Beyond talent lie all the usual words discipline, love, luck -- but, most of all, endurance.
James Arthur Baldwin
Love
"Can I borrow a cup of flour?"
The boy stood on the doormat in such a way that Luka was sure he had never stood on a doormat before, and wandered if he ought to. The request was straightforward enough, but Luka paused. He had seen this boy around the building, him and his mother, or more often, him alone. Luke took notice of things like that. Boys especially. He had a fondness for boys. The children around here knew that and kept away. But here he was, standing, mostly, on his doormat. Unafraid. At least, not afraid of him. The boy wiped hastily at the back of his neck, and Luka listened past him to the noise of drunken adults brawling. The boy's mother and her latest. It did not sound like it would be stopping any time soon.
"Sure," Luka said, vacating the doorway, "Come in." He walked into the kitchen, and the boy walked carefully around each carpet, following him.
"You can step on them, you know, that's what they are for."
The boy didn't reply. Luka scooped some flour out of a bin, and his name came to him now – Jozef.
"Jozef, isn't it."
The boy took the flour and stared at it uncomfortably, wiping again at the neck of his neck.
"You didn't really come here for flour did you?"
"No, I did," he insisted, and after a pause, scooping some flour up between his fingers and rubbing it into the back of his head with a slight grimace. Puzzled, Luka moved around so he could see, and drew his breath in sharply through his nose to see the hair dark and wet with blood beneath the striking crumbling whiteness of the flour. He had not seen it at first because the natural darkness of the hair, the blood and the night merged almost seamlessly.
"Oh no, this will not do."
"I didn't drip anywhere," the boy said hotly, "you can check."
"You will have to go to the hospital."
"I'm not going."
He held the boy's eyes a moment, noted the unwaveringness, then took his shoulder and drove him to the bathroom. He sat him on the edge of the bath and kept his stomach tight while he washed out the flour and the blood with a rubber hose attached to the tap, the dark and paler sticky lumps flopping into the tub as the boy held still, uncomplaining.
The wound was sharp edged, and cleaned of the clotted gunk around it, bled freely. Luka pulled out some cotton bandages from the bathroom drawers and pressed it to the wound. The boy only stiffened slightly. He must be used to pain, Luke thought, wrapping another bandage around his head, and hiding it. Lastly he pulled out a packet of Aspirin.
"Here," he said, but the boy didn't take it. Probably thought he meant to drug him and rape him, Luka thought a little sourly. But this did not quite fit with the boys' calmness.
"It's Aspirin," he explained, a note of exasperation creeping in, "It will dull the pain."
"I know," Jozef said quietly, "but it stops clotting too."
Luke sat back, surprised.
"How do you know that?"
"I can read."
"Well… good." A knowledge of first aid would be important with a mother like his. "You should still go to the hospital." Luka could not take him. He would have to find him a taxi…
"No." Just as firmly, leaving no room for negotiation. But there was fear in Jozef's eyes, fear that he might insist. Fear of the system, the social workers, the homes… Luka understood this fear. His life was spent living despite the system too. In a different way, but similar enough to understand.
"Well you should lie down for a minute anyway, til it stops bleeding."
And the boy stood up and walked out the bathroom with that cool confidence that no harm would come to him in a bed in this house. He couldn't know that he was safe here. But he did know. At least he seemed to. He was not afraid, at any rate. How could that be?
Luka led him back to the lounge room and spread a blanket over the sofa. Jozef lay down and put his head carefully on the arm.
"Tea?" Luka asked, disappearing into the kitchen.
"Yes, please," came the reply. The boy was not an innocent. You could not live in his apartment, in this building, and not be jaded by life by the age of nine. So Luka wandered where this trust, this softness came from. Most of the children around here were as hard as shards of glass, broken too many times.
They sipped their tea in companionable silence, and the boys eye's roamed over the wall to wall books wallpapering the room.
"Whose are all these books?" he asked eventually.
"Mine," Luka replied.
"You can't have read all of them!"
"I have."
"No one could ever read so many."
"Try me."
Jozef reached out – the books were always so close that you only had to reach a little to touch them, and pulled one out of the shelf at random.
"Anna Ka – Kar"
"Karenina. Tolstoy. Set in Russia, the story of a woman looking for happiness."
Impressed, the boy nonetheless chose another, from down near the floor. He looked at the title for a long time this time, determined to get it right first time.
"Silent Spring."
"Rachel Carson. She wrote about the effect of things like DDT, insecticides, on the environment. Beautiful writing."
Jozef gazed at the cover, which was simple enough, but Luka knew he was not seeing the broad stripes of orange and white, but the world inside, captured between the pages.
"You can take some if you like," Luka said, though he knew it was strictly forbidden for him to make such gifts. They called it grooming.
Jozef shook his head gently. "They belong together. They would be... orphaned, at my place."
He reached for another volume, and Luka saw the red spots starting to leach through the bandage, and clucked his tongue.
"You're still bleeding."
The boy's hand touched his head guiltily and he glanced at the sofa, checking for stains.
"Don't worry about that," Luka sighed, "You'll need stitches." He said nothing more, just stating the facts, waiting for the boy to make his own conclusion.
"I can show you how?" Jozef replied, and Luka was again surprised by him.
"It will hurt!"
"I do it myself, usually, but I can't, I can't see…"
They sat on the edge of the bath so the blood could drip freely without worrying the boy or the carpets. Luka's gaze was held by the bright red drips down the boy's neck and bare back, horrified and fascinated by what he was doing. He tried to keep his stitches as small and neat as possible, the thread dark on the white scalp. If you could ignore the tension in the boys shoulders, it was much like darning a sock.
"Did you father teach you how to do stitches?" Luka asked, angling to know more about him, and keep his own mind from thinking too much about what he was doing.
"I don't have a father. I mean, I never knew him."
"It is a good thing, I think, if your father is not present, for him to be unknown. He could be anyone then. Perhaps he is a Russian prince, and one day when you are grown you will find you have a brother, a Russian prince in his own right now."
The boy smiled, and Luke felt privileged to see such a rare and beautiful thing.
"You're crazy," the boy murmured appreciatively.
"There. Done." He wasn't sure who was more relieved, himself or the boy. He held the mirror up to reflect his handiwork. "It's not going to win a ribbon, but I think it will hold." The boy examined the reflection carefully and Luka found himself holding his breath, hoping for approval. Jozef nodded, and he could breathe again, taking the proffered iodine and then the bandages. He was relieved that the boy was wiping the blood off his shoulders and back. The smell had begun to cloy in his nose. "You'd better stay a bit longer so we can be sure."
Luka imagined the police bursting in now, shoving him to the floor and spiriting the boy away, on one of their regular raids that seemed to be somehow part of his rehabilitation, as necessary as the psychologists, the surveillance… Well, Caylan was not that bad.
"If there is a knock at the door," he started regretfully, but the boy nodded, his face full of understanding.
"I'll hide."
***
Luka left the young warm body in the bed almost regretfully. David was… a gift from the Gods. And he did not like to tempt the gods by leaving him, even if only for a minute. But he could see the flicker of the television even with his eyes closed, and had given up trying to ignore it.
Luka got no further than the doorway; Jozef was sitting on the floor of the lounge room, playing David's x box game with the head phones on.
"How long have you been here?" Luka asked, toneless with shock, and Jozef nudged one ear piece off with his shoulder. Luka repeated himself, but Jozef just shrugged, his attention focused intently on the screen.
He had been here the whole time. He had no doubt heard, and probably seen, him and David together. And he was still here. Perhaps he was used to his mother's indiscretions, but Luka was deeply uncomfortable.
"This is the new one. You didn't tell me you had the new one," Jozef murmured, and Luka realized he was talking about the game. He hadn't told him because Jozef had never shown any interest in computer games until today. Then he noticed how he was sitting, all his weight on the leg folded beneath him, the other held out awkwardly.
"What's wrong with your leg?"
Jozef grimaced slightly, but so quickly it could have been in response to the game. Luka knelt beside him and pulled up the hem of his shorts, revealing four fresh hot cigarette burns. He swore and returned from the kitchen with a bag of peas, the aspirin and some water. Jozef had abandoned his attempt at interest in the game and stared at the burns dully, hopelessly, like he had given up more than the game.
"Your mother is alone tonight," Luka said gruffly, a statement not a question, as he pressed the cold bag to the thigh.
"She didn't really mean it. She was... upset."
"She was drunk," Luka said. Or worse.
"She was sad I didn't have a father. She said I missed out. Her father used to do this to her. Builds character. And-"
Luka drew him into a hug, silencing his desolate words. He loved his mother desperately, Luka could see this. He remembered being drawn out onto the common balcony by shouting, years ago. It happened weekly, if not nightly, but this night he remembered because the voices had belonged to the police, and that of a small boy. Jozef.
"Leave her alone!"
"Step away from the perp, kid."
"She's not a perp! She's my mother!"
The fury that little voice had contained.
He heard David rise and saw him sagged in the doorway, gazing at them through bleary eyes.
"Isn't he a bit young for you, you old fag?"
David was twice Jozef's age, physically, but sometimes he wondered where his mental age would settle. It leapt about in jagged peaks and spikes, one minute painfully immature and the next achingly experienced. Luka threw him the bag of peas as he strode past them into the kitchen, and David swapped it for a freshly frozen bag and went back to bed. Luka saw himself from David's eyes for a moment, pressing the bag to this young boy's upper thigh, late at night, being who they all knew he was, and was struck anew by Jozef's trust in him.
"Why are you never bothered by me?" Luka whispered to him.
"You don't bother me," Jozef murmured.
"What about David? Doesn't it bother you that…"
"You are lovers?" he shrugged, as if that was all there was to it. Perhaps it was. "How long have you been together?"
"2 months now." More… he realized with surprise.
"Do you think he will stick around?" How observant the boy was. Or perhaps he was just extrapolating from his mother's life.
"No," Luka laughed, to hide the fear in his voice.
"Why not."
"He will get bored of me and move on."
"You shouldn't get bored of good things." Jozef's voice was hot with feeling, "You should keep them as long as you can."
"Ah, Jozef," Luka sighed, "Often it is not your decision. If you love someone, you have to let them go."
He did not want to let Jozef go. Stay with me, Cat; Outdoors the wild winds blow.
He wished he could keep him here, safe in the cozy apartment amongst the carpets and the books. He knew it could never happen. Not on this world.
Outdoors the wild winds blow, Mistress, and dark is the night. Mistress, there are things that are yet to be done. Open the door!
And surprisingly, David stuck around as well. For as long as he could. Or rather, for as long as fate would let him.
***
Luka saw his fist rise to knock on the door, and it seemed to belong to someone else. Jozef's mother answered the door, recognizing him instantly despite her condition.
"You stay the fuck away from my son, you fucking faggot!"
She had been undeniably beautiful, and could be still, when her face wasn't contorted with drink or hate.
"Mum, shut up!" Jozef pushed past her and half ran down the corridor, waiting for him in the darkness of the stairwell. "What is it?"
"I wondered if you might come with me. It's David. He's... he's been hurt." His voice seemed to ache and crack like a tree branch covered in the weight off too much snow.
They travelled to the hospital in a taxi, and Jozef let him keep his silence. He even knew enough not to take his hand, as he might've if they'd been at home. They passed the festival lights of the city at night as if in deepest mourning.
***
"Patient's name?"
"David Pearce."
The nurse scrolled through the computer's list.
"Relatives only at this stage I'm afraid."
"This is his little brother. I received a call that he was asking for him."
The nurse rang ahead, then leaned over the desk at Jozef.
"Luka?" she asked sceptically. It was true they did not look much alike.
"Yes," he lied in a whisper, and it was enough. Luka led him through the hospital maze still brightly lit and active despite the hour, up the lifts and through another labyrinth of corridors. Then there was nowhere else to go but David's room, straight in front of them. They could see David through the glass, but a police officer stopped them at the door. Luka had a momentary fear that he had been recognized, as he always did. As if the police could smell the prison on him. This time it was a false alarm.
"No visitors," was all the police officer said, though curtly, and then David's eyes opened and he called out "Luka!"
Luka pressed Jozef forward, wincing at the pain in David's voice, and the effort it cost him to speak.
"His little brother," he murmured to the police officer.
"And who are you?"
"His guardian," David said, and they all smiled to think of this world they were creating that seemed more real to them than the real world, where, after all, they were nothing but strangers.
"They only got me for a second," David was whispering, taking each of their hands but holding Luka's like he would never let go. "But they had knives. And they knew how to use them." He chuckled wetly and it turned into a cough, the blankets folding back under the curl of his chest to reveal his wounds. The boys eyes widened at the damage that had been done in so short a time. Luka eased him back, covering him again silently, wishing he could have spared the boy this. Spared all of them. But Jozef made no move to edge away, holding David's hand gently but firmly, letting them talk.
Too soon the nurses came to take him away and Luka sat on a bench in the corridor, out of sight of the police, and wept. Jozef squeezed his shoulder, but knew there was nothing he could say.
He did not go to David's funeral. He did not leave the house for days. Hunger finally drove him out, but the skies were sickening bright and cheerful, and the world seemed to have forgotten David already.
Don't you understand? He wanted to shout. He's dead! How can you all walk around like life goes on!
He saw them then through the shop window, silent, like an old movie. Jozef, his mother and her latest item, walking along the pavement on the other side of the road. Happy families. Then the man hit his mother harder than Luka had ever before seen a woman hit in public, and his mother collapsed to the pavement. Jozef dropped by side her immediately, but the man barked something at him, and slowly, against all his will, he left her and went to stand by the man, and together they watched her get herself together and slowly get to her feet. The boys fingers strained to touch her, to help her, but they were both under some kind of spell, following the man silently like drones.
Luka realized he hadn't seen the boy in weeks, and decided to visit his apartment that night. This new one of his mothers he particularly didn't like, and Luka felt anxiety rising in him that the nights had been quiet these past weeks. Too quiet. This man loved peace and quiet and control too much. Luka had known prison wardens like him.
But that night, the police got there before he did, and he knew he was too late. He knew he would never see the boy again.