Author's Notes: I am, in no way, an expert on heroin use, or drug dealing. I am only going on what research I did and the personal experiences of people around me, whether they did it or their family/friends did it. I just heard a song and the lyrics had me writing about this. It's weird because it slipped away from me again, but in a good way I hope.
This is the first two-shot I've done since Nothing Like the Movies back in 2010. I really miss writing them. ALSO! I am still working on chapters to update my other stories.
Enjoy.
I'm bleeding out
If the last thing that I do
Is bring you down
I'll bleed out for you
So I bare my skin and I count my sins
And I close my eyes and I take it in
I'm bleeding out for you
Imagine Dragons, Bleeding Out
There's very little I like about my job.
What can I say? When you have to deal with twitchy, paranoid strangers in dark corners, dishing out drugs at random intervals, there can't be much to your soul to begin with. That is how it feels, anyway. I'm not the kind of bloke to judge who should do what with their own bodies or time, because, hell, I'm clearly no saint. I have bills to pay like the rest of them. This is the easiest sort of business to get involved in.
But with slinking around piss-soaked alleyways and damp, abandoned buildings, there are always risks. Boston is a far cry from the epitome of an American haven, but I'd be loathe to admit if I said I preferred the constant looming threat of a Blitz taking my life in the middle of the night.
I'd much rather take my chances with the unpredictable lot huddled in the gloom of this city's slums.
There have been a few displeased patrons in the past, though, don't get me wrong. I've been shot at enough times to buy new pairs of trousers more than once, and beaten to an inch of my life on one occasion. These people are rubbish, but I do love their money.
Oh, indeed, I do.
But with the entire unpredictability of it all, one can't blame me if I keep myself protected. Seldom is a moment where I don't possess some sort of knife or club on my person. It's just a precaution, and showing some of these drug-addled fellows is enough to get them to back down when they're in their tantrums.
Sometimes I must not just carry it.
I won't go to prison because someone is unreasonable. Murder in cold blood isn't my thing. I'm no murderer. I exercise a great deal of self-defense.
So do not cast the first stone when I admit that I have become rather jumpy myself in my few years in America. I've barely gotten my feet wet.
Which brings me to a rather unpleasant encounter with a deal turned sour . . .
I come to from my momentary haze to blink down at the blonde crumpling to his knees, a large gasp sucking into his mouth like a vacuum. It's like he was a ghost. He did come out of nowhere. And why he was wandering around this neighborhood so late at night was criminal in its own right.
Nevertheless, that doesn't negate the sudden lurch of my stomach, the feeling of warmth on my fingers. I glance down with a quick jerk of my head and see blood shining on my fingertips in the lamplight. It feels like lava. I detest the feeling of blood on my skin.
"Y-you stabbed me," he mutters in disbelief, eyes wide and horrified, anger etched into the wrinkles on his face. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, appearing like he is about to toss his chunks onto my shoes. "Oh my God, you fucking stabbed me."
Bright lad.
Brilliant deduction.
My eyes narrow, twisting my torso to glance over my shoulder. I can hear the yelling and stomping getting closer. Piss poor luck on my part.
But like I said: It still beats starving on the streets under air raids.
"Up you go," I say, grabbing onto his arm and yanking him to his feet. He hisses, a garbled moan falling from his lips as I maneuver his arm around my shoulder. He resists, but I'm not going to have any of that right now. If the Bobbies were called due to the loud commotion of that Neanderthal and his trampy girlfriend's fit against me but a moment ago, I wasn't going to stick around. I also don't want my brains to be a smear against the pavement under his brutish knuckles for ripping him off.
"Do you want to bleed out here, hm? Perhaps you'd like to be assaulted in every way imaginable? Because that's precisely what's going to happen in about ten seconds if you don't belt up and walk," I explain tersely, my patience never being a strong character aspect.
"Let go," he grits between his teeth, his body sagging against my side. I stumble and frown. Whoever this boy is, he's twice my size and double my weight.
"I'm no murderer, mate," I explain, hauling him down the block. I make it about fifteen steps before there is a fist slamming into my temple. My vision whites out for a second and I stagger forward, my grip going slack on the arm around me.
"You just stabbed me!" he howls against my ear.
"Yes, you've covered that extensively," I growl, regaining my grip like a vice until my knuckles are white. He winces, I think. "I thought you were someone else," I add.
"What difference does that make!"
I smile to myself and resume my quick pace, wanting to get out of this area as soon as possible. "All the difference in the world for a clear conscience. Now off we go. Hurry. You'll be dead soon at this rate if you don't hurry along."
I feel the tremble through his broad shoulders, his chest rumbling at my side, hitching with every breath. He's scared, even if he won't admit it. I've been where he is a few times. There isn't a proper way to describe the ice cold fear that blankets a person in the throes of agony, staring Death down in the face.
It's horribly exhilarating.
This man gulps air like he's suffocating, though I know he's not. The feeling is not for everybody.
"Where are we going?" he asks when we make it another block. I look at him out of the corner of my eye and see how clammy his face is. He's starting to sweat against my side. I purse my lips. I don't much care for his question. It's a bit of a pickle he's in and I can only do so much in this situation.
"Give me a minute and I'll find you a infirmary," I explain. "I'll drop you at the curb and you can go inside. Obviously I don't plan to enter with you." I chuckle and shake my head. If anyone reports an incident tonight, it would look suspicious; me dragging a wounded civilian into a clinic so late at night. Best keep it safe.
"I don't have a minute," he wheezes, wincing at me as I lean him against the cool bricks of an apartment complex. He's gripping his side, his vest sticky and dark where I pushed that knife in. I keep to the shadows, waiting in the darkness to see if I can ditch my clients. The night is quiet, the moon hidden behind the gray clouds in the sky.
"H-hey . . ."
I look back at him. The pain is evident in his expression, in his eyes. Those are the eyes of mortality. "Are you even listening to me?"
I press against him, gripping his hand and pushing it firmly to his side. He arches, but I hold, unyielding.
"Keep the pressure constant. You'll lose consciousness," I instruct, curling my fingers around his and holding him still. For all that's happened, this person is very good at keeping his calm. I notice for the first time his physique. He's large. I let my eyes run up to his face, memorizing his features. He looks uncomfortable as I watch him, squirming under the affliction of his wound.
Perhaps he was in the draft?
"I'll take you to a hospital. I promise. Pledge on my mum's grave, even." I do mean it. Not that I cared much for the woman's company.
This man hesitates but doesn't say anything else. When a long moment passes, and I'm near positive that that couple isn't in the near vicinity anymore, I pull my hand back from this stranger and sidle up next to him. "Seems safe," I murmur, threading his arm around me once more.
His movements are like a sloth – he's dragging his feet.
It's then that I realize his wound is still leaking profusely over his fingers. It's not working. I swallow the anxious ball in my throat and speed up my pace, mapping out where a late night emergency care facility would be. If he dies, I will not sleep tonight, or tomorrow, too, perhaps. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He doesn't deserve to die alone in the streets.
"What's your name?"
Another block and he doesn't say anything. He's blinking rapidly to keep his eyes open.
"Hey. Your name. What's your name?" I ask again, more insistently.
"A . . . Alfred," he breathes, so quiet that I almost don't catch it.
"Shit," I grumble. I'm practically carrying him now, and my muscles are starting to tell the difference. I'm winded when the bright lights of a hospital come into view. It's a Godsend. "You're here, Alfred. Wake up, mate. Got to get you patched up. Hey."
Alfred doesn't stir, and his face is as white as a sheet of paper in this lighting. I feel a nervous sweat coming on. I need to leave.
"Hey now. I need you to stand up properly. You must walk inside, you hear me?" I tap his cheek repeatedly to rouse him. His eyelids look heavy when he finally looks at me, nods. I nod back, pursing my lips. "Good lad." But when I move to pull away, his hands are holding me to him like a cage. His lips move against my neck when he slumps, muttering incoherently.
"Don't leave me . . . dare fuckin' leave . . . inside – help me," Alfred breathes. I look over his head with great hesitation at the entrance doors.
"I can't," is all I say.
Alfred's fingers squeeze tighter, not by much. I battle with my urge to flee and meet my second client for the night, and my worry over leaving a man to die only feet away from salvation. Damn my guilt.
"Here you go, then," I say, hauling his hulking mass through the door and calling for a nurse. Alfred's still clawing at me when they remove him from my person. I get many pairs of eyes on me, questioning me. I tell them I'm his brother and that he was mugged. I'm handed paperwork to fill out. I lie on most of it or keep it blank.
I end up missing my next client, and the one after that. It's a miracle I'm not searched in the hospital. They'd find plenty of awful things on my person under my coat and in my trousers. The police never show up. With the way this place looks and the neighborhood we're in, I doubt anyone would look into a meager mugging. Half the people in here are probably from the same circumstances.
I fall asleep in the hospital chairs. When I wake up they say Alfred will be fine.
I try to sneak out, but a woman comes up to me and says my brother is awake and requesting to see me.
I debate hurtling myself out a window.
"Do it, then, if you're going to do it," I say, sounding bored, but my heartbeat threatens to split my ribs apart. Alfred is leaning against a bed; no better than a cot with some sheets, really. He is pale and has dark circles under his eyes. I see that his blonde hair looks greasy from sweating now.
He's glowering at me.
Hm. Not a look I'm unfamiliar with.
"Hey, brother," he says. I smirk crookedly at him. Alfred shakes his head.
"Why are you still here?" he asks, his voice softer this time. I'm uncomfortable enough, casting numerous glances at the window in the room. It's sprinkling outside but I don't mind. I thrive in the rain. I tighten my peacoat around my neck, holding it there. When I look back at Alfred, I can see that he realizes how badly I want to leave. I don't belong in a place like this.
So I shrug noncommittally. "You were pretty adamant."
His brow dips low in confusion and I stake it to the fact that he doesn't really remember gripping at me like I was his one and only lifeline. I suppose I was, technically.
"I told you I'm no murderer. Leaving you on the pathway outside in the rain seems a bit cruel, don't you agree?" I smile. I'm already starting to feel antsy. The bag in my pocket feels heavy, tempting.
"Why'd you stab me?" he asks, after a long silence. I shift my feet, leaning against the wall.
"I thought you were someone else," I explain. This only makes his frown deeper, so I sigh dramatically. "Self-defense, chap. I'm a mistrustful son of a bitch."
Alfred lets my words sink in, drawing circles with his hands against the sheets. I glance at the window again.
"You sell," he says, and I know what he means. My eyes zip to his and my stomach roils. I grin, all teeth, but say nothing more. He blows a stream of air from his nostrils rather loudly, his jaw set. "You shouldn't be here," he says seriously. I nod.
"Precisely my point, brother dearest." Alfred snorts and I hold out my hands, palms up. "Do you need anything else? A warm bowl of stew? The company of a tender woman, perhaps?"
"Shut up," he demands, words as jagged as the object that pierced his side. I go quiet. Alfred shifts about on his bed for a minute, looking deep in thought, warring, possibly, before his blue eyes lock with mine and the look freezes me to the floor. "I want some."
I listen to the ticking of the clock on the wall.
"Pardon?"
Alfred glances to the side, appearing as close to self-conscious as one can get. "You know . . . Some . . . I want some."
It takes me a long moment before it clicks and my mouth hangs ajar. He chances a look back and me and his eyes dart away again. I figure if he had any blood to spare his cheeks would've been lit up like a Christmas tree. "You want to buy," I clarify. His silence is answer enough. "No."
Alfred gawks at me. "Wh- No?"
"No."
"Why not?" he blurts, appearing disturbed. I look him over, remembering the warm feeling of liquid leaking onto my hands only hours ago. He's built like an ox but he's as weak as a child right now. The idea of someone like him using from me makes my skin crawl. Why he was out in this part of the city so late makes perfect sense now.
"I don't hand out favors like charity, lad."
"How is this a favor?" he asks fervently. "I'll pay you."
"No."
"That's not fair. You're a drug peddler –"
"Keep your bloody voice down."
"You're not supposed to screen people," he all but spits. The desperation is overwhelming. It's bleeding out of him, and I taste the bitter juices of my stomach acid on the back of my tongue.
"I'll do as I please. I don't need your money, nor do I want anything you're offering." Tightening the belt around my coat, I move to leave. I'm done with this boy. He's an irritation.
"Wait – I won't turn you in!"
My feet stutter to a stop. It's silent.
"I won't tell anyone you did this," he continues. "And I'll pay you double – triple – what you ask for. Just . . . Please. I need this."
Something inside me cracks when I hear the utter defeat in his voice. I think of how I must've sounded when I pleaded with those men, begging to have my father and my best mate get a ticket on that ship. America was where we were supposed to pick everything up again. Where we could escape the smoldering piles of bricks and sorrow.
There are few things, sure, that can bring a man to his knees and change his very being. One doesn't know what they're capable of until they're on the ground with nothing left.
I turn slowly to look at him; his eyes clenched shut and his jaw trembling.
It's like looking in a mirror through time.
"Triple," I finally say. Alfred's head jerks up, eyes round and bloodshot. "You give me triple and shelter. Lord knows I can't go back to my flat for a few days," I mutter, dreading the thought of the kinds of visitors I'd receive after pulling a fast one on someone so violent.
I really am a softie.
Alfred nods, smoothing the cotton sheets against his legs. I frown at him, giving him one last once over, before walking out the door. "Put your clothes back on. We're leaving now. Use the window; I'll be outside."
"You're a spoiled brat, aren't you?" I say, entering Alfred's home. It isn't large, but it is rather nice. It smells like tobacco and coffee, a common but not detestable smell. I shuffle about the different rooms, eyeing anything that looks valuable and small enough to take. "Parents home?"
Alfred's face in pinched, sweat lining his brow as he shuts the door behind him. The walk from the clinic to a decent enough neighborhood to hail a cab really did a number on him.
"You can sleep on the couch," he says, hanging his coat up in the closet. I lower my eyelids, aware at the evasion to my question. I'm a suspicious gent, so I log that away for later. The last thing I need is some middle-aged codger coming home to find his son doped up and full of extra holes.
My coat is wet and I feel my hair sticking to my forehead and ears. I don't dry either of them off.
After taking the final tour of the kitchen, I loop back around to enter the main room, only to find Alfred leaning heavily against the door and staring me down. I raise my eyebrows.
"Well?" he inquires.
"Well, what?"
Alfred huffs. "Where is it?" he asks. I open my mouth and nod. Ah, right to business, then.
"I think I'll hold off," I say. Alfred balks at me and I grin at his moronic expression.
"But you said –"
"Christ almighty, lad, you can't even stand on your feet. You're paler than a Mick in the winter, and you sound like you swallowed a knot of steel wool. Go get some sleep. I won't be going anywhere."
Alfred does a grand impression of a gasping trout on shore before he frowns and curses me under his breath. For good measure he makes a show of locking the door in front of me before heading up the staircase. I chuckle at the childishness of it all before plopping down on his sofa and turning on the radio.
Music is one of the few joys I still have.
While Alfred sleeps off whatever medication was in his system, I busy myself with the radio, trying the telly, and eventually getting bored enough to take a stroll around the block. There aren't as many people out because of the rain we've been having. In my profession I kind of have to get used to it. Good thing I had many years previous experience across the pond.
When my hands began to quiver too much for my liking, I fish out the bag from my pocket and take a small test myself behind some dumpsters of a nearby grocery.
It's enough to escape my own treacherous thoughts.
The sky is nearly dark by the time I trek up Alfred's steps. I open the door, and am surprised when I don't have to use any energy, Alfred already pulling the handle for me. I stumble and blink up at him. He's pale still, and disheveled. He's unhappy.
"Evening," I greet.
Alfred's large hand grips my shoulder and drags me inside. I don't fight him, nor do I care that he does the same show of locking the door in front of me. As if I can't turn a latch myself. When he turns to me, his eyes are wild, nervous.
"Where were you?" he asks, almost breathless. I shrug.
"Claustrophobic fellow that I am, I decided to take a walk. It's good for the body and soul," I say, smiling with a tug of my lips. He doesn't look amused. "Sorry, I didn't want to wake you. Best let you enjoy those painkillers before they ware off." By the looks of it, they already have, a while ago.
"I said don't leave."
"No you didn't."
Alfred bites his lip. "Well, it's common sense. How do I know that you're not out getting arrested or ditching me or something?"
"Don't flatter yourself, mate. If I was going to get nicked, it would have happened ages ago," I say, bypassing him and entering the kitchen. I'm looking through his cupboards when he trails after me, hunched over. "Do you have anything decent to eat? I'm famished."
"Can you stop moving for, like, three seconds?" Alfred requests. I peer at him through my bangs and see that he looks so haggard. It must be a chore just standing upright. I wonder vaguely if he took the time to go outside and look for me. How touching.
"Sure thing. What's on your mind?" I prop my hip against his table and fold my arms. Alfred takes a moment to gain some of his composure back.
"You're not planning on leaving in the middle of the night, are you?" he asks finally. I tap my fingers on my arm.
"Not tonight, anyway," I admit. He frowns.
"Listen, I mean it. I'll pay you whatever you need. You can stay here for a while, too, I don't really care. But I just gotta know that you aren't . . . That you won't back out on me."
There are a million thoughts buzzing through my skull, but the one that stands out the most is saying: DON'T GIVE HIM A SPECK.
"Of course," I say anyway. He doesn't look like he believes me, but then again, neither do I. I smile at Alfred and bob my head to his cabinets. "We through here? You want something to eat?"
"I'm fine," Alfred mumbles, rubbing gently down his side subconsciously. I pivot my feet and rustle through his belongings.
"I'll make you some tea. Flush your system out. Is your side still sore?"
Alfred snorts. "What do you think?" It's rhetorical but I answer anyway.
"I think penetrating you earlier left you weak in the knees." I peer over my shoulder and take delight in the mortified expression he casts me at my word choice. He shakes his head quickly and ambles out of the room. I hear the telly turn on not a moment later.
After a while, I enter his sitting room with a plate full of crackers and cheese and a cup of tea. Alfred's bobbing his head, a look of concentration on his face, when he notices me standing over him. I gesture for him to take the steaming glass. He reluctantly does so and flinches when I sit beside him. An episode of Tom and Jerry is on. I'm not surprised someone like Alfred would choose cartoons over anything with depth.
"You smell," he mutters into the rim of his cup halfway through the episode.
I swallow a mouthful of cheese and raise my arm. I smell like rainwater and the musky, thick liquorice odor that I always do. I smile to myself. He'll have to get used to it.
"Do you have a lavatory?"
Alfred scowls into his mug. "Of course I do," he grumbles. I blame his foul mood on not getting his way and the sheer exertion his body has been under in the last twenty-four hours. When it comes down to it, he's just like my usual group of buyers; petulant and immature.
"I'll go wash up, then." I remove myself from Alfred's presence and meander to the small washroom Alfred has. It's very plain; beige walls, white towels, a bathtub with clawed legs and a blue shower curtain. In the privacy of this room, I strip down to nothing and let the hot water run.
I generally avoid mirrors; however, I can't help but trace the scars dotting my torso from previous skirmishes. I'm pale, much too pale to be healthy, and my ribs are like keys on a xylophone. Surely this isn't the body holding a decent soul. I muss my already scraggly hair and give my arms a good stretching. I choose to ignore the wounds at the bends of my elbows, entering the bathtub and relaxing.
I can't remember the last time I had a real bath. That's terribly miserable.
I nearly fall asleep when Alfred's banging abruptly on the door. "Did you drown in there?"
I raise my chin from the lukewarm water with a huff. Even in the restroom I can't get a moment's piece from this boy. Does he really suspect I'll shamble out this window, too?
"Just having a good wank, mate. Be out in a moment." I actually laugh when Alfred thumps against the wall unexpectedly. That should be enough to get him to leave me alone for a little. I do actually give myself a few quick tugs, never taking much to send me off, my toes curling around the lip of the bath. Might as well not be a liar about everything, every now and then.
I venture out into the sitting room dressed back in my slacks and my damp coat, observing Alfred laying out some quilts and a pillow on the sofa. He grimaces when he bends back up, his eyes catching mine. He scowls and looks away.
"Here's your bed."
"I can see that. That's mighty kind of you, lad." I don't really give a damn. I'll sleep anywhere, on anything, with almost anyone nowadays. With my lifestyle, accommodation is key.
"Would you like to finish your program?" I inquire, gesturing to the television still running. Alfred glances at it halfheartedly before shaking his head, clicking it off. The room is eerily silent now, aside from the rain hitting the window outside the curtains. Alfred chews at his lip, alternating between shifting his weight from foot to foot and palming at his side. He lets his eyes linger on me before announcing, "I'll get you some clothes."
Ah. Because mine are still wet. I smile tightly at him and nod. I will not remove my coat.
Alfred shuffles up the stairs, and when he returns, he is in a simple white tank top with loose pants. His arms and shoulders look much larger out of his leather jacket. He sees me staring and coughs loudly, handing me a folded shirt and pants. "They're gonna be big, but that's all I have." He pauses, considering something, before frowning. "You need to fuckin' eat something. Jesus, you're skinnier than the girls on the street."
"That's the sort of thing you're trying to get into," I remind, and his eyes grow wide, as if he hadn't realized. Alfred appears a tad uncertain about his adamant requests for my supplies, but in the end he shakes it off.
"Don't leave, OK? If you're going to step out, wake me up. I don't care," he cuts me off when I open my mouth. "It hurts but I'd rather know." Alfred runs his tongue over his lips. "I don't trust you," he adds, turning around and disappearing up his stairs. I stare after him before putting on the clothing he offered. I place my coat over it and crawl into the makeshift bed of the couch.
I spend half the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain.
It feels like thousands of ants are crawling under my skin.
"Are you serious?" Alfred blurts, looking outraged and horrified. I sit as patiently as I can across from him at his table.
"Deathly," I say.
Alfred cards his fingers roughly through his hair, shaking his head vehemently. "One hundred dollars? That's two weeks of work!"
"I don't need a math lesson."
"H- Why so steep?" Alfred demands, resting his elbows on the tabletop. I still see the echoes of pain on his face. He must be sore as all heaven.
"You're the one who told me you'd pay me whatever I needed," I respond.
"I said triple. Is that triple?"
"It's what I want or no deal."
A muscle in Alfred's jaw twitches and he slumps back against his chair. The gears are working behind his eyes, warring with common sense. I dare him to take the bait. If he's going to buy from me, he has to be willing to work for it, regardless of his side. I take a look around his kitchen once more, wondering vaguely how he can even afford this place by himself.
"Fine."
My eyes zip back to him, eyebrows raised. Alfred looks the farthest from satisfied. "Fine?"
Alfred nods, standing up. "Fine. I'll get you your money."
My heartbeat picks up when he starts to leave the room. "You have that kind of cash lying around?" I whistle.
"No. That's a lot . . ." he mutters. "I'll have your money in ten days."
"You're mad," I yell at his retreating form. Alfred calls me something vulgar.
Alright, then. Ten days it is.
Alfred disappears for the next two days in the afternoons. He comes through the doorway looking like Death himself, barely managing to stay upright. He throws up the first evening. When I ask him what he was up to, he tells me his job. I'm surprised he can still do work in his condition. The last time I'd gotten a beating, I didn't leave my mattress for five days, barely eating and drinking.
I brush back his bangs and pat his back as the dry heaves continue throughout the first night. He's embarrassed to be pampered by a street urchin like myself, but I can't say I'm any happier with the situation. I wouldn't even be here if I didn't have any semblance of a conscience.
The next day he doesn't throw up on the floor again, but he doesn't appear to be in a better shape. He takes note of the smell that now is lingering in his house. I see him sniffing absentmindedly every now and then as he becomes immobile on the sofa. When he realizes what it is deep into the night, he shoots me the dirtiest look he can muster.
I pay him no heed and make more tea.
Doing this in his home and yet denying him is cruel. That's more my game, though, so I stick to it.
I feel a bit generous this day, however, and drop some powder into his drink to take some of the edge off of his wound. It works after about a half hour. His eyes are a little more glazed over and he stares at things a fraction too long. The look doesn't suit him.
On the third day I leave his home and go make a few deals myself. I still need money, after all.
The city moves about, always moving, like the organism that it is. There are so many people wandering the streets, though probably not as aimlessly as I do. I get three passers interested enough to buy what I have on me. It's rot, so I have no problem getting rid of it. I give them the general warning, not really caring if they use it improperly.
"Be careful. You're too young to rent out a pine box," can only be so genuine when coming from the person selling you the poison.
The young brunette merely gives me the one finger salute with a cheerful, "Fuck you." I withhold the urge to knock a tooth of his out.
Ungrateful little shit.
I pull my coat tighter around my body and find a park to sit in for a few hours. I lay down on the wet bench and close my eyes, listening to people pass me by. I feel like such a bum. Back in London, at least, I had a job and aspirations. I forget what those feel like.
Pictures flash behind my eyelids, of my father and my home where I grew up. Of my friends in school, at my job at a local bookstore down the street from my house. Of the sky lit up like hell was upon us, the air heady and screeching as I curled in with my family, shutting it out.
The sound of war.
I open my eyes, narrowing them when the sky starts misting. I place my wrist over my forehead and breathe in the chill of the air.
I hated London, but I hate Boston more. My parents are probably rolling in their graves at how I had to get by – at what I continue to do.
I sit up and rub the back of my sore neck. Well. Another day, another dollar.
After cautiously picking up a few things from my flat, I wander back to Alfred's place. The door is always unlocked when I'm not there. I think Alfred doesn't want to scare me off until he gets what he asks of me. I honestly don't know why I'm giving him such a hard time. I don't care what people choose to do with this stuff when it's out of my hands.
Why is the idea of Alfred falling into a self-indulgent daze so uncomfortable for me?
I shake my head, letting water droplets fly from my hair, shutting the door behind me. The radio is on as a background noise, and the house smells like mint tea. But when I look up, I halt, seeing Alfred curled over on his ottoman. My vision immediately drops to the knife in his hands.
He has a distant look in his eyes.
My hand instantly goes for my pocket and I sneer when I feel a gaping hole there. Bollocks.
Alfred hears me enter and looks up, a deer in the headlights. It's too late to hide it so he doesn't even bother trying. He toys with the instrument between his large hands, fingers ghosting over the blade. It looks surreal in someone like Alfred's hands. Aside from the frown he gives me on a regular and the constant wincing, he would have the face of a right, upstanding citizen.
"I found it," he says. I don't speak for a moment.
"I see that. My apologies, I must've dropped it," I say, taking a step into his home. My gaze drops to the knife again. Thank goodness I keep it spotless after all the toils I put it through.
"You still have it?" he asks, his tone heavy. I raise my eyebrow.
"Of course I still have it. I need it."
"To stab people," Alfred deadpans. Oh, we are not going through this merry-go-round again.
"For protection," I repeat, hoping it will sink into his head this time. Alfred doesn't look pleased with this, choosing to forgo eye-contact with me and observe the knife in his hands. I should really be more observant with my things, considering they could get me put in the big house.
"This the same one?" he asks quietly. I connect the dots and shrug.
"One and the same, I'm afraid."
Alfred is silent for a drawn out period before he huffs and stands up, grimacing at the abrupt action. "I don't want it in my house," he says, and exits the room. I gape, bounding after him in a moment's notice. I grab the bend in his elbow and he stops, much too easily. He really should stay bedridden for a few days. No healing time will cause more harm than good.
"Excuse me, but I don't agree with your conclusion."
Alfred shoots me a glower. "You don't have to. It's my house. You're a guest."
I laugh sardonically, no real humor there. "That's putting it lightly. Unless it's slipped your tiny, amoeba mind, lad, you need me. I don't have to stay here." I see the hesitation enter Alfred's posture. He pulls his arm away from me.
"It's not staying in the house."
My teeth grind together and I feel my ever so small patience sliding out through my fingertips once more. I circle around him until I'm blocking his path to the back door. There are plenty of places over the fence to chuck that knife. I don't trust him not to toss it over the horizon with his hulking arms, even in his wounded state.
"I'm afraid I have to interject," I say, arms wide at my sides, gaze stony. I see something shift in Alfred's eyes, like he just realizes who I am and what I do. He has forgotten what I'm capable of, or he chose to ignore it. This is the face of years in the streets. I extend my hand, palm up, towards him. "Please give it back."
Alfred pauses, then shakes his head, holding it out of reach. "I don't want it in the house," he repeats. I'm done with his games. I briskly walk towards him, latching onto his arm and pulling him forward. He stumbles, too shocked to properly react in time, before I'm digging my fingers into his side. He reacts instantly, gasping as a groan tears from his throat.
He moves to collapse, and my knife is in reach. Before I can grip it, Alfred's crumpled form strikes back, like a viper in the grass, and a burst of pain explodes in my nose. I blink up at him from the floor, gripping my bloody nose and feeling lightheaded. I wasn't aware he was that strong in his condition. He's hovering over me, for Christ's sake, holding my knife above his head, and for a second I think he's going to stab me.
But then I look at his eyes and see no intention there whatsoever. He's not the kind of person to do that. Not like me.
"It stays outside," he says breathlessly. There's perspiration on his face and he's trembling.
I've really managed to turn this boy's life around in only less than a week. I'm truly a terrible person.
I quietly pull myself together, wiping away the blood with my jacket sleeve and getting to my feet. With a run of my fingers through my hair and tightening my large coat around my neck, I give him a dull salute. "I'm out of here." I don't spare him another glance as I brush passed his alarmed face.
It's only when I'm gripping the doorknob when I feel his large chest pressing up behind me. I pause when his hand grasps my shoulder.
"Wait," he rushes. I roll my eyes.
"Sorry, lad. I believe I've waited on you long enough. Get your twisted habits somewhere else." I pull the door open but his other hand comes smashing against the wood, closing it with a slam. I don't turn around. I don't say a word.
"You said you're paranoid," he breathes, and I feel the warmth of it against the shell of my ear. It must be a challenge to stand after that stunt I pulled in the kitchen. "You said that, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm paranoid, too," Alfred grunts, fingers curling against the patterns on his door, his knuckles jutting out. "I'm paranoid of paranoid people." A bark of laughter bubbles up from my throat without permission. "How the Sam hell do I know that you're not going to flip out and think I'm going to go back on our deal? That I won't just phone the police to get you for assault? That I'm not setting you up?"
"Are you setting me up?"
"Of course not," he spits resentfully. I consider this.
"I've never been stabbed before and it fucking hurts, OK? Rolling over is a chore. Standing – that's pathetic. I'm at my rope's end, you got that. I don't want that knife in the house," Alfred repeats, completely serious. I hear the minute quiver in his voice and my heart skips a beat.
He's still afraid of me.
Something about this epiphany hurts.
"I need it for protection," I state, trying to get my point across as well. It's hard with the sudden lump of emotions in my throat. I suddenly have the urge to take a long, blistering shower to rub off all the grime that's been stuck to me for years. I know it won't do any good, though, because I've tried before, in my more desperate moments.
"Outside. Not in here."
We both don't speak as I consider this. The radio is still playing Night Train by that Forrest fellow, the slow jazz beneath the residual static a welcome distraction. I trace the curtains basked in the yellow glow of the lamp on the table, feel each rise and fall of Alfred's chest against my back. I lick my lips.
"Alright," I relinquish. Alfred waits a moment and I sigh. "Keep it in that pot outside your steps. I'll drop it in there."
Alfred slowly moves away from me so I have enough room to turn and hold him with my stare. I place my palm out expectantly, and Alfred deposits my knife. The door opens and I'm only briefly in the cool evening to burry my knife in the pot on his granite steps. When I'm back inside the warmth of Alfred's house, he looks winded.
"Happy?"
"Thank you," he mutters, swallowing convulsively and meandering back to the ottoman. He all but falls into it and shuts his eyes, placing his hand over his mouth with a grimace. I feel rather foolish.
Before I can stop myself, I'm saying, "Stay home tomorrow."
Alfred doesn't say anything; he just continues to set an even pace of breath. I frown and leave him to the radio when I assume he's not even listening to me. "I'll make some tea." I make sure to sprinkle some of what I picked up today at my flat into his cup. If it will take off the edge of his side, then I'm all for it. I just need to be careful with this.
"Drink this," I order, pushing the mug towards him. Alfred doesn't open his eyes. I push harder, letting the side burn the skin of his hand. He jolts and opens his bleary eyes, frowning at me. "Drink. It will make you feel better."
"I don't want your tea," he says.
I raise both of my eyebrows expectantly and burn his hand again. He looks at me with a sense of disbelief before I speak slowly. "It will make you feel better." Alfred's brows furrow, and after nearly a completely new song, it clicks. His hands are around the mug, not caring if it burns this time.
I take a seat on the couch and watch as his Adam's apple bobs furiously with each generous gulp. The mug is empty in a matter of seconds. Alfred is gasping when he finishes, setting the cup between his thighs and staring at me. I take a sip of my own drink and hum to myself.
"That one is on me."
Alfred is certainly not complaining.
Alfred has a small fever the next morning. I'm already up at dawn, so when Alfred comes hobbling down the staircase with flushed cheeks and a pale complexion, I understand how ridiculous this is. He sniffs the air when he enters the sitting room, eyes narrowing at me. He definitely smells my late night excursions.
"Need a glass of water, mate?" I ask, appearing disinterested as I cross my ankles against the edge of the sofa. Alfred grunts and disappears into the kitchen. When he comes back out and wanders up the staircase again, huffing and puffing the whole way, I have to wonder why he could possibly want to indulge in any sort of drugs with the life he has. It seems wonderful. I'd give anything to have a house like this, with my health and a family –
I pause, sitting up to glance over the walls. There are no pictures hanging in Alfred's home. At least none that I've noticed.
A thump from the staircase pulls my attention to Alfred, dressed in a pressed white shirt with a brown vest to hold it all together. He looks clean and proper, for the most part.
"Rather fine getup for a glass of water," I say. Alfred ignores me and opens his closet to pull out his leather jacket. "Where are you off to so early?"
"Work," he utters, coughing into the sleeve of his coat.
"I'd highly advise against that."
"I need the money," he says, rubbing his eyes with his thumbs and forefingers under his glasses.
"I hardly think collapsing at work for debauchery is a valid enough reason to crawl out of bed."
"I have bills, too, y'know," he says, and finally looks at me. "I guess you wouldn't really understand honest work," he mutters. I mime pulling a knife from my back.
"I deserved that," I admit. "You should reconsider," I call from the couch as Alfred steps out into the frigid morning. It's still drizzling outside and I can see how little Alfred is alright with that. He sighs gloomily and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone in his empty house. How he's not afraid I'm pawning his belongings off when he's gone is beyond me.
I certainly won't sell him anything if he is going to put himself in real physical harm like this. I'm an impatient bloke, but that doesn't mean I need the money so soon. With a goal in mind, I have a bite to eat and wash up for the day. While I'm in the bathroom I find an old bottle of cologne in the back of a drawer. It smells too musky for my tastes, but I need something to hide the ever present smell that clings to my coat.
I spray some on and put it back, ready to head out into the streets when the sun is high in the sky.
I know where Alfred works after feigning to be a relative to one of his neighbors. They tell me he is employed at a local deli a few blocks down. It's easy enough to find once the aroma of baked goods and charred meat becomes prevalent in the air.
The door jingles when I enter, and I'm surprised at how large the place is. It's popular. The room is flooded with bodies.
I tuck my hands into my pockets and wait in the line. By the time it's my turn at the counter, I've been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. A cute woman with curled blonde hair smiles at me and I return it.
"How can I help you, sir?" she asks pleasantly.
"I'm looking for Alfred, actually," I say. Her smile wavers in a brief moment of confusion before she glances over her shoulder.
"Tommy!" she calls. A wide set man with a large gray mustache stops in his moving of a box to turn to her. "Someone's looking for Alfred," she says, and he frowns.
"Alfred? Why?"
The cute blonde looks at me for guidance and I try to seem genuine. "He's my cousin. He called me to take him home. He's feeling under the weather so I thought I'd be cautious."
The man pauses, and I see that he thought the same thing earlier. It's written all over his face. He sets the box down and wipes his hands against the green apron before gesturing me to the back. I nod and give a thanks to the cashier and follow after him, coming into the back of the building. The clacking and sizzling from the kitchen to the left is loud. The coolness of the freezer to my right gives me Gooseflesh.
"Al!" Tommy announces, coming up behind Alfred in what looks like a storage facility. Alfred peers up over the box in his hand and he stills when he catches sight of me. "This your cousin?" he asks, jabbing his fat thumb over his shoulder, his accent just making him seem gruffer.
Alfred looks between us before nodding slowly. "Yeah . . ." he admits reluctantly. I beam at him.
"Said you called to get a ride home. When'd you do that?"
Alfred has the most amusing expression on his face. He flounders, setting the box down. "Wha- I- I didn't –"
"I admire your spirit, cousin, but even I cannot hold it against you when you're vomiting on your lunch hour."
Tommy's face scrunches up in displeasure, looking Alfred up and down. It's easy to see that Alfred isn't at his finest. "Tossin' your cookies, huh?" he mutters. Alfred opens his mouth to protest when his boss waves him away. "Go home, kid. I don't want you gettin' customers sick."
"But –"
"Listen, you've been lookin' like you're about to keel over for a couple days. Get some fluids in ya. You're a liability."
His words make Alfred stumble back a step. I purse my lips beside the fat man and remain silent. It's for the best. It would just get worse if Alfred continued. Alfred toys with the hem of his green apron before nodding sullenly. "Yes, sir."
Tommy walks over and pats Alfred twice, rough, on the back. He bends to get the box Alfred was moving and nods in my direction. "I'll call you. Now get outta here."
Alfred nods, slipping the apron over his head and hobbles in my direction. I go to steady him but he jerks his arm away, heading into the bustling of the deli cafeteria. We get out to the dreary streets rather easily; easier than getting into the shop, but Alfred still refuses to look at me. He refuses my help.
A block away and I can't take it anymore.
"You're sick."
"I'm not stupid," he snips.
"Really? Clearly you had me fooled. Just rest for a few days."
"No."
"Alfred –"
"Why do you even care?" Alfred asks, eyeing me. I don't have a good answer for that. He stares at me a moment, his bangs sticking to his forehead from the mist. He rolls his eyes and looks away. "Unbelievable. You're the worst criminal I've ever met."
"You meet a lot?" I return, grabbing hold of his arm whether he likes it or not. He doesn't fight me this time, probably too exhausted to really do anything but be pulled along. Alfred's warmth pressed against my side is welcome against this cold weather. He's solid and firm and it gives me something tangible to hold on to.
I notice Alfred sniffing again, and I deflate a little in annoyance. He should be used to this smell by now.
"Are you . . . wearing cologne?" he asks softly. I hesitate, remembering that bottle in his restroom drawer.
"No. Why?" I lie.
Alfred shakes his head and looks away. "No reason."
I let my eyes linger on his face a moment, noting how forlorn he suddenly looks. I don't press further.
And when we arrive at his home, I sit him on the sofa and throw the quilt he's been letting me use at his face. He pulls it off and frowns, but it doesn't have any sting to it. I smirk and point at him.
"Change into a decent pair of clothes. Those can't be comfortable."
I venture into the kitchen and rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window on his back door. I hear him grumble something about me being his mother and I huff a quiet laugh. When did I become his mother? His voice booms throughout the room when he suddenly says, "I want some tea."
I don't move. I know what that means.
When I make no move to boil some water, Alfred speaks up again. "Hey. You listening?"
"I heard you," I mutter, turning around to see him leaning heavily against the doorframe. He looks disheveled, his vest hanging open on a wrinkled shirt. It seems like he struggled to remove it and gave up halfway through. Alfred stares at me then lifts an eyebrow.
"So?"
"So?" I echo in amusement.
"Tea?" he asks.
"Ah, tea. Yes. I don't really fancy a cup now," I say, sidestepping his question and sorting through his kitchen. "How about some juice? That sounds much better."
"If you make it like the tea."
I pause, cup in hand, and sigh. When I gaze at him I lower my eyelids. "Take it a day at a time, lad," I murmur. Alfred's eyebrows knot together and he chews at his lip. "Don't you have any other remedies?"
"Other than hitting me over the head with a pot?"
"Yes."
Alfred shakes his head. I sigh.
"I'll bring you some juice. Go lay down."
I turn my back to him and pull out a second cup. I can tell Alfred is still hovering in the doorway, watching me, but I act like I'm none the wiser.
"Thank you," is uttered and I stop, before Alfred saunters out of the room and into the sitting room. I hear the telly get turned on and laughter comes from its speakers. My fingers flex over the cup on the countertop and I soak in the memories of the past few days.
There is a little bag in the breast pocket of my coat, and it feels heavier and heavier as the clock ticks on.
I watch a sprinkle dissolve into the juice in the glass, gaze stern as I stir it in.
There's very little I like about my job.
Very little.
TBC.
Notes:
1.) A Mick is a derogatory term for Irishman.
2.) When Alfred refers to two weeks' worth of salary, it refers to the average pay. I looked up a few things and used the reference of a particular gentleman who said during the 50s as a young adult he made about $275 a month and did fairly OK. I went off that pretext for Alfred's salary.
3.) Night Train by Jimmy Forrest was a popular jazz song in the early 50s. I recommend you guys hop on over to youtube when you decide to read the knife scene again. It sets a good mood.
4.) Heroin got its feet back in the 50s with the Mafia and the French Connection, a group that smuggled heroin from France to America (as well as other places), because it was so hard to get in America. You could either get the powder version and find a way to ingest it to your liking (ie: snorting, smoking, injecting, etc), or there were bottles of the liquid that you could use.
5.) When Arthur puts some heroin into Alfred's drink for the pain of his side, it's used more for medicinal than a high. I read that heroin can be eaten, but does not give the euphoric rush of it when consumed that way. Not a lot of people like to ingest orally like that because people who use heroin generally go for a high.