Bloody fucking amazing now, isn't it, to wake up drenched in cold sweat with the sound of slipping tires and screaming still ringing in his ears. The nightmares are not as frequent as they used to be and Tommy is pretty fucking thankful for it, but when they reappear in the darkest of the night it is like being sucked back into that big gaping black hole he fought so hard to dig his way out of. He's good at that, digging, that is.
The blankets move when Tommy works to regain control over his breathing, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Air, he needs air and a cigarette. He always needs those, doesn't he? To calm his nerves, to keep his hands busy. They are a distraction. He throws the blankets to the side, the cool air feeling cold against his still damp skin. He rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that has built there and stands up to dress himself. Sleep is a lost dream now. Tommy is lucky to get four or five hours of sleep. Most of the nights it eludes him, like some coy creature that smiles alluringly at him, only to dance out of his reach when he tries to catch it. It used to be better a few months ago. Then his wife died in his arms, bleeding out against him while he yelled for an ambulance that arrived to fucking late. Now he's back at the beginning, battling long bouts of insomnia. He's always fucking fighting.
And it shows on his face, Tommy muses as he stares at himself in the mirror when he fastens his trousers, pulling the suspenders over his shoulders. The cheekbones are too sharp, too pronounced, like the bone tries to split the skin that spans over it. His eyes are sunken in, with big black circles under them, bruising his pale skin. He hates the reflection that stares back at him. It almost feels like a stranger is looking at him. But Tommy also revels in the pain and hardship that can be seen in those dark dark circles, in the lines that crease his forehead and have etched themselves in the corners of his mouth. He revels in the pain that tightens his chest and makes it difficult to breathe. It makes him feel. That is the crux of the matter. If he doesn't feel the pain, he doesn't feel anything. Only emptiness, like his chest is a hollowed out cavern.
Tommy's fingers work nimbly on fastening the buttons of his shirt. Then he pulls his jacket on, finds his shoes and puts them on. He opens the door of his bedroom quietly, every creak as loud as a gunshot in this big bloody house. This big bloody empty house. He stands on the threshold for a minute or so, gazing at the light that streams out into the hallway, a beacon that keeps the lingering shadows at bay. Tommy looks at the corners were the light doesn't reach. The shadows seem to move there, pushing against the barrier of light, reaching for him to swallow him whole. Bloody ridiculous. He thinks, closing the door and briskly walking through the hallway, his steps echoing against the stones. He hopes the nanny doesn't hear him. He hopes Charlie doesn't hear him. Tommy has done a verily good job at keeping his nightly escapades a secret. The nanny knows of course, she knows everything. He can see it in her expression when she looks disapprovingly at the dark circles lining his eyes, at the paleness of his skin. But the coldness he conjures in his eyes when he stares at her stops her from scolding him for it. Just the way he likes.
He walks down the stairs uninterrupted, into another hallway and then the front door is in sight and Tommy walks a little faster, anticipating the coolness of the air. One, two, three more steps and then blessed coolness, the sharpness of winter's chill lingering still in the quiet breeze that caresses his skin. A cigarette finds its way between Tommy's lips and he fills his lungs with smoke, sucking at it like he needs to fill his whole body with something.
The night is quite as he paces at the bottom of the steps, thinking yet not thinking. If he listens closely he can still hear the screams in the distance. The fucking screams. Her screams. But she's gone now isn't she? Just some other forgotten memory in the sea of forgotten memories. It fucking hurts. But it is as it is now isn't it? Hurting and crying and screaming and kicking like a kid throwing a tantrum won't bring her back. Nothing will bring her back but it still fucking hurts. Tommy throws his burned up cigarette to the ground with more force than necessary and lights another, filling his body with more poison. At least it is something.
Tommy sits down on the steps, the cigarette stubs multiplying as he stares of into the night. The blackness slowly turns into an inky blue heralding another morning. Tommy stays seated, his mind whirring. He knows he needs to pull himself together. Grace has been gone for close to eight months now. It is time to pull his head out of the rabbit hole that it is stuck in and think of Charlie, of his family, the business. But especially Charlie. The boy needs a father that can function like a normal human being, not a robotic shell that does everything on auto pilot.
It helps that he has made a friend. A baker he met when drinking at his favourite bar. An incredibly bold baker, but boldness is something that Tommy can appreciate.
'Looking like shit now aren't you mate? 'Perhaps it's a ghost of a smile that tugs at his lips when he thinks of the first words Alfie had said to him. Tommy distinctly remembers wanting to shatter his whiskey glass in his face. 'Like a fucking walking corpse. Some bread would do you some good yeah? Some fucking bread mate, then you will be more than just some skin and bone. Pretty fucking small you are already, being that thin makes you look like a man drowning in his own suit yeah.' He'd clapped his hands then, actually clapped his bloody fucking hands and smiled broadly. 'And as it so happens I am a baker! So bread is my specialty. 'He'd pulled a card out of his pocket and laid it on the counter in front of a very disgruntled, but speechless Tommy Shelby. If only his brothers had seen him then, Tommy fucking Shelby, speechless. The as of yet unknown man had tapped the card sharply. 'That's the address of my bakery, so swing by and I can set you up with the nicest bread you have ever tasted mate. 'He'd smiled again, gripping the cane he was holding a little tighter. 'Got to go now, some business to attend. Can't wait to see you! 'And he proceeded to stagger off, leaving a very pissed but intrigued Tommy behind. He'd looked at the card lying innocently against the wood and put it into his breast pocket.
Tommy didn't intent to go to the bakery. And if he did intend to go it was only for a very angry scolding. How dare a complete stranger tell him he looks like a fucking corpse? But when he stepped into the bakery he was met with another of those broad smiles, as if the man had been waiting for Tommy to walk in. The very angry scolding dies on his tongue as the man, who introduces himself as Alfie pulls him up toward the counter, not minding one bit that he is stepping into a strangers personal space, oh no, he is acting like it's the most normal thing in the whole world. He proceeds to place a slice of brown and white bread in front of him. 'Finally decided to but some meat back on those bones yeah? Go on then, taste it. 'Tommy had done so but not before pinning Alfie with one of his famous bone chilling glares. The bread was good, damn it. Alfie had asked him what he thought about it. Tommy remained silent, anger still simmering just beneath his skin. 'You don't go around telling people they look like corpses mate. 'The words had been venomous but it did nothing to diminish the smile that still lingered on Alfie's lips. 'I wouldn't have noticed you if you didn't have such a pretty face. 'Alfie pulled it off again, Tommy was momentarily speechless. 'The bread is good. I'll take the white one. 'Fucking idiot. But Tommy didn't know what to say to the pretty face comment. Alfie went to fetch the white bread he'd requested and set him up with a discount. 'A favour for a friend yeah?' Tommy left the bakery with mixed feelings about the whole ordeal. It does not happen often that he can't make sense of a situation. He's known for his sharp wit and quick tongue but Alfie seems to be perfectly able to rob him of those qualities.
Tommy also did not intend to keep returning to the bakery, but he did. It had nothing to do with a certain baker who always seemed to make it his task to get on his nerves. It had nothing to do with that at all. It took two months for Tommy to realise that, yes, he did like Alfie in all his obnoxiousness, incessant talking and apparently always present smile. So it was only a natural course of action for Tommy to invite him for a drink.
Drinks became a regular thing for them. Every Friday or Saturday night they'd go to the bar and sit and talk. At first they talked about regular things. A work week. An employee that drives him absolutely insane. A new horse he's bought and going to train.
It took another two months for him to mention his family. His son. Grace. It's like lifting a weight of his chest, to talk about these things with someone outside of his family. Someone who doesn't look at him with those pitiful eyes, someone who doesn't walk on eggshells around him. Alfie did say he was sorry when Tommy tells him about the accident. About how Grace had died in his arms and he had sat there, fucking helpless and unable to do anything other than try to stop the bleeding with shaking hands.
He'd reached out and squeezed Tommy's shoulder and it was such a small but kind gesture that it had startled him. The words that followed suit had almost made him cry. 'You can always call me, mate. It does not do to go through this alone. And I don't like it to see those pretty eyes so sad.' Another comment about something pretty but Tommy had let it slip because he was too busy keeping those damned tears at bay.
Yes, Alfie Solomons is a friend alright, Tommy thinks as he sits on the steps in front of his house, watching the sun rise. It takes a minute or two for him to make up his mind. He looks at his watch; 6 am. Early, but he needs his friend. He has reached inside his pocket for his cell phone and dialled the number before he can change his mind. It rings and rings. Of course he isn't going to answer you bloody idiot, it is 6 am in the morning. Tommy has almost pressed the button to end the call when he hears a sleepy but genial voice; ' Tommy-boy, a bit early innit?' But it doesn't sound like Alfie minds, he sounds like he has won the fucking lottery instead of being called out of his bed. 'You said I could always call.' Why does his voice sound so ridiculously small? A sigh crackles through the receiver. 'I did say that yeah, I did. Well, what I can do for you then on this fine morning?' 'Can I come over?' The words unexpectedly rush of his tongue. It weren't the words he wanted to say, he'd wanted to tell him about the nightmares that keep him from sleeping lately. Bloody stupid, going around and asking to come over at bloody 6 am in the morning.
But Alfie's laugh sounds genuine if a bit startled when he answers; 'of course, of course. Hop into your car, I'll have breakfast ready.' And then the line goes dead and Tommy is left seated like a bloody idiot with the phone still pressed against his ear. Well, no turning back now, right? He goes inside and quickly scribbles a note for Esther, the nanny who's here for Charlie, telling her not to worry; he is only off visiting a friend. Then he collects his car keys and sets of for London.
( this work isn't beta'd so all mistakes are my own )