Body and Soul by InSilva
Disclaimer: they do not belong to me.
A/N: um, some upsetting though non-explicit stuff herein.
Thanks to otherhawk for effortless help with a pov.
Chapter Seven: Hell
Annie seemed to have regained her equanimity by the following morning and as he watched Saul watching her fuss over the breakfast table, Rusty guessed that that had been due partly to the therapeutic gardening and mostly to Saul.
Saul offered Rusty the plate of toast.
"Thanks."
"Tea. I knew I'd forgotten the tea," Annie muttered to herself and disappeared into the kitchen.
Rusty felt Saul's eyes on him as he buttered the toast. He was going to say something… Something…?
"Annie said that she mentioned a little bit of what I do…" Saul began in a low voice and Rusty heard the hesitancy and he kept his head down over the toast.
"Yeah."
"I was thinking back to the gas station," Saul went on and hesitated again and then asked the next question casually and at the same time as if Rusty's answer was really important to him. "Did you ever do anything similar?"
Yeah. He had. Shoplifting was a given and he'd picked up a few wallets in his time. And then he'd worked a room with Marvin. Loose-limbed, light-fingered, easy-going Marvin who had screwed up royally and who had set two guys on their tail who could run faster than you might think and who could hit every bit as hard as you'd imagine.
Marvin had vaulted the fence outside and Rusty who was that half a beat behind him had felt a hand on his ankle and had been dragged down, caught and beaten. The bruises had taken a couple of weeks to die down and MacAvoy had refused to use him till they'd gone away.
"You take good care of your body, lad. That's what the customer pays for."
It had been a warning he'd taken on board. He didn't dare not. And picking up wallets had no longer been an option.
Saul was waiting for an answer.
"Once or twice," Rusty said. "Didn't make a habit of it."
"Mmph," Saul nodded and appeared to be digesting this.
Annie reappeared and this area of conversation immediately died.
"Thought I might take a run over to Atlantic City," Saul said airily. "Want to come with me, Rusty?"
Rusty could hear that casual-but-actually-important tone again. He thought quickly about what he'd heard of Atlantic City. Gambling and tourists and hotels. He gave a mental sigh and chastised himself for thinking that Saul would work his home town. This was where Saul operated.
"Sure," he agreed.
Atlantic City had a definite buzz to it. Rusty watched Saul's face come alive with the people and the crowds and the noise. He was clearly comfortable here. They walked along the fronts of the casinos and Saul bought them lunch from a small deli that he obviously frequented on a regular basis judging by the first name terms he was on with the staff and the extra large portions of hot salt beef that came their way.
They sat on a bench and people-watched for a while as they ate.
"You OK, kid?" It seemed to be asking more than the obvious.
Rusty considered the question. He had a clean place to stay that felt safe; he was being fed; he was being clothed. As a starting place, those three things were a step up from where he had been just over a week ago, before he'd met Saul in that diner. Then, he'd been staying in a room that was just the right side of safe and nowhere near the right side of clean and that necessitated considerable cost in more ways than one; food had been as always hit and miss enough to keep him working for MacAvoy; his wardrobe had been so sparse, it hardly merited the name.
In addition, he was now with Saul and Annie. And he liked them. Whatever might be waiting round the corner, he liked them. He liked how they were with each other and he liked how they were with him. Part of him was telling him that was such a dangerous thing to let happen. So much easier to despise and hate and thus keep yourself protected and make sure the inner you was never touched. He'd never had this problem with MacAvoy.
"Kid? You OK?"
Well, all in all, he was in a much better situation. Maybe even if what he feared happening happened, it would still be worth the risk of investing emotion. He tried to picture himself coming to terms with…coming to terms. Working and then returning to Annie's apple crumble and bubble bath. Working and then playing cards with Saul. His mouth went dry again. It would be better and also a hundred times worse.
"Rusty?" There was a genuine note of concern in Saul's voice.
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm fine. Fine."
Saul nodded slowly and seemed as if he wanted to say something else but sat back instead and finished his lunch.
They got in late from Atlantic City and ate the cold table Annie had laid.
"I did your washing and ironing, Rusty, if you want to take it up."
Rusty looked over at the pressed clothes and blinked with surprise. "Thanks, Annie."
She looked over at Saul.
"And I will pour you a drink of whisky and you can come and tell me about your day while I stitch."
"What are you thinking, Saul?"
"Hmm?"
"I can see the cogs whirring. What are you thinking?" she asked, peering over her cross-stitch chart and then up at Saul. "Is it Rusty? It is, isn't it?"
"Well…"
"Are you thinking of…you are, aren't you!"
"Yesterday, we played cards. He's smart as a whip, you know…and, look at him, Annie. He'd be perfect. Those looks…"
"Oh, I know those who'd kill to have the hair and the lips and the cheekbones and the lashes," Annie agreed.
"He's so…"
"He's stunning already. And he's still a boy."
"He could make a fortune."
"There is the possibility that he might not be interested," Annie said warningly. "Just because it's your bread and butter."
Saul snorted. "You think it's a bad way to make a living?"
"If I thought that I'd have said goodbye to you a long time ago."
There was a silence and then Saul said, "He can be an accountant or a bartender or a cab driver. Whatever he wants. I wouldn't care."
Annie bent over her needlework and smiled.
Upstairs, Rusty sat on his bed, his fingers bridged together, staring over the top of them at a point on the wall.
He'd been going into wish them goodnight. The door to the lounge was ajar, light spilling out into the hallway and his hand had been about to push it further open. Instead he had heard Annie's voice and something had made him stop and listen and…
"What are you thinking? Is it Rusty? It is, isn't it?"
"Well…"
"Are you thinking of…you are, aren't you!"
Numbness descended and he'd swallowed hard then forced himself to pick up the conversation and listen again.
"Look at him, Annie. He'd be perfect. Those looks…"
"Oh, I know those who'd kill to have the hair and the lips and the cheekbones and the lashes."
"He's so…"
"He's stunning already. And he's still a boy."
"He could make a fortune."
Rusty had stuffed his hand in his mouth at that, biting down hard on his knuckle.
"There is the possibility that he might not be interested. Just because it's your bread and butter."
"You think it's a bad way to make a living?"
"If I thought that I'd have said goodbye to you a long time ago."
After that, he'd turned and run up the stairs as quietly as he could.
Sitting on his bed, Rusty pressed the tips of his fingers together and closed his eyes. Nothing he had read in Saul and Annie made him think that they were other than they were. But the gifts, and the room, and the food and the words… Rusty's hands became fists and he dug his fingernails into his palm. He needed to know…
He's been homeless for a little while now and the streets are as frightening as he thought they would be. He's seen stabbings and beatings and worse and he's avoided all three but he's not certain how long he's going to be able to do so.
The hunger is bad but he can just about cope with that. It makes him eat things he doesn't want to study too closely and it makes him look for food in places that he wants to think about even less, but he can just about deal with the hunger. The cold is worse. It wraps itself around him in the very opposite way to a warm blanket and he doesn't think he'll ever feel heat again.
It's late and it's been three days since he's eaten anything substantial (if half a burger can be called substantial) and it's been a rough day. He's seen a boy he vaguely knows beaten and bleeding and willingly and unwillingly Rusty has gone to see if he can help. The boy has waved him away with a few choice words.
Now, he's standing under a streetlight watching a café closing up and debating whether or not there is any chance of food being thrown away.
"Good evening."
The voice is cheery and unexpected and it takes a moment for Rusty to realise it's talking to him. He shrinks back and checks for exits but the man doesn't seem to notice.
"Cold out tonight," the voice goes on and there is an underlying sympathy.
Rusty nods agreement.
"I used to be on the streets," the man continues conversationally. "It's not easy."
Rusty nods again and wonders where this is going.
"You look like you could do with a warm place to stay for the night, my lad. Come along with me. I know somewhere that will do. It even has a cheese sandwich waiting."
This time, Rusty looks at the man. About his height, slight of build, smiling in what seems a friendly fashion… He could outrun him, he is sure and he even feels confident he could fight him successfully. Run fast and punch hard: two survival tips he's been quick to learn.
"My place is just around the corner," the man goes on. "My name's MacAvoy and I honestly just want to help you tonight."
Rusty stares at the man's face and he hesitates. There is some truth in what he's been told. Even so…
The rain starts and it's the deciding factor.
"Sure," he shrugs and follows MacAvoy.
And MacAvoy is true to his word. There is a small flat with a strangely sweet smell and a living room and a kitchen and bathroom and bedroom off; and a sandwich and a glass of milk waiting; and it is warm and dry and even though he waits and waits, even when MacAvoy is in bed and gently snoring, that is all there is and he falls asleep on the couch, ridiculously relieved and grateful.
He sees MacAvoy a couple of times after to nod to. On another bad night, MacAvoy happens upon him again and again he goes back with him.
On the third occasion, he finds out what MacAvoy does.
"I help gentlemen enjoy themselves," he says and Rusty stares at him. "If you know what I mean."
Rusty does.
"You know," MacAvoy says as if the thought has just occurred to him, "if ever you want to…I mean, nothing you don't want to do…but if ever you do…I mean, you look great…"
It feels like he's being generous. It feels like he's trying to help. Rusty nods quickly but dismissively and the subject disappears.
It is snowing again. It has snowed on and off for the past five days and it is working itself up into a blizzard. Rusty kicks his feet against the floor of the alleyway and huddles into the wall. He's had nowhere to sleep for a week now and the cold is deep in his bones.
"Lad!" MacAvoy walks past and halts, a friendly smile on his face. "I haven't seen you in a while. How are you?"
"F-f-fine," Rusty manages and MacAvoy winces.
"You sound like you're freezing. Come on up to my place for a warm."
It's the best offer Rusty has had in seven days and he nods his thanks and follows MacAvoy back to the small flat.
Rusty sits on the couch and accepts the cup of coffee that MacAvoy hands him, wrapping his fingers around it, letting the heat penetrate.
MacAvoy makes some small talk and Rusty's teeth have now stopped chattering enough for him to make some intelligible response. After about ten minutes or so, about the time when Rusty's toes have thawed out and are starting to burn, MacAvoy looks at his watch and pulls a face.
"I am sorry, lad, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have a gentleman coming round who's expecting some company and I've been let down. I have to find someone and…"
He sees the look on Rusty's face.
"Oh, nothing extreme," he assures him. "He's just a gentleman who likes to see others enjoying themselves. If you know what I mean."
Rusty does.
"I'd better just make a call. Excuse me."
Rusty hears him on the phone in the kitchen and he looks out at the snow, at the billowing storm.
"No…? No, OK. Thanks, anyway." It's the third phone-call.
MacAvoy comes back into the room, shaking his head and sighing.
"Sorry, lad. I've got to go out and hit the streets." He sounds regretful.
"I can do it," Rusty hears himself say and can't quite believe he's said it.
"You…? Are you sure, lad? You know what I've always said. Nothing you don't want to do."
Rusty closes his eyes and thinks of white flakes and no shelter and Walter who's been found the morning before yesterday, curled up and frozen.
"I'll do it," he says and opens his eyes.
"That's fine." MacAvoy's eyes gleam. "I'll just confirm details with my client."
He disappears to make another call and later, much later, Rusty realises that this time he hears the numbers being dialled.
It is after. MacAvoy has given him a sheaf of gratitude and compliments and a sandwich and let him sleep on the couch and he's curled up under a blanket, trying hard not to think too much about what has happened.
When he stands up to leave in the morning, MacAvoy presses five bucks into his hand and smiles at him and Rusty feels as if he's left a little bit of his soul wiped off on toilet paper and flushed away.
Unwillingly but of necessity, he does it again. He hates every second of it.
His tooth hurts. Right at the back of his mouth and it hurts. He can't remember chipping it and his tongue can't find a hole but still the nerve throbs and it has done for some days.
Dentist. Rusty frowns and sighs. That needs money and there's one place money can be found.
"Sorry, lad," MacAvoy says when he is inside the flat and has explained. "The only client I've got lined up today wants something a…well, a bit of a step further. Oh, nothing too much," he adds quickly. "He just likes someone to help him relax, if you know what I mean."
Rusty does. He closes his eyes for a moment and his tooth reminds him why he's there. He opens his eyes again.
"How much?" he asks in a low voice, not daring to look at MacAvoy's face.
"How much do you need?"
He doesn't know. "Ten bucks?" It will probably cover what he needs.
"Ten bucks. Sure."
The dentist needs six dollars, it turns out.
"Sit back in the chair, son," he says. "And open wide."
He frowns at his patient. "You're going to need to open your mouth, you know. Can't go through with this if you don't…" he breaks off and then in a gentler voice, he says, "Don't…look, here's a tissue…it's OK. People often get nervous about coming to see me…"
There is a silence as he works.
"Abscess most likely," he diagnoses. "That must hurt, son. You know you should come and see me regularly. I could have picked this up before it got this bad." He sits back and is formal and official as he writes up his notes. "Antibiotics. Course of them for two weeks. If they don't work, you'll need to come back and we'll take it out."
"How much?" Rusty asks leadenly.
"The antibiotics are four dollars. The extraction is a little more, I'm afraid."
To Rusty's immense relief, the penicillin works.
From time to time, he still finds himself forced to visit MacAvoy who seems now to have a dearth of customers who want to watch and an endless supply of clients who need a little help to relax.
Rusty hangs up against the side of the corridor and runs his tongue around his parched lips. His head aches and the chills keep rattling through him. He needs a doctor. Whatever this is, it's getting worse, not better and he has to have some help. And that will cost. In many ways. And that is why he is here.
"Lad, come on in." MacAvoy is welcoming as ever.
"I need…" Rusty tails off and takes a couple of shallow breaths. "I need…"
"You look awful, lad." MacAvoy sounds concerned. "You sure you're up to-"
"Yes." Rusty is insistent. He can do this. He needs to focus. He just needs to focus. He can do this.
He is sitting on the bed, trying to stay upright, and one half of a muted telephone conversation keeps floating through.
"He's not sick, exactly…he's running a bit of a fever."
Doctor. He's phoned a doctor and Rusty feels the relief running through him especially as he hears, "I think we can reach a better figure than that" and somewhere his bleary brain thanks God that MacAvoy is haggling the fees on his behalf. He wouldn't be up to it.
It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour later when the doctor arrives.
"Stand up, lad," MacAvoy says gently and he obeys.
As he struggles to his feet, the gratitude overwhelms him. He's had many thoughts about MacAvoy but this…this act of kindness…is more than he'd thought possible; the nicest thing anyone has done for him since…well, since forever. And even if MacAvoy is simply keeping one of his stable healthy and thinking about the profit in it, he still didn't have to do it. Rusty feels the thankfulness rise up through him and it bursts out in an uninhibited smile that lights up his flushed face from the inside out and makes his eyes shine impossibly brightly.
"Fuck," says the doctor and part of Rusty wonders at that.
"He is hot," the doctor continues and even though the emphasis seems wrong, Rusty nods. He is hot. He is burning up.
"Let's get you out of those clothes and into bed."
Hands strip him, running over his body with a degree of familiarity that doesn't seem comfortable but then he is ushered into cool sheets that seem so delightful and he rests his heavy head on the pillow and closes his eyes with a sigh.
The hands are running over his chest, examining him, pushing and stroking and…that doesn't feel exactly right… But now he is being turned over on to his front and the hands are running over his shoulders and his back and then further down his body. A pillow has somehow been slipped under his hips. The hands seem to be everywhere. And a weight is pressing down on the top of the back of his legs… It still doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel…
Some survival instinct kicks in and even though it is the hardest thing to do, he makes himself lift his head up and open his eyes and start to turn round.
MacAvoy is suddenly there at the head of the bed and he gently catches Rusty's wrists, pulling them forward over the pillow, and smiles at him, friendly as ever.
"Alright, lad. Soon be over."
Soon be-?
The thought is cut off by the pain, sudden, sharp, cutting through the fog of the fever, cutting through everything and he arches up off the bed, eyes wide. MacAvoy's grip turns vicelike.
"It's alright, lad. You're doing fine, just fine."
"No" forms voicelessly in his eyes over and over again, eyes full of raw shock and burning hurt and betrayal. MacAvoy just smiles at him.
And suddenly, blessedly, the immediate pain stops leaving unpleasant warmth and a dull ache in its wake.
"Sleep, now," MacAvoy says and drags a sheet up and over him.
As he lies there shaking, he hears MacAvoy say, "That was quick".
"It was nearly all over at that smile," comes the answer. "He is going to make you a fortune."
"Alright, lad?" It is later and MacAvoy's voice brings him back from fevered dreams. "Sit up."
MacAvoy half-pulls him up into a sitting position and presses a glass of water to his lips. He drinks it greedily, his eyes all the while locked on to MacAvoy, accusing.
"Now, then, we needed to get money for the medicine," MacAvoy says opening his hand and juggling the pills till he has them in his fingers. He tries to pull the glass away from Rusty who clings on to it.
"Enough," he says sharply and pulls it away more forcefully. He pushes the pills into Rusty's mouth and then allows the glass again.
The pills taste bitter but the water is glorious and Rusty tries to gulp more down even when the glass is empty.
"You'll make yourself sick, lad. Go back to sleep." He seems to catch sight of the unvoiced entreaty in Rusty's eyes and shrugs as if it costs him nothing. "No more excitement today."
The fever doesn't break until the fourth day at MacAvoy's. Whatever happened that first night seems a faraway dream except for the part of him that knows it was cold reality. Since then, life has been glasses of water and pills and MacAvoy.
MacAvoy is there now, running a hand over his forehead, checking his temperature.
"I'm afraid, lad, I'm going to need that bed. I'm losing money all the while you're lying there…you do understand? And it's been four days…"
Weakly, he nods. He does understand. MacAvoy has a business to run. He tries to get up out of the sweat-soaked sheets and falls back again.
MacAvoy looks concerned. "Tell you what. Why don't I rustle up a client and then when you're through, I can rustle up a little breakfast. That way we're both happy."
Happy… Rusty swallows.
MacAvoy leans in to him conspiratorally. "I can't tell you how hard you're going to have to work as you usually do to pay off what you owe me in loss of earnings, lad. What say I call someone who wants something a little more and we call it quits?" He smiles at Rusty and Rusty can see the mix of triumph and control and certainty. "What do you think? Or are you going to get up and out now?"
There is a harder edge to the second question that leaves no doubt as to Rusty's choices. In spite of everything, he desperately tries again to stand up and leave and once again, falls back.
"Sure…" It is just a word. It is just a word. And it shouldn't feel as bad in his mouth as it does.
The man has left. MacAvoy has helped him struggle up and to the bathroom and left him to clean himself and then has appeared brightly with a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk.
As he eats, MacAvoy holds out a fistful of green and peels some notes off.
"Yours. And more where that came from. You did very well, my lad. Very well."
And as he beams down at him, it is hard for Rusty to work out whether he hates MacAvoy or himself more.
He tries so hard to keep away from MacAvoy because he knows that now there will be no one who wants to watch and no one who wants a little help to relax. Now there will only be those who want something a little more.
He holds out for the longest time and then, with the hunger gnawing at him like a rodent from the inside, with the knowledge that the gangs are taking no prisoners in the current turf war and that he needs a safe place off the streets and that a safe room means money and that money means knocking on the door with the peeling paint and smelling the cloying sweetness in the air of the flat and looking at the man with the repulsively cheerful smile and waiting on the couch staring at the lampshade on top of the empty bookcase with the green tassels till the client arrives and money has changed hands and MacAvoy has departed and then heading in to the bedroom with the artexed ceiling and the bed with the rose pattern and then…his heart screws itself up at the prospect. Twice already and already he feels like trying to reach inside himself and trying to scrape his soul clean…
His feet drag him up the stairs and along the corridor and to the door. Ignoring with difficulty the screaming inner voice, he knocks and MacAvoy answers, his face lighting up when he sees Rusty.
"Lad…come on in. What a coincidence. You're just in time."
And thereafter, he comes running whenever MacAvoy calls. Because the one time he doesn't may mean the next time he needs to, MacAvoy won't be so obliging. It's a two-way street. But it's strictly a one-way hell.
Rusty sat on the bed and shook his head. Tomorrow, he had to have an answer. One way or another.