Chapter 3 is a crossover with "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels." The characters of Charles and Winston belong to Guy Ritchie. For continuity reasons, it's a little AU- technically, in "Lock, Stock", Charles and Winston just recently got their cage, but I had them have it here in 1993. "Lock, Stock" always did seem early '90s to me anyway.
- DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH 3/4
- Like Peter Pan, or Superman
- You were come to save me
- Come on and save me
- Come on and save me, if you could save me
- From the ranks of the freaks who suspect
- They could never love anyone
- -Aimee Mann "Save Me"
Late December rolled around into London in all it's Dickensian glory. Wet, freezing snow falling as slush to the ground. Gray skies and humid cold. I hated winter. Come to think of it, I hate a lot of things. Hated Christmas, for instance. Not Christmas in and of itself, people can celebrate whatever religious holiday they want, but the Americanization of it bothered me. The carolers dressed up like characters from Great Expectations bothered me. Happy families bothered the hell out of me.
Tommy agreed with me wholeheartedly on these things. However, he still insisted on our getting a tree. A tree for Christ's sake. Why the hell would I invest in the destruction of a living thing, a fire hazard no less, and put it in my own home where it could rot and shed? He explained to me that the cultural traditions of Christmas mostly came from before Christmas even was, and that psychologically it's important to recognize the middle of winter, the closer coming of a new birth, or spring. He explained to me how the trees were sacred to the Druids, (who lived here first, he added, proudly) who worshipped the land, sea and sky, and saw the tree as an instrument to bring the sea from the land to the sky. Tommy said that since it was the Druids who brought a tree into their home and decorated it, it was up to us as a race to observe the traditions of our original ancestors.
I wondered what he had been reading and how he could know all that and still do so badly in school.
So now we had a tree, not a huge expensive one, but a tree nonetheless, sitting by the window in our living room. I'd lay awake at night and stare at it's looming shadow and wondered where my manhood had gone.
Then I'd turn over and there'd be Tommy, sleeping next to me after the throes of some nightmare, hugging Antwerp tightly to him. Or, on a better night, he'd be across the room on his own dumpster-mattress, Antwerp forgotten on the floor beside him.
Sometimes I'd dream that I was in bed with Suzy again, near Christmas, and we'd lay awake talking about our future children, and she would have all the decorations out and the tree would be so beautifully done up with things her mother had made when she was a child…and then I'd drift into wakefulness and realize I had my arms around an oblivious boy who slept with a teddy bear.
And I'd slowly ease myself out of bed, and creep over in the darkness and crack a beer on the couch and feel guilty about being unfaithful to a dead woman, for taking advantage of a boy who was too psychologically injured to understand anything, and then I'd question my sexuality and feel sorry for myself and think about dying.
And then I'd realize that I can't die because I'd have to walk Tommy to school the next day and the streets were no place for a boy like him.
Usually it took him forever and a day to get out of bed, into clean clothes and out of the flat. So imagine my surprise when I woke up in the bleary winter morning, a Saturday no less, to find Tommy dressing. Dressed, actually. He was already tying his boots sloppily at the kitchen table when I woke up.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Turkish…" Tommy looked up from his task and bit his lip. "I'm sorry I woke you. I won't be long."
"Answer the question, Tommy, where are you going?" I swung my legs off the bed and pulled on some trousers.
"I'm just going to see Charles. I'll be quick."
"Who's Charles?" I bleared around until I found the kettle and put it on.
Tommy looked down for a moment. "He's…he's one of the boys from the home. One of the only ones who actually talked to me," He went back to tying his boots. "'Cept he stopped coming a while ago, when he moved in with Winston. He told me where he lives though and said to come visit him sometime."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I shrugged into a sweater.
He looked up at me with those dark eyes and there was a moment of awkwardness that occasionally came up after his unfortunate incident with Brick Top's henchmen. "Why….you worried about me?" He grinned cheekily.
I didn't think the question warranted an answer. I asked him where this Charles fellow lived and he told me, and I spit out my tea. "I'm not letting you go down there alone!"
"Why not?"
"It's dangerous. The place is full of drug dealers and pimps and lecherous old men-" I cut myself short and hazarded a glance at Tommy. He wasn't looking at me, focusing down at his sloppily tied boots.
One-step forward, ten steps back.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I downed the rest of my tea hastily. "Look, I'm sorry I said that. I'll go with you. Let me put some shoes on,"
The walk to the tube station was silent and awkward, and the long ride itself was just uncomfortable. Not being with Tommy or anything, in fact I had grown quite fond of him, but I always used to hate riding on tubes. That's why I walked most places. It was why I was so skinny. At least that's what I told people. Usually when people found out about my poor eating habits they'd warn me about getting scurvy and my teeth breaking off, or getting rickets or breaking my back making the bed one day. Like I ever made the bed. Or cared either way.
Tommy bothered me about stuff like that too, even though if it weren't for me he wouldn't eat anything. If it weren't for me pushing him around he'd sit in his corner and worry all day. At least he'd used to. But anyway, he'd pester me about the stuff I ate and how much of it and at what time. But it didn't seem so grating when he did it. More like I had someone who actually cared to think about me.
It didn't even bother me how ridiculous we must've looked in our matching beige trench coats.
We got off at the station and pushed our way through a cloud of pot smoke, curses and slang-ridden dialect to get upstairs to the street. Tommy led the way to the tall, run-down building silently. I glanced at him sideways to make sure he wasn't back to staring at the ground. I don't think I would have said it to him, but it broke my heart when he looked all dejected and lost-puppy-dog. He was angry, probably because he felt I didn't trust him enough to make the trip himself, but instead of sulking and pouting he had his jaw set in that determined, stubborn pose. At least he had enough confidence now to be angry about something like that rather than put down.
Finally.
The interior of the building was the same sort of dried-puke brown as the outside. It had this musty smell, sort of reminiscent of a boy's football locker room, only much more pleasant. There was an atmosphere of sleepy indifference, fogginess; the pleasantly sickening after-party feeling.
There was no buzzer. Just a staircase sided by cracked, browning drywall. Tommy nonchalantly trotted up the steps. I followed in disdain.
The hollow echo that followed our footsteps everywhere was eerie, like no one even lived in the building. He seemingly picked a door at random and knocked.
There was a moment of confused silence when a disembodied, quivering voice answered from the other side- "Yeah, who is it?"
"It's me, Charles. Tommy," I glanced over at Tommy again. There was a difference in his voice, the way he addressed his friend. If I didn't no any better it sounded more like someone addressing a friend, an equal, and less like a frightened little boy trying to get out of a beating.
The door was thrown upon and slender, pale young man with longish dirty blonde hair flung his arms around Tommy.
"Tommy! I'm so happy to see you!" The young man pushed unruly locks out of his face and pulled up his ill-fitting sweater around his shoulders. Still grinning, he turned and saw me and his smile disappeared.
Neither of the boys were any longer jovial, friendly young men, put flinchy, lip-biting boys again.
"Uh…Charles, this is Turkish. I stay with him now. Turkish, this is Charles. My friend." Tommy glanced up at me, with a look that made it clear it was very important that I approve of his choice of friends.
"Hi," I reached out a hand.
"…Hi…" Charles barely whispered, flickering his eyes up to meet mine for just an instant. He looked too scared to shake my hand.
Jesus, did that group home specialize in emotionally shattered street boys?
Well. I guess it would. That would only make sense.
"Well….come in," Charles flashed a smile at Tommy again and ushered us in, closing the large doors behind him. We stood in a huge, open, iron cage in the middle of an equally huge dirty brown vestibule. Stairs led up into the loft.
Charles leaned against the door and neither Tommy nor I really felt comfortable venturing beyond the opening of the cage.
"What brings you here, Tommy?"
"I just wanted to see you. You know, before Christmas. Are you ever going to come back to school?"
Charles smiled faintly and looked away. "I don't think so. Winston says I don't have to…we make enough money,"
"Charles!" An angry, authoritative voice called from the stairs. We looked over to see a short, blindingly blond man sauntering down. He had a look that made me want to punch him where he stood. A sort of arrogant cruelty reflected in his eyes, a sneer that, if anything, was more for protection of his own self rather than insult to another.
He looked the way I felt most of the time.
Well you hate in others what you hate in yourself. I'm surprised no one's punched me out of nowhere in the middle of the street.
"What the hell is the point of that cage if you never use it?" He demanded, coolly regarding us.
"It's just, Tommy, Winston, he's my friend."
Winston came by closer to us, smelling strongly of pot smoke. "Well you didn't know that when you let them in, did you?"
"Yes, I did!" Charles had the same desperate look that Tommy did when he pleaded with me. "I asked who they was first,"
"They could'a been lying," Winston shot back. Charles bit his lip and stared at the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Tommy watching him sympathetically.
"Charles, get out of there," Charles quickly shuffled towards Winston, who shut the cage door in front of me. "You understand," he sneered up at me as he padlocked it. "It's purely for protection. Mainly for this idiot if anyone else," He didn't wait for me to respond and turned and went back up the stairs. "Finish up with whatever you're doing and come back to bed," He ordered Charles.
"Okay, Winston," Charles dejectedly rested his head against two of the bars, smiling begrudgingly at Tommy. "I'm sorry,"
"No, I'm sorry," Tommy replied. "I came at a bad time,"
If there was one thing that annoyed me, it was people apologizing needlessly all the frickin' time.
"I came to give you this," Tommy pulled a newspaper-wrapped parcel out of his jacket and shoved it unceremoniously through the bars. "Merry Christmas."
Charles gasped. "Oh, Tommy, I didn't get you anything! I'm so sorry, Winston doesn't let me have any of my own money!" I wanted to punch Winston now even more, 'til I remembered that I only ever gave Tommy money when he asked for it, even though he rightfully earned it.
"It' s okay. It's not much, just something I made in class. Just a sweater,"
"No, it's not alright," Charles was flustered. "I can't make things like you, Tommy, I'm not….here," He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic Ziploc bag, full of marijuana.
Tommy flushed and quickly hid it in his hand, probably futilely hoping I hadn't seen it.
"It's not much, only a few rolls worth, but it's the BC," His voice caught with what sounded like a sob, or nervousness. Maybe it was a cocaine-drip. Who knows. "The Canadian stuff you like," Charles sighed. "I was supposed to sell it, so I'll probably get in trouble for it, but I want you to have it,"
"It's you're gonna get in trouble for it-"
"Tommy, take it. Please?" Charles bit his lip, clutching his gift. "It's all I have,"
Tommy sighed. "Alright. Merry Christmas, Charles," he shoved the baggie in his pocket, still hoping I hadn't seen it.
"Merry Christmas, Tommy." He watched us leave. "Um….Merry Christmas Turkish," He whispered as an afterthought.
I turned and smiled at him and told him the same thing, and his face lit up.
Before the door closed, I heard "Charles! Come to bed!" And a hurried, startled, "Yes, Winston,"
We walked down the dank hallway in silence, until I reached into Tommy's pocket and confiscated the little baggie. He didn't protest, but on the tube, where there were surprisingly not many people, he muttered under his breath "It's just pot, Turkish."
"It'll lead to other things." I replied quickly, just to let him know I was listening. He flinched. "One day it's pot the next it's heroin."
"No, Turkish…that's not gonna happen." He glanced up at me. "Not with you to help me."
"How long have you been doing it?" I asked him. I had made it clear from the beginning that there would be no lying, no hiding.
"Just a little bit after school sometimes,"
"But you have a preference."
He sighed. "Well….I've tried it before lots."
Then I sighed. "You told me you didn't take drugs,"
"I didn't count pot!" He tried to justify.
"Tommy, look at me," He sighed and glanced up to meet me, doing that jaw thing again. "Now don't lie. Have you ever done any other drugs?"
He looked away. "No," He said indignantly.
"The truth, Tommy,"
He glanced up a t me and sighed again. "I tried speed once," He mumbled. "But I didn't like it," He quickly recovered. "I'll never do it again and I've never done anything else."
"How can I be sure you're telling me the truth?"
Tommy looked into my eyes, hurt. "Because I am! I promise, Turkish." He bit his lip and looked away again. "I'm sorry I lied, Turkish. I didn't think it mattered."
"'F course it matters," I said gently. "Tommy, if this is going to work, we need to be able to trust each other. You have to be able to tell me everything."
Tommy looked at me apprehensively. "Everything?"
"Yeah."
He played with his fingernails and bit his lip. "I….I had a crush on Charles," he barely whispered, I could just hear him. "But now…he's got Winston and…" He sighed. "It's just that…all the other times I had to pretend I liked a guy. And the time I actually do…he doesn't like me back. It kinda hurts,"
"Oh Tommy," I drew him in for a hug, not caring for how ridiculous it looked on the tube. He was crying a little, but not big heaving sobs which I guess was a step in the right direction. I let him get it out while not showing the thoughts raging through my head, and my heart. Anger that someone would hurt Tommy so thoughtlessly, and wonder and a lot of hurt that the sweet chaste kiss Tommy had given me a month before was not a show of affection, but a survival mechanism. He had never tried to do anything like that since and I chalked a lot of that up to his realization that he no longer had to sell himself to survive.
It was a good thing, I told myself. He was getting his own back. Certainly I wasn't interested in a kept man. Then why did I want him to resume his innocent kiss? That was as bad as what Winston was doing to Charles.
"I hate Winston," Tommy muttered into my shoulder, as if he read my mind.
"So do I," I told him. Because you hate in others what you hate in yourself. "It's alright Tommy. You're still young. There's plenty of time to fall in love,"
He drew back, wiping his eyes, fine and dandy now. "I know. It's just a stupid crush. Thanks, Turkish,"
I smiled at him, a little bitterly, wondering uncharacteristically childish thoughts about when Tommy was going to develop a stupid crush on me.
"I…I can still have it, right?" He asked tentatively, referring to the pot.
"Well…if you're good," I leaned back. "We'll share it,"
His tear-stained face broke into a grin. "You're the coolest, Turkish," He leaned his head on my shoulder, as subway motions made him sleepy.
I put my arm around him protectively, and resolved never to let him visit Charles again.
I told myself it was for safety; that it was a bad neighborhood and Charles was a dealer.
But deep down I think I always knew it was just girlish jealously.
Later that day, after Tommy went to open arcade, I went off a bit on my own for a while. I arrived back a few hours later and passed him on the way to the office. He was behind the counter, staring into space. Bored. Not that I could blame him, Saturday afternoons were the slowest time of week. Most people who were not addicts had lives.
Once safely in the office I put down my bag and sorted through the things inside. I sighed and stared at the brightly colored books for a moment. I think I already mentioned how much I hated Christmas, but god, I really hated it!
I was forced into getting something for Tommy. Coerced is a better word, see that implies a total voiding of personal will.
Tommy made a point every morning of watching his cartoons, before school or on weekends or whatever. In the beginning I ignored it and was happy that it got him out of my way, and later I pretended that I didn't notice it. But deep down, like someone who cared, like an attentive lover for Christ's sake, I mentally took note of his favourite shows, and whether they were Canadian or Japanese or French or whatever.
I had to do something. The bastard was so sweet and thoughtful it made me sick. Not sick in a bad way, sick in a…self-loathing sort of way. It made me feel bad.
So I had gone over to the shopping mall and wandered around it until I found the comic book store. After listening an hour to the clerk explain the difference between a 'comic book' and a 'graphic novel', and why they were called comics when they weren't actually comical, I eventually left with the first Christmas gifts I had bought since Suzy died. I bought three of these 'graphic novels', collections of issues, from the same titles that Tommy would watch on television. Fifteen pounds each. That's forty-five pounds I'll never get back.
So I figured a kid like Tommy would be pretty much delighted if I so much as gave him the time of day on Christmas, and he'd be overjoyed that I'd noticed his favourite things, and as an added extra, he would be reading more.
Ha! I was going to be the best…whatever I was to Tommy, ever!
That stopped me. What was I to Tommy, if not a stupid crush?
A sugar daddy?
Shudder.
I pushed the thought out of my head and set to wrapping the 'novels'. After some time I heard the bells on the outside door ring. I set the parcels in the safe behind the picture, where I kept all of my treasures, and went to make sure Tommy hadn't fallen asleep behind the counter when the clients came in.
Three young men came into the casino and up to Tommy, who thankfully, hadn't fallen asleep.
I stayed at the door in case he needed me; he must have recognized them because I saw his jaw tense up and his back straighten.
"Hello, Tommy," One of them said, running his hands over the counter. "We heard you were working here now…had to see it to believe it."
Tommy didn't answer, but I saw him reach around for the bat within his grasp.
"Still sellin' your old wares, then?" One of them asked.
I felt my heart beating faster in my chest and the blood rush to my head. I was all for bursting in there and taking over myself, and I had to physically constrain myself to hold back. This was Tommy's fight. He'd have to learn to fight it himself.
"It's a casino, sir," He deadpanned. "There's a five pound minimum."
"It's good to know you've set a minimum for yourself. Our Tommy's movin' up in the world," One of them reached out to touch at Tommy's face.
Tommy glared and him and lifted the bat from behind the counter. "It's a casino, sir," He repeated, firmly. "So either buy your chips or get out,"
The men muttered amongst themselves for a moment before backing off, mumbling and chuckling under their breaths.
Tommy, for his part, didn't dissolve into tears, which I was half expecting him to. Rather he put the bat back in it's place with the barest hint of a satisfied smile on his face, and went back to the daydreams that kept street boys going another day.
For my part, I repeated his actions and retreated back into the office, with a ghost of a smile for my diamond in the rough, and dove into my paperwork.
I got through the rest of the day uneventfully, throwing a wave at Tommy as I left the arcade later, stopping off at the flat and then to the lot for a fight. I spent the entire time watching for Tommy to walk in from the street, expecting him, but he never did.
I wasn't too worried, perhaps he had been more disturbed by his encounter in the arcade than he let on, and had knocked off early.
But when I got back to the flat, he still wasn't there. I hung up my coat and sunk down in front of the telly and worried to late night television. I started ringing around after that, to Charlie, who was just as worried as I was, and Gorgeous, whom I couldn't understand due to the swelling in various parts of his face. The Gun didn't pick up, probably out scouting for women or already in bed with them. I rang the home and one of the boys told me he had no idea where Tommy would be. I was even contemplating ringing Winston and Charles, if I could find their number, when there was a knocking at the door.
A bobby stood there, my Tommy in tow.
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, this one yours?"
I hazarded a glance at Tommy, who was avoiding my gaze, not as apprehensively as he would have before.
"Yeah. What the hell is going on? What is this?"
"It's alright, sir. I found him wandering around on the streets and he asked me to take him home," He gave Tommy a tentative pat on the back. "Go on in, son,"
Tommy flashed me a small smile and moved past me inside.
"So there's nothing I should really be worried about,"
"Oh, no, sir. I just wanted to be sure Tommy got home safe."
I nodded and regarded the bobby for a moment, before closing the door without saying goodbye.
"Turkish," Tommy started as I turned to face him.
"First off, don't ever bring pigs to the flat!" I cried at him. "I don't know if I've made this clear before, but we're running an illegal operation here."
"But it's just Whitworth. He's…" Tommy trailed off as he caught my glare. "Alright. I'm sorry,"
"And where the hell have you been?" I demanded.
"Just out, Turkish."
"Out where?"
"Just around. What's wrong with me going out?"
"Freaking tell me when you do, Tommy? Why weren't you at the fight?"
Tommy scowled. "I thought you didn't want me to come to fights," he said.
"Shut up, Tommy!" I was livid. "I want to know where you are, all the time, and…what the hell are you wearing?"
I stopped and actually looked at him for the first time since the bobby brought him home. Torn jeans, little shirt with a flimsy jacket…in the dead of winter. What I found him in. I glanced up at his face and saw the numerous little cuts and scratches, his lower lip puffy and swelling.
Nasty, perverted images ran through my head.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
"I didn't come to the fight because I cashed in short. I mean really short. I think I might've fallen asleep and then somebody came in and ripped me off…" He sighed and stared up at apprehensively, dark eyes shining and wide in his face. "But I went and I got the money back. I was walking home when Officer Whitworth found me, and it would just be quicker if he took me home."
I stared at him for a moment and sank down to sit on the bed. "What?"
He sighed again, eyes starting to well up. "He was just happy I had found a home I guess…here," He shoved a fistful of pound notes into my hand. "Two hundred."
I stared in disbelief at the wad of cash in my hand. "What did you do to get this, Tommy?"
"It was just one guy, Turkish." He fidgeted. "We were safe about it,"
I continued to stare while the pulsing in my ears got louder and louder, 'til it was all I could hear. The beating of that hideous heart…the one that would dare to love again.
In all my livid fury I stood and flung the wad of cash at him. He flinched away but I don't think I noticed.
"Fuck it, Tommy! What the fuck is wrong with you?" He winced and shuddered at every harsh word, but I pressed on anyway. "After everything we've been through, everything I've fucking done for you, and you throw it all away to go out and whore around?"
He was pressed against the kitchen counter now, hunching away from me. "I-I had to get the money back for you, Turkish,"
"No, you fucking didn't! Who the hell cares? It's just fucking money!" I raised a hand. "You-"
I stopped when I saw him flinching away, his face scrunched up and his arms raised to ward off a blow. I stood there breathing heavily for a moment, before storming over to the couch and sinking into it. The telly was still on and I bathed myself in it's warm glow, waiting for a serenity that was a long time coming.
I don't know how long we both stayed where we were, but eventually Tommy came, silently, and knelt by the couch, staring up at me.
I didn't look at him, but registered that he had removed his coat and shoes. Now all he had were the jeans and the bowling shirt, the ones I had found him in.
"Turkish?" he asked cautiously. My only response was to draw in a shaky breath and ignore him. He sighed. "Turkish, please," he put his hands at my waist and rubbed soothingly. I continued to ignore him.
Eventually he drew himself up onto the couch and onto my lap. Dammit, now I had to look at him.
His head was bent low as he unbuttoned my shirt. My eyes grew wide. "Tommy, what-"
"Shhh," he commanded. He ran his hands over my chest with the efficiency of someone only as experienced as he, and bent his head to my chest. I sighed. Felt like I was in a dream, one of my daily fantasies coming true. I was happy enough at the beginning to believe that my wishes were coming true. That he had finally developed that 'stupid crush'. I bent my own head to kiss him back, but he drew away.
That's when I realized what he was doing.
"Tommy, no," I pushed him away.
He landed on his bottom on the floor and stared pleadingly up at me.
"Why the hell would you go and do a thing like that?" I demanded as I buttoned my shirt, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice.
"I…I needed to pay you back somehow, Turkish," he said.
"I'm not your fucking sugar daddy!" I yelled at him. He flinched and backed away as I got up and paced. "Until both of us are ready for a real relationship with each other, which I'm beginning to doubt will ever happen, you will never to that again. Do you understand?"
Tommy nodded, sniffling. "So….you didn't like it?" He asked fearfully.
I was staring at the pile of money on the table now. While I was seething, he must've picked up the notes and put them together. I sighed and took the pile in hand. Why take away the one thing he figured he was good at?
"Go get ready for bed, Tommy," I said softly.
Tommy scrambled up and to the bathroom. "Yes, sir," He mumbled.
I put the pile of notes with the carry-all I took to the office and sighed. I turned off the telly, stripped and fell into bed, rubbing at my eyes. I started thinking about convoluted, obscure things, like tea and the Queen and Druid civilization. I thought about how you could watch a fight and never really understand the effort or pain that was involved, and how you could look at a rock hard diamond and forget how easily they shattered when struck at the right angle.
I thought about the Birmingham Six and wondered why I was even bothering trying to help Tommy out of whatever psychological prison he was in. I was a criminal, just the same as Winston or Brick Top or the bastards that did this to Tommy. I was at the bottom of the societal food chain.
No, I told myself, if I were at the bottom I would have taken advantage of Tommy like all the others. The ones at the bottom are the pedophiles, crack dealers at primary school playgrounds, not gamblers. At least, the good karma I would get taking care of Tommy (provided I even could) would cancel out the bad karma I had accumulated arranging ways for Gorgeous to break his nose. Right?
There is honour amongst thieves.
The Birmingham Six went free eventually.
My mind was dwelling on such things and didn't register the absence of light when Tommy flipped them off and tentatively crawled into bed with me, hugging Antwerp to him.
"What are you doing?" I asked him softly.
"I…can I sleep with you tonight?"
"No," I answered cruelly.
"….okay…" I felt the weight lifted from the bed and heard him shuffle to his mattress. He lay down, fighting back sobs and sniffles.
I fell asleep that night, as I had so many months before, listening to the sounds of Tommy trying desperately not to make any noise.
(*
So I felt bad about what I did. It was cruel; I'll admit it. Like taking candy from a baby or something. Probably the one thing he had to look forward too and I had taken it away. In the days that followed, Tommy fell into this stupor of disinterest, not so much sulking or moping, he was just…there. He wasn't even eager or please anymore, in fact he barely even acknowledged him when I asked him to do something.
We had both made a huge mistake with each other and now I think we were both paying the price for it now. I know I was, for I had to lay awake at night and listen to him sob quietly, and of course, he was the one doing the sobbing.
Just ask, I'd will silently. I'm sorry, just ask and I'll say yes. Of course I didn't say this aloud. Pride got in the way. And thusly I ruined him.
Tommy still had this silly notion of having to pay me back. He asked if he could open arcade on weekdays now that the home was breaking lessons for Christmas. I told him no, that he had been given a holiday for a reason. His teacher had given him an extra English project to help with his reading over the break. I wanted him to work on that.
He didn't, though. I'd come home and he'd be sitting in front of the telly or in the windowsill, staring listlessly out at the dreary grey of London's winter. And sometimes I'd get around to the lot and see him begging Gorgeous to teach him how to fight. I was livid then, and that just must've hurt Tommy more. Gorgeous wouldn't teach him anything, though, good kid.
Tommy'd say there was no point in doing his schoolwork, he wasn't going to get it anyway, he was too stupid. It broke my heart to hear him say things like that, and I tried to coax him into work but he refused. Then of course, I got angry; I got angry about everything it seems. He didn't even try to defend himself, or even apologize, like he used to. His jaw didn't even tense and set, his eyes didn't widen with hurt or anger or tears. He just sat there.
It was one of those problems that was only going to get worse before it got better.
And it did.
Maybe five days before Christmas I got around to the office to find both Gorgeous, Charlie and the Gun.
"Why, Turkish?" The Gun asked.
"Why what?"
"Why'd you make this deal now?" The huge boxer didn't look up from his newsprint. "I heard about Brick Top's boy, Matthew from Manchester. He's huge. I don't think George is ready for him."
"I'm plen'y ready!" Gorgeous cried indignantly. The Gun only snorted.
"What are you talking about? George is fighting old Taran from Cardiff tonight."
"Well then what was Tommy on about?" George looked up from stirring his tea.
"What the hell's going on?" I asked again.
"Tommy come in here not five minutes ago and told me I was fighting at Brick Top's tonight. Said I was to win and all," He grinned. "Seems ol' Brick Top's got some faith in me."
"Whatever," Charlie, who was already reading it, dismissed in his Eastern European accent. "It's rigged anyway, Manchester Matt's gonna have to go down sometime,"
"Not Manchester Matt!" I felt the blood rushing to my head. "He's too much like Gorgeous. If he can take someone, he'll take them. Fuck it!" I burst through the door and stormed into the casino.
Tommy was behind the counter, staring into nowhere as per usual.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I yelled, ignoring the startled clients spooked out of their peaceful, expensive reverie. "What is this I hear about you dealing with Brick Top behind my back? If it's true, so help me God, boy, I'll beat you within an inch of your life!" I reached out and smacked him behind the head. He flinched, and you think this would have stopped me, but it didn't. I went on yelling about trust and ethics and God knows what else all when he shakily thrust a wad of pound notes at me.
"I…I cashed in short again….Bri-Brick Top said he would p-pay three hundred for Gor…for Gorgeous to win." Most of the clients had vacated by now and somewhere I registered that Charlie was standing by my elbow.
"Turkish, calm down," He started.
"Stay the fuck out of this, Charlie!" I swatted Charlie's timid hand away and didn't register the surprise on the old man 's face. I leaned forward, staring at Tommy's wide, dark and terrified eyes. "You made a deal behind my back?"
"Y-yes, Turkish,"
"With Brick Top?"
"Yes, Turkish.."
"And you went to him alone, did you?"
"Yes, Turkish!"
I snapped. "You fucking stupid whore!" Not even caring about the open-mouthed shocked look he wore, one of absolute soul-shattering hurt, I knocked the notes out of his hand and stormed out, slamming the door behind me.
Sometime later I would recall that I saw Tommy fall sobbing and shuddering into Charlie's arms.
Tommy came with me to the fight, he had to, it was technically his. I still hadn't apologised for what I had said. I wanted to, with all my heart, but I'd look at him and see his dark eyes glazed over and his walk just the tiniest bit slouched and shuffling and I couldn't bring myself to do. And then I'd remember where we were and I'd just get angry all over again.
I pushed him down into a seat by our corner and said harshly "You sit here and don't say anything to anyone,"
He might have whispered 'yes sir' but I didn't actually hear it.
I swung myself up on the side of the ring and bent down to Gorgeous. "How are you holding up?"
"Jesus, Turkish, lookit t'size o' him!" He was staring apprehensively at the huge ugly stupid-looking monster sitting across in the other corner, grinning like an idiot.
"I know," I replied. "But just hang in there. Don't throw all your punches at first, wear him out, then take your shot. He's got to go down sometime," I patted him encouragingly on the back and he nodded.
"I'll try," I swung myself back down to the floor and the fight began.
He took my advice, and spent the better first half dancing around his huge opponent, much like a fruit fly around one's nose. Manchester Matt got a few good punches in, however, and the crowd howled. They had come to see blood of course, not an intricate dance of grace and muscle. They came for the blood, not the art. Few ever came for the art- art was for the starving.
In between rounds I'd swing myself up and mop the blood off George's face and listened to him wheeze and pant. "Why won't he go down?" He asked piteously when there was one round left, already swelling and bruising and bruising all over.
I hazarded a glance at Tommy when the last round began. The rest of the crowd was screaming and cheering around him and sat dejectedly with his head held low, staring at some spot on the ground.
I returned to watching the fight, the last crucial bits of the fight where everything is blurry and unreal, hazy and slow. Gorgeous tried to explain to me once the feel of a fight, the fogginess and pain and the way blood flew and was no longer part of your body. How you felt disconnected, ethereal, just a raging spirit trapped in a mortal shell, trying to fight it's way out.
Manchester Matt socked Gorgeous a good one right in the face, breaking his nose for the umpteenth time. There was a period of anticipation as Gorgeous slowly fell to the floor.
The crowd roared. Cheering, possibly, maybe yelling out anger and frustration and disgust. Brick Top was standing across from me now, that look of hatred and anger that reduced grown men to tears.
Whilst the referee was counting Gorgeous' time on the ground, I felt hope drain from my body in one fell swoop. I felt the way Tommy must've felt not too long ago. I just gave up.
But George didn't. I slumped onto the corner post and sighed, and in that space of an instance when the referee reached three, that fraction of a second that would mean life or death, George ripped himself off the ring floor and flung himself at Matt with everything he had.
The fight didn't last long after that, until Manchester Matt was a boneless puddle of blood. The referee counted and then amidst roars and cheers, lifted George's hand. It didn't last long. Gorgeous' eyes rolled back in his head and he too slumped onto the floor.
He wasn't so gorgeous after that. We couldn't take Gorgeous to hospital so we took him to the caravan. Neither of us spoke while we tended to him. When we were done, Tommy tucked Gorgeous in rather like he was a baby doll and whispered, sadly, to no one in particular "I'm sorry,"
I didn't answer as I pushed my way out of the caravan. I didn't feel like I really cared if Tommy followed up to the flat or not.
Once there, the raging emotions that build up through the day exploded out.
"What the fuck was that, Tommy?"
"I'm sorry," He repeated again.
"Well sorry isn't good enough, is it? Sorry's not going to bring George back from his coma, possibly the grave, is it?"
"I- I don't know what I can say. I didn't know-"
"That's the problem isn't it? You never know."
"I was just trying to please you, Turkish." Tears were streaming down his face now, and he trembled.
"Well obviously you failed, didn't you, Tommy." We stood there a few minutes, staring at each other, daring.
"If you don't want me, I'll leave," Tommy finally said.
"Then leave."
If I could cut off my right arm to take those words back, I would. Tommy's eyes widened and his jaw set and my heart shattered into a billion pieces. The next thing I knew he was ripping off his beige trenchcoat and throwing it at my feet.
"Then you can take the coat you paid for, and your fucking Italian leather shoes," Tommy took those off and threw them at me. Something broke behind me but I didn't care. He angrily flung his schoolbooks at me, the pencils I bought for him. "And you books and pencils, 'cause I don't fucking want them!" Then he stripped, right in front of me. "And you can look at what you could'a had," He angrily pulled on the jeans, the bowling shirt, the ones I found him in, and his old Converse sneakers, and pulled on the one sweater he had previously owned, and threw his torn khakis in the red duffel. And that was it. He flung the door open and threw a loud, angry, "fuck you!" before he slammed it.
I listened to his thumping footsteps disappear down the hall for longer than I care to remember. Then I slumped to the floor in the middle of a mess of shattered dreams and cried like a baby.
To be concluded in Diamond in the Rough 4/4