Sorry about the delay with my stories right now … school and friends and generally just mass craziness! Things will be getting back to normal soon, however, so keep checking in with me and see what's new.

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated.

And as I've said before, only Shame and Finch are mine. Suing me will get you no where; in fact, the expenses of a court case against me would greatly outweigh any potential profits because as of right now, I am absolutely flat broke.

The Blood-Red Streets of Brooklyn

THREE

Even the sunlight was cold the next morning when he awoke. Finch had already gone and Shame, opening his eyes, felt himself sprawled out across the mattress.

His body did not feel rested but that was to be expected. Heaving himself up, he could see the Brooklyn Boys stirring in the cold light of a cold day.

Cold matched the feeling in his heart.

"Mornin'," one of the newsies greeted him and he smiled dopily.

"Morning, Monty." he nodded in reply and reached for his shirt. Running a hand over his hair to flatten it, he then brushed his teeth was an old toothbrush he had tucked into his suitcase that fateful day which now seemed so long ago.

The halls were alive with newsboys readying themselves for their morning sell. Dirty clothing was scattered everywhere and he stepped over it as another boy, shaving, bumped into him.

"Sorry," the boy said and smiled. "Mornin' tah yah, Shame."

The small boy smiled politely in return. These boys had taken time to warm up to him, but now, just as with each other, they would gladly fight for him, protect him at any costs. In turn, he had come to know them, and to love them.

He descended the bleak staircase into the entrance hall. Sometimes Spot slept there, other times he was tucked away in a room high up in the warehouse. It all depended upon Spot's mood, his inclination to be silent. It also depended upon the presence of Racetrack.

Light was filtering through the filthy windows but it was deceiving because winter would soon set in. Summer in New York was like summer in an oven, but winter … winter was the meanest, bleakest season of all. He wished that for the orphans' sake it would hold off or come mildly. But most years, most years …

"Ovah heah, Shame." It was Spot Conlon's voice. Shame could tell already that he had a new chore, a new request to which to adhere.

He went obediently and Spot held out a hand with a folded, stamped paper. Shame took it, and, dreading what he would hear, tucked it away in his vest pocket.

"What do I need to do, Spot?" he asked, intense black eyes peering up into Spot's face. Those dark eyes swirled with emotion, with intelligence, with the unspoken. There were still things he was never able to speak aloud, not to Spot, not to Jack, not anyone. Save only to Finch.

Only to Finch.

"Tah Jack, Shame, an' be quick. I'se gonna need yah back soon." he answered, then moved off in another direction.

Finch was sitting on a bench against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette. Hand on the pocket in which the letter lay, Shame took a few weak steps toward his friend.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "I'll sleep there and eat on the way back."

"Want me tah go wichyou?"

He shrugged. "If you want."

"We can make the trip all today if you want to be back here befoah dusk."

"Nah, I think I'll just stay overnight." This may have been Finch's home, but it certainly was not Shame's. No, and it never would be.

Spot was glancing over in their direction. "I need yah heah, Finch." he called in a loud, clear voice.

"Oh." Finch raised his eyebrows in a humourous way. "Dat settles dat, I suppose."

Shame smiled in understanding. "Yeah, I suppose it does. Listen," he said, and rose. "Take care, will you? Can't be too safe anymore." And although his voice asked but one question, his eyes swirled with the promises of a thousand worlds.

"I will, Shame." Finch said gently. He was a big kid, tall and strong, but with Shame he was infinite gentleness. "You too, kid." And for an instant they warmly embraced. "I'll see yah latah, kid." Then Shame was gone.

It was exactly the kind of weather expected from a mid-October day and Shame was pleased that there was no humidity and a cool breeze stirring the waters of the Hudson below him as he walked across the Bridge. Some were afraid of this Bridge, he knew, some got sick and dizzy from the height, but when he stopped to peer over the side, he felt no fear, only wonder and the tiniest, most fragile bit of optimism. He did not like to be away from Finch, he never did, but now that he was, at least he was alone with his writings and his itinerary intact. Sometimes he liked to be able to think his thoughts and go about his own way. Sometimes it was nice not to have to hear his own voice stirring up reluctant conversation.

He could hear the Angelus expelling the flock as it had called them in two hours ago. The bells had an even sound to them, a good sound and he liked the clear musicality of them. It was a big church to which they summoned the pious, an ancient great place that sat like a fortress just miles from the Manhattan Lodging House. Even the dust of the place seemed magical and when he passed through its huge arching doorways, he dipped his fingers in the holy water and blessed himself.

The place was empty was he moved down the aisle and toward the altar. He was not a pious Catholic, or a Protestant, or anything else for that matter. Rather he felt at peace inside the church, felt calmed and protected and comforted. His eyes rested on the huge Celtic cross atop the altar. Irish Catholic, the place was, hated as the Irish were in New York. The silence felt good, the coolness drying the tiny bit of sweat that had beaded up on his fine eyebrows. It was like a security blanket to Shame, who was glad to escape the problematic chaos of the outside world. In the church, things were different -- calm, almost, and still.

There was an involuntary snap within his mind, and he remembered back to a very, very long time ago … a dark-haired woman with blue eyes tugging him along gently, smiling … sitting in the pew with the woman, whispering in her ear … but she was gone now and only Shame remained. The memory made him comforted and calm. In here, the world was still. In here, everything was different. In here, he could control things.

He clutched at his hat as he moved up the aisle. Near the front he slid into a pew and sat for a moment. Quietly he took off his bag and left it on the ground next to his hat. Candles flickered as he approached the altar. A picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was against the wall and he thought it would look so much lovelier without the crown of thorns that was drawing blood from its pulsating mass.

The marble was cool on his knees even through his trousers as he knelt. He peered up at the Sacred Heart. That dark-haired woman, smiling … that gracefully aging woman holding him to herself, rocking him gently as they listened to the priest drone on in Latin … kissing his fine dark hair … blue eyes dancing …

They were the only memories he had of her.

He heard footsteps coming from the door to the confessional. "Shame," said a soft voice. "How are you?"

Shame bowed his head. He knew the voice. He knew the voice and he loved the voice. It brought to him a certain comfort that nothing else could quite do.

"I'm well, Father. And you?"

He looked on as the middle-aged priest straightened the white collar that proclaimed him as one of the Faith.

"I find meself well, Shame, thank you. What troubles bring you here, my child?"

"Just the usual, Father. Just the usual."

The Father's tone was always so sincere and gentle. Whereas most priests moved Shame to fear God, Father Carey was tender and understanding. "Have you something to talk about, my child?"

"No, Father." He sighed. The church was so quiet, so serene. Sometimes Shame slept here when he had no where else to go. Churches all tried to help the sick and the homeless, they all tried to be the best in God's eyes, but of all the places which had once helped him, Shame thought he liked this one best.

Father Carey never failed to have a sympathetic ear. He confessed some of the Brooklyn Boys, those with the Faith at least. Shame did not claim to have the Faith but he liked Father Carey and he liked the peace and protection of the church. "You have all your things with you." he said, motioning to the bag slumped next to the pew. Then he smiled kindly. He had kind eyes, Father Carey did. "Are you to leave us again, child?"

It was like Finch calling him "kid" … he was oddly comforted by it. "Yeah, I'm off to Manhattan. I need to give a letter to someone."

"All alone?" He shook his head gently. "'Tisn't safe now, 'tisn't right for you to be alone in such a time as this."

"I wouldn't get paid if I didn't go, Father," Shame insisted. How often had he confided to this man? All those times … all those times Father Carey had listened. "And there was no one extra to go with me. Sometimes," he said quietly. "Sometimes I like being alone."

"W all do." came the ready answer.

Shame blinked. "Even you, Father?"

"Even me."

Father Carey took a seat next to Shame. There was a giant crucifix around his neck, tucked away in the pocket just over his heart. His simple black robes invited Shame to forget about his own meager existence.

"You're off to see the newsboys?"

"Yes, Father. To give them the letter and to ask them to help fight the Children's Crusade."

Father Carey sighed. "The Children's Crusade. Long into the night I've prayed for such a thing to end," he said and his eyes were full of the same weariness that had filled Spot's eyes. "Would it offend you, Shame, if I told you that I have for you, and for Finch, and for the other boys, too?"

Shame shook his head. He had never claimed to follow the faith but Father Carey was a great friend to him and he would never tell the Father that his prayers offended him because of all kindnesses in the world, this was one of the greatest, thought Shame. "No, of course not. I thank you for your prayers, Father."

"Oh, I just wish you all safety and comfort."

The small boy shifted his weight in the hard wooden pew. "Comfort we will never have, but safety … one day we might see something of that sort."

"I do all that I can, Shame, and so do many others."

"Thank you, Father."

The Father smiled kindly. His smile was always kind. "Think nothing of it, my child."

"Will you confess me, Father?"

"Right now?"

"Yes, Father."

He sighed. His hair was very dark, though not as dark as Shame's own, and it was speckled in a place or two by early gray. He stood. "Here, then, Shame," he said, opening the door to the confessional.

Shame knelt. In the dark he could not see the priest and it made him feel better. But he'd tell Father Carey about such things as his sins more willingly than anyone else. Well, maybe not Finch, but Father Carey was different than Finch anyway.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a fortnight since I last confessed."

"And what sins have you committed in a fortnight, my child?"

"I lied, I stole. Sometimes I think too much, Father, because I have not lived enough. I think too much even when I know it is wrong."

"My child, my child, surely you are not as bad as all that. Even now in such trying times you remain innocent. You have nothing to fear, my child."

"Even though I lie and cheat and steal, Father?"

"Even so, child," he heard the calming voice. "Have you anything else heavy on your conscience?"

"No, Father."

"Then go thou freed, and be absolved of all that worries you. Do a good deed for another, my child, and so shall you be forgiven. Bless you, my child."

Shame filed from the box. He did not like the idea of someone else knowing all his secret troubles, but this was different. This was Stephen Carey and Father Carey had never failed to help him before, not once, not ever. He liked Father Carey, he trusted Father Carey … what he said was said in confidence and never repeated.

It was another few moments before Father Carey quietly came from the confessional. Sometimes I think too much, Father, because I have not lived long enough. He felt better, his conscience lighter. Even if he did not have the Faith, he had the Conscience and many times it did keep him awake at night.

As usual the Father went to his own chambers, purposely giving Shame time to reflect on things past. This Shame did, kneeling before a statue of the Virgin Mary. He looked up into her face. The chiseled eyes were kind and sincere, rimmed with only the faintest traces of sadness. For a long time he studied her, then bowed his head and rose. If something happened in Manhattan and he could not stay there, he could come back and sleep in the church. At least in the church he was protected by watchful eyes. No one would dare approach him in this holiest of places, surely.

So he left, the giant oak doors closing softly behind him. There was the tiniest bit of regret, as always, since the church was so quiet and cool and so far removed, it seemed, from the stinking streets. The flowers around the altar gave the interior a nice scent. Such a lovely smell. But the streets, the streets … it was a different world. At least it was a comfort to know that Chicago had been much the same.

With a worn black shoe he scuffed at the gravel beside the road. The day was his now, he was free. There were times when he liked that feeling; other times he despised it without knowing why. Sometimes there was a sad feeling in his heart and he did not understand that either. A downtrodden feeling as if his soul had fallen a great distance and would not come back. Those were the times he stayed close to Finch, the times he slept in the church. He had not ever understood it, not ever more than half-way acknowledged it. But now it seemed to consume him, especially late in the night when all the heaviness of the world fell upon his little shoulders.

Tonight, though, tonight he would sleep in the warmth and comfort of the Manhattan Lodging House. Tonight he would surround himself with good people and good food and funny jokes and light-heartedness.

He strolled off in the direction of a falling sun.