Unlikely Messiah

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Author's note: My second "Snatch" fanfiction. Calls for celebration, doesn't it? (Or no…)
I wrote it yesterday when I sought to escape the news of more dead bodies found in Asia. I'm glad to say all people I know who were there at the time of the tsunami are in good health and safety, but there are just so many other who have lost people close to them. So I'd like to take this opportunity to say that if you have economical means to, please donate. It'll help more than you think, no matter how little the sum of money you contribute with.

With all that said, disclaimer's the same as ever: Guy Ritchie owns "Snatch" and all its characters, I just play around with 'em. The stranger's mine, however. (Not that I want him to be… bloody bastard.)

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It wasn't my fault. If I'd known he would be there, I would've never gone in the first place.

It was Thursday, and I was out doing some less-than-legal chores, which required darkness. The time was nearing half past twelve. Moon was up, bright and shiny like a silver coin never to be picked off its satin underground.

My mother always told me the stars were holes through which you could catch a glimpse of Paradise, if you were lucky. I never really believed it. I was more of the down-to-earth type. Besides, all the stars ever did for me was watch, shining spookily with their pallid light, as I was beaten near death. That's happened a couple of times and the stars were never to much use then. I suppose my mum thought her little tale would cheer me up. Well, it bloody well didn't. All it did was let me down. Like when you're little, you think Santa exists 'cause your parents tell you so. Next thing you know, you hear from your adolescent friend Santa's a fucking fake. I suppose my mom never thought of her tales as lies. Just something nice to say when I was small and needed comfort. Nevertheless, it was a pretty crappy thing to do to a child.

Then again, my mum's idea of raising me was pretty much kicking me out of the house and telling me to stay the fuck away until her customer had finished with her.

I was making my way through a particularly shady alleyway, carrying the bag of goods clutched tightly to my chest, when he approached from behind a container in front of me. A forty-something male, from whose face you could tell had been very handsome in his youth. He wore a suite that seemed all too expensive to wear in these parts of town. I figured him for a businessman, or possibly a politician. Hell, some of those fellows got strange habits. I stopped instantly, hand on the gun in my pocket, but not drawing it. It was better to wait. To wait and see what this might bring.

"Pretty late and dark for a night-time stroll, isn't it?" the man said. "At least for a boy your age." I could tell by his accent that he was Irish, probably from some godforsaken one-TV-town somewhere in the outskirts of the country. The man leant himself on the container and reached for something in his inner coat pocket. Instinctively, I drew my gun – didn't want to be caught off guard, now did I – but what he extracted was a pack of cigarettes, harmful only to his own health. I kept the gun up in his face – couldn't be too careful – but he didn't seem to mind the least bit; he lit one of the cigarettes and drew breath intensely from it. Then, he blew the smoke in my face. The asphyxiating feeling was unbearable. I coughed as discretely as I could – that is to say, not very.

"M-my age?" My retort was short and curt – just the way I'd wanted it. I sounded a lot more confident than I was feeling. Right that moment, I would've given anything to run away, but I didn't. That was pride fucking with my head. Also, I needed to get through this particular alleyway. Nowadays, I've got my priorities more straight. When in danger, I run. I run like hell. Well, at least most of the time. "Excuse me, but who the hell are you, and since when's my age your fucking concern?"

The stranger smiled, still exhaling smoke like an old-fashioned exhaust pipe. Actually, it was more of a smirk than a smile. "Since now, kid. So… how old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-two," I said, voice now quavering slightly. The man gave me the creeps, and I didn't know exactly why. What did he want with my age, anyway? "Old enough to be out on my own, yeah?"

The man chuckled. "Really. Twenty-two? You've got to be fucking kidding me. I'm supposed to buy that? I'd card you anytime." He was playing with his lighter while he spoke to me. I half-expected him to drop it any minute, but he didn't. He tossed it in the air, grabbed it, dropped it, and then grabbed it again. It was like the lighter was performing a dance. I'd never seen anything like it before.

I shuddered. "Okay, I'm nineteen. Nineteen. So what? Why do you care how old I am?"

Another smirk. Seemed this guy was enjoying his own little games. I felt like I was some sort of pawn in a game I did not understand. "Nineteen, eh? I would've guessed… seventeen, tops."

"Shut up! I've been on my own since I was fucking twelve." The gun in my hand was beginning to warm up, the cold steel sucking up heat from my skin and the flesh beneath. It was quaking 'cause of my hand's distinct shivering, and I could do nothing but remove it from the stranger's face. I wasn't scaring him with my tough-guy act. He seemed to be able to see right through me.

"Anyway, I've got places to go, and you're standing in my way at the moment. If there's nothing else you want, I'd be happy if you could move your arse so I can get past." I stuffed the gun down in my pocket again. Hadn't found a holster for it yet, and I couldn't think of a better place for safekeeping in the meantime.

"So what's in the bag?" the stranger asked, ignoring my futile plea like an irritating fly's weak buzzing sound. He looked at it interestedly.

I glared at him. "What's it to you?"

"I might be interested in the contents." He put out his cigarette on the cold, red-painted surface of the container, and before I knew it, he was holding a wallet in his hand – from what I could tell a very well filled wallet. "See, I've got a lot of money at the moment, and I'm new in town, so I don't have a supplier."

Jeez. He'd figured me out. I was beginning to sweat now, though I'd never felt colder in my entire life. Was I that obvious? Maybe it was time to change my routines and patterns, if I was that easy to discover. "Alright, have a look then." I put down the bag on the ground, carefully, and then shoved it in his direction using my foot. I didn't want to take another step closer to the man – he still freaked me out.

The man bent down and looked through it. When he lifted his head, he had a big smile on his lips.

"Are we happy?" I asked cautiously.

"Oh yeah, we're happy all right," the man said, and he lifted up a small bag containing white powder. It looked a bit like flour. The label said '40 grams'. "You carry weapons, too?"
"Just bullets," I said, pointing vaguely at the bag. "Lots of different types, though. Go ahead, check 'em out."

The man laughed, straightening himself up, still holding the bag firmly in his hand. "Nah, I've got my own stock. Just wondered… you know, for future business." He opened his wallet, and counted the bills carelessly. Then, he practically threw them at me, like they'd burnt him. "Here, you take that. Suppose it'll suffice, will it?"

I felt like my eyes would come gouging out of their sockets. He'd given me money so I'd survive throughout the entire month without being able to sell anything. I would've been crazy to tell him it was more than enough, then he might've taken some of it back, and if there's one thing I've learned from being in the business, it's 'take what you can get', no matter the situation or method. "Yeah… yeah, it'll suffice."

"Great. Great." He nodded, his head bobbing up and down so that it almost looked like a balloon. Last time I'd got a balloon was my third birthday. I know people aren't supposed to have memories that old, but I do. Perhaps that's because it's one of the precious few moments of my childhood I can look back on and actually smile at. The balloon had been a cherry nuance of red. I'd loved it. This man, however, did not inspire such feelings. "So I guess that concludes our affair, boy. I just have one more question."
"What?"
"Your name, boy. What's you're name?"

I gulped. There was nothing on earth I wanted less than to tell the strange man my name, but by the looks of things, I didn't have a choice. He was standing in my way, and I couldn't turn around now. I had to get past, and the only way to do that was to accommodate his wish.
"Tommy. My name is Tommy."

Pearly white teeth glinted in the dark alongside scarily glowing eyes. "Tommy. 'S a nice name for a boy. For a sweet little thing like you."

His hand was suddenly stroking my hair. He was a bit taller than I was, and more muscular, at that. I recoiled. I hadn't seen it coming, and I was confused as to what he was doing. But I didn't run away. Pride again. Mostly idiocy, perhaps, but also pride. And you'd think I would've learnt the basics after spending my entire life on the streets.

"Can I… can I pass now?" I asked, my voice reduced to an almost inaudible whisper. I was scared, frightened out of my wits, and I knew it showed. I was never a talented actor.

"Listen… I'll throw in a couple of quid extra," the man half-whispered eagerly. He was close now, so close I could taste his breath. Whiskey and cigarettes. Anxiety rose within me, and yet I found myself paralysed when the big man pressed my body against his and held me in such a tight grip I could scarcely breathe. "You just do what I say and everything will work out fine. I won't even hurt you much…"

"P-please…" I felt a sob go through my body. I just wanted to break free, run off, but there was nothing I could do. Instead I stood there like an idiot, quavering. The man liked it, I could tell. He liked the feeling of power and control he had over me, and the fear he induced. He grinned darkly and I could hear him unbuttoning his trousers. That's when I felt the first tears trickle down my face.

"You streetrats are up to anything, right?" he panted, his disgusting breath filling me up as he forced his tongue in my mouth. I gasped, trying to tilt my head back and avoid him, but his hand had locked a tight grip around my neck, and everything started to spin real fast around me as I gave up, my body going limp in his embrace…

"Hey, you! Get off 'im!"

A strong, robust voice penetrated the air and made the man disrupt everything and turn his head around, not for one second letting go of me, but giving me a slight chance to breathe.

"It's none of your business, you big, fat… aaargh!"

As the man was yanked away by a strong hand, I fell to the ground, hitting my head on the asphalt. I heard distinct sounds of a violent fight, and I tried to sit up, to see things more clearly, but everything was still spinning, and all I got were pretty blurred visions of a big beefy stranger beating the crap out of my attacker with a baseball bat. As I grinned pathetically, I felt something run down my cheek. I tried to wipe it off and found that it was blood, originating from the wound I'd got when I hit the ground.

Someone was kneeling right by my side, patting me awkwardly on the shoulder. I looked up. It was a reasonably young man, wearing a beige coat and sporting a bruise just above his right eyebrow. He looked back at me, his eyes speaking of real concern.

"You okay?" he said briskly. It seemed he didn't want to appear too concerned about my health. Like it was a means to keep his distance to me.

"Fine," I said, immediately having to cough afterwards. He didn't look repulsed or anything, though – he just sat there right, not moving an inch from my side.

"What's your name?" he then asked, handing me a handkerchief. "Here, you should try and cleanse that wound somewhat. It looks nasty."

"My name's Tommy," I replied for the second time that fateful night, and wiped off some blood with the probably formerly white, now slightly ivory handkerchief. I could still hear the sounds of the baseball bat hitting the man, and the screams that inevitably followed. "Thanks."

The man in the beige coat smiled at me lopsidedly. "Tommy," he said. "I'm Turkish."

"You're what?" He didn't seem awfully foreign to me. I felt confused.

He grinned. "Yeah, I know, it's a funny name. Long story, how I got it. Not important. Well, anyway, I hope we didn't interrupt… business or something. We just thought it looked like you needed help."

"Who's… who's he?" I pointed at the guy currently beating the crap out of my customer.

"Him? That's Gorgeous. He's good having around when stuff happens."

"Yeah, I kind of noticed." I forced myself to grin back at him. "Gorgeous and Turkish. My name doesn't even compare."

"Well, consider yourself lucky. By the way, what're you doing out this time of night? 'S kind of late for you, isn't it?"

I frowned, deeply affronted. "Why does everyone think I'm a fucking kid? I'm not! I can take care of myself, I just… that wasn't… I mean, I couldn't have…"

"How old are you, then?"

I looked away. Figured it was best to tell the truth right away rather than just fake my age again. It hadn't worked the first time; it sure as hell wouldn't work this time, either. "Nineteen."

"I'll be damned. And…" He reached for the bag, and looked in it, a grimace of disgust on his face. "And you sell this stuff?"

"Well, I don't have much choice, do I?" I said cheekily. "There are worse things I could sell."

"I know." He glared at me as if he was trying to see right through me. Then, he sighed and got to his feet. "Well, you got a place to stay? Somewhere we could take you?"

Once again, I looked away, for a moment glowering at the man being beaten into a gory mess. It looked like he was begging now, begging the man Turkish had called Gorgeous to stop hitting him. He'd gone over from using the baseball bat to just kicking him in the stomach over and over, and every time the man screamed, in the face. His expensive suite was tainted by blood. Somehow I just knew those stains wouldn't go away however many times he dry-cleaned it.

"Not really," I mumbled. "But I'll figure something out."

He looked at me. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. "Don't want to make any more trouble for you guys than I already have."

"Trouble? Gorgeous could use the extra training. He'll profit from it, you'll see." Turkish winked at me.

"Training?"

"He's a boxer. I'm a boxing promoter. Gorgeous is the best, I'm tellin' ya. You don't want to be on the receiving end of his punches. I know, 'cause I've sparred with him. No thank you, you keep it." I had offered him the handkerchief back, but when he'd said no persistently, I stuffed it down my pocket. "Look," he said, looking serious indeed, "I get the part where you have to sell that stuff to survive." He indicated the bag with his left hand, gesturing vaguely. "What I don't get is why you feel the weird need to run from your salvation. Me and Gorgeous are going to the office to get some stuff. You can come with, if you like."

I shook my head. "I'm already in your bloody debt. I don't want to be a burden. I'll… I'll find somewhere to crash."

"A parking-lot? A charming alleyway in this calibre? Don't think so, kid. You're comin' with. End of fucking story. I'm offering you a roof over your head. Just until morning, then you can be on your merry way. Just want to make sure another one of these guys -" he nodded at the bloody, writhing pile that Gorgeous was still kicking energetically, "- don't take advantage of your, shall I say vulnerable state? It'd be easy, you know. And fucking unnecessary when we could've prevented it." He reached out for my hand and grabbed it. Then, he pulled me up to my feet. "Come on. I'm not asking you to marry me, I'm asking you to accept my offer and be safe, if only just for the night."

I couldn't help but smile. This man was a freakin' Messiah. An unlikely one, but still. What did I have to lose, anyway? "Well, in that case… I suppose I accept, then."

"Of course you do," Turkish agreed. He dragged me along toward Gorgeous' location and I only stopped to pick up my bag. It was a bit torn now, but at least it held together properly.

"Okay, Gorgeous, I think he's got the message. Haven't you?" Turkish peered down at the man lying on the asphalt. He was beaten beyond recognition.

"W-what's… your… problem? I… I fucking p-paid him, that's what… I promise I'll…" the man mumbled. A couple of his teeth had been kicked out, so he had trouble with pronunciation, but I could still hear every word he said. I bent down and looked upon him, disgusted and repulsed into my very essence.

"Yeah, that's right, you did pay me. But guess what?" I spat in his face. He didn't seem to notice. "I'm… not… for… sale." It felt good saying it. Like I was making a statement at long last. I wasn't my mother. I wasn't her. "You can keep the coke. Think of it as a keepsake. And when you're taking it, you think of this moment, you hear me? You think of you, lying down, and me looking down on you like this. Like this." I finished by kicking him in the stomach – not hard, just to mark what I'd just said. "You sad, pathetic fuck." A surge of strength went through my body. It was liberating, exhilarating.

I felt Turkish pat me on the shoulder again. It felt comforting. For the first time in years, I wasn't alone. That was a nice feeling.

"We should get going, Turkish," Gorgeous said, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Match tomorrow, ye know. Ought to get some sleep. But thanks," he grinned at me, "thanks for enabling this nice li'l workout. 'Twas fun."

"You're… you're welcome, I guess," I muttered, grinning back.

"Let's go then," Turkish beckoned. "Wouldn't want to keep the ladies waiting."

I frowned. "Ladies?"

"Deck of cards," Turkish grinned. "With pictures of pretty girls. You play cards, Tommy?"