Chapter 12) The Calm before the storm
.-.-.
At the darkest of the night, when he lay awake, his skin clammy and muscles tense, he would hear them. The shovels, scraping at their walls, at the back of his mind, on the inside of his skull. Soft, at first, but gradually coming closer. Up until his chest would feel completely empty and somehow tight at the same time. Up until he choked and the smell of blood overwhelming him; the taste of it in the back of his dry throat. Reaching that point, all forms of logic and rationally where out of the window and all that mattered was drowning out all his senses with cheap whiskey. He didn't care for life or death, not at that point. All that mattered was to blur out the remembrance of pain, the utter terror, and fragments of war.
Tommy Shelby had never been a God fearing man, neither did he fear death. But reliving those moments scared him beyond reason. It scared him shitless, turned him into a spineless little boy who craved for his safety blanket; alcohol.
During those nights he would reach for the bottle, time after time. Without it he couldn't breath.
"I think I should get a doctor sir!"
"Nonsense lass, I ain't paying shit for his hangover!"
Voices, familiar ones reached his subconscious and his aching body stirred. He was cold, teeth chattering cold. Feeling out of place of his own body he curled up into a ball. The back of his throat was on fire and the sour taste of vomit a revolting reminder of his stomach unable to keep all the booze down. The muscles of his fingers where spasming out of control and he honestly tried to keep himself together by making himself as small as possible. The shirt he wore was drenched with cold sweat and so was his hair.
A calloused hand gripped his chin, hard enough to force him to look up. His uncle Charlie towering over him with worry and disappointment written over his face.
"Jesus, Tom, ya need ta stop doing this to yerself," The older man whispered to him sincere.
"He's bleeding and stammering nonsense," A high-strung voice piped in, as a deer struck in headlights Maria stared down at him from behind his uncles shoulder. "He needs a doctor."
His uncle's grip around his chin eased and he did not possess the strength to keep it up. A layer of straw prevented him from a face-front head clash with the stone ground. If anyone could muster up a bit of sympathy to put a bullet through his throbbing brain he would be rather grateful.
"He needs a doctor," the lass pressed urgently.
He coughed and tried to clear his throat, 'what I need is a fucking lobotomy', he thought bitterly and spat out some bile.
His uncle hummed indecipherable and tried to pull him into a sitting position.
Being a perfectly fine trainwreck that wanted to be left alone Tommy used all his strength to beat his uncle's calloused hands away from him. Even being severely hungover and sick he would most definitely outmatch his uncle and earning a few curses Charlie stepped back.
"Soddin' fool!" Charlie shouted agitated rubbing his sore jaw. "Damn you and yer thick skull!"
His sudden motions made him nauseous, bile rising inside his stomach and he renched, holding his belly.
"Wait, you can't leave him like this!"
"Sure I can, he ain't my responsibility, the bloody idiot!"
And sweet bliss, silence fell again. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. Pain, it changed a person. Affects every nerve. It made them trust less, overthink more and shut people out. Yet, at the same time pain was what kept a person going.
Pain was what made him get out of bed, get him to the horses, get him through the day. Because when you know the true meaning of pain you will do your absolute best to avoid it.
The mental torment he'd endure every night, it was enough to keep him busy during the day, forcing himself to drain out every last bit of energy by heavy labour. Because, maybe, just maybe if he'd pushed himself over the last edge of exhaustion he would find a bit of comfort in his sleep.
Footsteps retreated softly and he stirred, bulging his muscles up for another encounter.
"Don't hit me," her words were more pleading then an order. Through squinted eyes he tried to focus on the lass. She kneeled beside him and placed her head on the floor and in a attempt to make eye contact whispered, "Please, don't die."
He chuckled out loud; 'already halfway there…' His vision went blurry and his eyes rolled back.
Cautiously she lay a hand on his forehead, her skin radiated with warmth.
"You're freezing," she continued, thankfully keeping her voice down. She didn't need to tell him that, he didn't recall the hours he'd spend passed out on the floor but it had to be many considering the muscle ache in his limbs and back.
Careful she wrapped a horse blanket around his shoulders. For a moment he debated to throw another fit, being tucked in like a infant had not been on his to-do-list. But his weak state took his spirit to fight away and he allowed her to mother over him. The familiar smell of the animals had a soothing effect on him, nuzzling into the welcoming warmth he listened to her hum and rummage around him.
"Don't worry about the horses, I'll take care of them," she promised sincere, placing another blanket underneath his head.
With closed eyes he unflatteringly pulled himself into a fetal position, trying to absorb all warmth greedily. Although he still did not recall ever asking her to be his bloody babysitter, he was deeply thankful for the blankets and nodded softly, afraid his head might burst open.
During the morning he'd slip from conscious into subconscious back and forth. During his lucid moments he watched her through his lashes as she took care of the horses. The old songs she'd hum reminded him of how his mother would lull him into sleep, all those years ago when she still cared for him. For most of the day he slept, actually slept and could feel his body ease and warm up.
"You should eat something," the lass told him, chewing on a piece of bread. He did not recall her sitting down next to him, or getting food, "can you sit up?"
He'd been wondering that himself, unsteady he pushed one hand on the floor and pressed himself up against the wooden box. He flinched when he tried to use his other hand. A cut ran through the palm of his hand and he noticed the crimson specks on his sleeve and shirt.
"You broke a bottle, I've cleaned up the glass", she informed him matter-of-factly, breaking her bread into two and held it out.
Oppressing his hangover reflex to gag at the sight of anything edible he took it from her and stubbornly munched a bite. The food felt like a stone in his stomach and he coughed, his throat still felt like sandpaper. But his stubborn pride stopped him from asking for water, her meddling around him was one thing. He did not need her care, he simply allowed her to tend to his needs.
They ate in silence, well mostly she did. Tommy was more occupied with ignoring her cautious glances she threw at him every time his eyelids started to feel heavy.
I'm not made from fucking p-o-r-c-e-l-a-i-n, he finger spelled and gave her a cold glare.
Her cheeks flushed and quickly threw her gaze down to the tips of her shoes. As a young child caught in the act she apologetically mumbled, "sorry."
He couldn't fully define where his vexation came from, but frustration bubbled up from his stomach. He fought a bloody war, still felt like he only party returned. He needed a lot of things, purely materialistic things because he did not believe in miracles or therapists. He needed money, cars, drugs, whores, anything to flatter up his damaged ego. What he did not need was pity, definitely from a girl who barely made it through puberty.
Go home, he signed caulously and pointed to the open door. Outside it poured and it suited the atmosphere inside his stable.
Taken aback, Maria started to stutter. "B-but I'm not finished… the horses-"
He raised his hand to cut her off and motioned to the door. To give his order more meaning he stood up. Shaky and biting the inside of his cheeks to suppress the pounding headache he reached for a pitchfork and started scraping hay aside. Spinning on his feet he held tightly to the wood to keep him standing and stubbornly refused to acknowledge he was not fit to do any type of work.
"I'm very sorry, please forgive me if I've offended you, Tommy." She addressed solemnly still not moving an inch closer to the door. If she would remain indoors much longer Tommy could not promise himself he'd still be standing. Cold sweat started to form a V on the front of shirt, the fabric sticking against his skin. With one shaking, bloody hand he made one more nudge to the door and realised if she refused he did not bare the strength to throw her out.
"-Please don't send me away," she continued in a humble tone, "I don't want to go home. I hate going home. My uncle hates me, my aunt doesn't want me around her sons, my mother thinks I'm-... I-... I don't want to go home."
A part of Tommy's inner child warmed up to her. Recalling countless times he stayed after class as punishment for his violent outbursts, Tommy slowly lowered his hand.
He remembered vividly how his teacher, Miss Changretta, would lecture him about his scandalous behaviour as he swept floors and cleaned chalk from the blackboard. During his short school career he'd been an absolute nightmare for his teachers and bullied most of his classmates. He would griedly grab every chance to postpone returning home. Both his brothers preferred roaming the streets, but Tommy felt more content inside the classroom. Miss Changretta must have known about the turmoil at home and occasionally cut him some slack, rewarding him with candy or a kind word. Although he could make her blood boil he deeply cared for his teacher that disciplined him more then both his parents ever did. The warm classroom, the simple chores, an occasional pat on the back was enough to keep him from the streets. Never did she raise a question about his home situation and it made him able to let his guard down. For Tommy his short school career had been another sanctuary. The calm before another storm.
Maria gained his sympathy and maybe it was time for him to cut her some slack. After all, she was doing a profound job as a replacement for Curly and as his personal speaker. If he wanted to maintain her as a stablemaid and as an instrument to speak with Arthur, he should try and keep her from drowning in her sorrows. The girl already looked so scrawny and depressed, if she would appear publicly at his side she needed to look … well at least less dreadful.
She deserved a little more calm before the storm. Pushing the pitchfork in her hands he signed to her to clear the area.
Lightheaded and black dots covering his view he made it into the storage room. Quickly lowering himself to his knees he leaned against the wall. With his good hand he yanked the door shut and breathed in and out to keep nausea away. His body was not going to tolerate his abuse much longer and it felt like he was fighting another battle. Curious of how much his body could actually take he reached for his secret hiding stock and pulled out a fresh bottle of Whiskey. As his fingers already twined around the cork he tried to ignore the scraping of the pitchfork coming from the stable. He could practically feel her prying eyes, condemning his frequent alcohol abuse.
Another feeling bubbled up and it wasn't anger, it was guilt. Ever since she shared the tragic story about her deceased father and mutilated brother, and how much he would have given to be in his shoes, it felt like a shard of the granate merged into his heart and pressed deeper every time he reached for a bottle in her presence.
And maybe after last night's trip through limbo it wasn't such a bad idea to leave the new bottle untouched.
For a few minutes he was having an inner dibate of what was more agonizing; remaining sober or getting sick again. In dismay, he shoved the bottle back away and instinctively reached for his cigarettes.
The thought of seeing his beloved stable go up in flames made him stumbled outside, into the pouring rain. He almost headbutted with his uncle who still seemed less then please to see him. Both men glared at each other and Tommy heard Charlie mumbled a few Romani curses under his breath.
"For your lass and her sisters," Charlie practically spat on his face and tossed a paper bag in his hands. Resolute his uncle spun on his heels and with large steps rushed back to his office to get out of the pouring rain.
Raising his middle finger up in the air he sucked on his cigarette and safely stayed in the doorway. One, to keep his balance, and secondly to not get soaked to the bone.
Before he had the chance to inspect the content, the bag was rapidly snatched from his hands. A little too fast and the paper tore.
A vary of books dropped into soaked soil and Maria moaned in agony.
Didn't take you for such lustful romantic, Humored he tapped against the muddy cover of Wuthering Heights.
The bright shade of red decorated her face up to herher ears. "I love to read." Quickly she sank to her knees to save the books from the water and muck, it seemed like a lost battle. "The only book in my illiterate uncle's house is the bible, therefore I am thankful for every page I can get."
Whipping off mud on her trousers she continued, " I'm sorry I ripped them out of your hands, Charlie promised them to me and since you two don't seem to see eye to eye-"
We never seem eye to eye, Tommy informed her blunt, but we are k-i-n, he spelled.
Her eyebrow raised up: "Kin?"
Tommy nodded, family, gypsy blood is thick.
"Thicker than both your skulls?" She questioned, a humoured smile dared to creep up upon her face.
He suppressed a grin and nodded, exhaling smoke up into the rainy air. Both watched through the doorway to the drenched yard. Small heath always looked miserable during rain. And it rained, most of the time.
It's a good day for a wedding, Tommy signed thoughtfully watching the grey clouds up above. Brings good luck and wealth, the rain, he signed when he saw her puzzled expression. Gypsy superstition.
She hummed and thoughtfully murmured, "That explains why it was so sunny the day we got to Small Heath."
Her sour-faced expression darkened when lightning struck, rapidly she retreated inward and dropped to the floor when her heel hit the doorframe, "that's how my home burned down," she confided and jolted up by the sound of thunder, a storm was coming close.
Reaching out he took her now trembling hand and pulled her back on her feet. Awkwardly she pulled her hand back and flinched by another flash of lightning. The horses sniffed nervously inside their boxes and Tommy knew it was going to be a long night.
.-.-.
As time passed and gusts of rain kept pouring down, her sobering up employer proudly taught her one of the famous gypsy scams, The three-card-monte, also known as find the lady was a confidence game in which the victim or 'mark' was tricked into betting a sum of money, on the assumption that they can find the money card among the three face-down playing cards.
At first he let her win a few times and then she lost three times in a row when he signed, You lose, you clean up horseshit for a month.
Still wearing a smug grin he played a round with open cards. The key of the game was: although it appeared that the dealer was tossing the lowermost card to the table, in actuality he tossed either the top or the bottom card at will. Thus, having done so, and while mixing up the cards the victim will be followed the wrong card from the beginning. He let her hussle the open cards up until the point she managed to mix up the cards at will.
Through the cracks and the holes in between the wooden structure of the stables the flashes of lightning still flickered on and off. Indian styled she fiddled with the cards on top of a cardboard box, enjoying her newly learned skill more and more.
She'd always loved board and card games. This recent one was rather wicked but honestly, after all the other unholy things happening around her, this actually brought some joy.
That will get you rich at the market, Tommy informed her watching her from above, leaning against the stable box. Earned me a lot of pennies and a few beating in my younger years.
Her lips turned into a smile as she flipped the queen of hearts between her fingers, "'For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money have wandered from faith and pierced themselves with many griefs'," she quoted, "Timothy 6:9-10."
Tommy scoffed and tauntingly drew a cross on his chest and signed, Of course, forgive me. I forgot I was in the presents of the holy Mary."
He shoved the cardboard box out of the way and gestured for her to hand over the card game. During the next hour Tommy showed her a vary of ways on how to shuffle cards. In the illuminating lights of the oil lamps his skillful motions were somewhat hypnotising.
"The art of deceiving," Maria mumbled, once more picking the wrong card.
Tommy shook his head, cigarette dangling on the tip of his lips ready to be lit, the FINE art of deceiving, and held up the queen of hearts. Flipping the card he wrote something down and handed it over to her: the heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? Jeremiah-
"-Seventeen- nine," Maria filled in breathless and looked up somewhat shocked, "You know your verses?"
Tommy nodded and wrote down, Pol shoved a lot of bullshit down our throats back in the day.
"You don't seem like a god fearing person."
Tommy picked his jacket hanging from a nail and fiddled in the pockets, collecting his notebook he flipped through a few pages and patted down on a word, Correct.
His answer did not come as a surprise, his next neatly written line was however, I don't fear what I don't believe.
"You don't believe in God?" Maria questioned.
Tommy nodded and provocatively made a small cross on his chest, followed by a raised middle finger towards the ceiling.
"But what if you die? Aren't you scared for your afterlife?"
Tommy shook his head instantly and raised one eyebrow, challenging her to ask another question.
After all the ungodly things she'd witnessed around him only one question seemed to matter, "But what if you go to hell?"
His icy blue eyes lost all their warmth and attitude, staring her down until she quickly blinked and realised she might have overstepped a line, he lowered his flat cap and turned his head. With his index finger he trailed the hideous lines of scar tissue and provokingly glared back at here and mouthed, been there.
Their easfull bubble they'd created to shut out the horrible weather bursted and the comfortable atmosphere disappeared as snow for the sun. Her employer grew back into his cold and distant self and he routinely pulled out a new cigarette.
Maria realised she blew out the little flame that had lit up in Tommy's eyes ever since he showed her how to play the three-card-monte, "I should be going home, I think," she said reluctantly.
Tommy eyed from the hazard outside back at her and tapped against the side of his head.
"I know, but it's getting late and I don't want them to think that-... to think…" she paused and was painfully aware of Tommy's questioning expression.
"My uncle, aunt, and mother think I'm ... sleeping with you." She could feel her cheeks and ears turn red.
Tommy's eyebrows went back up again and for reasons unknown to her, he seemed very pleased with himself. His cigarette dangled between firm lips as he wrote down in his notebook, Then stay.
She could feel her cheeks burn, but that wasn't from shame. "I'm not sure what you are implying, but I'm not a whore." Resolute she jumped on her feet and went to fetch her bucket hat. Ready to march into the horrible weather Tommy threw an apple across the stable to catch her attention. Angered she looked back when the fruit nearly hit her head.
Calm down Virgin Mary, Tommy signed pushing himself off the stable box and walked up to her, I'm a gentleman, as a refined man he tipped his hat back and threw his jacket around her shoulders, I shall walk you home m-y-l-a-d-y, he fingerspelled.
Maria didn't know if she should laugh or remain mad at his mockingly behaviour. "You'll get soaked to the bone," she stated stiffly.
He shrugged carelessly and helped her into his jacket, then hooked arms and pulled her into the storm.
.-.-.
A/N jeez this chapter took FOREVER. I disliked it a lot and re-wrote the entire thing. First it was 'just a filler' but now that I changed a few things and made it longer some very important things are said and done. I like their interaction and I like how Tommy is getting a soft spot for her, realising she's going through similar things he went through during his childhood.
Again, much thanks to Comet96 for being my beta reader
X Nukyster
