Mercy, Camden Town 1919 - Sabini

A year whirled by in muted colors. Families were adjusting to having their men home. Sons and fathers, husbands and lovers were not the same person who had left. It was a time of adjustment. Of learning.

I was not exempt from this. Alfie was the same in many ways but he was different now. He held a harder edge, and was faster to strike out in anger. And he was much more physical about it. Alfie carried a plain wooden cane made from ash. It was barely a thumbs width, a thimble capped on the bottom. But when he carried it as he walked through the bakery, eyes darted, heads bowed and no one said a word.

Alfie always set the cane aside when he was around me. Propped it against the wall, or left it hanging on the coat rack in his office. When he got home, it sat in an old number five pickling crock that held umbrellas by the front door.

The handle gleamed from his hands worrying the smooth wood. He didn't need the cane. Not really. Occasionally, he would wake with pains in his back and side. He would walk with a slight limp but the cane wasn't for that. It was because Alfie liked people to think he was weak when he was not.

The cane was part of a mask he wore. When people saw him, ambling with the cane, slowly strolling through the park or through the grocer, he looked calm, if not grumpy, it made him appear more human, more easily taken advantage of. Until those broad muscled arms moved with the speed of an asp and that cane struck a mighty blow to the skull.

I had only seen him use it twice and it was enough that I never wanted to see him use it again.

Not that I wasn't aware of the reasons why Alfie struck out. He was becoming more powerful, more respected in the community. Men brought him fat rolls of cash in supplication for the protection that he provided. The Jew of Camden Town. Emphasis on 'the.' I understood hierarchy. You had to as a gypsy. There were leaders of caravans, leaders of families, seconds, and thirds. There was a pecking order. You followed orders from your superior officer. And Alfie was very much in favor of carrying over his way of thinking from his time in the Army.

There were still soldiers and civilians to Alfie. There was still a war. Not on foreign soil this time, but in his own backyard.

So, it was no surprise when we were attacked. It was no surprise when Darby Sabini moved to test The Jew of Camden Town.

I was still sleeping in the room down the hall. People still whispered about Mr. Solomons' gypsy lover. It was sort of like a veil I wore, just thick enough that no one touched me or outright cursed me, but thin enough that they still whispered loud enough for me to hear in passing.

I never told Alfie. Not ever. Not after the brother in the bakery.

But it was isolating. Some were kind, smiling at me gently. Most were not. Reasonably enough most of the anger came from Jewish women my age and their mothers. Alfie Solomons was respected in the community, wealthy, smart, and a war hero. Of course he was a prime candidate for a husband. The gypsy whore in his bed every night was surely a temporary thing. Something he would cast off when he was ready to settle down with a nice Jewish girl.

Alfie kissed me every day. Always in the morning when we had our tea and always at night before bed. Sometimes in the afternoons when it was quiet and his office buzzed below electric bulbs.

He was gentle and sweet, caressing me and holding me, but it never went further. He bought me beautiful dresses, well made leather shoes, and a pretty pearl ring that I wore on my right hand because he had not asked me for anything when he gave it.

"Right! Yeah. Tell that fuckin' wop, we ain't got no room for 'is kind south of Farringdon Rd, yeah? That's our fuckin' territory and I ain't gone be pushed outta me own fuckin' territory."

I push open the door to Alfie's office, my feet making no sound as I creep into the room. There are several men crowded around his desk, all facing him. I slip around them toward the sofa on the side of the room and when I clear the last back, the man jumps, startled.

"Sorry," I whisper.

His eyes immediately roll away from me, back toward Alfie who is staring at his desk, breathing hard.

"Now, let me tell you… we are not movin'... from our spot. We do not give one fuckin' inch… to those dirty eyeties. You 'ear me? I want all of you to report to me, yeah, if you so much as see one fuckin' pencil mustache south of Farringdon Road. I will 'ave me blood if blood is wot they want. I will 'ave it."

Alfie's eyes move from man to man, drilling his point into them as they nod solemnly. When his gaze lands on me there's a flicker of surprise and barely perceptible twitch of his eyebrows.

"Right then. Get the fuck out."

They file out of the office, shoulders rolling, backs tense.

"Wot you doin' down here, Dove? Didn't see you come in. Come sit on ol' Alfie's lap, yeah?"

I stare at him for a moment and move back to sit on the sofa.

"Right, right. Look here, Mercy. I do wot I do for all o' us, yeah? I'll not let some nancy fuckin' wop tell me where I can and cannot be. Those pubs are Jewish pubs. Those shops are Jewish shops. I ain't losin' two miles of fuckin' business cause some wop wants a bigger cut. Bound to 'appen sooner or later and it's 'appenen now."

But I wasn't 'one of them'. I was an abandoned gypsy who lived in a house. Even if I found my caravan, I would be an outcast for choosing walls and roots instead of the road and the stars.

"This is dangerous, Alfie. This feels very, very dangerous."

"'Course it does. It is. But there's no gain in rollin' over, is there? We're 'ere. We're stayin' right 'ere. The bakery is well guarded, Mercy. I got men on the house, yeah and soon we'll be at Epsom. Sabini can't do shit about it. I'm playin' me cards smart, love."

It felt strange for Alfie to say these things to me. It felt like he was patiently explaining something complicated to a small child. There had always been factions. Even before I was abandoned in London, I was aware of the differences. Irish, Italian, Jewish, and the Roma. Smaller factions held smaller spaces and there was a sort of equilibrium. A pull and push.

Sabini was pulling on a boundary line. Alfie was pushing back.

It was weeks of back and forth. Push, pull. Push, pull. Push, pull.

A delivery truck was shot at first. No one was inside but the bread was ruined, both flour and liquid.

The second strike was a pub on Farringdon Rd. It was robbed just after closing.

I had thought Alfie let the drive by go, but he had not. He sent two boys to Sabini's favorite deli and they scattered rat poison on all the meat and cheeses.

For the robbery he had a small squadron of ex-soldiers that robbed one of Sabini's cash houses. He gave that money to the men who pulled off the heist and the pub owner on Farringdon Rd.

Push, pull. Push, pull.

Everything came to a head on a brisk February afternoon.

Alfie had left late for the bakery. I was feeling clammy that morning, a slight fever and a chill in my bones. He had offered to stay home with me and have Ollie oversee the bread but I had insisted that he go. I didn't want to spread my sickness to him. I assured him I would be fine. He worried over me, getting me a hot water bottle and stoking a fire in my room, tucking me into the bed.

"I'll 'ave Rebecca come and stay, yeah. Bring you some soup and such. We'll 'ave you right as rain in no time, won't we?"

"No, Alfie. Please? I'll be okay on my own. I'm just a little shaky today is all. I don't need anyone to come watch me."

"I thought you liked Rebecca."

"I do. She's… nice. I'm alright on my own though. You're fussing for nothing. It's just a chill."

But it was more than that. My dreams had gotten darker and darker since the pub was robbed. They left me exhausted and shaking in the night. Visions of Alfie's bedroom filling with red snow. A pale horse walking down our street, its tail lashing and thick clouds snorting from its nose. Deep red eyes so full of menacing color they were almost black.

There was a nervous energy in the outskirts of the Jewish quarter. Alfie had a veritable army under his control but Sabini had been established longer. His father before him had established their hold decades before Alfie had come into his own power.

While Alfie was at war being shot at and surviving, Sabini had stayed in London and moved his men around, piece by piece. He never came south of Camden Road but when Alfie returned and set up the bakery, pushing his influence out to Farringdon, it had made Sabini sit up and watch.

Alfie had left, later than usual after his fussing over me, but he had left and not three hours later the phone had rang and he told me he was done for the day.

"Fuck 'em. I'm comin' 'ome to look after me girl."

So I dressed in a warm nightgown and the thick velvet robe Alfie had given me at Hanukkah. My skin was damp, my dark hair sticking to my face. I was running a damp cloth over my neck when I heard the car pull up outside.

The door made a strange noise when he came through it and I idly thought it might have started to stick again like it did in the summer. I should remind Alfie to have it looked at. As I grabbed my brush, I glanced out the window again down at the street and saw Alfie exiting a second car and my stomach fell.

Gunshots erupted, popping off in rapid succession but I couldn't be distracted because someone was in the house. Someone who was not Alfie.

My blood turned to sludge in my veins as I spun around and thought of my options. I was trapped up here. I had not heard anyone coming up the stairs yet but it was only a matter of time. It was the closet or under the bed. I dropped to my stomach and slid under, fixing the dust ruffle just as I heard the heavy, thundering boot steps. I heard the door to Alfie's room bang open, my body shaking hard.

"Mercy!"

Alfie was in the house.

"Fuckin' find 'er!"

More feet pounding downstairs, more feet pounding up the stairs. Alfie's room door was right at the top of the stairs.

"Alfie, he's in your room!"

The gunshots were deafening. The sound of a body hitting the floor had my lungs seizing.

I was halfway out from under the bed when I was being grabbed, yanked. Screaming, I thrashed, kicking, scratching, clawing, my hair unbound around me, in my face, my mouth, over my eyes.

"It's me, love! It's me!"

My screams calmed to whining gasps, tears mixing with my sweat.

I went limp in his arms.

Alfie pushed me back onto the bed, kneeling over me, hands roaming my arms, my torso, my legs.

"You're alright. You're alright. You're safe. You're alright."

He chanted over me, his touch tethering me to reality.

"I thought it was you."

The pained expression on his face was devastating and fleeting. It morphed into anger, blinding white.

"Oi! Get the fuck up 'ere!"

Alfie stroked my hair away from my face one more time before he reared back off the bed and turned toward the man who was barreling into the room.

"Get the fuck out! You don't ever come in 'er room, you fuckin' animal. Get out!"

He pushed the man out, another behind him backpedaling quickly. Despite his angry shouting Alfie shut the door gently.

I could hear him clearly though. Giving orders to remove the body from his room. To have someone come collect the bloody bedding. To have the bodies in the street collected. To take them and leave them on Sabini's doorstep.

"Clean this fuckin' mess up! Who was watchin' eh? Who was supposed to be fuckin' watchin'?!"

The stomping of boots came and went. I listened to their changes in pattern, in loudness, in gait.

Thump, thump, thump, thumpthumpthumpthump, thump…thump.

I laid in my room, the fire dwindling, my skin sweating hot and then chilled. Hot and then chilled.

When I came out of my room hours later, Alfie's bedroom door was closed. The front door had been replaced and he was sitting in the kitchen, a glass of whisky in one hand, his cane in the other, a smear of blood on the handle.

Three men I wasn't acquainted with and Ollie were sitting at the kitchen table while Alfie leaned against the kitchen island.

I clutched my robe tighter around my chest and took a small step onto the white tile. It was cold, soothing the heat in my feet.

"Treacle, wot you doin' down 'ere? I was comin' up in a minute, I was. Just gettin' these lads sorted."

"I wanted some water and something to eat."

"Right, 'course. Fuckin' useless I am, not carin' after me Mercy," he muttered.

Alfie put down his cane and whisky before turning to pour me a glass of water.

"Ollie, run to Samson's. Get us some food, yeah. Big pot of soup for me Mercy here and…"

"I can cook Alfie."

The men at the table become very still. No one interrupts Alfie or contradicts him. I roll my eyes.

"'Course you can, love. 'Course you can. But let ol' Alfie look after you, yeah? Let's just get some grub from Samson's and have a rest."

Alfie tilts his head back and looks down at me.

"I don't want soup."

Alfie's eyes go blank and I watch as his jaw clenches. He rounds the island, giving me the glass of water and his hands come up to cup my neck, sliding around my face, over my forehead before settling again on my neck.

"Still got a touch o' fever, love. Seems you might be a bit cranky too, eh? Ollie, go get the fuckin' food."

I try to take a step back but Alfie's hands grip my neck tighter, holding me in place and a tendril of uneasiness slides into me.

I hear Ollie's chair slowly scrape back and see him leave in my periphery.

"Right, you lot have your orders. Now fuck off."

The others leave faster, their dark clothed bodies shuffling quickly from the bright white kitchen.

Alfie's eyes never leave mine. When we're alone his hands relax, stroking my neck gently but his eyes, his eyes get even sharper, harder.

"I give you control, Mercy, yeah. I give you control over me because you're… you're the only person on this fuckin' earth that I will put above me'self and me people but don't go against me again in front o' me men."

"You're men aren't here now, Alfie. Will you stop this business with Sabini?"

"No. Not after today. Not after 'e sent a man 'ere into our 'ome. Not when 'e came after you, love."

"I'm fine, Alfie. I-"

Alfie's hands tighten again on my neck, his big hands engulfing until his fingers touch on my nape and his palms press into my gullet. Thumbs press firmly under my ears.

"You were 'iding under the fuckin' bed, Mercy! In you're own fuckin' 'ome 'iding!"

His shout is deafening in the quiet house. I flinch and the pressure is gone. Alfie strokes my neck in contrition, his feet shuffling closer.

"I have suffered many slights and will suffer many more, Treacle but this I cannot let stand."

I press my face into his chest and Alfie wraps his arms around me, holding me tight.

"Dear God, how I love you, Mercy. How I fuckin' love you."

But you won't marry me. You won't make me your wife.

I let the traitorous words slither through my thoughts. Because this is not the gypsy way. Marriage was significant. A way to tie families together. A way to join two souls. To some it was appropriate that he had me in his home. Stealing a wife was a time honored tradition amongst the gypsies but not the home and the walls and the roots. And the fact that I had lived in his home for over a year and he had not taken me. Had not made me that promise of forever and wed me in either religious tradition. It was beginning to wear me down.

"I'm tired now, Alfie. I'm going to lie down."

He doesn't release me.

"Do you love me, Mercy?"

His words are that of my old Alfie. That sweet, gentle uncertainty that he showed me in the quiet dark when we were both lost to London's streets.

"Of course I love you, Alfie. I've loved you since Margate. Since before that even."

His body shudders and he holds me tighter, rocking us from side to side.

"Never again, Dove. They'll never get in 'ere again."

It's a hollow promise and I think he knows that. They will keep trying because I am Alfie's gypsy whore, his weakness, his heart. I am all those things and more and less.

"I'm tired, Aflie."

"Right, 'course. I'll bring the food up when Ollie gets back, yeah?"

As I'm leaving the kitchen, I glance at the new front door.

"What color is it?" I ask softly.

"Green, love. I had them paint it green."

Nodding, I move up the stairs.

It takes months and months of back and forth. Pecking, picking, poking at each other but eventually they sit down, Alfie and Sabini. They sit in the cellar of the bakery and break bread. Alfie holds the line at Farringdon but concedes to less men at Epsom the following Spring. I know it's a loss to Alfie but he put his people first and held the line at Farringdon.

Winter bleeds to Spring again and Alfie branches out to other racetracks and jewels. The bakery is a wild success. Rum production has increased ten fold. Tens of thousands of gallons of rum are being bottled and shipped every week. He even sends it across the pond to America.

But it's only a matter of time. I know it. Peace may will out now, but there's a storm brewing on the horizon. My dreams show me a dark cloud rolling toward us and a black stallion cresting a barren moor, emerging from thick mist.