Title: Diamond in the Rough

Author: Taryn "Jnco" Wander'r

Fandom: Snatch/Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels

Pairing: Turkish/Tommy

Rating: Angst, romance. R.

Status: complete

Archive: go 'head. Let me know.

Series/Sequel: I may write a sequel if anyone wants it.

Disclaimers: Snatch was written and directed by Guy Ritchie. Go Guy! All original characters are mine.

Notes: I'm Canadian and this takes place in near present-day Britain. Please excuse any errors in details.

Summary: In 1993, Turkish finds Tommy, broken and bleeding, in an alley in London's East End.

Warnings: violence, language, implied rape, implied sex.

Chapter 3 Note: 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

A Snatch Fanfiction by Taryn "Jnco" Wander'r

Aka L0C, Space Cadet First Class

-Aimee Mann `Save Me'

What do I know about diamonds? I'm a boxing promoter. That's it. That's all. Just me and my fighters, and Tommy. Tommy was my partner. That doesn't mean we hold hands and take windy walks. It means I try

to keep him out of more trouble than he inflicts on me.

Wait…I should start at the beginning.

I didn't always run the business from a gypsy caravan in an old parking garage, you know. Eventually, that just became convenient for me. But I'm getting ahead of myself again.

London. 1993. A huge swarming mess of races and cultures, wet umbrellas and people with dogs. Damned dogs.

I was walking home from training one day. The newest kid in my ring, Gorgeous George. Of course, back then he actually lived up to the name. Too small yet for the heavyweights, but that would change, and

of course, nobody cared about that in the world of unlicensed boxing. Back then Gorgeous had all his hair, and all his teeth, and none of that obnoxious headfat. Good kid, too, willing to learn. Had this nasty habit of running into the opponent head-on.

So I was walking home, in the rain, clutching my shoddy piss-poor black jacket to me, holding my precious carton of milk. Ah, milk. I was at a time in my life when I had stopped caring about anything, really, least of all myself- I didn't drink stuff like milk often. Maybe it was fate that the day I started taking care of myself I was given a reason to.

I came across an alley fight. Of course, I had seen plenty of street fights in my life- this wasn't exactly Sloane Square where I lived. It wasn't exactly Brixton either, but it was getting there. It was an unfair fight, really, at least I could pick up on that much. This huge ugly mother of a man beating on a small, flinchy little kid. Not really a kid…but not a man, either.

So I drained the last of my milk and was going to walk in there, ever so calmly, and put an end to the unfairness, when I saw what was really going on. First of all, this huge ugly mother was really a huge ugly mother of a man, and the kid wasn't really putting up any kind of a fight or defending himself. He just sort of let it happen.

Now this, I thought, was the most despicable of all, but by the time I had processed this, the huge ugly mother of a man was done with his work and was sort of waddling down the alley in a self-satisfied sort of way. And this poor flinchy kid, he was just sort of slumped in the side of the alley, his blood running into the rainwater.

I stood there, shivering, in the rain in the alley, and sighed. Now this was a predicament. I always hated dogs, especially stray dogs, and cats. Gorgeous also had this nasty habit of taking in stray kittens, Jesus, it was the most annoying thing in the world. There's nothing more pathetic than a grown man, one who's into unlicensed boxing of all things, to be had by a helpless stray animal.

But what do I call this? A stray boy? And leave him there to hemorrhage to death? That would just be cruel.

So, reluctantly, I put an arm around the kid's waist and pulled one of his arms over my head. At least to get him in out of the rain.

*

Gorgeous George came by to the flat later, when I called him and told him what happened. I needed help putting the kid to bed- or whatever I was supposed to do with him.

Gorgeous was sporting a nasty black eye and had one of those breathing strips over his nose. He grinned at me, an awkward, bloody grin, and proudly showed off his first gap.

"Check it out, Turkish." He smiled at me. "Didn't even realize it was missing `til I spit it out after t'fight." He was whistling slightly. It was sort of annoying.

"Ah, Jesus suffering fuck!" He whistled at me as he entered the flat and saw the kid slumped into one of the armchairs. "Where'd ye find t'is, t'en, Turkish?"

"In an alley. Beaten to a pulp by some oversized thug. Help me out, will ya?"

We started with the kid's shoes, piling them with my own. He was dressed horribly for the weather, really, for any London weather. His ratty old Converse sneakers, worn old jeans and an old blue bowling shirt. It's a wonder the kid didn't freeze to death.

"My Christ. Who would do t'is do a kid, eh?"

"Oversized thugs, apparently." We got the kid out of the jeans and shirt until he was just in his boxers, revealing a crisscrossing of scars and bruises.

"Bloody fuck." Gorgeous whistled again. "Worse t'an t'Gun's last fight."

I remembered that fight- Brick Top had ordered that The Gun win, to accommodate the bets he had made, and the guy kept getting up after falling until he managed to beat the other guy down. Right after he

was proclaimed winner he passed out for a good two days.

We got some warm water and washed the blood from the kid's face, cleaning out the worst of his cuts. The kid had this huge frame but was skinny as all hell. Jesus. I found an old T-shirt and we dressed him in it, awkwardly, and tucked him into my bed.

"Well this was awkward," I muttered when all was said and done, and me and Gorgeous sat at the kitchen table, idly playing poker with my pornographic cards, neither of us really paying attention to any of it. There were only so many bare breasts one could see before you got completely bored of them.

"What're ye gonna do when he wakes up?" George asked.

"I dunno. Give him something to eat and bring him home, I guess."

"Doesn't look like he has a home."

"He has to have a home."

"Well, it doesn't look like he wants to go home." George whistled through the gap in his teeth and put down his hand. "I've seen boys like that, Turkish. I was a boy like that. I never went home."

"Then what did you do?"

"I found ye."

That stopped me. It had never occurred to me that I had possibly derived Gorgeous George from a comfortable life. He just sort of showed up.

"What do you mean?" I asked slowly.

"I never had a good home, Turkish, it's sort of obvious. I don't like getting into it. You won't want to hear it. But the only thing I was good at was fighting. Eventually I ran away and sort of picked out a living on the streets. Then I found ye." He grinned again. "And now I'm t'fine boxer you see before ye."

I sighed. "It's not that easy, George. He's not much of a fighter. I saw him today."

"T'en ye'll find something else for him to do."

"Like what? Run the slots?" I owned, had for a while, an old run-down arcade next to the lot where The Gun and, soon, Gorgeous George fought. I had a bunch of slot machines that could be making money, `cept I had no one to run them.

"Maybe. Who knows?"

I glared at him over my cards. "No. He's going home. It's decided." "Oh, Turkish," George looked defeated. "What's happened to ye? You're so distanced now. Like t'only thing you saw in me was t'is vicious fighter, and you don't see t'at in t'is kid, so you're throwing him away. Trust me, he don't want t'go home."

I didn't have a response. "You gotsta look past t'sleaze and bruises, Turkish. There's probably a good kid under all t'at. You gotsta look for t'diamond in t'rough."

I glanced at the kid, then back at Gorgeous. "I don't know anything about diamonds, Gorgeous. I'm a boxing promoter."

"Whatever," Gorgeous stood up and put on his jacket. "Well I'm leaving. I don't want to hear anymore. I'll see ye tomorrow, right?"

He grinned. "Unless you're too busy taking care of your boy."

"He's not my-" Gorgeous was already gone. I sighed and leaned back and wondered about what I had gotten myself into.

*

The night wore on. I couldn't sleep. First of all, there was a bruised and beaten boy, whom I had recently discovered was also fevered, in my bed. Second, the couch was inadequate when all I could think about was the boy in my bed.

So I pulled up a chair, cracked a bottle of beer, and watched him. Better to be here when he wakes up, anyway.

Have I ever told you about my wife? I guess not. Ah, she was beautiful. Happy, too, when things were good. Then I made the wrong move, took the wrong turn, we hit a lorry. She died on impact. Car was totaled. Still hadn't gotten a new one.

I lost my job after that, couldn't concentrate on anything. Went into the unlicensed boxing profession. Got mixed up with Brick Top and the like. My life was no longer about real estate or keeping my wife happy. More like trying to stay alive in a haze of fights and alcohol. If there was anything to stay alive for.

The boy on my bed stirred, and interrupted my thoughts. He groaned a bit, writhed, and eventually opened his eyes to stare at me. He had dark eyes. Big, dark, innocent eyes. Hurt. Had this mop of curly black hair.

He gasped, and sat up quickly, then clutched at his sides when the burn from the bruises sunk in.

"'Bout time you joined us." I said.

He stared at me, then down at himself.

"What happened to my clothes?" He asked. Had this soft sort of worried voice.

"Took them off. They were wet." He flinched, then nodded. So I was right about the flinchiness. Suddenly he leapt out of the bed and bolted for the door.

"Hey!" I called after him. Surprisingly, he turned back. "You're not going anywhere right now. You're sick. When you're better I'll take you home."

"Home?"

"Yeah. What's your name? Do you live in the East End?"

He slowly stepped towards me, sort of dazed. He yawned.

"Didja hear me? Where do you live?"

"I…I don't really live anywhere."

I groaned. Gorgeous had been right. This was harder than I thought.

"What's your name?" I started again.

He looked at me again, those dark, big eyes. "Whatever-you-want-it-to-be…" He murmured, sort of like a mantra.

I just decided to pretend I didn't hear it so I wouldn't even have to think about it.

"What's your name?" I asked again.

He flinched. Again. "…Paul."

"What's your real name?"

He was surprised. "…James."

I gave him a look.

He sighed. "Tommy," He muttered.

"Good." I put my beer on the table and regarded him. This was much more awkward than I ever would have thought.

The boy, definitely a boy, yawned again. "My parents named me after a gun." He added, defiantly.

"Yeah. Sure they did. Sit down, Tommy." He did, and I was surprised that he would do what I said so quickly. He yawned again. "Stay with me, Tommy. You have a concussion. You can't go to sleep for a while."

"'Til when?" He asked.

"I…I dunno. For a while. A few hours. We'll play cards or something, okay? But then you should sleep, because you got a fever. Okay?" Tommy nodded. "Aren't you going to ask me what my name is?"

He blinked at me, like it hadn't even crossed his mind. "What's…what's your name?"

"Turkish."

Tommy laughed at this, the way everyone laughed when I told them my name. He looked at me, waiting for the truth.

"That's really my name, Tommy."

Instantly he was frightened. "Oh."

"You mind telling me what you were doing in that alley?"

"Why?" Suspicious.

"Well I gotta tell your parents something."

The mop of dark curls lowered. "My parents won't care. They kicked me out."

Bang on, Gorgeous.

"So who was that man in the alley?"

The kid blushed. "That was…that was my dealer." He straightened up, defiant again. "I deal drugs for him."

I scowled. "Drugs." Tommy's face fell, instantly he was contrite. "Drugs are the stupidest way to make money on the streets, kid. I mean, do something else with your time, Tommy, firearms, black market, gambling, not drugs."

Tommy went back to staring at his bare feet.

"This dealer guy," I went on. "He's not going to be looking for you anywhere, is he?"

Tommy made a `pfft' sound. "Probably not."

"Do you have any drugs on you right now?"

"No. He took them all away. My money too."

"Do you do drugs?"

"No!" Tommy stared up at me, defiant. "I just…sell them."

"To who?"

"Kids."

"Little kids?"

"No!" Again he was affronted. "Kids…my age."

"How old are you, Tommy?"

He shrugged. "Twenty."

"Most twenty year olds I know don't refer to themselves as kids."

"Seventeen."

"You sure? I would've pegged you at fifteen, sixteen tops."

"I'm seventeen." He stared at me like I was stupid. "I'll be eighteen in two months."

"That's great. And what am I going to do with you until then?"

He shrugged. "I don't care." But somehow, his voice gave away that he did.

This got me. We sat in silence for a while, me staring at him, him staring at his feet, until he looked up at me again, pleading.

"Can I have something to eat?"

And those six little words did me in. And I think I felt what Gorgeous felt each time he saw a helpless little kitten in the street. And since then I've had a reason to live.

*

Eventually I slept. After I made Tommy a sandwich and we played a few rounds of some miscellaneous card game, me having to poke him awake every time he drifted off. Finally I figured enough time had passed and I let him go back to bed.

I dreamt odd dreams that night. Dreams that Suzy was still alive. It was raining in my dream, and her and me were in bed, dozing, listening to the rain hit the windows softly. I sighed and shifted, holding her closer. Bent my head, to the crook of her neck, like I always did, and inhaled. God, I loved the way she smelled.

And then I woke up. I just lay there on the couch, my arms wrapped around the bulk of the blanket, and blinked. A light rain occasionally pattered against the windows; I could hear the traffic in the streets below.

Damn. Morning.

I sat up blearily, and wondered off-handedly how Gorgeous' nose was doing. He was having his first fight in a few days, his debut into the world of unlicensed boxing. `Course, he'd probably just break his nose again, so why did I even care?

Standing up and stretching in the late morning light, I flicked on the telly and flopped back down on the couch.

Why the hell was I sleeping on the couch?

Oh yes…that's right.

I sighed and turned the telly off. Daytime soaps, anyway. Rubbish. Put my trousers on. Turned on the kettle for a cup of tea. Then I wandered over to where the bed was and regarded Tommy.

I had a nice flat, for a black market salary, anyway. I didn't move after Suzy died. I moved the bed, an old iron-framed monster, into the huge main room. Everything sort of connected into itself- the kitchen, the living room, the…place where the bed was. The bathroom was off to the side, near the wide windows.

I left all of her things in that bedroom. The only bedroom the flat had. I left all her old clothes in boxes and all her trinkets and valued possessions where they were. All the old photo albums of us, stacked in there. Suzy had been a photographer- there used to be her old black and white photos adorning the flat's drab walls.

They were in the old bedroom, too, closed off to the rest of the world. Life was for the living. I really should have sold all those old things, but I didn't have the heart. So I just put it out where I couldn't be reminded of her.

Instead, on the walls, I had pathetic old lady paintings of flowers and ocean-scapes and other such piddling crap I really didn't care about. Down in the office, over the safe in the wall, where I kept all the money I owned...and some of Suzy's diamonds…was an old, disgusting painting of a Saint Michael the Archangel. I mean, seriously. Who actually paints this stuff?

I was pondering this when the kettle started whistling and I made my tea. I stood there, staring out the window, with my cup of tea, as was beginning to become the norm. I read somewhere that the typical citizen of Britain, and this includes Scotland and Wales and Northern Ireland, drinks an average of seven cups of tea a day. I downed the cup and poured another and figured I must have made up a lot of that average. Me and the Queen. Sitting around, thinking about things that could never be, drinking our tea.

The funny thing was, I didn't even really like tea. I just drank it. There was really nothing much else to do. Caffeine'll kill you, you know. Just as bad as tobacco or alcohol or heroin. Eats at the liver. Maybe that's what I was trying to do. Slowly kill myself. Me and the Queen- she mustn't have a whole lot to live for.

Of course, I drank quite a bit of milk. When I was feeling down, I'd buy a six pack and a box of tea bags. When I was feeling particularly good, which wasn't often, I'd get a carton of milk and maybe throw in a vegetable or two. Usually I downed the milk and let the vegetables go rotten, and then I'd be back to square one- beer at night, tea in the morning. At least beer and tea bags don't go bad. At least, I don't think so. Not that it would matter, seeing as I was trying to kill myself and all.

An impatient kicking of sheets and a soft moan interrupted my thoughts. I turned back to Tommy and sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were twisted around him like he was a mummy or something, his brow was furrowed. He bit his lip in his sleep and moaned a little more, pitiful.

I sighed, put the back of my hand to his cheek. Jesus. Hotter than a freaking supernova.

Well, he couldn't possibly be comfortable twisted up as he were. I gently untangled him from the sheets and lightly pulled them over him. Then, taking a moment to take another drink of tea, I ran the cold water into a pot I had sitting around for some reason, and put a dishcloth in it.

See, as much as I hated to admit it, I didn't really like to see anyone suffering. Unless, of course, it was for a good reason. When The Gun beat the living shite out of some cocky kid who thought he was Mohammad frickin' Ali, that was classic. But this was different. A flinchy, fevered kid with more eyelashes than muscle trembling and crying out in his sleep was very different.

I still maintained that one should not pick up stray dogs. But, I realized now, people were different.

"Shhh," I murmured softly, like he could hear me or something. I softly washed his face down, hoping to bring down his fever somewhat. I turned the sheets down a bit, lifted up the shirt he wore, and dabbed at his burning chest, wincing at the bruises and scrapes I found there.

Eventually Tommy calmed down, and fell back into an uneventful, silent slumber.

I pulled the blankets back over him and opened one of the windows slightly. The sounds of the rain and the city always helped me sleep. I buttoned up a shirt over me and sat in an armchair, staring out the window at the building across from us, an artists' flat, and nursed my third cup of tea. The telephone rang.

"Turkish," I said around the teacup.

"I'm goin' to t'lot now. Are ye comin'?" Gorgeous George whistled at me from the other end.

"The lot? To spar?" I glanced back at the sleeping bundle on my bed.

"Aye, Turkish, I got my fight t'morrow."

"Jesus! That soon?"

"Yes, Turkish….where `ave ye been?"

"I don't think I can leave Tommy. He hasn't woken up yet."

"Tommy?"

I sighed. "The boy I found last night, Gorgeous. Tommy."

"So boy's gotta name, then?"

"Yes. I would've thought that was obvious."

"Well, bring `im along." Gorgeous George seemed to think it was acceptable to share our unlicensed boxing profession with just anyone.

"I can't, George. He's got a bad fever…I don't think I should leave him." I sighed. "Can't take him to hospital, I wouldn't know what to tell them."

"So he doesn't have a home, does he? I was roight!"

"Shut up, George. I'm going to find him a home."

"Easier said t'an done, mate," Gorgeous said whistled at me. "Hey, t'Gun's done and gotten t'caravan, eh?"

"That quick? From where?" I had asked The Gun to find me a caravan to put in the lot to run the business from, mostly so I could separate work from home and further sink into my sad stupor. Drinking my tea.

"Pykie camp."

"Pykies? I thought The Gun hated gypsies."

"He does, but it were t'ere and it were cheap." I could hear him grinning. "Gypsies ain't all t'at bad, Turkish. T'ey t'rew a dog inta t'bargain."

Oh Jesus. Another damned dog.

"What did The Gun do with the dog?"

"What else? Gave it t'me. I named `im Isaac." I could hear the pride in George's voice.

"Well, that's good for you, Gorgeous. Anyways, I can't come down. You were right. Too busy taking care of Tommy. Spar with The Gun and whatever, and we'll talk tomorrow before your fight, okay?"

"Whatever ye say, Turkish."

I hung up the telephone and glanced to where Tommy was lying. He was looking up at me with those big dark eyes.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked as I poured him a glass of water.

"Few minutes," Tommy mumbled. "You're going to send me away?" He asked, all flinchy-like.

"'F course," I pushed the glass into his hands. "Drink it. All of it. I can't very well keep you here."

Tommy kept looking at me over his glass as he downed it, and handed it back. "Of course not," he said noncommittally. He started to get up, but I pushed him back down, and held a hand to his forehead.

"You're staying in bed all day. You've got a horrible fever. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

I grinned at this. Nobody had ever called me sir, ever. "Hey, do you have your own clothes or whatever?"

"What do you mean?" Tommy glanced up at me.

"I mean, where is your stuff, your clothes and your…other possessions. You must have some, you couldn't have just lived with the same shirt and jeans forever." I sat on the edge of the bed and held his gaze. "I'm not buying you new clothes."

"Well…I have some stuff tucked away in the warehouse where I lived with some guys…" Aha! "But it's probably gone now,"

I reached over and grabbed a pen from the bedside table. "Where is this warehouse? I'll get your things."

He looked up at me, suspicious. But he broke and told me.

"Good. I'll go get your things today-"

"It's a rough spot." He interrupted me. "Those guys…they're tough."

"Tough like you?" I smirked. Tommy's face fell. "I can take care of myself, Tommy."

"Okay," he mumbled.

"I'll get your things, pick up some groceries, and when I get back, we'll talk about finding you a place to live, alright?"

Tommy nodded solemnly.

I picked up my keys and stopped at the door. "I'm going to lock the door so no one can get in. You just go to sleep, alright? Don't answer the door for anyone, I'll let myself in." Tommy's noncommittal `yes sir' was the last thing I heard when I shut the door.

*

I came back maybe an hour later, a small red duffel over my shoulder and a few grocery bags in my hands.

I let myself into the flat to find Tommy wrapped up in his blankets, lying on the couch watching some cartoon.

"I thought I told you to stay in bed," I reprimanded as I shut the door behind me with my food and dumped my bags on the kitchen table.

"I got bored," Tommy whined. "Besides, I'm still lying down."

I put some of the groceries into the refrigerator and tossed the rest into a nearby cupboard. "Let's see what you've got here," I zipped open the duffel and saw the meager possessions inside- a few shirts, a sweater, and a very old, very torn pair of khakis. "Looks like I am going to have to buy you some clothes." No underwear, even. "You really are the epitome of a street boy, ain't you? A regular Oliver Twist."

"Did they give you Antwerp?"

"What?"

Tommy reached out to me and I tossed him the bag. He reached around inside out and triumphantly pulled out a small, ratty teddy bear.

"Antwerp!"

Jesus. A teddy bear.

"Antwerp?" I asked, leaning back on the table. "Isn't that where diamonds come from?" All of Suzy's diamonds had come from Antwerp.

"I don't know. Is it?"

I shrugged, leaving Tommy and Antwerp to watch their cartoons. I found a phone book and pulled it out, not really knowing what I was looking for.

"I suppose you're too old for foster care, then,"

"I'll be eighteen in two months!" Tommy said, affronted. "I can take care of myself. Government wouldn't want me anyway,"

"And how would you take care of yourself?"

"I'd get my own flat," He said proudly.

"With what money?"

Tommy thought for a moment. "I could work for you," He suggested, hopefully.

"You don't know what I do, kid."

"What do you do, Turkish?"

I glanced at him. "You don't want to know." I reached over and grabbed the remote, turning off the telly. "Get some sleep."

"Yes, sir," He mumbled.

I left him there on the couch while I called around, not really knowing what I was trying to find. No place for him to live, yet, anyway. I was torn between legitimately wanting to find him a home and not wanting to accidentally send him through a cycle of social workers and group homes that he would never get out of.

There was one such home that offered classes, though, for a very small fee, to young people whom didn't live with them. Sort of like a special school. Perhaps it was unlicensed, too. That was the impression I got talking to the woman who ran it. But they would learn life skills, a few academic subjects of course, and a trade of their choice.

At least this way he would learn something useful instead of selling drugs or begging or washing windows like he had been doing prior. At least this way he could get a job doing something respectable somewhere and eventually get his own flat and be out of my life. Dammit. At this rate I'd have to take care of him for months. Perhaps he could get a job on the side anyway. Maybe he could run the slots. /That's horrible,/ I thought. /He's much too young to be working in a casino./

/Jesus, Turkish!/ Another side of me argues. /It's an illegal operation, anyway. What do you care if he's too young? Brick Top's probably got five-year-olds serving drinks in his casinos, anyway./

/Yes, and I've always aspired to be like Brick Top,/ I thought bitterly.

I would have to talk to Tommy tomorrow about it. I was already sort of holding him here against his will, may as well see what he really wanted to do.

Gorgeous George dropped by, unexpected, after I made pending arrangements with the woman at the Majesty Group Home, as it was called.

He was dragging a mattress behind him, and grinning like an idiot.

"What the hell is this?" I said, incredulously.

"Fer Tommy," Gorgeous whistled, pushing past me with the mattress, glancing at where Tommy was napping on the couch. "I figured he needed a place t'sleep t'at wasn't yer bed," He winked at me. I ignored it.

"So you went out and bought him a mattress?"

"Oh, no," he dumped it in a corner. "I found `t in a dumpster."

"What?"

"T's alroight, Turkish. Was outside a respek-table lookin' place. I don't t'ink it's diseased or nothing. Got no stains on `t."

"Somebody could have been killed on this mattress, George," I pointed out. "Or raped. Or lost their virginity. Or shot drugs. Or birthed a baby. Or-"

"But t' point is, `t's here now, roight?" Gorgeous George grinned a gap-toothed grin at me. "Don't t'ink it's got bugs or nothin'. Just wrap `t up in some sheets. Ye said ye found him in an alley, roight?"

I sighed. "Yeah. And he was living in a warehouse with a gang of rat-boys."

"T'ere, see, I think he'll roight `preciate a dumpster-mattress. Eh?" He nudged me. "Well, I'll be off. I'll see ye t'morow, Turkish, big night!"

And he left. Left me with a mattress he found in a dumpster.

Tommy, on the other hand, was delighted when he saw it after his nap.

"Does this mean you're not going to send me away?" He asked excitedly as he helped me put some sheets on the dumpster-mattress.

I sighed. Seems I'd been doing a lot of that lately. "If you're going to stay here, and it's still not decided, Tommy, you're going to go to school. And you're going to do get a job, too. You're gonna have to pay for yourself."

"I can work for you?" He grinned at me.

"No!" I shook me head. "You're going to get a job at a gas station or a restaurant or something."

"Oh…okay." Tommy went back to what he was doing. "It's okay. I can be good, Turkish. I can learn how to cook or something…I'm really good around the house. I'll be quiet, too, I promise."

"Well…" I stood and regarded him, staring up at me apprehensively. "Come and eat, then."

"I'm not hungry," He said as I set out the two plates of a meager meal before him.

"You don't have to eat a whole lot, Tommy. Here, just a small piece of chicken and some vegetables. Your body needs nutrients to fight off that virus." I poured him some water.

"I thought it was starve a fever, feed a cold. Oh…maybe it was the other way `round," Tommy said quietly as he sat across from me. "I don't know. And I don't care. Eat your dinner." I dug into mine, not really in the mood for nutrients, either. Right at that moment I'd have rather sunk into the couch with some beer and Monty Python reruns.

Across from me, Tommy clasped his hands and bowed his head. "Thank you, chicken, for dying so we could eat you."

*

That night I lay awake and listened to the sounds of Tommy breathing, accompanied by the occasional cough. He shivered, and it got worse and louder.

Afraid he was getting really sick all over again, I sat up. "Tommy?" Tommy gasped and held his breath, at least that was what it sounded like, but it still didn't stop the occasional tremble or sob coming through.

I got out of bed and made my way across the room. "Tommy?" The sniffles and sobs got worse. I knelt beside his mattress and put my hand on his shoulder. "Tommy, what's wrong?"

He was on his side, facing away from me, hugging Antwerp to him furiously. "Nothing, Turkish, I'm sorry I woke you,"

"No," I turned him and put my hand to his forehead. His fever was going down, at least. "What's wrong?"

Tommy stared up at me, eyes huge in his head. He angrily wiped a tear away. "I was just…I was just scared, Turkish."

"Of what? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, I…I was scared…just when you called me…It's just that you've been so nice to me, and I was scared that…"

"Tommy, calm down." I stayed where I was until the sobbing ceased.

"It's…it's nothing, Turkish. I'm sorry," He turned and hugged Antwerp to him again, rubbing his cheek against the little bear's head, and I suddenly realized that he was doing to the teddy what he wished someone would do to him for once.

I sighed and lifted Tommy until he was sitting, he was surprisingly light, and held him close. "It's okay. Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you, Tommy."

Tommy sobbed against me and slowly stopped trembling, started breathing again. He looked up at me. "Please don't send me away, Turkish. I'll go to school and I'll get a job and I'll help out at home…I won't be any trouble, I promise. In fact, I'll shut up right now." He then firmly clamped his mouth shut.

I sighed and laid him back down. "I'll think about it," I told him. "You just worry about going to sleep and getting better. And I'm…I'm going to bed,"

Tommy nodded at me, determination strong in his eyes.

I wandered back to bed and fell asleep listening to the sounds of Tommy trying desperately not to make any noise.

*

"I look like a yuppie," He complained.

The next day, I had deemed Tommy well enough to get out of bed, shower, and dress. I ended up giving him a few of my old things, slacks and shirts, until we got some more of his own stuff.

"You look respectable," I told him. I regarded him for a moment. "I guess I can't very well leave you here, can I?"

Tommy grinned at me, and I realized that he did have a rather nice smile. "Please let me come with you?"

I sighed and thought how Gorgeous George was going to be gloating about this later. "It's no place for a boy like you," I told him.

"I'm not a boy," There was that scowl again. "And I'm not innocent. Trust me."

I uncrossed my arms and tried to stare him down. He had a very determined stare, however, and I failed. "Fine. Put on a sweater. It's cold."

We walked down to the lot and I told him what the lot and The Gun and Gorgeous George and I were all about. His eyes really widened when he took in the implications of the unlicensed boxing world. I wondered

what I was getting into.

"You just be quiet and stay by me, you hear?" Tommy nodded, solemnly.

A crowd was already gathering in the lot, where the makeshift wooden ring had already been set up. Mostly low-class, blue-collar betters who were out to see an honest fight. Not the highbrow, vicious hardcore dealers that were often the audience for any of the fights we put on for Brick Top, his clientele. Somebody would almost always end up dead at the end of one of those fights, and not the fighters either.

I liked this way better.

"Turkish!" Gorgeous called out to me as I entered the lot with Tommy in tow. "Do ye like it?" He gestured at the small caravan in the far corner of the lot, our new office.

"It looks fine," I hesitantly told him. "Is it going to last?"

"Oh, fer a few years t'least." Gorgeous grinned that gap-toothed grin. "Is t'is Tommy t'en?" He ruffled the kid's hair, as much as it could be ruffled. "Good lookin' boy, t'at!" He threw a few mock punches at Tommy, who grinned back at him.

"Are you ready for this fight, George?" I asked in all seriousness.

"Ready as I'll ever be, Turkish." He smiled, a little apprehensively. "It'll be good fun, this,"

A little while later, the fight started. Me and Tommy stood a little ways behind, on some old garbage cans, watching. Gorgeous George was winning, a few well-aimed punches at the opponent's face and the blood was flowing freely. The crowd went wild.

I glanced over at Tommy. He was in rapture, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Dammit. Now I had ruined him. The same way Brick Top had ruined me. Now there was no turning back.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

After the fight was over and Gorgeous had won, we were using the caravan for the first time, to patch up his many wounds and bruises.

"Didja see t'at, boy, didja?" Gorgeous was excited as all hell, delirious and probably missing a bunch of brain cells. Tommy grinned back at him and showed no squeamishness at wiping away the blood from the boxer's face. "Pow! Bang!" Gorgeous carried on. "Out like a light!"

"I've ruined you now, haven't I?" I asked Tommy quietly. "Now that you know what I do…you won' t leave now, will you?"

Tommy bit his lip. "I could like this, Turkish. I could do this." He applied a band-aide to one of George's face cuts. "Maybe one day I can fight-"

"No!" I interrupted him. "You can stay with me, you can work for me, but you are not going to box. Not under me, anyway. You hear me?" He nodded solemnly. I sighed. Gorgeous grinned at me, now missing

another tooth.

"Then you can stay. And you can run the slots, I'll show you how. But you have to promise that you'll study hard and do good so one day you can get outta here. You hear?"

Tommy nodded, big eyes bright. "I promise, Turkish." He hesitated for a moment, then lunged forward and hugged me, tightly. "Thank you, Turkish."

I sighed and looked down at him. "Let's go home, kid."

(2)

-Aimee Mann "Save Me"

November was the rainier that year than I had ever remembered it. There was the occasional snowfall, but it mostly melted off when it hit the ground and became slush, joining its brother the rain in the gutters on the streets.

Rain was a sound I had always been accustomed to. Rain, and the thick fog and mist that drifted in off the Thames and flooded the city.

After Suzy, the rain was one of the only familiar sounds I had. That and the drone of traffic, the repetitive thump of flesh on flesh during the fights, the tedious resonance of the telly late at night.

Now Tommy was here, with all new, unfamiliar sounds. I usually woke around noon, before Tommy came into my life, and wandered to the lot to watch Gorgeous or The Gun, or downstairs to the arcade or the

office. Sometimes I would wander to the locations of perspective or traditional betters and make some plans. Occasionally, I'd have to make some deal with Brick Top. I tried to avoid those.

Tommy had his first classes at ten, and usually I had to make sure he even got there. Then I'd spend the day watching the guys spar, and making deals. Tommy got home sometime in the afternoon usually before I did, and when I came home he'd be struggling with his schoolwork. I'd try to help him, and then one of us would make dinner. I had to make sure he ate more than he would if I weren't there to bother him, and in turn I was eating better, too. He refused to drink any milk, though, and still had the habit of thanking all our `victims'.

It was weird having someone always there all the time now. The kid tried to help out at home, he was always in the background doing things I never knew needed to be done before. Mostly he got in the way.

There were a surprising number of fights I had to attend most nights. I wouldn't have let Tommy run the arcade- which he chose to name "Jesters" on weekdays, with his school and all. He'd plead with me to let him come to the fights, and I'd say no and tell him to go to bed, and he'd mumble `yes sir,' and I'd leave.

And then I would return, in the wee hours of the morning, and find him sitting up on the couch, wrapped in his blankets. And I'd say that I thought I told him to go to bed and he'd say that he couldn't sleep, he was worried. I would tell him that there was no need for him to be worried, because he knew what I did, and he said that in that case I should let him come with me. I'd say he has school, tell him to go to bed.

On the weekends, though, he'd do his job at the arcade behind the counter, with the bat I had put there for protection, more for him than me. And later he'd sneak out to the fights with me and I'd get angry at him and he'd furrow his brow and look up at me and then I couldn't do anything about it.

Then he'd beg me to take him out drinking or clubbing or something. He was eighteen now, so I suppose it was okay, but I had never liked clubbing anyway. Suzy had loved it. It was how we met. I was there on a dare.

One day after I came home from staring at the lot wall while Gorgeous and the Gun sparred, carrying some leftover sausages Charlie had given me to take home to Tommy, I found him sitting up on his dumpster-mattress in the corner, a wrapped parcel neatly tucked by his head, grinning down at a bunch of books and papers.

"I got my marks today," He grinned up at me when he noticed me there. The group home obviously didn't run proper classes like other licensed schools, but in the end he'd get some semblance of a diploma to show for something. He wouldn't write GCSEs, but nobody was planning on sending him to college anyway.

The last few months Tommy had been struggling with the classes he was taking, English mostly. Poor kid was dyslexic and never learned to overcome it. I had to coax him to do his English work and he usually got discouraged easily. Now he was starting new courses for the next few months, but unless none of them involved reading, I didn't think our troubles were over.

I tossed Charlie's offering in the fridge were it would rot until one of us got hungry in the middle of the night. I pulled out a chair from the table as Tommy held out the piece of paper to me.

He was a good kid, he tried hard, he did. I bit back one of my characteristically caustic remarks when I saw his grades. That our biggest domestic problem. Tommy wanted nothing more than to please me, and my bitingly sarcastic nature (at least I'm told it's bitingly sarcastic) didn't help his fledgling self-esteem. Usually he'd just stand there and took what I gave him, avoiding my eyes, and that would just make me feel worse. I tried to encourage him to stand up for himself. It rarely worked. When it did, it usually exploded in a

tantrum or string of annoying questions and then I'd break off on another string of insults. Then he'd get this sort of glazed over look in those dark eyes and his jaw would set and that would make me feel worst of all. The way I'd felt when Suzy and I would fight, and I'd say something I didn't mean, and her mouth would sort of pop open and she'd glance away. I would get this feeling just below my chest, above my stomach, and it made me sick. With Suzy, I'd usually get out and go for a walk before it got to that point. I'd started doing the same with Tommy.

It was odd thinking of Tommy in almost the same capacity that I used to think of Suzy. That I was now sharing the flat that I had once shared with her with him.

I knew it was hard of him to pass everything, and I was proud of him. I murmured it, truthfully, but I don't know if he heard. I always used to tell Suzy how proud I was of her. She had always accomplished more through her art than I did through anything, really.

"Fashion Studies?" I asked when I got the bottom of the page. "What's that?"

"It's my trade," Tommy said proudly. "It's sewing and designing and such."

"Why'd you take that? Why didn't you take…metal works or…something?" I tactfully left out `something masculine'.

Tommy shrugged. "I'm good at it. Besides, the girls in fashion are really nice, and all the boys who take metal and construction design are all…they don't like me very much." Before I could respond, he flashed a quick smile and reached around his mattress. "Besides, I can make us clothes and save us money."

Looking back now, I had become accustomed to the idea of Tommy living with me for a long time now and didn't find anything odd about his assumptions. He held out the wrapped parcel that had been sitting beside his mattress to me.

"It's my project. I made it for you," He said shyly, avoiding my eyes.

"…Thank you," I said softly, bewildered, and gingerly took the package from him.

I unwrapped it carefully, still feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the idea of Tommy giving me a gift, and allowed myself a smirk when I pulled out the meticulously handmade beige trench coat.

"Ms. Meyer said it would last years and years. Forever." He still wouldn't look at me. "I wasn't sure of the size. One of the boys kind of has your build but you're taller so I just worked from that. With winter here and all…I hope it's thick enough."

He remembered. He remembered my complaining about the piss-poor black windbreaker I had been stuck with. I couldn't even remember his birthday and he remembered that.

"It's perfect, Tommy." I gave him some semblance of a smile, at least I hope so. "Thank you. I…" I glanced away for a moment. "I didn't give you anything for your birthday, Tommy, I'm sorry."

Tommy looked up at me sharply, and shook his head. "No, no, Turkish. That's not true. You…you gave me a home." He stood up and came over to me, hugging me, awkwardly, seeing as I was sitting. "You saved my

life, Turkish. Thank you."

I didn't return the hug. I didn't feel right. I was never a huggish person to begin with, Suzy complained about it all the time. "Tommy?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you still taking the trade course?"

"Uh huh." He went to the fridge and pulled out one of the juice boxes I had taken to buying him. "Trade is all year."

"Will you make yourself a coat, too?" I looked down to the perfectly made coat on my lap. "You need something. This is probably better made than anything I can get you."

"Sure," He wandered over to the couch and flipped on the television, still drinking his juice. I stayed where I was, bewildered.

"We should get a dog." He said absently after a moment.

"What?"

"We should get a dog."

"*Why?*"

Tommy shrugged. "I don't know. I just always wanted one."

"No. I hate dogs." I got up, hanging the trench coat on the nearby rack, and started banging around in the kitchen- really just to do something. It ambiguously crossed my mind that I'd have to make something for Tommy to eat before I went to the fight. One for Brick Top. Hoorah. And another next weekend.

At least I had Tommy home now to brighten things up.

Now that was an odd thought.

"So did my dad. Never let me have one." Tommy stared at the telly in absentia. "He didn't let me do a lot of things."

I looked up at that, as it was the first time Tommy had ever really told me anything about his family, in all the months he had been living with me. I stood there, waiting for him to elaborate, but no answer was forthcoming.

*

Later that night I stood in my usual spot in the lot, in the corner, on garbage cans, watching the fight. Blowing snow snaked it's way into the lot, like tiny whirlwinds, and the spectators didn't notice, most of them drunk on drink or drugs or hate or anger or whatever other reason they were here watching two degenerates beat the brains out of each other instead of home with their children or wives or husbands or whoever. I shivered, though, and I pulled the thick trench coat closer. It was much better than my old black windbreaker, and I loved the way it felt against the bare skin of my arms. And after the fight, well after midnight, sitting in the caravan with Gorgeous, I actually had to take the thing off to avoid getting blood on it, like I had ever cared about that before.

George had lost.

"Ahh! Fucking hell!" He cried when I roughly twisted his nose back into place.

"Better than having to go to hospital," I told him.

"Jay-sus," he cradled his bleeding face. "That's th' last time I fights a gypsy. Christ!" He slathered a sponge of water over his reddened face, already puffy and bruising up. "Surprised I'm not dead,"

"The Gun warned you," I reprimanded him, not even passionate to his condition. "I warned you. Told you not to accept fights I didn't arrange for you,"

"Well Sweet Joseph, Turkish, you're not me bloody mother." He scowled at the surprising amount of blood that ended up on his towel. "How was I ta know he was a friggin' gypsy boxing champion?"

"Well. Don't let it happen again."

"I won't. Believe me."

I didn't, of course. Gorgeous was too self-glorified to turn down a good fight when offered. Even when he didn't stand a chance. Or his pride was threatened or some other bullshit excuse like that.

"Get that healed up by this weekend. Big fight."

"Wit' who?"

I shrugged. "Tough tattooed mother from the West End. You could take him, but don't." I winced, slightly. "Brick Top was very clear on that. You're going down in the third. No questions asked."

"Well bullocks to that!" Gorgeous spat out another tooth. "If I can takes `im, I'm takin' `im."

"No, you listen to me!" I gave him that sneering `Turkish is displeased' look that Charlie tells me works sometimes. I don't want to cross Brick Top. Not now, not ever. Especially not now. If you don't do what I tell you, then I'm dead and who knows what might happen to-" I stopped.

Gorgeous grinned up at me, gap-toothed. "Oh I see. This is about Tommy, then."

I glared at him. "Of course it's about Tommy, dimwit. If I'm dead, he's dead. And he's got a chance to make something of his life. He doesn't have to end up like us." I sneered again. "Look at you. Put some ice on it. I'm going home."

Once home, after I had hung up the coat and changed, I stopped by Tommy's spot in the corner and checked on him. Least that's what I told myself.

He had been asleep, for once, when I had come home. He usually would wait up for me and then I'd get home and yell at him and he'd mope and it would be the same thing the next night.

I looked at him now. Actually stopped and looked. I had never done that before. I guess I never wanted to stop and actually see what I was doing, what was happening. Like my life. I just let stuff happen. The fights, the deals. I didn't do anything to stop it. It didn't even care anymore.

Then Tommy came, and it was the same thing. Sure, there was something there, but I wasn't about to let it grow into any real emotion. That's the mistake I had made with Suzy. Then she was taken away.

Not that it mattered, really. Nothing lasts. Least of all life. Love. I had learned that before, when my best friend died of leukemia when I was a kid, then my pop split when I was fifteen. Nothing really mattered.

I tried to tell that to myself about Tommy, that it didn't matter, that eventually he'd leave too, and it wouldn't have made a difference. I could go on drinking my milk and my tea, listening to the sound of flesh on flesh, watching Monty Python reruns, feeling my life dissipate and leave me, until it was completely gone.

There was always something, though, that disputed that. Some paternal instinct, or brotherly instinct, or whatever else kind of instinct, that told me differently. That it did matter. That he mattered. That now made me pull his sheets up a little closer, pick Antwerp up from where he had fallen on the floor and nestle him back into his place in the crook of Tommy's arm.

I don't know how long I stayed there like that, just looking at him. So young, at peace, his jaw working in that determined set in the midst of some dream that I would never know. I just sat there, looking at him, and for once since Suzy had been pulled away from me, I was afraid of death.

*

The next day, Friday, when I came home in the afternoon, expecting to see Tommy at the table or in front of the telly, the room was empty. I hung up my coat and thought about it. He probably went to see his friends in the warehouse; he did that occasionally, though it worried me sick. Sometimes he and his mates in the group home would do something together after class, and I liked that a little more, but he always insisted that the other kids didn't like him.

But this was Friday. Firstly, he'd have to open arcade in about an hour. And second, it was a huge fight night. He was usually pumped up and excited for fights.

I let my eyes travel across the length of the room, scanning, and noticed the door was open. The door that I hadn't opened in as long as I can remember.

I slowly wandered into the old bedroom. Sure enough, there was Tommy, kneeling in the center of all of a dead woman's possession, staring at a framed black and white photograph.

"What are you doing in here?" I asked after a moment.

He looked up, sharply, scared. "Turkish!"

"What are you doing in here?" I stepped forward. He flinched and leaned back.

"I'm sorry Turkish, I was just curious. That's all."

"I keep this door locked."

"It was old. It came right open." He attempted to justify it. "You…you never told me I couldn't, Turkish."

He had me there. Tommy and I stared at each other for a moment. There was a deep, viscous silence that was weighted with dying curiosity, and bitter regret.

"Who…who is she?" Quiet. Tentative. So unlike Tommy.

I reached out a hand. "Give me that." Tommy complied, silently, a little scared. Staring at the floor. "Get out of here,"

Tommy scrambled to his feet and left the room, head bowed, leaving a sad `yes sir' in the air.

I sighed and sat on the floor where Tommy had been, cradling the picture in my hand. It was one of her favourite ones. Us on our wedding day. Why waste money on professional photographers when one of you was one?

We were wed on the Isle of Skye. The photo, black and white, featured us on the rocky cliffs, the sun setting in the background. I was jumping for some reason- I know that doesn't sound just right, but I can't explain it in words. In the photo it was so much different, more powerful, than any words could portray. There I was, in my tux, mid-air, blurred, so full of joy and love the film couldn't even capture it all. Which was exactly how I felt at the time. And she was there, a little ways behind, in her beautiful white gown, holding her flowers, laughing. Her face, in the photo, just as beautiful as I remember.

I surreptitiously wiped a tear from my face. I had never cried since the funeral. Never allowed myself to. This was the first time I had seen anything of Suzy's, let alone been in this room, since her death. It was too much. She was so beautiful, so pure, so good, and she actually loved me, she actually found it somewhere in her heart to feel the most mythical of legendary emotions for someone as worthless as me…and I had screwed it up. I killed her. I had no illusions of that.

And no one blamed me. That was the worst part. Not her parents, her friends, our friends. I even knew she was up there in heaven, happy and glowing and shining, and she forgave me.

But I couldn't forgive myself.

I'm not sure how long I was there, just sobbing my pathetic little heart out, before Tommy came in. Slowly. Quietly. I didn't even know he was there until he was kneeling on the floor close enough so I could feel his body heat.

Eventually I felt him press something small and fuzzy into my arms. I looked down a the small worn teddy bear in my grasp.

"He always helps me when I feel sad," Tommy whispered by way of explanation.

I smiled, tearfully. "Thank you."

Tommy nodded as I held Antwerp, gingerly, the way I did when Suzy was in my arms. Finally he crept in there too, wrapping his arms around me and leaning into my chest.

I let out a long breath, like you do after a long cry, or at least other people do. It had been a long time since I had been this close to someone for this long. It felt right.

"She's pretty," Tommy muttered after a while.

"Yeah. She was." I whispered.

We stayed like that, a little longer, to make the hurt go away a little more.

"I like this," Tommy said.

"Yeah. So do I."

*

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

It was late. I wasn't in the mood for this. I had had a bad day, on top of everything else, and the attitude, that loud obnoxious `smell me' attitude that rich people carried around with them, made it worse. Especially the attitude that rich people whom got there through crime carried around with them. Like Brick Top. And his goonies.

Gorgeous George had attracted quite a turn-out, almost a rival to his back-alley fights. A bunch of foreigners were there too, some Americans and a lot of Japanese. People who had the kind of money they could even afford to commit felonies abroad.

Gorgeous, for his part, was angry. Still seething from loosing to a Pykie in the lot, saying that he didn't like gypsies so much anymore, he was also starting to dislike wealthy people a lot. Welcome to the world of unlicensed boxing, I told him. Welcome to the real world in general. The worst of it was that he knew they were all there to bet against him, even when he could win. That he was going to fake, and he knew he was a fake, and they knew he was a fake. And no one cared.

It didn't matter.

Nothing much matters.

Nothing much.

I had to go affirm things with Brick Top, hoorah. I didn't leave Tommy with Gorgeous, like he wanted. I wasn't about to leave him alone in a place like that.

And that's how this whole thing had started.

They noticed right away that I had a shadow now. Brick Top for his past, simply looked Tommy over and then away in the manner that he treated all the other creatures on God's green earth. Anything smaller or prettier than himself than himself was immediately not worth a mention except for a quick bout of fun before throwing them away. He was one of those lecherous old men that was certainly going to hell, and he knew it and didn't have a problem with it. In fact, I imagine he was looking forward to the heat.

While Brick Top, if he truly hated something, would simply go in for the kill, his goons, who were not nearly as sophisticated or as intelligent as himself, liked to tease.

The really smug and sinister looking one, Harry or Larry or Barry or whatever his name was, targeted Tommy as victim right away.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Four words that could so easily lead to a lifelong, committed relationship, turned sour and insulting and downright humiliating with a right degree of sarcasm and smug superiority.

I surreptitiously cast a glance towards Tommy, who's eyes were already glazed over and his jaw already working in the manner that it always did when he was confronted with something.

At least this was happening now, that he was strong enough to even do the jaw thing. If this were three months ago, he would have fallen apart.

"This is Tommy," I told Brick Top and his goons in my sort of `I would have thought that was obvious' voice that I usually reserved for times of crisis. "My partner."

Larry/Harry/Barry beamed. "I thought his name was whatever I wanted it to be. Remember, sweetheart?"

Tommy wasn't even looking at him now, staring at a point somewhere by my feet. Uh oh. This was phase two. Next came flinching. Then he would start to tear up, and that would definitely spell trouble.

"Glad he finally found a home. We know it won't last long." His friend, on Brick Top's left, was joining in now. "We all remember my dentist Dr. Anderson, don't we sweetheart?"

I was definitely confused now. Tommy moved a little more towards me, lilting a little to the side, his characteristic cry for help.

"Tell you what, sweetheart," Larry/Barry/Harry, or maybe it was his friend, kept going. "Why don't you meet us after the fight, and we'll-"

"Enough," Brick Top, who had thus far seemed to be enjoying the play-by-play, interrupted with all his terrifying anger. "We have actual business to conduct here tonight, boys, and your childish interests can wait."

He then went on to confirm the deal with myself, punctuating it with several horrific threats that I didn't really hear, since I was too busy taking in the smug snickers and looks that the goons shot to Tommy.

Afterwards, I directed Tommy back to the ring, by the elbow. He was blinded with tears by now, refusing to let them fall.

"I'm sorry Turkish," He said quietly in the muted roar of the crowd.

"It's alright, Tommy," I sat him down outside Gorgeous' corner, away from Brick Top and his thugs, away from prying eyes. "You stay there, okay?"

He nodded, staring at his shoes. I went to tend to Gorgeous. Tommy didn't even watch the fight.

We got home late, Tommy trudging behind me, head bent low. We got in and after he kicked off his shoes, he went right to his makeshift corner, not even bothering to take off his heavy sweater. He sank into his mattress and picked up Antwerp, holding his close, half-heartedly stroking the little bear's head, and stared at his schoolbooks.

I sighed and, after hanging up my coat, I went to the bridge and took out two bottles of beer. I didn't often drink with Tommy, but he looked like he needed it.

I sat on the floor by his mattress, watching him slowly pick up a book and clumsily dump it into his little red duffel.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He glanced up at me, flinchy and teary-eyed. Jesus. Months of progress undone in a matter of minutes. "Aren't you going to send me away?"

"Tommy, God, no. Why would you think that? Here." I handed him a bottle.

"Thank you," he shakily told me. "I was just…scared. I was afraid that after you found out, you wouldn't want me anymore."

"Aw, now that'll never happen." I told him truthfully. "I'm too fond of you." I came over and sat next to him on the mattress.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, Turkish."

"When did you ever lie to me?"

Tommy stared down at Antwerp. "I've never dealt drugs. I've seen people do drugs before, but I've never taken them, and I definitely never dealt them." He glanced up at me. "I'm sorry. I was hoping you wouldn't find out."

I put an arm around him, looked like he could use it. "Never hope I'd find out what? Never did believe you'd deal drugs."

He didn't respond at first. When he did, he was sobbing. "What they said…you…you're not…don't you hate me now?"

"What? No! Tommy!" I looked down at him, crying in earnest. "What's so bad about this?"

"I…I can't say it, Turkish. I'm so ashamed of it."

I sighed and leaned him against me. He sighed too, and rested his head on my shoulder, taking the occasional tentative swig of his beer.

"I think I understand. I think I picked up enough to understand." "…and?" Frightened.

"I'm not quite sure if I should say it, in case it's wrong, and I offend you." I told him.

"If you were about to say `whore', then it's okay."

I started and stared down at him. "Tommy…I wasn't going to say that. I would never say that. And you shouldn't say that about yourself, it's not the right word."

"It's what I was," He wiped tears away.

"Not anymore, okay? You're safe now. You're not going to have to do anything like that again."

He sighed, still crying. "Thank you Turkish," He mumbled, burying his face in my chest and sobbing in earnest.

We stayed like that for a while, me drinking in the silence while he cried out his fear. When he was done, or had at least calmed down a bit, and had drunk a bit more of his bottle, I asked it. "Who's Dr. Anderson?"

Tommy's breath caught and I regretted asking. He remained silent for a long while, draining the last of his bottle.

"I never lived with him. He...he got me a flat." Tommy set his bottle on the floor. "He was nice to me. He treated me like an actual lover not a…whore."

I sighed and Tommy a little closer. Knew how hard it was for him. "You're not a whore," I mumbled.

"But he'd…he'd parade me around at these fancy parties…showed me off." Tommy let out a long, shaky breath. "That's how those guys knew me. I…I never slept with them. I don't think they liked boys." He threw his arms around my neck and cried, harder. "I'm sorry Turkish!"

"Shh. It's okay. You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"Are…are you sure you don't hate me? I would hate me if I found out-"

"Shh. That just doesn't make any sense. Nothing's changed, Tommy. It's okay. It's over. Things are different now. Okay?"

Tommy nodded, sobbing. He slowly drew his hands away from my neck and looked up at me. "Thank you, Turkish," he mumbled. He stared at me a little longer and then leaned in, slowly, and pressed his lips against mine in the barest whisper of a kiss.

He stopped, waited, and tried again. Deeper this time. I got lost in it and joined in, comforting him, confirming it. Confirming the fears I had been carrying around since that night I held him and told him not to be scared.

I pulled away. "No, Tommy….this is…this is wrong."

Tommy flinched again, and my heart contracted. "I'm sorry Turkish…I won't do that again."

"No, Tommy…I…I just…this isn't the right time. I think it means something different to you…not that…" I sighed. "I do love you, Tommy, but not like that-"

"What has this got to do with love?" Tommy asked, innocently enough. "I mean…I love you Turkish, at least I think I do, but…I never would have thought that you'd love me…but what does that have to do with it anyway?"

I could almost hear my heart breaking when he said that. I held him close and stroked his back and sighed. I don't know…we'll figure something out." I kissed him on the top of the head, chastely, innocently enough not to be mistaken for anything else.

"Okay…" he whispered, dejected, just like when I first found him.

"Let's go to sleep."

We changed and prepared for bed in silence, uncomfortable silence. A few minutes in the darkness, in that uncomfortable silence, and it was broken by a tentative voice.

"Turkish?"

"Mmm?"

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

I rolled over and looked at him.

"Not…not sleep *with* you," He clarified. "Can I just sleep next to you? I've never just slept next to someone before."

I nodded. Tommy smiled and carefully climbed into bed next to me, hugging Antwerp close to him.

A few more minutes of this, and he looked at me again.

"Turkish?" I looked at him. "Will you…hold me?"

We stared at each other for a while and then I smiled, and pulled him close. He sighed and set his head on my chest.

It felt right, this. Me holding him and him holding Antwerp. Felt right the same way it felt right when I held Suzy.

I sighed and allowed myself to feel just a little bit happy.

And then I was really, *really* terrified of death.

(3)

-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 could 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.

(*For those of you who don't know, the Birmingham Six were wrongfully imprisoned in the UK for 16 years until they were released thanks to Amnesty International letters and British Member of Parliament Chris Mullin in 1991.)

*

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.

(4 )

Aimee Mann "Save Me"

Gorgeous George woke up three days later.

Tommy was still missing.

I sat miserably on a patio chair outside the caravan while Charlie tried to massage some life back into George's aching parts. The boxer cringed and moaned. He was barely recognizable now with his face puffed up and scars running here and there. More than just a tooth missing. Gorgeous was going to be eating baby food for quite some time.

"I'm sorry about this," I muttered, taking a dejected pull at my new glass bottle of milk.

There was something about drinking milk from a glass bottle that was disturbingly similar to suckling at a mother's nipple. Something about the purity of smooth white milk delivered by bicycle every single week that was comforting, that brought you back to your childhood home in a small farming town in northern England. The one constant in my childhood, in a time when the mines closed and money was scarce, had become the one constant in my adulthood, where the fistful of ideals you carried in your youth were dissipating into hopelessness and fears. I really loved milk.

And Tommy hated it. Figures.

"It's no' yuir fault," Gorgeous managed to say, sounding an awful lot like a drunken Scot I had met in the Hebrides last time I was there. "It's mine. I should'a been more careful," He winced as Charlie prodded at his neck.

"No, it's me," I sighed. "I shouldn't have been so…myopic about Tommy."

"Where is Tommy, anyway?"

"He ran away," I practically whispered it.

"Wha'? Ye let `im run away?"

"'F course I didn't let him. That would've been kicking him out. And I didn't kick him out, he ran away."

"Oh, ye should nay a'let him run off, Turkish." I bristled at the way he whistled my name funny. "Boy like t'at won't know wha' to do wit' himself." He grinned disturbingly at me. "Ye just lost yer most precious possession, me friend,"

"No, that's not it at all," I stood up. "You're just brain damaged is all," I turned to leave the lot. "Merry Christmas by the way," I got back at the lot and hung up my coat and sat in front of the telly and proceeded to do what I had done every day before Tommy came into my life. I drank.

I drank and I drank and I had the occasional spot of tea but it didn't seem to help.

The funny thing is, or the really sad thing depending on how you look at it, was that I didn't even know why I was drinking. I just was. Like there was nothing better to do. There was nobody there to fuss over or boss around or fight with, so I drank. I figured I would drink until I felt better but I never did.

It was the first Christmas Eve I have ever spent, excluding the Christmas Eve that Suzy died. Well, maybe it was just as bad.

There wasn't much on the telly. Christmasey family crap that just made me drink more. Eventually I got out that bit of marijuana I took from Tommy and smoked it. Not even with friends. How sad is that? I just did it. I can't even say I did it to mellow out or bliss out or take the edge off, I just didn't want to think about anything so I needed something to do with the rest of my body while I watched that tripe on television.

I kept glancing back at the Christmas tree for some reason and feeling sick. The sun was setting and a storm settled in and blew snow around. I took a nap. Then I got up and looked at the Christmas tree and the gifts under, like a mockery of a happy family, and I felt sick again. So I drank more, still a little drunk from before

the nap. It was maybe midnight now, officially Christmas day, but it wasn't really dark out. Well, I mean it was pitch black, but there was so much snow and it had that pinkish hue that snow sometimes gets when it's in huge quantities that lit up the streets.

I still felt sick, even when I wasn't looking at the tree, and I realised that the tree really had nothing to do with it and eventually I was hunched over the toilet spewing everything I had consumed that day, which wasn't much except alcohol.

The phone rang.

I could've cried. I think I did. It was, what, one in the morning? I was tired and sweating and drunk as hell and staring at my own vomit, like I had been for the last three nights, and now I had to take a fucking phone call. A fucking phone call at one in the fucking morning. Could this fucking holiday get any fucking worse?

I wept a little and wiped the vomit off my mouth with some toilet paper and blearily answered the phone.

"What?"

"Hello sir? Is this Turkish Gilmore?" A familiar voice, as tired as mine, on the other phone answered.

"Yes, what?"

"This is Officer Whitworth. I believe we've met before,"

Great. A fucking pig.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

"Oh, Jesus, what?"

"Mister Gilmore, are you drunk?"

"Yes! Now would you fucking tell me why you're calling? Please?" I wanted to go to bed.

"Sir, we've got Tommy in our custody here. He'd like to talk to you." That sobered me up.

"What? Well what happened? Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Whitworth responded; though I could hear the concern in his voice. "He's just a little worse for wear. He didn't want to tell us anything until he spoke to you,"

"What happened? He's not in prison, is he?"

"No!" He sounded offended. "In fact he's a victim. We've got the perpetrator here too, but Tommy isn't going to make any statements until he talks to you. Understandably."

Perpetrator? I felt like I was going to be sick all over again.

"He's right here, he would like to talk to you. Is that okay?"

"Yes!" I practically screamed at him. God I hated pigs.

There was a minor scuffle and confused silence and then Tommy's small, shattered voice. "Turkish?"

"Oh, Jesus, Tommy, I'm here,"

"I wanna go home, Turkish," I could see him there, cringing and fidgeting, on the verge of tears.

"It's alright Tommy I'm going to be right there. Do you want me to bring your coat?"

"Yes please. And Turkish?"

"Yes, Tommy?"

"Could you bring Antwerp?"

I glanced frantically around the loft, not seeing the teddy bear anywhere. "Where did you leave him?"

"I can't- I can't remember. I just don't have him. If you find him, will you bring him?"

"Of course, Tommy," I said softly.

"Th-thank you. I have to go now," He told me apologetically.

"Okay. I love you, Tommy." There. I told him.

"I-I love you too," a whisper. There was a faint click and then I was searching the room for the bear.

Now his coat I had just kept hung up, and the rest of his things in a neat pile by his mattress, a little symbol of hopeful wait. Antwerp was nowhere.

I went to throw up a bit more and came out losing hope, not ready to go there and not be able to give Tommy the one thing he needed. Then I spotted it.

Underneath the Christmas tree, sitting by himself, with a red bow tied clumsily around his neck was a sweet little teddy bear.

I could almost hear my heart breaking in two when I picked it up. The bastard had done it again. I squeezed Antwerp to my chest and fought back mounting tears. He was willing to give me his most prized possession and I had nothing to give him, except tears and bad memories evidently.

I ran down the streets through darkness and snow and damned well froze my ears off. The precinct was warm but not inviting at all, had an unpleasant formality that made you feel as insignificant as possible.

"Mr. Gilmore-" Whitworth started when he saw me.

"Where the hell is he?"

"Just calm down and wait here a moment," Whitworth's eyes were puffy and red, working long hours on Christmas must do that to a guy. "He's just…cleaning up."

I sighed and paced.

"Turkish…" His use of my first name made me seethe. "I know you don't like this, but I've known Tommy since he came to London when he was eleven. In fact," He pointed at Antwerp clutched frightfully in my arms. "I gave him that bear. It was going to be a present for my niece but I left it with him in the warehouse once. He doesn't know it's me so don't tell him," He sighed. "There were times when he'd be in here every other day for one reason or another. He's come a long way and he was doing so well and I know he's tearing himself up about this, so go easy, okay?"

I didn't know what to say to this so I didn't say anything.

"Turkish!" I turned at the sound of his voice and suddenly had an armful of Tommy, trembling and cold.

"Shh, Tommy, it's okay now," I rubbed circles on his back as he cried into my chest. "Here," I wrapped his coat around him and handed him Antwerp.

"Thank you," He managed through sobs and he crushed the teddy bear to his chest, still leaning to mine. "I'm sorry…he was supposed to be for you,"

"I know Tommy. That's very sweet of you. It's okay. Thank you."

"So I have to ask," Whitworth interrupted our reverie. "Do you want to bring charges against the person who did this to Tommy?"

I looked down at my diamond in the rough and saw the bruises, the cuts and his puffy lips, say the way he cringed at the feel of my hands on his back. I pulled them away as if they had been burned and gently touched his shoulders.

"Shit, Tommy, I'm sorry. Who did this?"

"It was just," He shuddered and took a deep breath. "It was just Dr. Anderson. It's all right, I know him." He refused to meet my gaze.

"Tommy," I cupped his chin and moved his face to look at me. "What did he do?"

Tears spilt over the huge dark eyes. "Nothing he didn't pay for." "Do you want to press charges?" Whitworth asked again. I looked down at Tommy, who was shaking his head frantically.

"Why not?" I asked gently.

"They'll never believe me Turkish," He explained. "I'm just a whore, I was asking for it."

"Tommy, that's not true,"

"That's how they'll see it. And they'll find out all these things about you and I don't want that." He stared at me pleadingly. "Please, Turkish, let's just forget about what happened and go home. I promise I won't go out to the streets again, I mean it, I'll try way hard this time. Please?"

I felt a will to live slowly re-enter my blood. I sighed and looked at the bobby. "Tommy doesn't want to," I said.

Whitworth nodded slowly and smiled at Tommy. "Alright then. Merry Christmas. You take care, Tommy."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The walk home was brutal. The winds picked up and snow as blowing everywhere and Tommy's tears were freezing in his eyes. I ended up wrapping him in my own coat close to my chest and carrying him the last little way. It was hard, he had gained weight since we met, and I suppose that's good.

We got home and I ran warm water in the tub and clumsily helped him out of his clothes, wincing at what I found underneath, while he flinched from my touch and cried his little heart out.

I helped him into the tub and held him there for a while, whilst he cried into my arm. I held him there and stroked his head and whispered soothing words. Then I cleaned.

Oh, what a feat. Dried blood everywhere, bruises almost everywhere I touched. It wasn't so bad in the parts I was much concerned with, he said he was `just beaten around a bit' but that didn't put any of my fears to rest. I sighed and set to work on his delicate little feet and hands and we spent a lot of time like that, holding each others' hands, staring sadly at each other.

It was surreal.

I helped him out and dried him off gently, helping him into an old set of clothes of mine like the first time I had found him, and carried him to bed, my bed. I tucked him in gently while he stared up at me, holding Antwerp protectively.

I ruffled his hair a bit and bent to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"I'm sorry," He whispered. "I'm sorry I let this happen and I'm sorry I didn't listen to you,"

"Shh," I kissed him again, I couldn't get enough of it. "It's okay,"

He sighed, shaky. "You can take me if you want…" He offered, hopefully.

"No…Tommy," I sighed and tucked him in a little tighter, for no other reason than just to be near him.

"Why not?"

I sighed. "Because I love you." It was easier now that I had already said it.

"I love you." He bit his lip. "I'm used to it. My dad did it to my mom all the time. S'why I ran away."

I sighed and blinked back a tear and leaned in to nuzzle the side of his face. "No more, Tommy," I whispered. "It's over, you're safe now."

"Then why not?" His dark eyes pleaded with me, hurt.

"You're too young,"

"Why not? Give me a real reason." Whining now.

"Because I love you, Tommy, I don't want to do this to do if you don't really want it."

"But I do want it."

I stroked his face. "Two people have to love each other back for it to work."

"I love you. I told you that."

"I don't think you love me the way I love you,"

"Please, Turkish," He grabbed on to my shirtsleeve. "I need to know it doesn't hurt, I need to know it's okay." He sighed. "You know that time I kissed you? On the lips?" He flushed. "That was my first kiss." He smiled at me. "I liked it."

I looked at those dark eyes and that trembling lip and I was lost.

And gently, lovingly, I showed him. Just with my mouth, and my hands, I showed him.

And I liked it too. Funny, never thought I would.

I look back now on what happened then and I smile. We slept like that almost every night, I holding my most prized possession and he holding his. Not anymore, though, Tommy outgrew that and Antwerp sits

on the self. He finished his school, and last year I sent him travelling through the continent by himself in another caravan. It was the most worrisome three months of my life, but he pulled through.

And then we got that damned dog, and with it came the diamond. A diamond fit for my diamond in the rough. We're still figuring out what to do with it. At least we can stop worrying about anything else though, that much we know.

But back then, on that first time, Tommy lay with his head on my chest and smiled a smile that did an ego good.

"I'm happy," He finally said.

"Good," I rubbed his back.

"And I'm happy for you,"

"Why?"

"'Cause I finally saved you." He leaned up over me in the darkness and kissed my forehead.

I laughed. "I always thought it was you that needed saving."

He only smiled. "Was it?"

I wrapped my arms around him and placed a loving, chaste kiss right on his lips. I drifted off to sleep secure in the knowledge that I had found a purpose, a meaning, in my diamond in the rough.

But what do I know about diamonds? I'm a boxing promoter. That's it. That's all. Tommy is my partner. That doesn't mean we hold hands and take windy walks.

But that also doesn't mean we don't enjoy the occasional snuggle.

End.

tarynw42@hotmail.com