Title: Beaten (1/1)
Author: Edzel2
Genre: Exile (pre-Episode One)
Rating: PG13 for language and references to drug use
Summary: Prequel to Episode One (or at least my idea of what might have happened)
Characters: Tom and Nancy Ronstadt
Word count: 1400-ish
January, 2011
Just one glimpse of the door to his father’s study and Tom is that cowering child again. He remembers his shock as Samuel lays into him; the sudden and overwhelming conviction that his own father is going to kill him. No wonder he’d tried to block out the memory...
August, 1993
Tom comes to, his head ringing. For a moment or two he doesn’t remember where he is - why can he taste blood? Then memory returns with a rush and he starts upright, wincing and gasping as his injuries make themselves felt. What the hell had that been about? And where is his father now?
Sudden fear that Samuel might return pushes Tom past the pain barrier and to his feet. He staggers to the half-open door and listens – the sound of raised voices at the other end of the house reassures him and he lunges for the bathroom, locking the door with shaking hands.
The mirror reveals the extent of the damage – a split lip, a gash across the bridge of his nose (which doesn’t seem to be broken), another cut on one eyebrow; and that’s just the ones he can see. He aches all over, and vaguely recalls being kicked in the ribs. He leans over the open toilet bowl and throws up, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.
-----
Nancy pounds on her brother’s bedroom door – it’s locked. ‘Tom, open the door! Dad’s going off on one downstairs and he’s really scaring me! What happened? Tom?’
‘Go away!’ For some reason he can’t explain, Tom doesn’t want Nancy to see what their father has done, even though the desire for the comfort he knows she will give him is strong. She’s his little sister; he should be the strong one. But he has to tell her something, doesn’t he? He knows Nancy – she won’t give up, not until she’s wheedled it out of him. He sighs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve – blood stains the material and he shudders. How could he have done this? What have I done that’s so wrong? It’s only a file....
‘Tom, are you going to open this door or shall I call Dad?’ Tom lurches for the door.
Nancy stares in horror at her brother’s bloodied face. ‘Blimey Tom – what happened? Did you get into a fight? Is that why Dad’s so angry?’
‘He beat me.’ Tom turns away – the admission feels shameful, almost as if it had been his fault; but that can’t be right, can it? Maybe he shouldn’t have been snooping (he knows the rules; he and Nancy had it drummed into them from an early age that their father’s office was off limits unless he invited them in, and they were never to read anything in there unless he showed them.
‘What?’
She doesn’t believe me. ‘Dad beat me, Nance. He punched and kicked the shit out of me and... oh ‘eck...’ he claps a hand to his mouth and runs for the bathroom again. Nancy follows him, her eyes wide with horror, staring at him while he heaves.
‘No! No, he wouldn’t do that! Why would he do that? You’re lying!’
Tom spits, puts his face sideways under the tap to rinse out his mouth, spits again. ‘Well he did. He found me in his study and he beat the crap out of me.’ He pushes past her, back to his bedroom where he grabs his sports bag, throws it onto the unmade bed and starts to pull clothes from the wardrobe, stuffing them in any old how.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like? Away.’
‘Where?’
‘I dunno. Anywhere. Away from here.’
‘Tom, you can’t! What will you do for money, where will you live?’ Nancy is crying now – she seems to have accepted that he’s telling the truth.
‘I can. No idea, and no bloody idea. But I’m not staying here to be his punch bag. It was only some negatives, for Christ’s sake. I don’t even know who he is!’
‘Who who is? Tom, you know he’s funny about some of the stuff in there...’
‘Yeah, of course I know. But it’s not like I saw anything... get out of my way, Nancy.’
‘No, you can’t – I don’t want to be here by myself, it’s not fair. Tom, please don’t go!’
The door slams, and Nancy hears the thump of feet as Tom hurtles down the stairs, two at a time. She’ll never catch him. She runs to the window, wrenches it open and leans out. ‘Tom!’
‘Bye Nance! I’ll write!’
April, 2003:
‘Hello you... God, Tom – when’d you get so tall?’
‘Hello yourself – when’d you get so...’ his hands describe an hour glass.
‘Oi!’ Nancy stands awkwardly in the draughty hallway of her brother’s London flat as they stand and stare at each other. Then she grabs him in a hug. ‘Oh, Tom! It’s good to see you!’
‘Likewise...’ but over his sister’s shoulder, Tom’s eyes are haunted. He hadn’t really wanted Nancy here, but she’d been insistent.
‘I need to talk to you, Tom. It’s important. And I haven’t had a proper holiday in years – don’t worry, I won’t cramp your style. It’s just one weekend.’
So here she is, standing in his hallway, a reminder of home and things he’d rather not think about thank you very much.
-------
Later, when he’s taken her out – a meal and a club, a taxi home just to show her that he’s doing alright – Nancy tells him the real reason for her visit.
‘It’s Dad, Tom. I’m worried about him.’
Tom’s face closes down and he takes another swig from the bottle of beer he’d opened as soon as they’d walked back in the door. Nancy is nursing a milky coffee. Her brother has been drinking steadily all evening and while Nancy likes the odd drink, Tom had really been hammering it. But aside from a little slurring of his words, he doesn’t seem overly affected. Nancy’s not sure since she’s no expert, but even she can tell that isn’t good.
‘Well I’m not. Can we change the subject?’
Nancy frowns. ‘No, we can’t. Tom, I think he’s an alcoholic. And sometimes he just sits there for hours, not saying anything.’
‘Really.’ Tom is pacing the tiny kitchen now; clearly he’s not interested.
‘Yeah, really. Look, Tom, I know what he did wasn’t right ....’
‘Too bloody right it wasn’t!’ Tom hasn’t thought about this in ages and he resents having to do so now. He slams the empty bottle down on the table. ‘I need a piss.’
While he’s gone, Nancy makes him a coffee – black, two sugars, the way he always used to like it. He’s gone for an age and Nancy is beginning to wonder if he’s fallen asleep when he returns. He seems jumpy, and suddenly full of good humour.
‘Sorry ‘bout that,’ he says, and drapes an arm over her shoulder, then whirls away again to pace the kitchen; back and forth, back and forth. ‘What were you saying?’
She stares at him. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
‘Like what?’ he spreads his arms, an expression of injured innocence on his face. ‘I’m jus’ relaxed...’
‘You’re drunk, Tom.’ She frowns. ‘Did you take something else in the toilet?’
‘Like what?’ Tom finally comes to a stop and leans against the wall, trying to affect nonchalance.
She downs the last of her coffee and shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Forget I said anything. I’m tired – we’ll talk in the morning, okay? Don’t go running off to work without seeing me, d’you you hear?’
But when morning comes, there’s no sign of Tom, save for a note on the kitchen table:
“Sis, sorry but I’ve had to go out of town for a bit – got a new lead on a story I’m following up. Not sure when I’ll be back. Help yourself to food, drink, etc
Tom.
X
PS It was really nice to see you again btw.”
Nancy looks at the note sadly. Yeah, so nice that you couldn’t wait to get away... She remembers the white powder he hadn’t even bothered to wipe from the cistern. ‘Oh Tom,’ she sighs. ‘What are you doing to yourself?’
She breakfasts, washes up and packs her overnight bag. No point staying where she’s not wanted.
She doesn’t see Tom again for another thirteen years.
Fin
Just one glimpse of the door to his father’s study and Tom is that cowering child again. He remembers his shock as Samuel lays into him; the sudden and overwhelming conviction that his own father is going to kill him. No wonder he’d tried to block out the memory...
August, 1993
Tom comes to, his head ringing. For a moment or two he doesn’t remember where he is - why can he taste blood? Then memory returns with a rush and he starts upright, wincing and gasping as his injuries make themselves felt. What the hell had that been about? And where is his father now?
Sudden fear that Samuel might return pushes Tom past the pain barrier and to his feet. He staggers to the half-open door and listens – the sound of raised voices at the other end of the house reassures him and he lunges for the bathroom, locking the door with shaking hands.
The mirror reveals the extent of the damage – a split lip, a gash across the bridge of his nose (which doesn’t seem to be broken), another cut on one eyebrow; and that’s just the ones he can see. He aches all over, and vaguely recalls being kicked in the ribs. He leans over the open toilet bowl and throws up, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.
-----
Nancy pounds on her brother’s bedroom door – it’s locked. ‘Tom, open the door! Dad’s going off on one downstairs and he’s really scaring me! What happened? Tom?’
‘Go away!’ For some reason he can’t explain, Tom doesn’t want Nancy to see what their father has done, even though the desire for the comfort he knows she will give him is strong. She’s his little sister; he should be the strong one. But he has to tell her something, doesn’t he? He knows Nancy – she won’t give up, not until she’s wheedled it out of him. He sighs, and wipes his nose on his sleeve – blood stains the material and he shudders. How could he have done this? What have I done that’s so wrong? It’s only a file....
‘Tom, are you going to open this door or shall I call Dad?’ Tom lurches for the door.
Nancy stares in horror at her brother’s bloodied face. ‘Blimey Tom – what happened? Did you get into a fight? Is that why Dad’s so angry?’
‘He beat me.’ Tom turns away – the admission feels shameful, almost as if it had been his fault; but that can’t be right, can it? Maybe he shouldn’t have been snooping (he knows the rules; he and Nancy had it drummed into them from an early age that their father’s office was off limits unless he invited them in, and they were never to read anything in there unless he showed them.
‘What?’
She doesn’t believe me. ‘Dad beat me, Nance. He punched and kicked the shit out of me and... oh ‘eck...’ he claps a hand to his mouth and runs for the bathroom again. Nancy follows him, her eyes wide with horror, staring at him while he heaves.
‘No! No, he wouldn’t do that! Why would he do that? You’re lying!’
Tom spits, puts his face sideways under the tap to rinse out his mouth, spits again. ‘Well he did. He found me in his study and he beat the crap out of me.’ He pushes past her, back to his bedroom where he grabs his sports bag, throws it onto the unmade bed and starts to pull clothes from the wardrobe, stuffing them in any old how.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like? Away.’
‘Where?’
‘I dunno. Anywhere. Away from here.’
‘Tom, you can’t! What will you do for money, where will you live?’ Nancy is crying now – she seems to have accepted that he’s telling the truth.
‘I can. No idea, and no bloody idea. But I’m not staying here to be his punch bag. It was only some negatives, for Christ’s sake. I don’t even know who he is!’
‘Who who is? Tom, you know he’s funny about some of the stuff in there...’
‘Yeah, of course I know. But it’s not like I saw anything... get out of my way, Nancy.’
‘No, you can’t – I don’t want to be here by myself, it’s not fair. Tom, please don’t go!’
The door slams, and Nancy hears the thump of feet as Tom hurtles down the stairs, two at a time. She’ll never catch him. She runs to the window, wrenches it open and leans out. ‘Tom!’
‘Bye Nance! I’ll write!’
April, 2003:
‘Hello you... God, Tom – when’d you get so tall?’
‘Hello yourself – when’d you get so...’ his hands describe an hour glass.
‘Oi!’ Nancy stands awkwardly in the draughty hallway of her brother’s London flat as they stand and stare at each other. Then she grabs him in a hug. ‘Oh, Tom! It’s good to see you!’
‘Likewise...’ but over his sister’s shoulder, Tom’s eyes are haunted. He hadn’t really wanted Nancy here, but she’d been insistent.
‘I need to talk to you, Tom. It’s important. And I haven’t had a proper holiday in years – don’t worry, I won’t cramp your style. It’s just one weekend.’
So here she is, standing in his hallway, a reminder of home and things he’d rather not think about thank you very much.
-------
Later, when he’s taken her out – a meal and a club, a taxi home just to show her that he’s doing alright – Nancy tells him the real reason for her visit.
‘It’s Dad, Tom. I’m worried about him.’
Tom’s face closes down and he takes another swig from the bottle of beer he’d opened as soon as they’d walked back in the door. Nancy is nursing a milky coffee. Her brother has been drinking steadily all evening and while Nancy likes the odd drink, Tom had really been hammering it. But aside from a little slurring of his words, he doesn’t seem overly affected. Nancy’s not sure since she’s no expert, but even she can tell that isn’t good.
‘Well I’m not. Can we change the subject?’
Nancy frowns. ‘No, we can’t. Tom, I think he’s an alcoholic. And sometimes he just sits there for hours, not saying anything.’
‘Really.’ Tom is pacing the tiny kitchen now; clearly he’s not interested.
‘Yeah, really. Look, Tom, I know what he did wasn’t right ....’
‘Too bloody right it wasn’t!’ Tom hasn’t thought about this in ages and he resents having to do so now. He slams the empty bottle down on the table. ‘I need a piss.’
While he’s gone, Nancy makes him a coffee – black, two sugars, the way he always used to like it. He’s gone for an age and Nancy is beginning to wonder if he’s fallen asleep when he returns. He seems jumpy, and suddenly full of good humour.
‘Sorry ‘bout that,’ he says, and drapes an arm over her shoulder, then whirls away again to pace the kitchen; back and forth, back and forth. ‘What were you saying?’
She stares at him. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
‘Like what?’ he spreads his arms, an expression of injured innocence on his face. ‘I’m jus’ relaxed...’
‘You’re drunk, Tom.’ She frowns. ‘Did you take something else in the toilet?’
‘Like what?’ Tom finally comes to a stop and leans against the wall, trying to affect nonchalance.
She downs the last of her coffee and shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Forget I said anything. I’m tired – we’ll talk in the morning, okay? Don’t go running off to work without seeing me, d’you you hear?’
But when morning comes, there’s no sign of Tom, save for a note on the kitchen table:
“Sis, sorry but I’ve had to go out of town for a bit – got a new lead on a story I’m following up. Not sure when I’ll be back. Help yourself to food, drink, etc
Tom.
X
PS It was really nice to see you again btw.”
Nancy looks at the note sadly. Yeah, so nice that you couldn’t wait to get away... She remembers the white powder he hadn’t even bothered to wipe from the cistern. ‘Oh Tom,’ she sighs. ‘What are you doing to yourself?’
She breakfasts, washes up and packs her overnight bag. No point staying where she’s not wanted.
She doesn’t see Tom again for another thirteen years.
Fin
