Title: Shaming the Devil (2/?)
Author: Edzel2
Genre: Exile, post-Episode 3
Rating: Adult for themes and language
Word Count: 2,320
Summary: Following his expose of Metzler, Tom is offered a job on the Lancashire Evening News. On the surface, all seems well apart from his father’s inexorable decline – Nancy is awaiting the birth of her baby and Tom’s relationship with Mandy has reached the point where she wants them to set up home together. For Tom, this is a double-edged sword; he loves Mandy but feels that domesticity may blunt his new-found journalistic edge. And there is also Mike to consider – he had given them his blessing but when the divorce papers arrive will he still be quite so munificent?
Add to this the occasional dark moods which possess Tom and which no amount of female comfort would seem to banish, and Tom finds himself giving in to cravings he hoped he had left behind in London...
Part Two: Intervention
‘Tom, you’ve got to stop this.’
‘Stop what?’ Tom doesn’t look up from the depths of the coffee mug. He’s taken to drinking it black and sugarless – he says it saves money on milk and sugar. Nancy tells him it makes him cranky and hyper, but she doesn’t mention that the savings are negligible; at least he’s thinking about it now.
‘It makes you cranky and hyper - just like Dad is when he won’t sleep or take his pills,’ she’d added. The glass in the door had rattled so hard after him that she’d thought they might have to get a glazier in.
‘You know what. What happened to normal, eh?’
‘Dunno. Don’t care. I should get to work.’ But he doesn’t move.
‘Is it Mandy? Have you two split up?’
At last Tom raises his head to stare at her. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot.
‘Christ Tom, you look bloody awful.’
‘Thanks. And no, we haven’t,’ he air quotes with his fingers, ‘‘split up’ as you put it. We just haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately, that’s all.’ Clearly he doesn’t want to talk about it; at least not with her and not, she suspects, with Mandy either.
‘What about? She wants you to move in with her, is that it?’
‘Why ask if you already know the answer?’
‘I didn’t, but it was a good guess, wasn’t it? What are you going to do?’
‘I dunno.’ He downs the last of his coffee and makes a face. ‘This bloody stuff is awful.’
‘Well, if you get out there and do some bloody work then maybe you can afford the better stuff. Champagne tastes and beer money, that’s you.’
That raises a smile, of sorts. ‘Yeah.’ He dumps his mug in the sink, missing Nancy’s eye roll as he disappears into the hallway. His footsteps continue on up the stairs and Nancy pulls another face. Maybe she ought to lock him in there until he comes up with something that’ll bring in some money. She suspects that he’s thinking about going back to London; he hasn’t said anything of course but then he doesn’t have to. It’s there in the way he’s closing himself off again, ‘reverting to type’ as her Mum – their Mum- would have said. Well, she’d know, wouldn’t she? She stops mid-wipe, puts the glass and cloth down on the drainer and stares thoughtfully up the hallway.
Is that the problem? Does the silly sod think that because he’s got a sadistic rapist for a father that he’s doomed to repeat history? Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid? But when it comes to something this deep, this life-changing, who knows? All bets are off, probably. And he spends so much time on the bottle it’s a wonder he can think straight. What about his mother – his real mother? She makes a face of disgust. That’s not right – Edith had been Tom’s real mother, at least in every way that counted. If he really can’t see that then he’s a bigger fool than he had already been. She wonders if Edith had known who Tom’s real parents were and thinks most likely not. But Dad clearly had, and it had eaten at him for a long time.
*
‘Tom, I’ve been thinking.’ Nancy puts a plate in front of him; Tom barely glances at it. He fingers the empty wine glass absently and his gaze slides toward the cupboard. He ignores the jug of water she’d put on the table.
‘Steady on,’ he says. Automatically, by rote – it’s an old one and she doesn’t smile.
‘We’re out of wine.’
He looks up at her sharply. Ah, that got a reaction.
‘No we’re not. We bought...’
‘And you’ve drunk the bloody lot. I should know, Tom – it’s me who takes the rubbish out.’ She’d taken care to rinse the sink after tipping away the two bottles that were left – he wouldn’t know, he’s half-cut more than he’s sober these days.
‘Shit.’ He picks up his fork, stirs the food in a desultory manner and puts it back down. He sighs.
‘And before you leave a perfectly good meal to rush up the pub for pie and chips we can’t afford, I want to talk to you. Have some water. Eat your tea.’
‘Who are you – my fucking mother?’
Nancy carefully puts her fork down, lest she be tempted to stab him with it.
‘Well since you’re behaving like a spoilt brat – are you surprised?’
He’s quiet for a heart-beat, then two. ‘No, not really. I’m sorry. It looks... nice. I’m just not hungry.’
‘No... The only thing you’re hungry for is the ruddy wine bottle, or the scotch bottle, or the vodka...’ She only realises that she’s crying when she feels Tom’s hand on hers, and it feels damp where the tears have wet her hand.
‘I’m sorry. I know I’m being a shit. I can’t... I don’t want to be like this, Nance. I just... I don’t know how to stop.’ He’s breathing hard, as if he’s run a marathon.
‘Then lay off the booze. It’s as simple as that. I went through it all with Dad, Tom, and I don’t want to do it all again with you. I’ve got the baby to think about now.’
‘You don’t want me here. Fine, I’ll go.’ He starts to pull his hand from hers but she slaps the other one on top and holds on tight.
‘I didn’t say that. I do want you here, but you have to want to stay, and you have to contribute to the household. I don’t mean just money, though that helps.’ She sniffs, not wanting to get up for a tissue now they’re finally talking. ‘I’m back to doing it all again, Tom, now Dad’s not here. You don’t cook, you don’t do laundry, you don’t put the vacuum cleaner round, you hardly ever put the rubbish out... as far as I can see all you do is mooch about getting drunk and come down for meals you hardly touch. You’re killing yourself. And I’m not going to sit by and let you do it.’ She glares at him.
Tom is taken aback. Is he really that bad?
‘Am I really that bad?’
‘Yes, you are. Tom, I want you to see someone.’
‘What sort of ... someone?’ He’s not doing AA, he’s really not.
‘A counsellor.’
‘I don’t need bloody counselling.’
‘A bereavement counsellor, Tom.’
‘Are you mad? I didn’t give two fucks about Ricky bloody Tulse! I spat on his coffin - good riddance!’
‘I’m not talking about Ricky Tulse. I’m talking about you, you stupid...’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Last time I looked, I was still breathing.’
‘Don’t be bloody obtuse! Yes, I know big words too, Tom! I could’ve been a journalist or a teacher or any one of a number of things, ‘cept I never got the chance, unlike some! And it makes me bloody furious to see you destroying yourself, throwing it all away. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the opportunity....’ She’s crying properly now, great heaving sobs that shake her whole body. She imagines the baby being bombarded with all this turmoil and wondering what’s’ happening to his world as it shivers and shakes around him... and she cries out, a long wail of sorrow and anger, eighteen bloody years worth, all pouring out now that she’s let the barrier down.
‘Nancy, Nancy, calm down, calm down – the baby...’
‘Fuck the baby, Tom! Fuck you! Fuck every bloody thing!’ She pulls her hand away and starts to stand – and gasps, sits back down with a thump. ‘Oh!’
Tom leaps out of his chair, rushes around and crouches down beside her. ‘What is it? Is it the baby?’
‘No, it’s the bloody elephant in the room... ‘course it’s the baby... ouch.’
‘Have you... is it started? It’s early, isn’t it?’ Tom’s face is a picture of pure fear. She nods.
‘A little. But I was born early – the clinic said it might happen that way. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong.’
‘Oh. Right. Well... are you packed? Should we go now? I don’t know, I’ve never....’ he does all but wring his hands and Nancy wishes she could enjoy the sight.
‘Should’ve come to classes with me, shouldn’t you? I need to count the contractions...’
‘I’m not the ruddy father!’
‘It’s not just fathers who go, you div. I’ve nominated you as my ‘birth partner’ ...’ she grins tightly as another contraction hits. ‘We should go, Tom.’
‘Right, right – erm... have you packed a case?’
‘In the porch - you’ve only been walking past it for the last two weeks.’
As Tom settles Nancy into the passenger seat and hands her the seat belt, she smiles – although it’s more of a grimace as another contraction ripples through her. ‘Just as well you didn’t have that glass of wine, isn’t it?’
He inclines his head in a nod of rueful agreement. ‘I’d have been carted off and you’d have had to get a taxi ... that would’ve been a story to tell him, wouldn’t it?’ He snaps his own belt into place and turns the key. The engine sputters into life and he holds his breath until it catches.
‘Her, you mean... aaahhh....’
Once at the hospital Tom is more or less pushed aside when Nancy answers a gasped ‘No,’ to a hurried ‘is he the baby’s father?’ He mooches off to grab a coffee, wondering if he has time to nip out to the pub and back before it all kicks off, or if he might have to take her home because it’s a false alarm. When he wanders back to the waiting room his hopes are dashed when a young (and rather pretty) nurse hurries towards him. ‘You’re wanted in the delivery suite, Mister Ronstadt,’ she tells him. He follows with a sinking heart. He’d never even imagined being at the birth of his own kids, never mind his sister’s...
*
‘I need a drink...’ Tom leans against the bar and fumbles in his pocket. The barman looks over the top of his glasses at him. This must be Mandy’s boss, the one with the wandering hands...
‘That’s why people usually come here,’ The Lech says drily.
Oh God, he thinks he’s a comedian as well...
‘Special occasion is it, Mr Ronstadt?’ Tom flicks him a glance. Of course he’d know who he is...
‘Sister’s just had a baby,’ he says – not really wanting to encourage the man but he’s so hyped up he has to talk to someone.
‘Young Nancy? Well, go to the foot of our stairs... who’s the father?’
‘It’s not me, if that’s what you’re thinking!’ Tom snaps and gulps down the whisky, grabs his change and stalks out.
‘I never said ...’
*
The engine sputters and dies and Tom thumps the steering wheel, curses colourfully and at length. He looks at the petrol gauge and groans, leaning his head on the steering wheel in despair. Is this it, then...the start of his dementia? Don’t be fucking stupid, he tells himself. He’s not your bloody father, is he? You’ve no more chance of getting Alzheimer’s than anyone else... He looks out at the dark streets. The pubs will be shut now, and the nearest 24 hour filling station is the other side of town. He considers his options. He’s equidistant to home and Mandy’s... the idea of the silent house isn’t a welcoming one. There are bound to be a hundred and one things he should be doing before Nancy and the baby come home, but he doesn’t want to think about all that right now. He imagines himself apologising to Mandy and being taken up to a warm bed and as much oblivion as he can manage... for some reason the thought leaves him cold but it’s got to be better than rattling around an empty house.
‘Tom? D’you know what time it is?’
‘Sorry.... ran out of petrol...besides, I owe you an apology....’ he gives her his best contrite smile, which she probably can’t even see in the dark but better safe than sorry.
‘Tom... I really don’t think...’ Nancy’s head disappears back inside the window as she talks to someone else in the bedroom. And then another face appears at the window – Mike.
Tom turns away, bile rising in his throat. Well, that didn’t take long, did it?
‘Tom!’ Mike’s stage whisper is just about audible but Tom turns away, pretending not to have heard. Well, what does he expect? It’s only been one day since their last frosty exchange and there the two of them are, reconciled. He should be glad... and perhaps he is. But he feels rejected all the same.
He trudges up the hill, thinking of oblivion and wondering if Nancy really had thrown out all the booze in the house. He should be grateful for her concern, he knows – but all he feels is a spiralling anger. Spoilt brat, is he? Chance would be a fine thing....
When he passes the closed chippy, he glances down the alleyway, just on the off chance; and at last something goes his way. He hands over forty quid (and ignores the tiny voice of his conscience which says that it should have gone on groceries) for two wraps and keeps his distance. The little packets nestle comfortably in his pocket and for the first time that day he feels optimistic....
TBC
‘Tom, you’ve got to stop this.’
‘Stop what?’ Tom doesn’t look up from the depths of the coffee mug. He’s taken to drinking it black and sugarless – he says it saves money on milk and sugar. Nancy tells him it makes him cranky and hyper, but she doesn’t mention that the savings are negligible; at least he’s thinking about it now.
‘It makes you cranky and hyper - just like Dad is when he won’t sleep or take his pills,’ she’d added. The glass in the door had rattled so hard after him that she’d thought they might have to get a glazier in.
‘You know what. What happened to normal, eh?’
‘Dunno. Don’t care. I should get to work.’ But he doesn’t move.
‘Is it Mandy? Have you two split up?’
At last Tom raises his head to stare at her. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot.
‘Christ Tom, you look bloody awful.’
‘Thanks. And no, we haven’t,’ he air quotes with his fingers, ‘‘split up’ as you put it. We just haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately, that’s all.’ Clearly he doesn’t want to talk about it; at least not with her and not, she suspects, with Mandy either.
‘What about? She wants you to move in with her, is that it?’
‘Why ask if you already know the answer?’
‘I didn’t, but it was a good guess, wasn’t it? What are you going to do?’
‘I dunno.’ He downs the last of his coffee and makes a face. ‘This bloody stuff is awful.’
‘Well, if you get out there and do some bloody work then maybe you can afford the better stuff. Champagne tastes and beer money, that’s you.’
That raises a smile, of sorts. ‘Yeah.’ He dumps his mug in the sink, missing Nancy’s eye roll as he disappears into the hallway. His footsteps continue on up the stairs and Nancy pulls another face. Maybe she ought to lock him in there until he comes up with something that’ll bring in some money. She suspects that he’s thinking about going back to London; he hasn’t said anything of course but then he doesn’t have to. It’s there in the way he’s closing himself off again, ‘reverting to type’ as her Mum – their Mum- would have said. Well, she’d know, wouldn’t she? She stops mid-wipe, puts the glass and cloth down on the drainer and stares thoughtfully up the hallway.
Is that the problem? Does the silly sod think that because he’s got a sadistic rapist for a father that he’s doomed to repeat history? Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid? But when it comes to something this deep, this life-changing, who knows? All bets are off, probably. And he spends so much time on the bottle it’s a wonder he can think straight. What about his mother – his real mother? She makes a face of disgust. That’s not right – Edith had been Tom’s real mother, at least in every way that counted. If he really can’t see that then he’s a bigger fool than he had already been. She wonders if Edith had known who Tom’s real parents were and thinks most likely not. But Dad clearly had, and it had eaten at him for a long time.
*
‘Tom, I’ve been thinking.’ Nancy puts a plate in front of him; Tom barely glances at it. He fingers the empty wine glass absently and his gaze slides toward the cupboard. He ignores the jug of water she’d put on the table.
‘Steady on,’ he says. Automatically, by rote – it’s an old one and she doesn’t smile.
‘We’re out of wine.’
He looks up at her sharply. Ah, that got a reaction.
‘No we’re not. We bought...’
‘And you’ve drunk the bloody lot. I should know, Tom – it’s me who takes the rubbish out.’ She’d taken care to rinse the sink after tipping away the two bottles that were left – he wouldn’t know, he’s half-cut more than he’s sober these days.
‘Shit.’ He picks up his fork, stirs the food in a desultory manner and puts it back down. He sighs.
‘And before you leave a perfectly good meal to rush up the pub for pie and chips we can’t afford, I want to talk to you. Have some water. Eat your tea.’
‘Who are you – my fucking mother?’
Nancy carefully puts her fork down, lest she be tempted to stab him with it.
‘Well since you’re behaving like a spoilt brat – are you surprised?’
He’s quiet for a heart-beat, then two. ‘No, not really. I’m sorry. It looks... nice. I’m just not hungry.’
‘No... The only thing you’re hungry for is the ruddy wine bottle, or the scotch bottle, or the vodka...’ She only realises that she’s crying when she feels Tom’s hand on hers, and it feels damp where the tears have wet her hand.
‘I’m sorry. I know I’m being a shit. I can’t... I don’t want to be like this, Nance. I just... I don’t know how to stop.’ He’s breathing hard, as if he’s run a marathon.
‘Then lay off the booze. It’s as simple as that. I went through it all with Dad, Tom, and I don’t want to do it all again with you. I’ve got the baby to think about now.’
‘You don’t want me here. Fine, I’ll go.’ He starts to pull his hand from hers but she slaps the other one on top and holds on tight.
‘I didn’t say that. I do want you here, but you have to want to stay, and you have to contribute to the household. I don’t mean just money, though that helps.’ She sniffs, not wanting to get up for a tissue now they’re finally talking. ‘I’m back to doing it all again, Tom, now Dad’s not here. You don’t cook, you don’t do laundry, you don’t put the vacuum cleaner round, you hardly ever put the rubbish out... as far as I can see all you do is mooch about getting drunk and come down for meals you hardly touch. You’re killing yourself. And I’m not going to sit by and let you do it.’ She glares at him.
Tom is taken aback. Is he really that bad?
‘Am I really that bad?’
‘Yes, you are. Tom, I want you to see someone.’
‘What sort of ... someone?’ He’s not doing AA, he’s really not.
‘A counsellor.’
‘I don’t need bloody counselling.’
‘A bereavement counsellor, Tom.’
‘Are you mad? I didn’t give two fucks about Ricky bloody Tulse! I spat on his coffin - good riddance!’
‘I’m not talking about Ricky Tulse. I’m talking about you, you stupid...’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Last time I looked, I was still breathing.’
‘Don’t be bloody obtuse! Yes, I know big words too, Tom! I could’ve been a journalist or a teacher or any one of a number of things, ‘cept I never got the chance, unlike some! And it makes me bloody furious to see you destroying yourself, throwing it all away. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the opportunity....’ She’s crying properly now, great heaving sobs that shake her whole body. She imagines the baby being bombarded with all this turmoil and wondering what’s’ happening to his world as it shivers and shakes around him... and she cries out, a long wail of sorrow and anger, eighteen bloody years worth, all pouring out now that she’s let the barrier down.
‘Nancy, Nancy, calm down, calm down – the baby...’
‘Fuck the baby, Tom! Fuck you! Fuck every bloody thing!’ She pulls her hand away and starts to stand – and gasps, sits back down with a thump. ‘Oh!’
Tom leaps out of his chair, rushes around and crouches down beside her. ‘What is it? Is it the baby?’
‘No, it’s the bloody elephant in the room... ‘course it’s the baby... ouch.’
‘Have you... is it started? It’s early, isn’t it?’ Tom’s face is a picture of pure fear. She nods.
‘A little. But I was born early – the clinic said it might happen that way. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong.’
‘Oh. Right. Well... are you packed? Should we go now? I don’t know, I’ve never....’ he does all but wring his hands and Nancy wishes she could enjoy the sight.
‘Should’ve come to classes with me, shouldn’t you? I need to count the contractions...’
‘I’m not the ruddy father!’
‘It’s not just fathers who go, you div. I’ve nominated you as my ‘birth partner’ ...’ she grins tightly as another contraction hits. ‘We should go, Tom.’
‘Right, right – erm... have you packed a case?’
‘In the porch - you’ve only been walking past it for the last two weeks.’
As Tom settles Nancy into the passenger seat and hands her the seat belt, she smiles – although it’s more of a grimace as another contraction ripples through her. ‘Just as well you didn’t have that glass of wine, isn’t it?’
He inclines his head in a nod of rueful agreement. ‘I’d have been carted off and you’d have had to get a taxi ... that would’ve been a story to tell him, wouldn’t it?’ He snaps his own belt into place and turns the key. The engine sputters into life and he holds his breath until it catches.
‘Her, you mean... aaahhh....’
Once at the hospital Tom is more or less pushed aside when Nancy answers a gasped ‘No,’ to a hurried ‘is he the baby’s father?’ He mooches off to grab a coffee, wondering if he has time to nip out to the pub and back before it all kicks off, or if he might have to take her home because it’s a false alarm. When he wanders back to the waiting room his hopes are dashed when a young (and rather pretty) nurse hurries towards him. ‘You’re wanted in the delivery suite, Mister Ronstadt,’ she tells him. He follows with a sinking heart. He’d never even imagined being at the birth of his own kids, never mind his sister’s...
*
‘I need a drink...’ Tom leans against the bar and fumbles in his pocket. The barman looks over the top of his glasses at him. This must be Mandy’s boss, the one with the wandering hands...
‘That’s why people usually come here,’ The Lech says drily.
Oh God, he thinks he’s a comedian as well...
‘Special occasion is it, Mr Ronstadt?’ Tom flicks him a glance. Of course he’d know who he is...
‘Sister’s just had a baby,’ he says – not really wanting to encourage the man but he’s so hyped up he has to talk to someone.
‘Young Nancy? Well, go to the foot of our stairs... who’s the father?’
‘It’s not me, if that’s what you’re thinking!’ Tom snaps and gulps down the whisky, grabs his change and stalks out.
‘I never said ...’
*
The engine sputters and dies and Tom thumps the steering wheel, curses colourfully and at length. He looks at the petrol gauge and groans, leaning his head on the steering wheel in despair. Is this it, then...the start of his dementia? Don’t be fucking stupid, he tells himself. He’s not your bloody father, is he? You’ve no more chance of getting Alzheimer’s than anyone else... He looks out at the dark streets. The pubs will be shut now, and the nearest 24 hour filling station is the other side of town. He considers his options. He’s equidistant to home and Mandy’s... the idea of the silent house isn’t a welcoming one. There are bound to be a hundred and one things he should be doing before Nancy and the baby come home, but he doesn’t want to think about all that right now. He imagines himself apologising to Mandy and being taken up to a warm bed and as much oblivion as he can manage... for some reason the thought leaves him cold but it’s got to be better than rattling around an empty house.
‘Tom? D’you know what time it is?’
‘Sorry.... ran out of petrol...besides, I owe you an apology....’ he gives her his best contrite smile, which she probably can’t even see in the dark but better safe than sorry.
‘Tom... I really don’t think...’ Nancy’s head disappears back inside the window as she talks to someone else in the bedroom. And then another face appears at the window – Mike.
Tom turns away, bile rising in his throat. Well, that didn’t take long, did it?
‘Tom!’ Mike’s stage whisper is just about audible but Tom turns away, pretending not to have heard. Well, what does he expect? It’s only been one day since their last frosty exchange and there the two of them are, reconciled. He should be glad... and perhaps he is. But he feels rejected all the same.
He trudges up the hill, thinking of oblivion and wondering if Nancy really had thrown out all the booze in the house. He should be grateful for her concern, he knows – but all he feels is a spiralling anger. Spoilt brat, is he? Chance would be a fine thing....
When he passes the closed chippy, he glances down the alleyway, just on the off chance; and at last something goes his way. He hands over forty quid (and ignores the tiny voice of his conscience which says that it should have gone on groceries) for two wraps and keeps his distance. The little packets nestle comfortably in his pocket and for the first time that day he feels optimistic....
TBC
