Title: Blizzard on a Broken Mirror (1/2)
Author: Edzel2
Genre: Exile
Rating: Adult for language, references to drug use
Word Count: 2,892
Summary: If anyone were to ask Tom if he has a drug habit, he’d deny it. He’s a recreational user, nothing more. So why, then, is he walking the streets of his hometown in the small hours, looking for a pusher?
NB Possible spoilers for Episode One but nothing plot-related
Copyright disclaimer: no infringement of any copyrights held by Red Productions or the BBC or any other copyright holder - created just for my own entertainment.
One
The wind whips around the corner of the building and throws icy sleet in Tom’s face, taking his breath away with its force. He curses and turns his face to the wall, wondering for the umpteenth time what the hell he’s doing here.... He could be tucked up in a warm bed, oblivious to a world which has decided to kick him in the bollocks while he’s down.
And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? He’s so ‘down’ that he can’t remember what it’s like to be ‘up’ anymore... and he needs something, anything, just to reassure himself that there is light at the end of the tunnel, that this isn’t all there is or ever will be.
Today had been a bad day, by anyone’s standards; Sam seems to have regressed so far back into his childhood that he’s forgotten that he was ever toilet-trained. Tom has never had much to do with babies; he’s always steered carefully clear of dating any woman who looked as if she might have kids in tow. He’s never felt a need for any of his own and certainly doesn’t want some other bloke’s offspring cramping his style, however cute their mother might be. So to find that he now has to minister to his adult father as if he were a baby –with all the unpleasantness that involves – is a hard blow. He can’t get the stink of shit out of his nostrils however hard he tries; just remembering it makes him want to heave. He prays that come the morning, Sam’s brain might have forgotten that it doesn’t know how to control bladder or bowel movements and that he won’t have to face another day of endless bed baths and laundry.
Another blast of icy wind brings him back to the realisation that he’s hanging about on a deserted street corner in his home town, at –he checks his watch- five past midnight, in hope of meeting the pusher who had thumped him one and robbed him last time. Are you stupid, or what? He asks himself. What if the local police pick him up? What excuse can he offer? ‘I’m just out for some air, officer – I’ve had a shitty day. Literally.’ They’d probably laugh at him and throw away the key. He could be done for kerb crawling...can you kerb crawl on foot? Not that he’s actually seen any women looking for business tonight; it’s too bloody cold. And it’s not as if he needs the stuff... but it would just be nice to be able to forget about the whole damn situation, his father, the house, his sister...and Mandy.... just for a while... he shivers.
‘Hey.’
He spins around at the sound of the voice, heart thumping fit to bust; it’s the little shit who’d taken his money last time. Tom swallows, tells himself to keep calm and tries to ignore the nausea twisting in his gut, the feeling of impending doom.
‘Hey,’ he replies, falling easily into the street slang he’d grown up using. ‘You got anything?’
‘Might ‘ave. What you payin’?’ The kid eyes him warily, looking him up and down, looking for a weakness. He chews and pops gum with his mouth open all the while.
‘I’m paying what you took from me last time, you little bastard!’ Tom snarls, and he’s got his arm across the kid’s throat and a knee in his groin almost before he realises what he’s doing.
‘What you talkin’ about man? I never seen you before!’
Tom leans in; close enough to smell the boy’s gum, and the bitterness of cheap lager underneath it. His stomach rolls but he ignores it; if he doesn’t stand up for himself against the little thug now he’ll never be able to walk home from the pub without looking over his shoulder.
‘Don’t fuckin’ lie to me,’ he growls. ‘You fuckin’ hit me and stole my money and you know damn well you did. Give me the goods I paid for.’
Something in Tom’s voice or manner convinces the kid he means business and the boy nods frantically.
‘Okay, okay, okay – I’ve got one more toot; take it, take it, all right?’
Tom steps back, moves his leg but keeps one arm tight across the boy’s throat. ‘Show me.’
The boy reaches a trembling hand into his pocket and brings out two flimsy plastic sachets; he realises his mistake and tries to drop one back in but Tom grabs his hand and takes both. The boy swallows. ‘Its good stuff, worth £30 that.’
‘You had forty off me, so it’d better be good. Or I’ll come and find you, you little shit.’ He releases the boy and steps back, shoving the sachets into his pocket. ‘Now fuck off.’
The boy tenses; Tom sees the flash of anger and humiliation in the narrowed eyes and knows that he’s made an enemy. The kid spits and turns and walks away, scowling.
The danger over, Tom’s knees feel suddenly weak – he leans back against the wall and then suddenly he’s bending forward and vomiting onto the pavement.
‘Had one too many, ‘ave we sir?’
Tom hurriedly straightens up and wipes his mouth. Shit. ‘No... Stomach bug, actually...’ He looks at the copper whose approach he hadn’t heard, and blinks, recognition knitting his brows as he tries to remember the guy’s name. But the copper gets there first.
‘Tom? Bloody ‘ell – what’re you... oh, sorry, you’ll be up for your Dad I s’pose. I was right sorry to hear about ‘im.’
‘Andy... Long time, no see... and thanks.’ Of all the luck, it would have to be Andy Bowler – if he’s still the anal-retentive creature he was as a kid then Tom’s in trouble. But it seems as if time has mellowed Bowler.
‘S ‘all right. You just on a visit then?’
‘Yeah... well no, I dunno, to be honest. Thought I’d come up and see how he was doing but I might stick around for a bit. Nancy, she’s worked hard...’ Tom has no desire to tell Andy the real reason. That he’s jobless and homeless in London; has come running home with his tail between his legs like a whipped dog.
‘Yeah, doesn’t seem right, does it...maybe she’ll be gettin’ out a bit more now you’re around?’
Too late, Tom remembers that Andy has always had a bit of a soft spot for Nancy... and that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. He nods cautiously.
‘Yeah, maybe – but she’s not been well, so...’ He shivers again, wishes Andy would just go.
‘You okay, mate? You look a bit peaky...’ Andy reaches forward to steady Tom as he leans back against the wall, feeling suddenly light headed – and Tom remembers the wraps in his pocket and shrugs him off.
‘No, no, I’m okay, really...’ Except I’m really not... Tom gags again and Bowler steps smartly back, suspicion narrowing his eyes.
‘Did you know that lad you were talking to just now?’ he asks when Tom has recovered himself somewhat.
Tom starts to shake his head then thinks better of it. ‘No. He approached me... wanted to know if I was buying...’ too late he realises he should’ve said nothing. But Bowler is not a fool.
‘Funny, looked like you were waiting for him...’
Shit. Shit. Shit. ‘No... Just came out for a walk to clear my head...’
Bowler looks uncomfortable. ‘Tom, look... you and I go way back I know, but I’ve gotta tell you, that lad’s a pusher. And from where I was standing, it looked like he could’ve pushed something your way... you might want to think about what you say next, I’m just sayin’...’
Tom feels sick to his stomach in more ways than one. He can’t be banged up for a couple of measly wraps, surely? He’ll lose his... and then he remembers that he’s already lost his job. But what will Sam and Nancy do if he’s inside? His head thumps and he swallows nausea. Christ I feel like shit...
‘Okay, okay - look he did give me something, but it doesn’t have to be a big deal, does it? I mean- I’m not a regular user, not like ...’ in for a penny... ‘Not like I was in London. It was hard to avoid it there, the crowd I ran with... but here... it’s just, well things are bloody awful right now and I just needed a little something to help me through... you don’t want to bang me up for it, do you? Really? And,’ he adds desperately, seeing indecision on Bowler’ face, ‘my Dad and Nancy, they need me. I know I shouldn’t have and it won’t happen again, but if you could just... please...’ He hates that he’s begging, feels humiliated beyond words, but the reality of his situation is hitting him a sucker punch in the guts and he just wants it all to go away... if he can walk away from this he really will stay off... He opens his mouth to say more and shuts it again, swallows the sudden rush of saliva that accompanies the rolling nausea. Shut up, you’ll only make it worse. Have some bloody pride....
Bowler clears his throat. ‘Show me what you’ve got. I can’t... I shouldn’t... but... oh fuckin’ ‘ell Tom, just give it here, will ya?’
Feeling as if his limbs no longer belong to him, Tom pulls one of the little sachets from his pocket and places it in Bowler’ palm. He can’t help but watch as it disappears into one of the man’s numerous pockets. If he’s keeping it for himself....at least I’ve still got one. Relief floods him but he forces his expression to stay the right side of disappointed and contrite.
‘Go home to your Dad, Tom. You won’t help him if you’re in bloody rehab. You take care, now.’
Bowler walks away and Tom imagines running after him, wrestling him to the ground and taking back his wrap. He groans and turns to the wall, leaning his aching head against the cold wet brick, breathing through the nausea and the longing. You can do this. You have to do this...
TBC
The wind whips around the corner of the building and throws icy sleet in Tom’s face, taking his breath away with its force. He curses and turns his face to the wall, wondering for the umpteenth time what the hell he’s doing here.... He could be tucked up in a warm bed, oblivious to a world which has decided to kick him in the bollocks while he’s down.
And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? He’s so ‘down’ that he can’t remember what it’s like to be ‘up’ anymore... and he needs something, anything, just to reassure himself that there is light at the end of the tunnel, that this isn’t all there is or ever will be.
Today had been a bad day, by anyone’s standards; Sam seems to have regressed so far back into his childhood that he’s forgotten that he was ever toilet-trained. Tom has never had much to do with babies; he’s always steered carefully clear of dating any woman who looked as if she might have kids in tow. He’s never felt a need for any of his own and certainly doesn’t want some other bloke’s offspring cramping his style, however cute their mother might be. So to find that he now has to minister to his adult father as if he were a baby –with all the unpleasantness that involves – is a hard blow. He can’t get the stink of shit out of his nostrils however hard he tries; just remembering it makes him want to heave. He prays that come the morning, Sam’s brain might have forgotten that it doesn’t know how to control bladder or bowel movements and that he won’t have to face another day of endless bed baths and laundry.
Another blast of icy wind brings him back to the realisation that he’s hanging about on a deserted street corner in his home town, at –he checks his watch- five past midnight, in hope of meeting the pusher who had thumped him one and robbed him last time. Are you stupid, or what? He asks himself. What if the local police pick him up? What excuse can he offer? ‘I’m just out for some air, officer – I’ve had a shitty day. Literally.’ They’d probably laugh at him and throw away the key. He could be done for kerb crawling...can you kerb crawl on foot? Not that he’s actually seen any women looking for business tonight; it’s too bloody cold. And it’s not as if he needs the stuff... but it would just be nice to be able to forget about the whole damn situation, his father, the house, his sister...and Mandy.... just for a while... he shivers.
‘Hey.’
He spins around at the sound of the voice, heart thumping fit to bust; it’s the little shit who’d taken his money last time. Tom swallows, tells himself to keep calm and tries to ignore the nausea twisting in his gut, the feeling of impending doom.
‘Hey,’ he replies, falling easily into the street slang he’d grown up using. ‘You got anything?’
‘Might ‘ave. What you payin’?’ The kid eyes him warily, looking him up and down, looking for a weakness. He chews and pops gum with his mouth open all the while.
‘I’m paying what you took from me last time, you little bastard!’ Tom snarls, and he’s got his arm across the kid’s throat and a knee in his groin almost before he realises what he’s doing.
‘What you talkin’ about man? I never seen you before!’
Tom leans in; close enough to smell the boy’s gum, and the bitterness of cheap lager underneath it. His stomach rolls but he ignores it; if he doesn’t stand up for himself against the little thug now he’ll never be able to walk home from the pub without looking over his shoulder.
‘Don’t fuckin’ lie to me,’ he growls. ‘You fuckin’ hit me and stole my money and you know damn well you did. Give me the goods I paid for.’
Something in Tom’s voice or manner convinces the kid he means business and the boy nods frantically.
‘Okay, okay, okay – I’ve got one more toot; take it, take it, all right?’
Tom steps back, moves his leg but keeps one arm tight across the boy’s throat. ‘Show me.’
The boy reaches a trembling hand into his pocket and brings out two flimsy plastic sachets; he realises his mistake and tries to drop one back in but Tom grabs his hand and takes both. The boy swallows. ‘Its good stuff, worth £30 that.’
‘You had forty off me, so it’d better be good. Or I’ll come and find you, you little shit.’ He releases the boy and steps back, shoving the sachets into his pocket. ‘Now fuck off.’
The boy tenses; Tom sees the flash of anger and humiliation in the narrowed eyes and knows that he’s made an enemy. The kid spits and turns and walks away, scowling.
The danger over, Tom’s knees feel suddenly weak – he leans back against the wall and then suddenly he’s bending forward and vomiting onto the pavement.
‘Had one too many, ‘ave we sir?’
Tom hurriedly straightens up and wipes his mouth. Shit. ‘No... Stomach bug, actually...’ He looks at the copper whose approach he hadn’t heard, and blinks, recognition knitting his brows as he tries to remember the guy’s name. But the copper gets there first.
‘Tom? Bloody ‘ell – what’re you... oh, sorry, you’ll be up for your Dad I s’pose. I was right sorry to hear about ‘im.’
‘Andy... Long time, no see... and thanks.’ Of all the luck, it would have to be Andy Bowler – if he’s still the anal-retentive creature he was as a kid then Tom’s in trouble. But it seems as if time has mellowed Bowler.
‘S ‘all right. You just on a visit then?’
‘Yeah... well no, I dunno, to be honest. Thought I’d come up and see how he was doing but I might stick around for a bit. Nancy, she’s worked hard...’ Tom has no desire to tell Andy the real reason. That he’s jobless and homeless in London; has come running home with his tail between his legs like a whipped dog.
‘Yeah, doesn’t seem right, does it...maybe she’ll be gettin’ out a bit more now you’re around?’
Too late, Tom remembers that Andy has always had a bit of a soft spot for Nancy... and that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. He nods cautiously.
‘Yeah, maybe – but she’s not been well, so...’ He shivers again, wishes Andy would just go.
‘You okay, mate? You look a bit peaky...’ Andy reaches forward to steady Tom as he leans back against the wall, feeling suddenly light headed – and Tom remembers the wraps in his pocket and shrugs him off.
‘No, no, I’m okay, really...’ Except I’m really not... Tom gags again and Bowler steps smartly back, suspicion narrowing his eyes.
‘Did you know that lad you were talking to just now?’ he asks when Tom has recovered himself somewhat.
Tom starts to shake his head then thinks better of it. ‘No. He approached me... wanted to know if I was buying...’ too late he realises he should’ve said nothing. But Bowler is not a fool.
‘Funny, looked like you were waiting for him...’
Shit. Shit. Shit. ‘No... Just came out for a walk to clear my head...’
Bowler looks uncomfortable. ‘Tom, look... you and I go way back I know, but I’ve gotta tell you, that lad’s a pusher. And from where I was standing, it looked like he could’ve pushed something your way... you might want to think about what you say next, I’m just sayin’...’
Tom feels sick to his stomach in more ways than one. He can’t be banged up for a couple of measly wraps, surely? He’ll lose his... and then he remembers that he’s already lost his job. But what will Sam and Nancy do if he’s inside? His head thumps and he swallows nausea. Christ I feel like shit...
‘Okay, okay - look he did give me something, but it doesn’t have to be a big deal, does it? I mean- I’m not a regular user, not like ...’ in for a penny... ‘Not like I was in London. It was hard to avoid it there, the crowd I ran with... but here... it’s just, well things are bloody awful right now and I just needed a little something to help me through... you don’t want to bang me up for it, do you? Really? And,’ he adds desperately, seeing indecision on Bowler’ face, ‘my Dad and Nancy, they need me. I know I shouldn’t have and it won’t happen again, but if you could just... please...’ He hates that he’s begging, feels humiliated beyond words, but the reality of his situation is hitting him a sucker punch in the guts and he just wants it all to go away... if he can walk away from this he really will stay off... He opens his mouth to say more and shuts it again, swallows the sudden rush of saliva that accompanies the rolling nausea. Shut up, you’ll only make it worse. Have some bloody pride....
Bowler clears his throat. ‘Show me what you’ve got. I can’t... I shouldn’t... but... oh fuckin’ ‘ell Tom, just give it here, will ya?’
Feeling as if his limbs no longer belong to him, Tom pulls one of the little sachets from his pocket and places it in Bowler’ palm. He can’t help but watch as it disappears into one of the man’s numerous pockets. If he’s keeping it for himself....at least I’ve still got one. Relief floods him but he forces his expression to stay the right side of disappointed and contrite.
‘Go home to your Dad, Tom. You won’t help him if you’re in bloody rehab. You take care, now.’
Bowler walks away and Tom imagines running after him, wrestling him to the ground and taking back his wrap. He groans and turns to the wall, leaning his aching head against the cold wet brick, breathing through the nausea and the longing. You can do this. You have to do this...
TBC