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“Tommy,” A low knock echoed through the room, rousing Tommy from confusing and unpleasant dreams. “Tommy, you awake yet?” A voice called.
A groan tumbled from him as he pulled himself up and a dim ache throbbed from above his right ear. Foggy figures twisted through the room, fading strangely as they whispered and danced in the cramped space.
The door opened quickly, and Alfie limped heavily through, shaking off the drizzle of rain that clung to him. He threw his coat over a hook and looked over, damp and chilled.
“Alright then?” Alfie asked quietly, “How are we this morning?”
Were they in Margate?
Tommy’s drowsy eyes passed over the room trying to figure out where they were, slowing as they landed on Grace. Her cold face, bitterly stark against the deep, purple curtains beside her.
An icy shiver ran up his back, trembling across his shoulders as she stood and began creeping closer.
“Eyes up here sweetheart, eyes up here.”
He blinked once quickly up at Alfie, before his eyes flashed nervously back to Grace. Cautious and watchful, he flinched hard when he saw she’d disappeared.
“You’re alright,” Alfie mumbled, leaning in and pulling at the thick feeling clouding around his head. “You’re not bleeding through anything, the bandages look alright.” He asked, sinking onto the bed next to him. “How’s the pain?”
Tommy wound one hand into the bandages, trying to tug them away as an itch set in at the mention of pain, the deep gauge on the side of his head throbbing as he pressed and prodded at it, aching irritatingly with every tug.
Heavy hands caught his, dropping them into his lap.
“Not a good morning today, is it love?” Alfie blurredly whispered as he slipped away from Tommy’s side. “You remember what happened?”
Rain pattered on the wall the bed was pushed against, rattling loudly in his ears and shaking what little focus he’d managed to gather.
“No,” He rasped, his throat croaking as he spoke. Noise was everywhere, glasses scraping, rain building, birds chirping. “I don’t know.”
His eyes dropped to his hands, tracking over the thick blue sweater draping over bony wrists and down to the quilt.
His mother’s quilt.
Faded red starbursts, sewn by one grandmother or another, passed down generation after generation. It had belonged to Ada last he remembered. Polly had given it to her after Karl was born.
“You called me.” Alfie appeared in front of him again, pushing a glass of water into his hand. “About a week ago, making no sense. Going ‘round and ‘round in circles about crosses, crowns, and how you needed to keep moving, your Uncle Charlie’s remedy apparently.”
Tommy nodded as he drank, vague memories rising to the surface as Alfie spoke. He’d gotten home from Charlie’s yard and gone straight into preparing for Mosely’s murder.
Mosely’s failed murder.
Snapshots of the last few weeks ran through him mind. Ben Younger’s death and Ada’s baby, Polly’s resignation, Linda’s disastrous murder attempt, Michael’s-
“And when I came to your house,” Alfie went on. “Worried as I was, I found your front door wide open, and Arthur dead asleep on your couch.”
‘You’re scaring me Tom.’ Arthur’s worried voice echoed through his mind.
“And about a minute later, a gunshot.”
Tommy nodded again as the clear sound of a gunshot cracked in his ears. His head throbbed as his eyes rose slowly to meet Alfie’s, catching a simmering anger rolling just beneath.
Alfie pulled the glass from his hands and tugged him close, pressing small kisses over into his hair and down his face, meeting his lips once quickly.
He pressed his head to Tommy’s. One hand sneaking behind, and cupping his head to tuck him into Alfie’s neck, hugging him close. Tommy gripped Alfie’s shirt, fisting the soft material tightly.
Warm hands rubbed down his back, chasing away the icy feeling lingering in his bones. Wherever they were, it was cold. Cold and it smelled like winter, and rain.
He had his grandmother’s quilt, but Alfie was here.
It didn’t look like Margate, and Arthur would’ve never let Alfie in the house.
“You nearly fucking-”
“I missed.”
“Not for lack of trying.” Alfie’s beard tickled as he spoke. “You’re a shit shot, you should know better by now.” He scratched lightly at his glassy left eye.
The rain dulled outside, dropping slowly over the roof as it dripped down.
“Ready to try getting up?” Alfie asked, patting his arm as he waited for a nod. The blankets were soft and warm, and his head throbbed. He’d rather stay here and lay with Alfie. They never had time to be close like this. “Let me know if we’re moving too fast,” Alfie climbed off the bed and threw the quilt to the side, pulling Tommy slowly to his feet. Weathered and chilly wood slid beneath his feet, slippery and difficult to stay still on, but Alfie’s was quick to catch Tommy when he stumbled.
He’d shot himself in the head. Or tried to. Clearly he missed, or else he’d be dead. Unless this was hell. It didn’t seem much like hell though, he imagined hell would have been more, well, hellish.
“Going to try and get you outside again today,” Alfie began rifling through drawers, pulling clean trousers and sweaters. “Get you moving around a bit. We have to be careful not to overdo it though, you nearly passed out yesterday, so let me know-”
“If we’re moving too fast, I heard.” Tommy mumbled, gripping the wall as his knees shook.
Alfie hummed skeptically, eyes watchful as he threw the clothes onto the bed.
“What you hear and what you listen to,” Alfie started, stepping close to slip an arm around Tommy’s waist and lowering him back into the bed as his knees buckled threateningly. “Are two very different things.”
He sank into the bed again, confusion creeping back up on him as he looked around them.
The room was incredibly small. Everything crammed together, but not cluttered as it had been when Tommy was in Margate last. It reminded him of his grandmother’s wagon, from when they couldn’t afford Watery Lane and Polly had them staying in boats and caravans.
Dark wood cabinets poked out of the walls, hooks below with hanging pots and pans, and small bundles of dried herbs. Mint maybe? They always had mint somewhere when they were in the wagon.
“Where are we?” Tommy asked, twisting to look at Alfie.
“One of your family’s wagons, somewhere north of Birmingham.” Alfie mumbled, gesturing for Tommy to raise his arms as he helped pull off the blue sweater. “After I found you, in the fucking mud,” Alfie sat on the bed with him and carefully tugged a clean shirt over his head. “Bleeding everywhere, and to my complete fucking shock, still alive. I woke your mad fucking brother up and we got you into the house and attempted to come up with some form of a plan.”
“With Arthur?” Tommy asked, squinting as he struggled to remember. An exhausting haze settled over him, sinking into his bones quickly. Flurries of activity, of light and movement, loud voices and a car backfiring rang in the back of his mind. Arthur’s voice especially, pitching high and low as he roared near his ear and Alfie’s hands threaded through his hair. Grace as well. A dark look in her eyes and fury stark on her face as she watched him. She had never visited him when others had been around before. Always waiting for when he was alone. Alone with no one to distract him. She hadn’t spoken, but she hadn’t needed to. Her disappointment was clear.
“Look at me.” Alfie said, breaking through his thoughts. One hand grasped lightly around his jaw, guiding him easily. “If you start spinning again-”
“Spinning.” Tommy repeated.
“Yeah,” Alfie repeated leaning close, two toned eyes barrelling into him as he pulled the sleeves down Tommy’s arms. “If you start spinning again, you fucking tell me.” He nodded, straightening up and passing over a pair of trousers.
He’d called people last time. He’d tried calling them all, reaching desperately through the distance they’d managed to create for themselves. Had they all lived at Watery Lane, he could’ve just gone downstairs, and sat with Ada, though she likely wouldn’t want to talk, having told him he ruined everything he touched. He could’ve gone to the Garrison to find Arthur, or John. His heart clenched, reminding him that John wouldn’t have been there anymore. He’d gotten John killed.
Blinking upwards again, he tried to catch Alfie’s eyes, but found Grace instead. Standing over their bed with her hands folded neatly in front of her.
Warm arms encircled his waist, pulling him backwards to lie down on the bed again. Alfie’s low voice rumbled, rolling comfortingly as he crushed Tommy face into his chest, and Tommy wound his hands back into the soft cotton shirt and threaded his legs through Alfie’s.
“Take it one day at a time,” Alfie whispered into his hair, cupping his head and rubbing gently above his neck. “One day at a time. Just a bad day.”