Sweetheart
Tommy-boy was on his way to dab it up with Agnes, he was excited,
his tackle hardening at the thought. Hands tucked in the pockets of
his bell-bottomed trousers, he whistled as his pointed clogs clipped
the piss-stained street. The icy February air stung his face, drying
the blood to his skin and shirt and blowing a metallic smell up his
nose. He flexed his fingers in his pockets, feeling the ache setting
into his knuckles. The ache excited him. He'd done it, he'd finally
done it -- he'd single handedly won the fight for the Bengal Tigers,
securing his reputation as the toughest guy in Ancoats. He'd be a
legend by sunrise, he deserved a victory dab.
Turning from Union Street onto Murray Street he watched the moon
vanish from view behind the row of houses to his right. The homes
around Ancoats were crammed together, row upon compressed row, like
prison bars. The way to survive the roads that surrounded Bengal
Street was the same as it was in prison: Violence, violence and, more
violence. It was survival of the toughest, and Tommy-boy Tyne was the
toughest, he'd proved that.
It was past midnight, the only people about were the drunkards and
the trollops of the bawd houses. Tommy-boy loved being out at night,
he loved the freedom. His family lived in one room, all eight of
them. As stale and ashen as the air in Ancoats was, it was nothing
compared to the stench of the coffin he called home.
The wind picked up and the smell of blood became almost
overwhelming. Tommy-boy could still hear the loud crack as
Otto Burns' head had collided with the pavement. The noise had seemed
to ring out above all the commotion of the duelling gangs. The memory
of the encounter stirred Tommy-boy once more, and his semi-erect
tackle become predominant in his mind.
That's when he saw her... Cora... the bitch. Cora was Agnes'
fourteen year old sister and the only girl around here that made him
go loll tongued.
*
Cora Murphy was freezing. She rushed towards her destination
watching every step she took, as the dress she wore was too long for
her frame. It wasn't a problem, she knew these streets like the back
of her hand; they were rooted inside of her as firmly as her veins.
Agnes and her father were nowhere to be found, so it was up to her
to fetch aunty Mabel to help deliver the baby. Her thin dress did
nothing to protect her from the elements, the wind stung her cheeks.
The dress was given to her by her father last year when he had
declared her the most beautiful girl in Ancoats. It was the dress her
mother married her father in, though it was not a traditional wedding
dress. Made from a thin material, high necked, long sleeved and
plain, her Grandma had made it from old bed linen. It was a little
too long for Cora but she didn't mind, she spent hours tenderly
washing it each week and was careful not to cause major damage to it.
By Bengal Street standards it was immaculate, even if it was more
grey then white these days.
Raucous laughter picked up with the wind as she approached Cotton
Street. At the end of the road was the busiest bawd house in the
area, and it sounded as though it was busy tonight.
*
Tommy-boy was neatly tucked into the long, narrow alley as Cora
passed by. With a quick pull of her waist and hand over her mouth he
pulled her into the darkness. It was easy.
“Relax, Cora, it's me,” he said quietly.
She stopped struggling, going rigid in his arms. It annoyed him that
she wasn't afraid of him. He released her, and she turned around to
face him. The candlelight from the windows of the bawd house casting
them both in a half-shadow. He pressed himself against her, holding
her arms to the wall at her side.
“I don't know where she is.”
He smirked at her statement. “Who says I want Agnes?”
“Get off me.”
Cora's dislike for Tommy-boy was written all over her beautiful
face; it only made him want her more. Who did she think she was? She
was no better than Tommy-boy. They were born and bread on the same
side of Bengal Street, they drank the same water, breathed the same
ash filled air and walked the same piss stained streets. Cora Murphy
should have been grateful for his affections, she should have been
elated that he wanted her to be his sweetheart; her sister was.
“Make me,” he taunted her enjoying her discomfort.
Cora stared into the familiar root brown eyes that she often found
staring at her. She wasn't usually a dreamer, but she was certain
that Tommy-boy had no soul.
“I have to go.” She could see blood smears on his face but no
obvious wound. This boy was an animal, and she couldn't for the life
of her understand why Agnes wasted her time with him. “Now.”
The thin material of Cora's dress was leaving nothing to Tommy Boys
imagination. She was perfect. Agnes was nothing but a watered down
version of her sister. Both were blue eyed blondes but Agnes was
pretty not beautiful; charming not captivating; the practise before
the perfection. “Kiss me.”
“You've got blood on your face.”
“That's not a no.”
“You disgust me.”
“That's still not a no, sweetheart.”
She stared at the cluster of freckles below his left eye: they
shaped a distorted heart. “I'll never be your sweetheart.”
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