fuckin biblical, mate

It haunted him in the late hours of the night, when he closed his eyes for a moment's rest. If he was idle for just a fraction of a moment too long, it all came flooding back. It tormented him, the image of Alfie's body laying lifeless on that fucking beach. The blood soaking into his hair, staining the beautiful white sands. And the pain of being shot in turn did nothing to stifle the despair Tommy had taken with him long after he'd returned to his manor full of ghosts. Because, at that moment, he genuinely thought he could walk away from all of it.

But he couldn't. And he still fucking can't.

Tommy returns to the scene of his crime at regular intervals under the express and explicit understanding that they would be continuing their previous business arrangement. It would have been a waste to let things come to an end, after all. It was Tommy's suggestion. Alfie agreed. Bygones being bygones, he had said. Considering their past, Alfie’s particular standing, Tommy's wild ambition, for all intents and purposes and absolutely nothing more. But it was, of course, a complete fucking lie. That's the lie he tells himself. The lie Alfie goes along with. The lie Tommy wants desperately to be true.

And though he tried to stop, tried to give up the pretense, it was that same powerful longing that he hadn't the strength to deny which drove Tommy to make a desperate pilgrimage back to that place over, and over, and over again. And each and every time Tommy darkened his doorstep, Alfie greeted him with the same kind of warmth he always had. Though his face was badly scarred and he was now half blind, it was always the same fucking expression. One of delight, unabashed, loudly affectionate. And Tommy could never understand why.

Predictably, they hardly talked business during Tommy's visits. There wasn't much to talk about anymore. Tommy would settle himself in that same armchair and Alfie would sit across from him, hum and haw about rum barrels and warehouses as he always had. As if nothing had ever happened, nothing had changed. Humoring him. It was all just one long fucking con. A tired play at normalcy. A selfish attempt to ease his battered conscience. But it never fucking worked. The only thing Tommy had ever managed to accomplish was feed his growing demons. He would leave the same way he'd come. Full of darkness and unease. A growing guilt that was becoming much too difficult to contain. A renewed fear that he couldn't continue this. But he couldn't stop coming. And he found, if he thought about it for more than a passing moment, that he didn't want to stop.

Tommy finds himself in the car again one Saturday afternoon. By now he's traveled to Margate with such frequency he's sure he could make the drive with his eyes closed. And as he goes, he quietly ruminates on the imminent end that's surely coming. Because it has to be. Even now, Tommy can't help but wonder why Alfie enables this lie. What the purpose of all of this must be. For what reason would Alfie keep opening his home to the man who left him for dead on the very beach he now lives?

He thinks of this as he drives, as he always does, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He tries to rationalize that same question, over and over again, endlessly searching for an answer that simply isn't there. Tommy knows deep in his bones that he doesn't deserve this. Doesn't have any right at all to be in this car again, to be going where he's going. And yet he can't turn back. A purgatory of his own making. And he hates himself for it. For this. For everything. Why is he so fucking selfish?

By the time Tommy pulls up to Alfie's house it's dark. His fingers ache from their grip on the wheel. He sits there for several long minutes, staring out through the windshield. It's late, but the lights are on. The lights always seem to be on when Tommy arrives. Finally he gets out of the car and as he does he realizes abruptly that he's left his gun behind. He'll long for it later, after he's left, on the lonely drive home. He always does.

This time, Alfie's already standing in the doorway when Tommy finally finds the courage to climb the walkway. "Evening, Thomas," he calls out, voice boisterous and inviting. He's wearing a wrinkled shirt rolled up to his elbows and his suspenders are hanging off his trousers. It's a relief to see Alfie looking so warm and lively. Tommy regrets the feeling almost immediately, because he knows it's not a comfort he's deserving of. Alfie's expression is unchanged, open and honest as it always is. Tonight Tommy finds he can't bear to look at it.

"Hello, Alfie," he says quietly, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice as he quickly sidles past. There's a fire burning in the hearth when he enters the sitting room. Tommy gravitates toward it, craving the warmth. He hears Alfie pull the door shut and putter around behind him, talking about something or other that he can't rightly focus on before disappearing into the kitchen. The atmosphere feels relaxed in a way that he wasn't prepared for. He feels shame for finding comfort in it. It's getting harder and harder to live this lie.

Tommy's stomach twists. He’s just turning towards the armchair when he sees it. The glass of whisky, freshly poured, sitting on the table next to the spot he usually occupies. He stares at it. Startled. There had never been any alcohol present on any of his previous visits. Alfie doesn't drink. He can't even begin to understand the implications of it. Can't understand why Alfie would possibly want to put forth any effort to make him feel welcome here. The weight in the pit of his stomach grows heavier when Alfie returns with a tray of what is most assuredly bread freshly baked by his own hand accompanied by butter and jam.

"You're looking quite bird-boned these days, Tom. You can pick at that whilst we conduct our business." Alfie sets down the tray and gestures for Tommy to sit, but he can't move. Rooted to the spot by this apparent tenderness he can't fathom. His hands are shaking. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. The guilt is a weight bowing his spine and he's going to drop it if he doesn't—

"Why?" Tommy hears himself say. Almost unsure it was his voice at all. He doesn't sound like himself. He sounds small and weak, like a child.

"Why?" Alfie parrots, looking at Tommy with a gaze far too heavy to hold. He laughs, but it doesn't sound right. It's hollow, humorless. "Why are we sat here in the middle of the night week after week drumming up whatever piss poor excuse for business we can manage, you mean? Honestly, Thomas, I was quite hoping you'd tell me that."

But he can't possibly. Doesn't have enough air in his lungs, enough strength to vocalize what he's supposed to say. What he needs to say. He's not ready for that, never will be, so he reaches for that blessed glass of whisky as his throat is closing up, can't even bear to fucking look at Alfie as he drinks just to fill his mouth with something other than words. He can't do this. Can't keep fucking doing this. Tommy grips the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turn white as the realization makes his blood cold.