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It is the early hours of the morning when I make my winding way back to Moorfields from Covent Garden. The hulking dome of St. Paul’s is silhouetted against the opalescent sky just beginning to streak with light.
The walk back to the flat usually takes me three-quarters of an hour, but tonight it is taking considerably longer. At least I think it is. It’s hard to tell really because at the moment my brain is a bit muddled with the gin I nicked from the bar at the casino.
To put it mildly, it had been a difficult night. Usually, I didn’t mind the work, the pay is shit, and it steals many precious hours I could spend with Percy, but it’s enough for us to survive and to maintain the corner of the world we have carved out for ourselves. But tonight did not go as usual.
Most nights patrons are somewhere on the scale from tipsy to completely foxed, so I have witnessed many belligerent arguments between some player claiming the game is rigged and a manager.
I usually manage to stay out of the fray, but tonight an angry bloke decided to take up his complaints with me personally. He had somehow caught on to the fact that I worked for the house and decided to tell me, loudly, exactly how he felt about that. I had tried to plead ignorance and back out of the confrontation. Just as I was about to give him the slip the man cracked me across the jaw.
I’m not sure how many blows he was able to land before they pulled him off me, but it was enough to send the entire past year crumbling down around me.
I still had my hands up defensively when one of the men who had dragged my attacker off me helped me to my feet and asked, ‘Are you alright, mate?’
I had nodded despondently because what was I supposed to say? My father’s voice is echoing through my head so loudly I can barely think? I could feel myself shaking, and I was dreadfully close to tears. I made a quick and discreet exit but not before pocketing the bottle of gin that is now keeping me company on the walk home.
Some part of me knows I shouldn’t have. There’s a small voice at the back of my mind trying to remind myself that this all will ultimately end in more pain rather than less but it is drowned out by the much louder voice of my father.
As I approach the flat, I realize that I can’t take the gin in with me. I may have slipped up, but Percy need not know that. I set the bottle in an alcove outside the door, I’m sure it will be a lovely surprise for some other drunk.
All I need to do is get my trousers and shoes off and get in bed without waking Percy.
I manage the boots with little incident, but the trousers are another story. I forget to undo the buttons at my knees so as I try to step out of them they catch on my foot, and I go stumbling into the bed.
For a moment I think Percy may not wake, but then I hear the sounds of him sitting up and fumbling for the tinderbox. In the agonizing moments, it takes him to get the candle lit I try to decide how to play this.
‘Monty?’ he asks blearily as he brings the light closer to see exactly what happened.
I start back away from the flickering light. If I can just manage to stay in the shadows, he might not notice the bruises that I can feel already forming at my jaw.
‘Sorry, I just tripped. You should go back to bed.’
Instead, he leans forward bringing the candle to my face.
‘What happened?’ he asks his features etched with concern.
‘It’s nothing, Perce,’ I say, or at least that’s what I mean to say. I slur the first two words, so it comes out more like ‘izz nothing.’
‘Are you drunk?’
I don’t know how to respond. I can’t bring myself to explain, so I just stand there refusing to make eye contact.
‘Monty, what’s going on?’ He lifts his hand to my arm, knocking it roughly against my bruised ribs, I wince.
He looks at me, the last time I saw Percy this concerned was in Venice. He carefully lifts the hem of my shirt and sucks in a breathe.
‘Henry,’ he says his voice laced with sympathy.
Over the past few months, he has been using my given name in moments of particular intimacy. Usually when he says it feels gentle and loving, a reminder that perhaps Henry Montague is not the worst thing a person could be, but at this moment it feels like a slap. Finally, the tears I have been fighting since that man first hit me begin to fall.
‘I’m sorry, I am really sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. I’m so sorry.’ The more I say it, the less genuine it sounds but I can’t stop.
Standing in front of him bruised and tearful I begin to slip back into every moment I had stood in front of my father in the same state. I am willing to do or say anything to make this stop.
I try to remind myself where I am and that this is Percy, but it feels as if the walls are closing in around me.
Through my tears I see Percy raise his hand towards my face and I jerk away so sharply I almost fall back against the partition next to the bed.
At this moment I consider pulling up my trousers and fleeing the flat. I could wander around the city until I sober up and maybe then I could bear to face Percy. But instead, I clench my eyes shut and hope that I might just disappear on the spot.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the feeling of Percy taking my hands in his.
‘Monty,’ he sounds closer, perhaps standing in front of me now.
‘Love, it’s me. I’m right here with you. Can you feel my hand in yours?’
I nod, he’s currently rubbing circles on the back of my hand with his thumb.
‘Good, can you squeeze my hand?’ he waits a beat, and I squeeze one of his hands lightly, ‘Perfect, let’s take a few deep breaths together.’
The fog in my head is beginning to clear. The pain in my jaw and ribs becomes more acute, and my heart is still racing with thoughts of my father, but Percy is here. I can smell his warm cinnamon scent, he smells like home and safety.
Instinctively I lean into him, burying my head in his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me as I begin to sob into the collar of his nightshirt.
I can feel that I am leaving a mark on his shirt with my tears and snot, but I can’t care, it feels so good to have him holding me.
After an indeterminate amount of time, I sit back and finally look him in the eye. My head is still swimming from the gin, that combined with the tears clouding my eyes make for a blurry picture of Percy but it is him, and he is here.
He smiles, ‘Let’s get you a fresh shirt and go to bed, love.’
I look down at my shirt. I hadn’t noticed, but there is a streak of blood on the collar, presumably from my split lip.
Before the shirt, Percy helps me out of my breeches and stockings. He then unlaces my shirt and lifts it over my head.
He pauses, taking a moment to further examine my bruised ribs. I wince at his prodding but then he places a gentle kiss to the bruise.
‘Nothing appears broken which is good.’
He places a hand on my hip, low enough that in other circumstances it would get me rather excited but here in this moment it feels grounding. For a moment I appreciate that this was the first time that I can remember that I have stood in front of anyone naked without them expecting anything from me.
‘Are you alright?’ he asks.
‘You know me,’ I laugh.
‘Monty, I’m serious.’
‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘you’re here.’
He smiles before leaving me briefly to find a clean shirt.
He returns with a slightly worn nightshirt. As he helps me into it, it becomes apparent that it is, in fact, one of his shirts. While it is a bit long in the sleeves, I feel protected wrapped in his clothes.
After guiding me back to the bed, as I am still a little wobbly on my feet, he climbs onto his side of the bed and lays down facing me.
I pause, trying to decide whether I want to face him or slide in backwards letting him fully envelop me in his arms. I choose the latter.
‘I am sorry, Perce,’ I say twisting to look at him over my shoulder.
‘It’s alright, sweetheart. We can talk about it more in the morning,’ he says bumping his nose against my temple then pressing a kiss to the same spot.
I shift back into a more comfortable position, and he buries his face in my neck. Completely wrapped in the security that is Percy, I drift to sleep.