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"There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
It’s not a surprise to find Tommy here, but Alfie can’t help but feel disappointed. Each time he shuffles up the backstreets to Ling’s shabby little opium den by the waterside, he always hopes his assumption will be proved wrong. It’s not impossible that Tommy will have finally found some healthy way to deal with his problems. He’s a rich man now, upstanding in the community. He’s even a member of parliament, at the very least he should start indulging in a higher class of vice.
But here Tommy is, sprawled out and dazed on the grotty stained carpet. One leg is twisted behind him like it’s broken, his glasses askew on his face. The first time Alfie found him like this, curled up and off his face in a back room in London, he simply flung Tommy over his shoulder and walked him home. He looked young then, lost and vulnerable in a large cruel world.
Tommy looks older now, but somehow even more vulnerable now he’s got so much more to lose. The lines on his face show in stark relief, the scars and bumps on his body red against pale panting skin. He hasn’t gained much weight in the intervening years, but Alfie’s not capable of lifting him anymore. Instead he reaches out with his cane, poking at the prone form.
“C’mon now. Get up. Stop all this.”
Unsurprisingly, Tommy doesn’t answer. Ling comes shuffling over, and between him and Alfie they get Tommy lifted and out of the room. Alfie looks behind him as they leave, at the human detritus of London spread out over the floor space under the muggy fumes. Fifty years ago this was a proper opium den – a rich luxurious hideout for sailors and poets indulging in a dark secret vice. Now it’s just a dingy room full of impoverished druggies.
Ling helps him get Tommy into the car, then stands around giving him purposeful looks. With a displeased grunt, Alfie tugs a few pounds out of his pocket and hands them over. “There you go. Fuck off, alright?”
The money vanishes, and Ling looks pointedly at Tommy, “He is more important now? Worth more?”
Alfie pokes the cane at his chest, “He’s now got the power to have you and everyone in this building thrown into prison at any time he wants. Don’t push your luck.”
He gets into the car and turns it over, glancing in the mirror to where Tommy is sprawled out on the back seat. This needs to stop. It’s not good for Tommy to be placing himself in such a precarious position, but there is something beautifully soft and vulnerable about him like this. Part of Alfie wonders if he may be enabling it in some way. A more delusional part of him likes to think that Tommy feels safe enough to do it because he always trusts Alfie will find him.
“You are going to get yourself into a mischief if you keep this up.” He rumbles into the mirror, half an eye on the road and half on Tommy Shelby’s pale sweaty face. “And not just the sort of mischief that happens to pretty passed out boys in London. You’re an MP now you are Tommy-boy. You’ll have the newspapers crawling all over you, and they will not be nice.”
He’s pretty sure Tommy isn’t listening, but there’s a small twitch of the body that reassures him Tommy is at least still alive. He parks at the back of the bakery and opens the door, sighing as Tommy’s face flops sideways on the seat. Reaching down Alfie gives it a slap, and then another, until Tommy’s eyes roll forward and his lips part gently.
“C’mon, I can’t lift you now can I? Get up.”
Tommy slides sideways off the seat and onto the floor.
Alfie grabs him under the armpits and yanks him out, stumbling and sliding on the muddy street until they’re both down in a heap. With a groan, he rests his arms on Tommy’s trembling body and wipes his brow.
“We’re getting a bit too old for this, Tommy, ain’t we? See I don’t mind you being weak, I know you need a bit of that, but there’s no need to remind me I am, is there? That’s not necessary.”
Tommy gives a small whimper in reply.
“Alright then, up we get.”
Together they both manage to stagger themselves into the bakery, Tommy’s limbs all long and dangling in different directions. Alfie drops him in the corner of the backroom like a sack of potatoes and then limps around lighting candles. He makes a pot of tea and comes to sit on the floor opposite Tommy, looking across at the semi unconscious figure and stroking his beard.
“What am I going to do with you, eh?”
The first time he’d carried Tommy back had been different. Back then, Tommy had been a lost little gypsy waif trying to be a big man in London. Alfie had dropped him here in the backroom, waited until he regained consciousness, then thrashed him with the wrong end of a belt until Tommy was sick all over the flagstones. He’d thought that would be the end of it, instead it had been the start of a new tradition.
Gently, Alfie reaches forward to stroke the hair out of Tommy’s eyes, fingers dancing over the damp sheen that covers his skin. “It’s not the opium, Tommy, I mean I don’t approve of that, but it’s more something about you letting yourself get into that state. Especially somewhere wide and open where anyone could find you. There’s a lot of people out there now that want to see you with your guard lowered, but only I get to, yeah? There we are. That’s what it is. I’m a jealous old sodomite that doesn’t want anyone else getting to see my boy with his eyes rolled back and his tongue hanging out.”
There’s a groaning sound from Tommy in reply, but he’s unconscious enough that Alfie knows he can pretend the next morning not to have heard a word of it. That’s probably best for both of them. Moving his hand down, he grabs the back of Tommy’s trousers and hauls them off over his arse.
“I could take you like this, couldn’t I? Might be nice to have a go of it without you kicking at me, ahhh there we go.” Alfie gives a satisfied grunt as Tommy’s hand claws out in his general direction, trying to push him away. “Still in there are we? But what if it wasn’t me, eh? You think about that, you daft little cunt?”
Tommy makes a noise like a small dying rodent and his eyes roll back again. Sighing, Alfie pulls himself upright, leaning heavily on his cane. There’s a blanket in the cupboard and he tugs it out, draping it over the twitching skinny body on the floor.
“You sober up. I’ll make us some soup. When you come back round lad, you and me are having a word. Not the sort we usually do with the belt, alright? Actual words, because we can’t keep doing this.” Alfie hesitates chewing on the side of his lip. “You can’t keep doing this, and I can’t either. Entertaining though it is to watch you in a pretty little heap killing bits of your brain I can’t promise I’ll be there to pick you up every time, alright? You can’t rely on my being there Tommy, so it’s got to stop.”
This time he knows for sure Tommy hears him, because this time Tommy makes no noise at all.