The Gentleman: #001 (Beginnings)
Title: 1989
'Fandom': Gentleman
Claim: General
Prompt: #01; Beginnings
Word Count: 1,342
Rating: R (Language, violence)
Summary: When Liam was fifteen, he made a new group of friends.
Author's Notes: A quick prelude to get an idea of what Liam and Tom's relationship was and a bit of back story on Liam's family.
1989
When Liam was fifteen, he decided he hated his mum. She wouldn’t let him out past nine in the evening, she was always shouting at him about his grades. What did she care? It wasn’t her grades. It wasn’t like she was going to be the one failing the classes. He didn’t want his A levels anyway. He could find something else to do. After all, his best mate Freddy had been talking about starting a band. Like The Beatles or something. Maybe they could finally do that. He may have to learn how to play guitar or something, but he could do it. Then his mum would be sorry she ever shouted at him about his grades.
He sighed, kicking at a rock and shifting his bag over his shoulder. She’d be furious with him this time. He’d failed a big test and the headmaster had sent him home with a note to her telling Liam he shouldn’t open it. Not that it mattered to Liam. It was about him, he should be able to read it, right?
It had said something about him not applying himself and being dangerously close to being sent down to a lower class. It infuriated Liam. He wasn’t stupid, he just didn’t care. And why should he? Who needs to know why the Americans started the revolution? Sod them; they could do whatever they wanted. Who cares about America?
“Oi, watch where you’re kicking that thing!” a voice shouted and Liam froze, looking up with wide eyes. The tall, lanky man before him frowned, squinting at the teenager. “You could hit someone with it if you’re not careful.”
“Sorry, sir,” Liam muttered, looking down and attempting to walk past the man. A hand shot out and he instinctively pulled away, tripping over a rock and falling into the patchy shrubbery next to the sidewalk.
“Careful, careful. Don’t wanna hurt yourself, do ya?” the man held a hand out. Liam reached out, tentatively, and with a hard jerk that sent his head back, he was pulled back to his feet. “You’re Michael Marsh’s boy, ain’t you?”
“Ey?” Liam felt his eyes widen again. The man chuckled, setting a hand on his shoulder.
“Your dad used to give us a real hard time. Good man. Shame about the car crash.”
Liam shifted, uneasily at the mention of his late father. He’d only been seven at the time of the crash, but he could still remember the way his mother had screamed and cried. The procession at his father’s funeral where even the men were shedding tears. No one would tell him what had happened, but from what he gathered, they thought the car crash had been some elaborate plan from some criminals to get his father out of their way.
“You look sick. You all right, son?” the man frowned, dipping his head to eye Liam, curiously. The fifteen-year-old nodded, slowly. “Lookin’ a bit peak. Need a drink?”
“I’m not sixteen yet,” Liam answered, struggling to sound sure of himself. The man laughed loudly this time, clapping his shoulder.
“You’re the fuckin’ image of your dad, you know that? He was always worried about breaking the law,” the man fanned his hands out, dramatically, waggling his fingers before laughing, boisterously. “Come on. You look like you need a nice pint.”
If Liam felt sick before, he felt like he was going to die now. Groaning, he held his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. When the man - Errol, he’d said his name was - had said he’d forget about whatever was bothering him before, he wasn’t lying. Liam had only had two pints and already he felt like he was going to vomit all over himself. The men around him laughed, obviously amused by him. Most of them looked to be nearly ten years older than Liam save for one; a boy, no more than eighteen or so, sat in the corner watching him, taking swig after swig of his beer. Sometimes, when Liam felt the world begin to spin, he would catch the boy grinning and he felt the urge to clock him one overwhelm the turning of his stomach.
Errol clapped a hand on his back - something Liam found he was rather fond of doing - and he felt the bile rise in his throat. He scrambled out of his chair, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, rushing towards the bathroom with his hand on his mouth. By the time he reached the toilets, his chin and shirt front were already covered in small dribbles. He fell to his knees in front of one and his body slammed forward, the vomit streaming straight from his stomach, out his mouth and into the toilet. After three sharp cramps to his stomach, he tottered backwards onto his heels and fell onto his rear, not bothering to wipe the puke from his chin. The sound of clapping from outside of the stall startled him and his hand slipped on the edge of the seat, nearly dipping into the contents. Five feet away stood the boy, grinning in a rather disturbing way.
“All right?” he asked, laughing. Liam scowled, bringing the clean edge of his shirt up and wiping his chin.
“Sod off,” he muttered, his voice sounding hoarse. The boy rolled his eyes, leaning back against the sink behind him.
“You’re the rozzer’s kid, ain’t you?” he asked and Liam pressed his back against the side of the stall, his head still spinning.
“Yeah. What of it?” he had meant it to sound like a challenge and felt a twinge of embarrassment at the sound of it. He sounded like such a fucking kid.
“You know why The Hand’s brought you here, yeah?” the boy asked, turning towards the mirror and inspecting his reflection. Liam felt his stomach do a half-hearted drop. He couldn’t quite understand why.
“The Hand?”
“The Hand. Errol. You know why he brought you here?” the boy fussed with his bowl cut, adjusting the fringe at the front and baring his teeth, running his tongue across them.
“Why?” he couldn’t help the curious tone to his voice. After all, he’d long since figured out these men were gangsters. What would they want with the son of a policeman?
“It’s a classic. The son of a great, law-abiding cozzer converts to being a criminal. Larry’s looking to take you in. Make you one of us,” the boy answered, turning around and fixing his curiously blue eyes on Liam.
“Fuck off,” Liam snapped, feeling the anger boil in his stomach again. Something about this boy made him furious.
“Aw, lookit; just like Daddy. Shame about him, by the way. They're saying he was caught shaggin' some Bethnal tart down in Soho. Got what he deserved, I think,” the boy click his tongue, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and turning towards the door. Before he could get to it, Liam had launched himself off of the floor and onto the boy, throwing him to the ground. He began throwing punch after punch into the boy’s face, loving the feeling of his nose giving way beneath his fist, the blood coming almost instantly, his lip splitting beneath his knuckle and covering his hands in dribbles of claret. The boy shouted something, his voice muffled by either Liam’s fists or the blood; he couldn’t tell which. It seemed like much longer than the few moments it had actually taken before two big hands grasped him by the shoulders and threw him back, his head hitting the tile. He looked up to find three men standing nearby, One helping the boy to his feet, the one who had picked him up trying to stop the boy from throwing anymore punches, and the third - Errol - watching Liam with great interest.
“Fucking cunt! You fucking, stupid cunt! I’ll fucking kill you! You’re dead, you fucking tosser!” the boy was screaming.
“Tom, shut the fuck up!” Errol ordered, turning and grinning at Liam. “You lookin’ for a job, son?”
Prompt Table and Backstory
'Fandom': Gentleman
Claim: General
Prompt: #01; Beginnings
Word Count: 1,342
Rating: R (Language, violence)
Summary: When Liam was fifteen, he made a new group of friends.
Author's Notes: A quick prelude to get an idea of what Liam and Tom's relationship was and a bit of back story on Liam's family.
1989
When Liam was fifteen, he decided he hated his mum. She wouldn’t let him out past nine in the evening, she was always shouting at him about his grades. What did she care? It wasn’t her grades. It wasn’t like she was going to be the one failing the classes. He didn’t want his A levels anyway. He could find something else to do. After all, his best mate Freddy had been talking about starting a band. Like The Beatles or something. Maybe they could finally do that. He may have to learn how to play guitar or something, but he could do it. Then his mum would be sorry she ever shouted at him about his grades.
He sighed, kicking at a rock and shifting his bag over his shoulder. She’d be furious with him this time. He’d failed a big test and the headmaster had sent him home with a note to her telling Liam he shouldn’t open it. Not that it mattered to Liam. It was about him, he should be able to read it, right?
It had said something about him not applying himself and being dangerously close to being sent down to a lower class. It infuriated Liam. He wasn’t stupid, he just didn’t care. And why should he? Who needs to know why the Americans started the revolution? Sod them; they could do whatever they wanted. Who cares about America?
“Oi, watch where you’re kicking that thing!” a voice shouted and Liam froze, looking up with wide eyes. The tall, lanky man before him frowned, squinting at the teenager. “You could hit someone with it if you’re not careful.”
“Sorry, sir,” Liam muttered, looking down and attempting to walk past the man. A hand shot out and he instinctively pulled away, tripping over a rock and falling into the patchy shrubbery next to the sidewalk.
“Careful, careful. Don’t wanna hurt yourself, do ya?” the man held a hand out. Liam reached out, tentatively, and with a hard jerk that sent his head back, he was pulled back to his feet. “You’re Michael Marsh’s boy, ain’t you?”
“Ey?” Liam felt his eyes widen again. The man chuckled, setting a hand on his shoulder.
“Your dad used to give us a real hard time. Good man. Shame about the car crash.”
Liam shifted, uneasily at the mention of his late father. He’d only been seven at the time of the crash, but he could still remember the way his mother had screamed and cried. The procession at his father’s funeral where even the men were shedding tears. No one would tell him what had happened, but from what he gathered, they thought the car crash had been some elaborate plan from some criminals to get his father out of their way.
“You look sick. You all right, son?” the man frowned, dipping his head to eye Liam, curiously. The fifteen-year-old nodded, slowly. “Lookin’ a bit peak. Need a drink?”
“I’m not sixteen yet,” Liam answered, struggling to sound sure of himself. The man laughed loudly this time, clapping his shoulder.
“You’re the fuckin’ image of your dad, you know that? He was always worried about breaking the law,” the man fanned his hands out, dramatically, waggling his fingers before laughing, boisterously. “Come on. You look like you need a nice pint.”
If Liam felt sick before, he felt like he was going to die now. Groaning, he held his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. When the man - Errol, he’d said his name was - had said he’d forget about whatever was bothering him before, he wasn’t lying. Liam had only had two pints and already he felt like he was going to vomit all over himself. The men around him laughed, obviously amused by him. Most of them looked to be nearly ten years older than Liam save for one; a boy, no more than eighteen or so, sat in the corner watching him, taking swig after swig of his beer. Sometimes, when Liam felt the world begin to spin, he would catch the boy grinning and he felt the urge to clock him one overwhelm the turning of his stomach.
Errol clapped a hand on his back - something Liam found he was rather fond of doing - and he felt the bile rise in his throat. He scrambled out of his chair, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, rushing towards the bathroom with his hand on his mouth. By the time he reached the toilets, his chin and shirt front were already covered in small dribbles. He fell to his knees in front of one and his body slammed forward, the vomit streaming straight from his stomach, out his mouth and into the toilet. After three sharp cramps to his stomach, he tottered backwards onto his heels and fell onto his rear, not bothering to wipe the puke from his chin. The sound of clapping from outside of the stall startled him and his hand slipped on the edge of the seat, nearly dipping into the contents. Five feet away stood the boy, grinning in a rather disturbing way.
“All right?” he asked, laughing. Liam scowled, bringing the clean edge of his shirt up and wiping his chin.
“Sod off,” he muttered, his voice sounding hoarse. The boy rolled his eyes, leaning back against the sink behind him.
“You’re the rozzer’s kid, ain’t you?” he asked and Liam pressed his back against the side of the stall, his head still spinning.
“Yeah. What of it?” he had meant it to sound like a challenge and felt a twinge of embarrassment at the sound of it. He sounded like such a fucking kid.
“You know why The Hand’s brought you here, yeah?” the boy asked, turning towards the mirror and inspecting his reflection. Liam felt his stomach do a half-hearted drop. He couldn’t quite understand why.
“The Hand?”
“The Hand. Errol. You know why he brought you here?” the boy fussed with his bowl cut, adjusting the fringe at the front and baring his teeth, running his tongue across them.
“Why?” he couldn’t help the curious tone to his voice. After all, he’d long since figured out these men were gangsters. What would they want with the son of a policeman?
“It’s a classic. The son of a great, law-abiding cozzer converts to being a criminal. Larry’s looking to take you in. Make you one of us,” the boy answered, turning around and fixing his curiously blue eyes on Liam.
“Fuck off,” Liam snapped, feeling the anger boil in his stomach again. Something about this boy made him furious.
“Aw, lookit; just like Daddy. Shame about him, by the way. They're saying he was caught shaggin' some Bethnal tart down in Soho. Got what he deserved, I think,” the boy click his tongue, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and turning towards the door. Before he could get to it, Liam had launched himself off of the floor and onto the boy, throwing him to the ground. He began throwing punch after punch into the boy’s face, loving the feeling of his nose giving way beneath his fist, the blood coming almost instantly, his lip splitting beneath his knuckle and covering his hands in dribbles of claret. The boy shouted something, his voice muffled by either Liam’s fists or the blood; he couldn’t tell which. It seemed like much longer than the few moments it had actually taken before two big hands grasped him by the shoulders and threw him back, his head hitting the tile. He looked up to find three men standing nearby, One helping the boy to his feet, the one who had picked him up trying to stop the boy from throwing anymore punches, and the third - Errol - watching Liam with great interest.
“Fucking cunt! You fucking, stupid cunt! I’ll fucking kill you! You’re dead, you fucking tosser!” the boy was screaming.
“Tom, shut the fuck up!” Errol ordered, turning and grinning at Liam. “You lookin’ for a job, son?”
Prompt Table and Backstory