Headstone Read Free Page B

get used to it.”
    She never did.
    Never.
    When her husband heard, he did what was
    becoming more common: he fucked off .
    Permanently.
    Then the legion of social workers, with the
    Gestapo suggestions, “Give him up for adoption.”
    Right.
    They were just lining up to grab a child with DS.
    Ten grand bought them a cherubic dote from Russia
    or the third world. Tess was brief in her response
    to the suggestions.
    “Fuck off.”
    She raised Tom with every ounce of spirit and guts
    she had. Got him through school, then a job in a
    warehouse. Sometimes, the Gods there be cut a
    poor bitch some slack, not much but a thread. The
    lads in the warehouse were all from Tess’s
    neighborhood, Bohermore, one of the few real
    communities in the city. They watched out for him.
    He began as a messenger boy, then over the years,
    thanks to the lads, he learned to drive a forklift and
    that was one shit proud day for all.
    Not to mention the extra few euros it brought into
    their home. Tom was tall, unusual for his
    condition, with dark hair, the eyes of a fawn, and
    the nature of an angel. The day he got to drive the
    forklift, he literally ran home to tell his mum,
    shouting, “Mum……Mum, I got me license, I can
    drive the big machine.”
    She wiped her tears away, said,
    “So, takeaway curry tonight and your favorite
    movie.”
    “ Die Hard Th ree .”
    If only she knew how ominous that was.
    Truth to tell, Tom would watch anything with
    Bruce Willis. Tess watched him as he watched the
    movie, wondering if he thought he was Bruce
    Willis?
    Their life wasn’t exactly easy but they relished
    what they had, primarily each other.
    Friday evening, Tom got his wages, and had his
    ritual in place. Go to Holland’s shop, be polite to
    Mary, buy the big box of Dairy Milk for his mum,
    and then walk home. In Holland’s, a girl, looking
    through the postcards, smiled at him and he
    blushed. Got his purchases and left. He walked
    along Eyre Square and headed up Prospect Hill; he
    always quickened his pace when he came to the
    alley that led to St. Patrick’s Church. It had
    shadows and he didn’t like those. Then the
    customer from the shop, the pretty girl, appeared,
    asked,
    “Could you help me please?”
    His mum had instilled in him the virtue of always
    helping people. But the alley?
    The girl had a lovely smile, said,
    “I dropped my mobile in there and I’m afraid to
    look for it by my own self.”
    Bruce Willis would help.
    He entered the alley and immediately got a
    ferocious wallop to the back of his neck. Two
    young men stood over him, the girl right in front,
    She said,
    “Chocolates. Oh, I so love sweetness.”
    Tom was getting to his feet, dizzy but still able to
    stand, protested, “Those are for me mum.”
    One of the young men, with a livid fresh scar,
    lashed out with his Doc Marten, smashing Tom’s
    teeth, and the other asked,
    “Oh, did that hurt?”
    And delivered a ferocious kick to Tom’s crotch.
    Tom threw up all over the girl’s boots. She said,
    “Jesus wept, I just cleaned them.”
    Tom was on his knees, still retching, and the girl
    knelt down to his level, asked,
    “You wanna go home to your momma, that it?”
    He muttered miserably and the girl said, “But the
    chocolates, we can’t waste them.”
    One of the men grabbed Tom’s head and forced
    open his mouth, the girl ripped open the
    cellophane, grabbed a fistful of the sweets and
    shoved them into his mouth. Then she produced a
    knife, Tom knew it as a Stanley from work, and she
    said,
    “Little trouble digesting all of them you greedy
    boy, let me help you.”
    And slit his throat in one practiced movement. The
    other man took the box of Dairy Milk, scattered the
    remains over Tom’s falling body, said,
    “Sweets for the sweet.”
    The girl bent down, waited till Tom bled out, said
    as he gurgled, “Christ, keep it down.”
    Then rifled through his jacket, found his pay
    packet, said,
    “Payday.”
    They didn’t glance back as they