He tosses his backpack against the wall. No need to bother with that til tomorrow, it's mostly just for appearances and neither him nor dad gives a shit whether it gets opened that night for coursework or not.
'Here,' he says, handing his old man the obligatory 12-pack. The pub stopped ID'ing once they realised it would get them in less trouble to give a sixteen year old kid beer so cheap none of the patrons would drink it than to have the kid's dad come over instead. Just one promise in exchange for peace and not being watched by the coppers waiting for Mr. Trouble to show up, be cheerful for the first couple of pints, ask for credit as he never had enough money on him, then get obnoxious. A small price to pay for an open secret.
Too much responsibility for a kid his age, too much especially for a kid who kept winding up in hospital because of having several left feet. Tommy was a good kid, as he made a point of telling the copper who stopped him 'I'm not my father' enough times to get the fat man in blue to look the other way for good. Things became peaceful when Tommy took care of business, a bright respectful boy who always seemed to have a bruise from some random accident passed off with 'oh, trying to skateboard' or 'slipped on a wet kitchen floor' or whatever excuse there might be now. And since most people had gotten well comfortable with looking the other way and acting polite, as Tommy always did in return to a fault, that it just worked. He had grown to like being invisible. There was just one more person who he needed to be invisible to.
'Budweiser? Budweiser?' asks the old man. 'You bought American piss beer?'
'It's cheap,' he says, and bites his lip to add 'dad.'
'But I got my disability cheque today, even made it to the bank to cash it.'
'That's impressive, you actually could stay standing for twenty minutes and not get arrested.'
Tommy knows he's pushing his luck to come out and say it but he's spent the past week getting the guts up to get to tonight, to get Jackson to agree to all of this, shit, he cares about Jackson so much and knows that his plan will work, get both of them out of hell.
'You little cunt,' says Roy, after pounding his first as usual to get the quick buzz he needs to even have a conversation. 'What do you think your mum would say to hear you talk like that to your old man??'
'I wouldn't know, Roy, for fuck's sake you've told me for years she died and I just saw her at the market not a week back, she didn't even recognize me. Or maybe it was the fucking memory of living with you.'
Tommy lets the man pop him once, he knew he would have to anyways, just wasn't expecting it to be quite so hard, he stumbles a bit before catching himself, makes sure to cry so Roy feels guilty enough to stop, at least until he has a few more in him.
'Oh, fuck, Thomas, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' says Roy, tries to hug his son but thank fuck loses his balance and has to sit down. He swigs a bit more, or tries to, before realizing it's on to the next.
Tommy thinks this could go easier than he planned, but he's not a stupid kid and he's timed all of this to the day mum 'left them', the day that his old man thinks he doesn't remember.
'Show me your wedding photo again,' says Tommy, after Roy has had enough to get himself steady. He prides himself because he knows already from the off-license Roy went to that the man was hitting it hard, just like always on this day.
The cheque is cashed and the envelope with the notes is sitting right out there. Good, no searching.
Roy stumbles around and digs through a drawer, upsetting all of it.
'Why the fuck is it so buried? You been going through my things?' asks Roy.
'No, uhm, dad, you always say that and you always stuff that cupboard full of receipts.'
Almost like he wants to bury it and Tommy can't blame him there.
The man clutches the photo so clumsy it gets another crumple in it, and Tommy hates to see it but forces himself to. They looked so happy there, and there's his old man looking well fit in his RAF uniform. All it makes Tommy think of is the morning of his seventh birthday when he was mid jerk-off and had to stop and cover up fast because suddenly mum was knocking and in his room and telling him 'someday you'll understand' and 'I love you' and 'when you turn eighteen, look me up' and then gone, all of it gone.
Roy is crying and this is good because Tommy wants him to, even gives up a bit of the precious WKD he lifted from the off-license whilst buying a few packs of smokes, mind you not so many as to arouse suspicion. No one knew him and Jackson were planning quit this shit town first thing tomorrow and it needed to be that way.
'Hey,' whispers Tommy, 'don't cry, dad.'
It makes him sick to even call him dad but he knows he has to, tonight, an act just like all last week. His eyes is swelling and he puts a cold bottle of WKD against it to stop it from closing up. The fucking bastard.
Tomorrow it will all be different.
'I got Shepherd's Pie,' says Tommy. 'Let me pop it in.'
'You're such a good son and I'm such shit dad.'
'It is what it is, isn't it?'
Roy looks surprised and for a minute Tommy thinks he's gonna get it again which he won't allow, but the old man just nods.
He's in control now, the vodka is not something the old man takes to well so the WKD is working fast. If Roy weren't so soused he'd notice it's half-eleven. He's not going to get his last supper since Tommy and Jackson already ate at the Taco Bell hours past.
Jackson drives Tommy a bit nuts because the kid just breaks through Tommy's shell so easy, so many times he's told himself how crazy this is, and it bothers Tommy how Jackson gets so lovey all over him even in public. Like they're going to jump on the Titanic and sing 'My Heart Will Go On' or maybe that's just too near the truth. But they're invisible kids, Jackson because of himself and Tommy because of his old man.
'Can you put this beer in a proper glass at least?' asks Roy, handing Tommy a bottle.
Predictability can kill you. Tommy nods and takes it, popping the top with his lighter and drinking a big gulp of it once out of sight.
He finds a pint glass and rinses it out good to get the stains of the last beer out, scrubbing it in water so hot it burns his fingers, but he won't drop it.
'Okay if I have a quick smoke, Roy?'
'What did you call me?'
"Dad, I asked if it's okay if I have a quick smoke. You really need to get checked out by doc, you're forgetting stuff and not hearing me right.'
He holds his breath, pissed at himself for fucking up, but he gets a pass because the last thing Roy wants is to go to a doctor. He's a drunk but not an idiot and that word will just send long scary words like cirrhosis and melanoma flying about in the old man's head.
'You really shouldn't, but I'm hardly a role model for that, am I?' slurs Roy. Fuck's sake how much did he drink before Tommy got home, and can Tommy really do this? And it's all part a lie, he never forgave mum for that, doesn't want want to see the cunt, I mean at least Jackson's parents stuck together and never hit him. But Tommy gets what Jackson is saying and how prob'ly that hits him just as hard as Roy's slap, it worries him 'cos Jackson is so fragile sometimes and he hopes he isn't fucking things up worse.
But he's Tommy, he's taken care of himself and run the house since he was twelve, he can sure as fuck take care of a sweet kid he cares for more than anyone in years. F'yeah.
He's Tommy, ffs.
Tommy lights a fag and savors it like always, big gulp of WKD with a slight fruity burn when he mixes it with the cheap cig.
It's time.
He tilts the pint glass just right so it doesn't foam up so much, which 'cos he drank half before hand it's half empty. And he finds every cleaning product left and dumps some in, heavy on bleach and peroxide and a dash of rat poison.
He's Tommy, ffs. He has to hope this works. But if need be he'll club the fat old man like a baby seal. Tommy can do anything.
'It's warm,' says Roy, more out of being annoyed than suspicious.
'Sorry, they hadn't got delivery yet. I got you one in the freezer and rest in the fridge, just drink it fast and next one will be ice cold.'
'Why do you take care of me so good, Thomas?'
'Who else will?'
Roy laughs which ends in a cough and does as told, a single gulp almost and it's down.
'Fuck, Thomas, get me real beer next. This beer tastes like bleach!'
The man realises something is not right and tries to stand and Tommy braces for a smack but then Roy just drops and the cheap glass coffee table explodes and fuck there's blood all over his jeans now.
He waits a minute, lights another fag and when it's done he forces himself to check.
No pulse.
It's done.
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