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Tommy knows someone is following him without looking back. He has felt it since he turned at the corner of Montague Street. There's a shift in the air, the sound of heavy boots echoing his own quick steps on the wet cobblestones. He can hear them even under the clamour of Small Heath and the pitter-patter of icy winter rain.
He wraps his worn out coat tighter around his small body and wishes he had asked Mum or Aunt Polly to fix the loose buttons this morning. He could have sewn them back himself. But Mum and Dad had a big row this morning, and Aunt Polly ushered them to school as quickly as possible. There was no time for needlework. She didn't even push him to eat - which he could never manage when Dad was screaming at Mum or berated them -, just pushed a dry toast in his hand to eat it on the way to school. He gave it to John when she didn't look. His little brother was always hungry.
Unfortunately, it looks like his blooming marble business aroused his enemies' dislike again. The big boys in school grabbed him by his collar, pinned him against the wall and searched his pockets for money. Their attack took him by surprise and he felt small and helpless, so much that he forgot to remind them of the rumors. The whole school and kids in Small Heath think he can curse them to hell and back with the Gypsy black magic in his blood. He will be more prepared next time, doesn't even need a real curse, he could say anything. Last time he chanted a song Mum used to sing, as ominously as possible.
At least they couldn't take away his marbles and daily income because Mrs. Changretta rang the bell for the next class in time, and they all know how strict she is when someone is late. Nobody wants a caning or padding. Tommy the least. He absentmindedly rubs his scrawny upper arm where Dad's unforgivable grip left dark bruises after he heard him and John making fun of the priest last night. He punished them both with his belt, but Tommy got the worst of it because Dad saw the Devil's touch in him and it has to be beaten out of him. That's what their parents were arguing about in the morning. Mum saw the welts on his back when she wanted to adjust his baggy shirt and he let out a painful whimper as she touched him. John had to show his back too, but it wasn't as ugly. Mum was furious because Dad always promised not to raise a hand at them anymore. Tommy knew his excuses before they left his mouth: it wasn't his hand. It was a belt and they deserved it. The kids have to learn to respect the holy men. But what if there is nothing respectable about them?
A wave of shame washes over him at the memory of being intimidated again by the older kids. He felt like a pathetic little boy, but he's really big now. Already eleven years old. Only one year left, then he has to drop from school and work in the BSA Factory like Arthur. He can't be a crybaby or the big lads and men will mock him forever. Even Arthur was mocked when he started to work there, and he's really tall, brave and loud. Like a real man. Tommy still looks like a small, shy eight years old. Aunt Polly always says that John is growing so fast that they have to skip him in the hand-me-down hierarchy and give Arthur's clothes to his little brother instead of him, especially if he eats like a baby bird. He would like to be tall and strong, so he could protect his little siblings and Mum from everything. Mum often reassures him he still has a lot of time to grow, though she tries to coax him to eat more, too, just more patiently than Aunt Polly. But John and Ada are younger than him, and Arthur works so hard like a grown man, so they need more food than him. It's simple logic.
Hunger rarely bothers him, and his brain works perfectly well even when his stomach is empty. Even better, actually. Mum and Aunt Polly say his wit is his biggest strength and he has to be proud of it, although the mean kids call him smartarse and other bad things. Mum doesn't want to let Dad take him out of school next year, and Aunt Polly stands by her in the debate. Uncle Charlie also said he would like to have a few words with Dad if he dared to take away Tommy's chance to have proper education. Uncle Charlie and his father don't like each other at all.
Tommy bitterly regrets that he let his thoughts wander instead of being present when he knew trouble was coming. Someone kicks the back of his knee and laughs. He tries to catch himself in vain and falls to the cold, wet pavement. When he tries to stumble to his feet, they start kicking him, and he has enough experience to know it's best to curl into a small ball, try to protect his middle and cover his head. At least Dad taught him that much. As far as he can tell, there are three different pairs of boots.
"Get off of me!" He tries his best to sound like a brave big boy instead of a whiny baby, though it's really hard when he's on the ground.
"Where's the money, eh, tyke?" Barks the tallest boy. Because they're boys, not grown men, he can see it now when one of them grabs the back of his coat and drags him to his feet. Older, taller and stronger than him, maybe Arthur's age or a little more. Far not as strong and scary as Dad, though his heart is pounding like it's about to escape his chest.
"What money?" Tommy forces out and looks the boy in the eyes. He's vaguely familiar, so he must have seen him.
"The money you stole from my brother, you filthy thief!"
"I didn't steal anything."
"You're a fucking liar, not just a thief. Give me the money, pikey boy!"
Tommy spits in the boys face.
It's a mistake. Yet, he doesn't regret it one bit, not even when he gets more blows, not even when his vision gets blurry and he goes slack in the boy's grip.
"Fuck, Donnie, it's enough!" He hears through the ringing in his ears. "You'll kill the little bastard."
"The fuck cares! He stole Georgie's marbles and the money he got from our grandma."
Tommy lets out a weak, incredulous laugh. It's George's brother, one of the boys who bully him at school. The others must be his friends. So it's about his marble business.
"What the hell are you laughing about?" Donnie grabs his hair and shakes his head. He bites his lower lip to stop himself from whimpering.
"Your brother is so dumb... he can never win." He forces a smug smirk on his face. "Can't even read."
All he earns himself is a punch in the face. Then a few others when the boys search for his money. They won't find anything, he gave his business box to Freddie Thorne and made a deal with him. He agreed to keep it safe until the weekend, for five percent of Tommy's income.
"He don't have nothing, Donnie, let him go." Tommy thinks the boy is particularly dumb and doesn't know shit about grammar, but he appreciates his efforts.
"I want my brother's money back!" Donnie bellows.
"His brother will be fucking pissed off, you idiot!" The third boy argues. "He's fucking crazy like a rabid dog when it comes to his little brothers."
"Who the fuck is his brother?"
"Arthur Shelby. He's a beast in the boxing ring. Have you heard when he..."
Tommy would like to hear an exciting story about his amazing big brother, but unfortunately the ringing in his ears grows louder and he drifts away...
"Oi, pikey!" Someone kicks him in the ribs, this time a little less roughly.
Tommy moans and tries to push the dirty boot away when it pokes his face. He opens his eyes a sliver. What an idiot, he doesn't even take care of his boots. It's dirty like hell. He hopes there isn't shit on it. He always keeps his boots in pristine condition. Never forgets to clean them in the evening. One has to take care of their most valuable possession.
"If you ever dare to steal from my brother or his friends, I'll fucking gut you. Am I understood?"
"Me khanchi chi chordem, tu chorro," Tommy mumbles. "Tu dikhes sar jekh orangutano... Thaj tiro phral si ćororo."
"What the fuck is that?" Donnie's eyes grow wide and he stumbles backward.
"Is he cursing us? Is it a fucking Gypsy curse, Donnie?"
"I don't know, Andrew. Jesus Christ, Georgie warned me... He told me the Gypsy scum knows how to put curses on people and I laughed at him. I told him to not give a damn and get back what the tyke took from him, and now he's... fucking hell, he cursed us! The bastard cursed us!"
"Hurry, go to the church! The priest will know what to do."
Yeah, especially if you tell him that you just beat a kid.
Though the priest doesn't like him. He must see the Devil in him, too. Like Dad.
Tommy gathers all his strength, scrambles to his feet and shouts after the boys, "I'll curse you all! Thaj ka charmarav tire psen thaj tire mačke te maren tut!"
"Shut up, you little shit!"
"I'll be a king one day!"
"King of what?" Donnie laughs nervously with fake bravado. "The scrap yard?"
King of the Gypsies. A cigani thagar. Like his grandfather he heard so much about from Mum and Uncle Charlie. Not like Shelby grandad and Dad who gambles, drinks and steals horses.
"King of Birmingham."
----
"The fuck happened to you again, Tommy?" Uncle Charlie blurts out when he sees him limping to the scrap yard. He couldn't go home, not like this. It would break Mum's heart, especially after her quarrel with Dad.
"I'm fine, Uncle Charlie. I just got in a little trouble."
"A little trouble, eh. Who beat you?"
"Some boys."
"From school?"
"Their big brothers."
"Where? Did they wait for you?"
"Followed me on Montague Street."
"Fucking hell, son." His uncle shakes his head disapprovingly. "Why did you come here? You should've gone home."
Tommy's disappointment must show on his face because he lifts his chin with two calloused fingers and locks eyes with him.
"I don't want to see this sad face, Tommy. Don't be silly, you are always welcomed here. We talked about it enough times, eh."
"Then why do you want to send me home, Uncle Charlie?" He wipes his nose in his coat's muddy sleeve and tries not to look like a whiny child.
"Look at yourself. Your aunt should tend your injuries."
"I can't go home like this. Mum will be so worried, and Aunt Polly will give me a lecture. Again. She always scolds me while she takes care of my injuries if it was my fault."
"I see." Uncle Charlie rests his hand on his shoulder and guides him to the shack. "Come, then. I'll take care of you and you can get dry by the fire. And you must eat some biscuits from Curly's stash. You're skin and bones."
"Thanks, Uncle Charlie." Tommy lights up. "I knew you understand."
"Aye, I do, you little rascal. Maybe I'm old but I haven't forgotten what it's like to be a Gypsy boy in a world that doesn't want us."
"How did you protect yourself from your arch-enemies?"
The man chuckles and gently ruffles his hair.
"Arch-enemies... fucking hell. I carried a screwdriver and a knife with me all the time."
"Did you have to use them?" He asks with wide eyes.
"No. Only many years later."
----
The next day, Tommy starts to carry a screwdriver with him everywhere. He makes sure to give the other kids enough reason to spread the rumors about his ability to cast spells and curses and shows his screwdriver when he doesn't think it's enough. They can't beat him again. He's Tommy Shelby, an ambitious businessman who is building his marble empire. He will be rich and powerful and everybody will know his name.
One day he'll be a king, and nobody can take away his crown.