Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (84 page)

His grandfather’s home is a small bungalow with tarmac outside, and chintz curtains, lace covered armchairs, and a patterned carpet inside. His grandmother is a grey woman who has the cowed, beaten eyes of someone who has spent some of her teenage life and her entire adult life with a bully. A woman who lives like a silent ghost, terrified of provoking her husband’s rage, just for the crime of existing.

She is in the kitchen making a famous Romany dish that Shane tells me is called Jimmy Grey. Beefsteak, liver, chicken and pork, onions and swede, shallow fried in animal fat.

As a race, the Romany gypsies are proud people. They eat, sleep, grieve, and celebrate only with their own kind. Jealously guarding themselves from infiltration by non-gypsies, they neither trust nor like the ways of others. Perhaps their mistrust of other races comes from centuries of persecution and hatred they have suffered no matter where they go. As soon as I am brought into her presence, I feel that instant wariness and mistrust.

I am a gorger, a non gypsy.

So I hold back too, and just watch the large personalities around me set about preparing for the death of one of theirs. After introducing me around to a whole bunch of uncles, aunties and cousins, Shane takes me into the bedroom.

Death is already in the room, in the smell and the odd stillness. There are fresh wild flowers in a vase by the bedside, and candles have been lit even though it is in the middle of the afternoon The old man must have been large in his day, for even after more than a year of cancer eating through him he is still a big, strongly built man.

Under his bushy grey eyebrows he has fierce black eyes that alight on me. Shane brings me closer and he stares at me with his black eyes. I want to say something, but I am almost hypnotized by his strange stare. Silently, without having uttered a single word, he turns his face away after about a minute.

‘Come on,’ Shane whispers in my ear and we exit the room.

I exhale the breath I was holding. ‘That was weird,’ I say.

‘Yeah, who knows what is going through his head? Come on. I want you to meet my mother.’

Shane’s mother is outside drying clothes on a washing line.

‘Ma,’ Shane calls, and she turns and looks at us. There are clothes pegs in her mouth. She takes them out and holds them in her hand as we walk up to her.

‘Hello, Snow,’ she says, her eyes sliding over me. She is not overly friendly, but she is different from her mother and father. She has kindness in her eyes, and a deep love for her family. 

‘Hello, Mrs. Eden. I’m sorry about your father,’ I say.

‘Don’t be sorry, my dear. It’ll be good for my mother. She’ll finally be free.’

‘If he was such a horrible man in life, why did your mother rush her whole family here?’ I ask Shane curiously.

‘Gypsies are superstitious people. The belief is that people can come back from the dead to wreak revenge on the living. So when someone is dying, their families, friends, acquaintances and even enemies come to them to ask for forgiveness and settle any strife, for fear of the mulo, a type of undead.

That afternoon Mickey passes away. The funeral is a massive affair. More than a thousand people travel from all over Britain to come to the old man’s funeral. He was a great boxer in his time and was highly regarded.

The dead man is dressed in his best attire, his gold watch, and his favorite pipe are put into the coffin with him.

Part of the tradition is to have the body at home, and have mourners and relatives pay their respects by coming to the house, so a marquee is erected. A skip is hired and left outside the house to light a bonfire in. People come and go all hours of the night. There is a lot of cooking, drinking, toasting to the dead man, and singing. The entire affair is characterized by abundance, public mourning, and solemn ritual.

It all ends with a massive procession of hundreds of people walking the five mile walk to the cemetery. The convoy includes the horse drawn carriage that carries Mickey, eight cars, lorries carrying wreaths and floral tributes. They celebrate the life of Mickey. Children, even Lilliana and Tommy, ride up front in a horse drawn cart alongside the hearse.

After the funeral, all of Mickey’s possessions are brought out and burned. It is a form of destroying all material tied to the dead.

That night in the hotel, we are both lying on the bed, tired. Shane turns to me and says, ‘I don’t want to use condoms anymore. I want us both to take our tests.’

I don’t look at him. ‘OK,’ I say quietly.

Forty

SNOW

T
hree days later, after Chitra has been successfully operated on, the letters drop through the letter flap. I pick them up and take them to Shane. He is working on his laptop, but he looks up when I come into the room holding the envelopes in my hand. For a second I imagine I see dread in his face, but then it is gone in a flash. He closes his laptop and grins. ‘Do you want to go first or shall I?’

‘You,’ I say, a knot in my stomach.

He walks over to me and takes the envelope I am holding. He tears it open and glances at it. He looks up at me. ‘I’m clear.’

‘Oh, good,’ I choke. ‘Right,’ I say and, taking a deep breath, I tear my envelope. My hands are shaking so much I can’t even take the letter out. His hand covers mine. ‘It doesn’t matter either way. Whatever it is we’ll deal with it, OK?’

‘OK,’ I whisper.

I pull the letter out of the envelope and unfold it. I let my eyes skim it. My eyes start to tear up. I’m in the clear. I look up and his face is a picture. He is pretending as if he doesn’t care either way. And suddenly I am so full of joy and happiness I want to play. I want to say, ‘No, all is not well,’ but I find I can’t even do that to him. It’s too much. So I just shake my head.

His eyes widen. ‘What?’ he gasps.

I stare at his reaction. My God! He has been terrified about the results. Probably even more than me. My mouth opens to tell him it is just a little joke, but the penny drops for him and he snatches the paper out of my hand and reads it. He looks up, his eyes totally blank.

I start walking backwards. ‘It was just a joke. I just wanted to see your expression. Come on. It’s funny,’ I say cajolingly.

He lunges forward, grabs me by my thighs and, hauling me up, throws me over his shoulder like I am a sack of something unprecious.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I say, but by now I am laughing so much.
I’m clear. I’m clear.

He takes me to the bedroom and throws me on the bed.

‘Hey,’ I protest.

He reaches forward and unbuttons my jeans and pulls the zip down. Then he grabs the material at the heels and yanks so hard my jeans come off in one swift movement.

‘I don’t know what you’re so angry about. It was just a joke,’ I giggle.

He throws my jeans behind him and hooks his fingers into the tops of my panties. They come off real easy.

‘Come on, Shane,’ I coax.

Silently he pulls my T-shirt over my head and, while I am slightly raised off the bed, unhooks my bra and flings that away too.

‘Awww … baby, don’t be so evil,’ I whisper.

With a totally granite face he undresses, his cock stiff enough to be a coat stand, and crawls on the bed. The violet specks in his eyes are glowing as he grazes his thumb across my lower lip. Delicious.

‘Now why would I be evil? This is a fucking celebration. We’re both in the clear, my darling.’

‘Exactly,’ I whisper.

He curls his hands around my ribs. His lips brush my ear. ‘Flip over, Princess.’

Something about his voice makes me look again at him, but he smiles innocently. I get on my stomach and he presses his long body against mine and slides his cock in. My body arches with pleasure.

It is the first time. It is our first time. 

His arm comes around my body and I thrust my breast eagerly into it. He rams into me hard. Really hard. It’s what he’s wanted to do for a long time. Come inside my body. And he’s going for it.

It is raw, uncivilized, brutal and beautiful.

And when, finally, he gets to spurt his seed deep inside me, it is with a kind of sigh. A sound of deep satisfaction. As if something long desired had been achieved. For some seconds he remains inside me, throbbing. Then he withdraws and I feel his fingers enter me. Not to arouse me, but to smear his seed all around my sex even between my ass cheeks. He takes great pleasure in it. He even bites my ass. Then he turns me around.

‘Your turn,’ he says.

And I smile, because my turn means the world is about to turn upside down. And upside down it goes. He massages my wet flesh. I moan. He sucks my clit. It doesn’t take long before I jerk violently and climax. Does he stop? No. Of course not. His fingers milk me. Again and again. Until I shriek and spasm uncontrollably.

Does he stop then?

Noooooo …

Emotion wells up inside me, a humbling, breaking typhoon. I’m free. I’m actually disease free. I don’t have to worry about infecting him ever again. Tears slide down my cheeks. He licks them. The way a dog would. I like dogs. They are loyal creatures.

‘You’re mine,’ he says and kisses, licks, sucks and strokes every inch of me. Every crevice has its day. We do everything. He tastes my skin as if tasting it for the first time. He holds my thighs and drinks from my pussy. And then he comes inside me. Again. We go at it for hours.

It is afternoon when I cry. ‘No more, Shane. No more. I can’t take anymore.’

‘Yes, you can,’ he says.

And he is right. I can.

Trembling and breathless I climax again. I flop on my back, exhausted and limp. Shane lies beside me, our fingers entwined. For a while neither of us speak. I look up at the ceiling. ‘What if I get pregnant, Shane?’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll just get an abortion,’ he says.

My head whips around. ‘What?’

He turns his head to face me. ‘What’s wrong?’

For a moment I can’t believe what I am hearing and then I start punching his arm. ‘You bastard,’ I accuse, laughing.

He grabs both my hands and pulls me on top of him. We are both sweaty and our bodies slip.

He doesn’t laugh. ‘Do you know how sad and destroyed I was when you shook your head earlier? I felt as if you had stabbed me in the heart with a knife.’

Immediately I am contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It was no joking matter. I think I was so relieved I kind of lost of my senses. I thought it would be funny. I see now how wrong I was. Will you forgive me?’

‘There’s nothing to forgive. Remember what the most famous person in your land of birth said, Love does not measure. It just gives.’

‘Mother Theresa,’ I whisper.

‘I love you, Snow. You’ll never know how happy I am that your tests came back negative.’

My head swings around. ‘What?’

‘Yeah, I’m in love with you. Can you fucking believe that?’

I stare at him. ‘It’s not another retaliation joke, is it?’

‘No, it’s not a joke. But I was kinda hoping you might return the sentiment. A bit.’

I start laughing with joy. ‘I love you, Shane Eden. I love you so much, I thought I’d die when we parted. I used to dream about you telling me you loved me, but I never believed that it would happen,’ I reply.