God holds unique plans for those who label others

……………..handicapped.

—Jeff , dad of Serena-May

Tom Reed had been born with Down syndrome.

“Mild,”

the doctor had said.

Tess, Tom’s mum, nearly screamed,

“Fucking mild to you, you golfing bastard!”

And sure enough, the doc was due on the links in, like, jig time, so he didn’t have a whole lot of time to mutter the platitudes. The woman was whining blue murder and he wanted to say,

“You’ll 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 strolled from the alley.