Kristen Ashley - Three Wishes

She was twenty-two years old, pregnant with only a genie to call family.

And the expression on her face showed every bit of that pain and agony.

Fazire ascended the two last steps and carefully put his arm around her fragile, tense shoulders.

“Let’s get home,” he murmured to his Lily-child.

She didn’t move. In fact she seemed rooted to the spot.

Then she whispered, “But Fazire, where’s home?”

He had no answer for that, for he didn’t know.

Then it came to him.

“Wherever we make it, my lovely.”

There were no genies in Nathaniel McAllister’s life.

Nathaniel’s father died before he was born. A knife fight in a pub brawl that had started because of his father’s bad temper and penchant for fisticuffs and ended with him in a pool of his own blood.

Not that Nathaniel’s mother, Deirdre, would have known that was his father. It could have been one of three, maybe even four, candidates. She did figure it out in a hazy way as he grew older and she’d look at her son and had some recollection of that drunken, drug-fuelled night with his tall, lean, muscular, good-looking father.

Without genies or a parent who wasn’t inebriated or incapacitated due to drugs all the time, Nathaniel learned early how to take care of himself. His mother was usually sleeping it off when she should have been getting him up and getting him cleaned and fed. Instinct and survival taught him to do the most basic tasks and he could never remember a time that he didn’t do all of those things for himself. Indeed a great deal of the time he had to steal from his mother’s purse or, somewhat more dangerously, one of her lover’s wallets, to go to the news agent and get himself some milk and food. If his mother didn’t have any money or there wasn’t a lover around, which was often in the case of the former, but luckily, depending on how you looked at it, not the latter, sometimes he had to steal the milk and food from the news agent. However, he learned quickly to pick ones further away from home.

Nathaniel McAllister learned everything quickly.

His mother got him into school though and he liked it there. He was smart, very smart. He knew this because the teachers told him so. Even the headmaster brought him into his office to have what the head called “a chat”. They tried to tell his mother. Nathaniel, they said, should go to special schools. He was far, far brighter than most children, far more advanced, even perhaps a genius. Nathaniel remembered everything, absolutely everything and he only needed to be told or shown once and he had it down pat. They said he was remarkable. They called him “gifted”.

Deirdre had no money for special schools for her son and no interest in her son at all, gifted or not. So there were no special schools for Nathaniel. There was nothing special for Nathaniel.

Thus forced to learn like normal not gifted children, Nathaniel became bored and restless. The teachers tried to help but there was only so much they could do. He didn’t skip school, not at first that came later. Being at school was better than being on the streets and definitely better than being at home.

Deirdre was a rather remarkable beauty and remained that way a lot longer than others would have, regardless of the booze and drugs she poured, swallowed, smoked, snorted or injected into her body. She might not have taken care of her lungs, nostrils, veins and liver but she took care of her appearance. She also had the advantage of her good, strong Scottish blood. She attracted men like a magnet and used them as best she could for whatever money, food, pills, drink or anything else she could get out of them. She allowed them to use her, debase her, abuse her, push her around and hit her, so these things would stay available in as much abundance as possible. She also allowed them to push around her son who, after awhile, got pretty damned sick of it and learned to dodge the fists agilely and later, defend himself skilfully with his own.

Finally, when Nathaniel was eleven, she got herself a man who stuck around awhile. This man was named Scott. Scott hung around mainly because he liked Nathaniel or Nate, as he called him. Scott was the kind of man who recognised the promise in the boy and thought he was destined for great things. Or the kind of great things that came about in Scott’s world.

Scott was not wrong or at least not entirely wrong.

He gave Nate “jobs”. Jobs that he would pay Nate to do sometimes even as much as twenty pounds.

Usually it was just taking packages and dropping them off at places or with people. This happened all the time in the light of day, even during school hours, or the dead of night. Although no adult in their right mind, although Nate knew very few adults in their right minds, would send a boy of eleven out in the early hours of the morning on the dangerous streets of London, Scott had no qualms about this. Nate was fast as lightening and learned quickly to melt into the shadows, not to mention he could take care of himself. Nate was young and knew no fear.

And Nate was very, very smart.

One night, months after Scott came into Nate’s live, the drop did not go well. Nate sensed the danger with an instinct that was not only bred but born in him. He was cautious, he was quiet and he became invisible as he watched. When he knew the drop was a bust, he exited the scene swiftly and without being seen. Instead of panicking, he kept a cool head, found one of his many hiding places and stashed the package.

When he went home, Scott was livid.

“What do you mean you didn’t do the drop? Mr. Roberts is going to lose his fucking mind!” Scott had shouted.

Nate had never seen Scott angry. He did not find this disturbing, there was not much that bothered Nate. He had long since learned to roll with the punches, often literally.

“You didn’t lose it did you?” Scott demanded to know.

Nate shook his head. Nate didn’t talk much. Nate had also long since learned to keep his mouth shut.

“Do you have it?” Scott asked.

Nate shook his head again.

“ Is it safe? ” Scott yelled.

Nate nodded his head.

Scott made some calls. He was talking on the phone in a respectful, frightened tone that Nate had never heard him use. When he was done, he turned on Nate.

“Take me to the package.”

Nate again shook his head. He wasn’t stupid enough to give up one of his hiding places. Even at eleven, nearly twelve, he figured he had a life yawning before him where he’d need many hiding places.

“That wasn’t a question!” Scott shouted.

“I’ll get the package, bring it to you,” Nate offered, “just tell me where.”

Scott stared at him.

Scott, no fool (or at least not entirely a fool), knew that Nate was a tough customer. That was why he liked the kid. But Nate didn’t know what this was about, how important this was. Nate had absolutely no idea how much trouble Scott was in.

Watching the boy Scott knew he had no choice. He got on the phone and made hasty, embarrassing explanations. Then he had his orders.

Nate would, himself, bring the package to Mr. Roberts.

When Scott shared this with Nate, Nate shrugged. One drop, he thought, was the same as another.

Making certain sure he wasn’t followed, Nate went to get the package and took it where Scott told him to take it. He was surprised when, on the grimy, dirty street corner, there stood an elegant, shining, long limousine. For some reason Nate didn’t fear this and boldly approached the car.

The window rolled down slowly but Nate saw no one inside.

“Bloody hell, Scott. A kid?” Nate heard a rough, male voice say from inside.