Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1604276.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sebastian_Moran/Jim_Moriarty
  Character:
      Sebastian_Moran, Jim_Moriarty, Fem!Moran_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Tattoos, Female_Character_of_Color, Racism, Sexism, Class_Issues,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Gender_Changes, Scars, POV_Female_Character, Coming
      of_Age
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-12 Words: 9459
****** We Ain't Born Typical ******
by pasiphile
Summary
     They're both outcasts - even if it's for very different reasons - who
     trust no one but each other, want no one but each other, and it's not
     so much love as symbiosis.
     Jim and Sev, growing up together.
Notes
     thanks to Rosie and Koni for betaing and jasmineandgorse for Irish-
     picking
     Warnings: unhygienic treatment of tattoos, racism, sexism, classism,
     mutually-underaged sex, attempted sexual assault, domestic violence,
     parental abuse, graphic violence, murder
See the end of the work for more notes
 
I
She stands on high, looking down, the wind whipping her braid around her.
She’s a queen – a pirate, looking down upon the kingdoms she’s about to loot.
Her hands on her hips, a grin on her face, all she needs is a sword -
“Sevita,” her mother snaps. “Aaja.”
She hops down from the wall and clambers down back to where her mother’s
standing. “Weren’t in any danger,” she says, sulking.
Her mother boxes her across the ears. “You need to listen, Sevita.”
She rubs her ear, resentfully. Pirates don’t listen, she thinks, but she guards
her tongue.
 
 
II
There’s new people moving in. They're in the flat three floors below theirs,
the one where Mrs Doyle used to live, until they found her three-days dead,
face down on her kitchen floor.
Because that’s the only way you can get out of this fucking place, isn’t it?
Death.
She’s hanging over the bannister on the floor above, dangling precariously over
the ten-floor abyss, concrete ground looming beneath her. If her hands slip,
she falls to her death.
She isn’t worried; her hands never slip.
It’s a family, this time. A mum, hair bleached blonde but dark roots showing. A
thin, surly girl, late teens. Two boys, a bit younger, punching and shoving
each other. And – she leans a little deeper down – another boy, her age, short
and scrawny, wearing clothes too big for him.
“It’s a fuckin’ shithole,” the mother mutters. Accent – Irish? Sounds a bit
like those people they keep interviewing in the news, whenever there's been a
bombing. 
They troop in. Sev hooks her foot around the bannister, ready to pull herself
up again. Nothing interesting, anyway.
The boy looks up at her.
She stops breathing. Her hands suddenly feel sweaty.
No one eversees her.
He grins at her. She smiles back, tentatively.
“Jimmy,” his mother yells. “Get inside, you lazy little – ”
He grimaces and disappears out of sight.
Sev hauls herself back up and sits down on the tiles, thinking.
***
“Jimmy,” she says.
She didn’t have to wait long. Jimmy snuck out that afternoon, exploring the
estate just like she used to do from the moment her mother let her out
unsupervised.
His head whips around. His dark eyes take her in in one quick sweep. “Jim,” he
says. “Just Jim. You were watchin' us.”
He has the same accent as his mother, thick r’s, sing-song intonation. She
shrugs. “I watch everyone. Sev.”
“Sevita.” He grins, a quick flash of white teeth. “You have two brothers, much
older than you. You live three floors above us. You often fight with your mam,
you don’t have many friends, you don’t like school – why not, actually?”
She blinks. “’Cos it’s boring. How the helldo you know all that?”
A quick, sharp smile. “I know things.”
“Yeah?” She crosses her arms and smirks at him. “’I think you’re just a sneaky
little spy.”
“Same difference.” He smiles at her again. “So why did you say school is
boring?”
She shrugs. “’Cos it is. They keep explaining the same stuff over and over
again.”
“You’re clever.”
“Am I?”
He shrugs – a copy of her own movement, it’s weird. “Most kids think school is
boring because they’re not interested. That’s the normal answer.”
“Well, guess I’m not normal, then.” It’s nothing new to her. She never got on
well with other girls, never wanted to dance or watch stupid telly or do her
hair. Didn’t fit in with the boys, either. Freakisn’t the worst thing she’s
been called.
“Normal is boring,” he says easily.
She cocks her head. “Wanna see something cool? Something you don’t know about?”
He nods. “Go on, then.”
***
She takes him to the highest place they can reach, the roof of the east tower.
She has to give him a leg-up once or twice; he's not used to clambering around
like she is, not as limber and strong. But eventually they both get there.
And Jim’s eyes go wide.
She couldn’t explain why she did it, why she let this new strange boy see her
secret, the one she hasn’t shown anyone. But his eyes are still wide and his
mouth is a little open and that’s the reaction she was hoping for.
He licks his lips, looks up at her – he’s shorter than her, most boys her age
are. “You…” he starts, and then he stops again.
“I like high places,” she says.
His eyes go sharp again, just like when she said why she didn’t like school.
“Why?”
She gives this some thought. “’Cos… ‘Cos you can watch people without them
seeing you. You can see everything at once. And it makes me feel –" and she
skids to a halt. He’s still a stranger.
He tilts his head, a slight smile on his face. “Because it makes you feel
powerful,” he finishes. “Like a – queen?”
She gives him an angry shove and turns, going to the ladder.
“No, wait.”
The urgency in his voice makes her turn back. His eyes are wide and fixed on
her. “Don’t go,” he says, too quick, words tumbling out like he can’t stop
them, dontgo.
“Then don’t laugh at me,” she snaps.
“I wasn’t laughing at you. I…” He looks over his shoulder, at the depths below.
“I feel it too.”
“Oh.”
She wanders back and sits down, cross-legged. After a moment or two Jim sits
down as well. They look down, watch the people below.
“Look,” she says. “Part of the Chiltern crew.”
She points them out. Five boys, in hoodies. From this height they look like
ants.
“Dangerous?” Jim asks.
“Them? They’ve got knives, if that’s what you mean. Cut a kid up from Taplow
last month.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She gives him a searching look. “They’re… they’re not very smart,” she tries
again. “Is that – ?”
“Yeah. Go on.”
“They’re predictable, ‘specially if you see ‘em from up here. Always follow the
same route.”
“So not that dangerous, then.”
She shrugs. “Tell that to the kid in the hospital.”
Jim snorts. “Too stupid to live. Natural selection.”
“What’s that, then?”
“Something I heard about.” He looks down again, frowning.
She follows his gaze. Another few ants have appeared. “Mr Slancey, lives on the
ground floor, thinks he’s big. Ah, and there’s your mum – ”
”Not me mam,” he spits. “My aunt. My mam’s dead.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. She wasn’t much better.”
She falls silent and watches him. Pale, dark-haired, skinny. He’s rubbing at
his wrist, but when he catches her looking he stops and pulls his sleeve over
his hand, scowling.
“Sorry,” she says. “Din’t mean to pry.”
He cocks his head, looks her up and down. “Thanks,” he says at last. He licks
his lips, nervous, like a rabbit waiting to bolt.
“For?”
“Showing me this.” He blinks again. It's strange: one second he looks like a
scared rabbit, and the next he’s all cool and clever.
He isn’t like anyone she’s ever met before.
“Welcome,” Sev says, and she holds out her hand, palm up.
After a few seconds a cold, slightly damp hand takes hers.
 
 
III
“Oi, you.”
Sev has learned to be good at ignoring. She's had a lifetime of experience
after all, from the first time her mum yanked her hand to stop her going after
whoever shouted it, and all the yells that came after. If she had a penny for
every slur thrown her way she’d have enough by now to buy the entire fucking
estate. She’s used to it, by now.
Doesn’t mean it’s easy.
“Oi. You Paki bitch.”
She doesn’t listen doesn’t listen doesn’t –
“That your boyfriend, bitch?”
She turns around and flips him two fingers, walking backwards while Jim falls
in step beside her.
“Who’s that?” Jim asks.
“Carl.” She turns back around and rolls her eyes at Jim. “He’s a cunt.”
“Yeah, I know.” He’s looking down, frowning a little. “He laughs.”
“Thinks he’s so funny.” She bumps her shoulder into his. “Don’t listen.”
“He laughs at you, too.”
She shrugs. “He ain’t the only one. D’you always wear your uniform like that?”
“Like what?”
“All proper.” She gestures to herself, to her lopsided tie and her shirttails
hanging out. She’s only been wearing it for a couple of months, but already she
hates it.
He tugs at his tie, loosening it. “Never had to wear a uniform before. He hurts
you.”
“Doesn’t. Did once – tried once – and he got punished for it. Don’t button your
jacket either.”
He swipes his hand over his threadbare, second-hand uniform jacket. “He laughs
at me and he laughs at you and he thinks he’s clever and funny but he’s just
big.”
“Yeah. That’s the way it goes.” She hops over the wall and helps Jim over as
well. They clamber over the balconies, pull each other up, until they’ve found
a flat roof halfway up the tower where they can sit in privacy.
“I’m going to stop him,” Jim says, and he sounds like he’s angry but swallowing
it. “Stop him laughin'.”
“You can’t, he’s bigger than you. He’s got friends.”
“I have you.”
“Yeah, but…” She blinks. He still looks angry, Jim, and he has taken her hand
and is squeezing it so hard the bones grind together.
“I’m gonna stop him,” Jim says again. He looks up suddenly.
She nods. “Good.”
***
Two weeks later the teachers all gather during recess and talk in urgent
voices. Someone died, the rumour goes that afternoon; some kid drowned.
She waits impatiently until school is done and then runs straight back to the
estate. She finds Jim where she expected him, the roof of the east tower. He's
sitting at the edge, bag discarded behind him.
She sits down next to him and waits.
“Toldya,” he says after a while, toying with the shoe in his hands.
“Never doubted you,” she says, and leans against his shoulder.
 
 
IV
Summer comes, and another one, and then – overnight, almost – she grows a pair
of tits and hips. Suddenly she has a body that's soft in some places, rounded,
instead of hard and bony and functional. She doesn't like it very much: half of
her clothes don't fit anymore, and her tits are in the way when she goes
climbing.
And she becomes even more visible than before. People stare – no, menstare, and
boys, turning their heads to watch her go by and leering and whistling and
yelling stupid things.
“Honestly,” she sneers, “you’d think they’d never seen a pair of tits before.”
“Well, they are pretty nice tits,” Jim says idly.
“Yeah? Want a better look?”
He gives her a long-suffering, exasperated look.
She wants to slap him. Shake him. Kiss him until they both pass out from lack
of air, fuck him right here on the rooftop, go down on him until he’s
screaming, pull him between her legs and never ever let go.
She wants, and he doesn’t, and it’s driving her mad.
“Are you gay?” she asks, bluntly.
Jim cocks his head, thinking. “No, don’t think I am,” he says after a while.
“So you don’t fancy me, then.”
He gives her another amused, oldlook. “Anyone would fancy you.”
“Then why don’t you – ”
He shrugs. “It’s complicated.” And then, casual, “You wouldn’t understand.”
She punches him straight in the jaw. He doubles over, laughing, hand against
his jaw. “Sev,” he says, warmly, almost as if he approves.
“You eversay that again and I’ll push you off the fucking roof, got it?” she
snarls.
He raises his hands, placating. “Sorry. I won’t.”
“So?”
He sits down, cross-legged. She flops down next to him. He leans closer, takes
the back of her neck, presses his lips chastely against hers.
He tastes like the peppermint gum he’s always chewing to get the taste of
cigarettes from his mouth, and when the tip of his tongue touches her lips,
butterflies take off in her stomach.
And when he pulls back she feels like strangling him.
“I wanna wait,” he says, looking thoughtfully at the horizon.
“Until? We’re fucking married?”
He shrugs again. “Dunno. Just – not now.” He looks up at her, suddenly shy.
“Can you – do you mind?”
She bumps her shoulder against his. “Don’t be a twat, ‘course I don’t.”
“Good.” He swings around and stretches out, head in her lap, eyes closed. She
runs her fingers over his forehead and he smiles, wide, like a happy cat. “Do
you fancy me then, Sev?”
“Prick,” she says, fondly.
He squeezes her thigh. “You have horrible taste.”
“Bit too late to do anything about that, though, innit?”
He smiles again, eyes closed. “You can always find someone else.”
She doesn't even bother to reply to that.
***
She comes home covered in scuffs and bruises from the wrestling and clambering,
the way she does pretty much every other day, and – as usual – her mother snaps
at her, disappointed and angry. Sev lets herself be dragged to the kitchen,
rolling her eyes.
“Ah, at least you’re pretty,” her mother sighs, cleaning dirt from her cheek.
She pulls a face. “What’s good about being pretty?”
“We'll find you find a nice boy to marry,” her mother says brightly. “If you
can just learn to be nicer yourself.”
There’s incense burning in front of the Ganesh in the wall, and her mother is
talking a lot with a family on the Heygate and she’s much too young for this
shit.
“I don’t want to marry,” she says. “I don’t want a nice boy.”
“You gay, sis?” her brother says brightly – engaged, to a good Indian girl of a
good family, fuck him.
Her mother hisses. “Don’t talk about that filth in here, Sanjeev.”
Sev pulls away from her mother and goes to her room and kicks her chair,
fighting against angry tears. She doesn't wantthis, any of this. That's all
life is, her fucking family who constantly disapprove of her and school that's
getting increasingly more mind-numbing and the other kids who despise her and
are afraid of her and -
- and Jim.
She wipes her tears away and vaults out of the window, climbs down three
stories and knocks at the window of Jim's bedroom. It's a three-bedroom flat,
but somehow Jim managed to get a room to his own instead of having to share
with one of his cousins.
The window slides open and Jim pops his head out. His cheek is red, bruised.
She reaches out but he catches her hand, touches her cheekbone and traces the
tear tracks. He frowns, then takes her wrist and pulls her in.
“Don't listen,” he says, just like she's said it to him before. “They don't
matter. Don't listen.”
“I know,” she says, still angry, still frustrated. She leans into Jim's
shoulder and closes her eyes and tries to lock out everything that isn't him.
 
 
V
It’s dark early, this time of year, and everyone knows girls shouldn’t be out
alone after dark.
Fuck that; she’s tired of being a girl. She pulls her hood over her head and
crosses the yard, head ducked, shoulders hunched.
With a bit of luck, her mum won't have noticed she's gone. She clutches the
packet of cigarettes in her pocket and speeds up. Jim is waiting for her, after
all.
There are five boys hanging around. She rolls her eyes as she walks past them
and bumps her shoulder against one of them.
They follow her. “Hey, you. Why’re you not wearing a scarf, eh? Like a
propergirl?”
“Guess I’m not a proper girl,” she says, instead of trying to explain what
Hindumeans, again.
“Yeah?” another one says, falling into step next to her. “I like girls who are
a bit bad. You wanna-”
“Fuck off,” she snaps.
“Hey, that’s not being nice, innit? C’mon, me and my mates just wanna have some
fun – ”
She whirls around. “I said fuck off.”
“Yeah? ‘Cos all I was hearing was fuck me.”
He reaches for her. She hits his arm away and then clocks him in the face. He
wipes his forearm over his nose and it comes away streaked with blood. “Fucking
Paki whore,” he growls, no points for originality.
She bares her teeth at him and turns to leave, but one of them takes her arm
and twists it behind her back. Another one grabs her other arm, and one of the
others grins, hands going to his belt.
Girls shouldn’t be out alone after dark.
She elbows one of her captors in his stomach and he lets go with a curse. The
other one throws her against the wall. Her palms score over the rough brick and
she almost hits her face against the wall, and it hurts.
“Fucking bitch. Gonna get what you’re asking for, you whore.”
And she sees red.
***
There’s pain, and her fist crashing into bone, the sound of something breaking,
the flash of something shiny and then more pain, blood in her eyes but she
doesn’t care.
She hits and kicks and bites, feeling something give between her teeth and a
hot disgusting metallic taste in her mouth –
And then it’s done and she falls to the ground, curled up, breathing blood.
***
She opens her eyes.
Only one eye. Her face feels numb. She blinks.
Jim is sitting next to the hospital bed, watching her. She raises her eyebrows
at him – a shot of pain, dulled by pain meds – but he gives her a tiny shake of
his head. Careful.
She turns her head. There’s a copper sitting on the other side of the bed,
looking tired.
“Miss Mukherjee,” she says. “Good to see you’re awake. The doctor and your
family are about to come ‘round, but I had a few questions for you first.”
“I din’t do nothin’,” she says, automatically. She sounds like she’s swallowed
a pound of gravel.
The cop raises her eyebrows. “Really? One of them is missing five teeth.”
“Yeah? Did he check under the sofa?” Next to her, Jim stifles a laugh.
The cop sighs. “Look, Miss Mukherjee. All of the boys have previous. As far as
I can see, they tried to sexually assault you and you managed to fight them
off, well done I’d say, but – “
“Are they pressing charges?” Jim asks.
“Know the lingo, do you?” the cop asks Jim, smiling.
Jim’s answering smile isn’t a particularly nice one. “Just answer the question,
officer.”
The cop blinks, surprised. Jim often surprisespeople. “No, they’re not,” she
says, a little hesitantly. “The parents of one of them were considering it but
I advised against it. Cases like these… ” She sighs again and runs her hand
over her face. “Anyway. Just one last thing: the attackers used a switchblade,
yes?”
Sev shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Do you know what happened with it?”
She shrugs again.
“Right,” the cop says wryly. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Mukherjee.
I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake.” She stands up and then hesitates at the
door. “Try not to kill anyone next time,” she adds, and then she leaves.
Sev turns to Jim.
“You’ve been out for about six hours,” he says. “They operated, then brought
you back in. From what I heard, it all went pretty smooth.”
“Good.”
“Brought you this.” He reaches into his pocket and puts the knife on her bed.
It’s still covered in her blood.
“He left it behind,” he says. “Police are lookin' for it, but I thought you’d
wanna have it.”
She closes his fingers over the hilt. “Keep it for me. Until I’m out.”
“Course.”
She lies back and closes her eyes. “Cunts.”
“Yeah.”
Silence, for a bit. She shifts her bandaged hand a bit to the right and Jim
takes it, squeezing carefully.
“How bad is it?” she asks, voice strained.
“Not sure.”
“What if I…” She swallows. “Jim, what if I – what if my eye…”
“We'll deal with it.”
“If I – “
“We'll deal with it,”  he says again, and for a second his hand tightens
painfully around her bandaged fingers. “I’ll make them pay,” he promises.
“No.”
He looks up sharply.
“No,” she says. “They’re mine.”
He’s still staring at her when the door opens and the doctor and her mum come
in. Her mum's eyes are red with tears, but she still has enough presence of
mind to throw Jim a filthy look. Jim just smiles innocently in response.
The doctor is wearing that solemn awkward face that means bad news. Sev's
stomach goes cold. Jim squeezes her fingers again.
“I have bad news and good news,” the doctor says.
“Good first,” Jim says quickly.
The doctor raises her eyebrows but nods. “Alright. The damage to the eye was
superficial. If the operation has been successful – and there is every sign it
has been – you’ll be seeing like normal again in a week or two.”
Sev laughs, relieved, and collapses back against the pillow, eyes closed. Jim’s
fingers are warm against her palm.
“But there is some bad news as well, I’m afraid,” the doctor continues,
uncomfortably. “The knife has gone quite deep, especially across the forehead
and cheekbone. We’ve done our best, but the scarring will be… extensive.”
Her mum makes a choked sound. Sev doesn’t open her eyes.
“Of course right now it looks worse than it's going to be in a month or two,
but, er, it – it won't be... It's going to stay quite noticeable, I'm afraid.”
“Can’t you – do, something?” her mum says, tears in her eyes. “There has to
be…”
“Well, there is always the possibility of plastic surgery, of course, in cases
like these. The scarring can be reduced, but…” She takes a deep breath. “Not on
the NHS, and a private clinic…”
We’re too poor for that, Sev finishes inside her head.
“But I’m gonna see again, right?” she asks.
“Yes, if there aren’t any complications, but – it, er, won’t look pretty.”
She laughs again. “It’s fucking prettythat got me here in the first place,” she
says, “why the fuck would I be upset about fucking scars?”
And her mother’s sniffling but Jim grins at her, approving, admiring.
They don't matter.
***
People still stare, but now it’s for different reasons. No more leers:
apparently a reddish gash running diagonally across your face is a turn-off for
most.
“Still gettin’ tired of it, though,” she says.
Jim is sitting on his knees in front of her, tip of his tongue between his
teeth, his fingertip gently running across the scar. “It’s gonna get less
noticeable, though, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but you heard what the doctor said. It’s not gonna disappear. People are
still gonna stare.”
“Let them.”
“Easy for you to say.”
He puts his hand gently on her good cheek and kisses her. It’s far too sweet –
she’s not a fucking flower, even with her face slashed open– so she digs her
nails into his neck and bites at his lip. He grins and angles her head, tongue
against her teeth, and his other hand slips beneath the hem of her shirt, warm
against her waist, and then strokes up, his thumb touching the underside of her
breast –
She pushes him off and angrily wipes her mouth. “What the fuck do you think
you're doing?”
“Wasn’t this what you wanted?” he asks impassively.
“Fuckyou.” He tries to reach for her and she kicks at him, tears burning in her
eyes. “You cunt, fuck you.”
He smiles, cold and mocking. “Is this your idea of dirty talk, Sev?”
“Couldn’t you – Is this a pity fuck, is that it? Or are you just – you only
want to have me when you’re damn sure no one else would, yeah? You sick fuck,
you arsehole - ” She tries to hit him but he catches her wrist and pulls her
close to him. She falls against his shoulder, breathing hard.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says, gently.
She sniffles, tears soaking into his too-big t-shirt. “Why now,” she gasps.
His hand comes up to the back of her neck, toying with her braid. Saying
nothing.
“Jim.” She tugs at his shirt. “Tell me. Why now?”
“Cause I saw you,” he says, and his voice has gone flat, the way it does when
he talks to adults, the way it’s never done with her. “You were curled up on
the ground and there was blood everywhere, and if they’d gone on instead of
runnin’ you’d’ve been dead and I would have – “
He stops. “That’s fucking why,” he snarls, savage, and he pulls her from his
shoulder and smacks his lips against hers, hard and painful.
“Good,” she says, and falls back against the dirty mattress, pulling him on top
of her.
***
She throws Jim onto his back and sucks his cock. They’ve both watched porn, but
porn doesn’t tell you how, and she chokes once or twice, at first. But Jim
talks her through it and, hell, she’s used to watching Jim, reading his
reactions. A couple of minutes later his hands tighten in her hair and he
grunts and her mouth is full of his come. She swallows lewdly and kisses him
full on the lips, making him pull a face at the taste.
Jim, on the other hand, goes so slow and careful with her that by the time he’s
got four fingers buried to the knuckle inside of her it doesn’t hurt a bit, and
her entire skin feels like it’s on fire, and when she finally comes she
literally screams-
- because he’s Jim, and he’s always known what she likes.
Afterwards they lie entwined on the filthy stained mattress, Jim’s head on her
chest, his arms around her. “Never gonna let you go,” she mutters, her nails
digging into his back. “Never.”
He doesn’t reply, just burrows deeper, his ear pressed to her heart and his
fingers beneath her jaw, as if he needs to hear her heartbeat, as if he’s still
not sure she’s alive.
***
“You been with that Irish boy again?” her mum asks her when she comes back, her
legs still wobbly, the taste of Jim still in her mouth.
“Yeah.” Sev shrugs, smiles. “Don't worry, it's not like anyone else would have
me now, is it? I'm already spoilt goods, might as well make the most of it.”
Her mum slaps her good cheek hard and Sev doubles over. She touches her burning
cheek and laughs. “Sorry 'bout messing up your wedding plans.”
“Sevita,” her mum says, reaching out.
“No.” She stands up straight. “I've had enough. You can hit me and you can nag
at me and you can lock me up, but I'm done, understood? I'm not what you want
me to be, mum.”
Her mum purses her lips and turns her head. “I just want you to be happy,
Sevita.”
“Yeah? Then leave me the fuck alone.”
She turns on her heel and goes to her room, slams the door, and catches her eye
in the mirror. She pauses and leans in closer.
Her lips are reddish, swollen, bitten raw. Her hair is a mess, her eyes shiny.
There's a large lovebite on her throat. She runs her fingers over it, then
falls back on the bed and laughs and laughs and laughs until she's crying.
 
 
VI
Summer comes again, and Jim and her spend two months gleefully exploring the
estate like animals running wild.
People stare, at her body, at her scar, at them together – because they're
practically drunk on this, on sex, on each other. She can't keep her hands off
Jim, nor can he, and more than once they just end up fucking in some forgotten
corner of the estate, or in an empty abandoned flat – or on the roof, of
course.
But summers end and school feels even worse, after that kind of freedom. But
there's evenings, weekends, holidays, and she spends every free moment with Jim
and never feels more alivethan she is when he's in her arms.
***
“I need to leave for a bit.”
“How long?” she asks, casually, drawing her hand over the fire they made in a
trashcan.
“A couple of months, at least. Probably longer.”
She looks up sharply. He’s never been away from her for any more than a few
days. She can’t even imagine being alone for that long.
He stands beside her and she leans against him, closes her eyes. She doesn’t
ask do you have to go, because he wouldn’t do this to her, to them, if it
wasn’t absolutely necessary. And she doesn't ask are you coming backeither,
because she’s long learned Jim doesn’t like stupid questions.
“Then I need you to do somethin' for me,” she says, after a while. She presses
the butterfly knife into his hand and turns, swishing her braid over her
shoulder.
He smiles, crookedly. “You should really do this yerself, you know,” he says.
“Yeah, but I want you to do it.”
“I know.”
He takes her braid, his knuckles resting against the back of her neck. The
knife saws through her hair and the braid falls to the ground with a soft thud,
it’s that heavy.
They tilt their head in unison, looking down at it. It looks like a weird,
thick, hairy snake. Sev bends down, takes it, and throws it into the fire.
“There,” she says. “Finally.”
Jim runs his hand through her suddenly short hair. Sev half-closes her eyes and
leans into the touch, feeling like purring.
“Your mam’s gonna kill you,” he says, grinning.
“Like I give a fuck.”
He offers her the knife back but she closes his fingers around it, pushes his
hand to his chest. “No. Keep it. Until you’re back.”
“Scared for me, Sev?” he asks, smiling slyly.
“As much as you are for me.”
He tucks the knife in his pocket. She sits down and he stretches out next to
her, head against her thigh, looking up. It's a full moon, bright and white.
There are even a few stars out.
Sev strokes Jim's hair and holds him close until the sun comes up.
***
The day after, there’s a big gas explosion three floors below. The firemen and
the ambulances arrive much too late, the way they always do ‘round here.
Five dead, they say, five bodies, charred beyond recognition, but everyone
knows who lives there.
Sev grieves, for the appearance of it; people don’t know exactlyhow close they
were but they know enough that not grieving would make her look suspicious. So
she sobs and sniffles and wails over the body while inside she’s cackling,
neatly done Jim.
He used to have bruises, across his arms and his legs and shoulders. Came to
her once with a black eye and a bleeding nose and something dark in his eyes.
They shouted at him as well. And that's not even going into the men his aunt
brought home from time to time.
Burning is too good for them.
 
 
VII
She drops out of school the month after and finds a job with a mate of one of
her brothers who owns a small supermarket, filling shelves in the store room
and doing time at the butchery. The pay is shit, as are the hours, as are the
colleagues, but it’s just temporary anyway. Biding her time.
She keeps her eye on the news, hears about a suspicious death of a politician
in Chiswick, mortar attacks in Heathrow, a helicopter crash in Scotland, and
she wonders.
She clings to those fantasies, because each day it gets a bit harder not to
just take her butcher’s knife and slash her stupid colleagues’ throats. She’s
not allowed behind the counter and instead has to work in the back, out of
view, where her boss takes great pleasure in asking her to chop up pork,
because arseholes are arseholes and they still don’t know the difference
between Muslim and Hindu.
Weeks becomes months, and then it's half a year, and still nothing. She goes to
bed wanting and wakes up wanting and the only prayer that ever crosses her lips
is hurry, Jim.
***
The post package arrives at work, where it’s tossed casually onto her work
counter, leaving a smear of blood on the wrapping.
She gets a lot of packages and letters, now that she’s earning money of her
own: advertisements, loan offers, that kind of thing. But the handwriting is
neat and round and familiar, and her heart skips a beat.
She opens it with shaking hands. Inside is her old her butterfly knife and five
pictures, with addresses scribbled on the back.
None of them got out of the estate, in the end.
She takes the knife and throws her apron down, flips off her boss, and strides
out.
***
She almost fucks up the first one. It’s far messier than she expected and the
stupid shit keeps screaming until she smothers him with a pillow, and when she
stumbles out she’s shaking all over.
But she keeps going, because if she stops now she won’t ever be able to finish.
The second is easier: he doesn’t make a noise as she tightens the rope around
his throat, and his scrabbling hands don’t even come close to hurting her.
They’re not nearly as tough when they’re alone.
Someone almost sees her with the third but she ducks just in time, crawls
through his window, and almost laughs out loud when she catches him, naked,
wanking, in his bathroom. He stares at her, standing blood-smeared and grinning
in his safe space, and slowly lets go of his cock.
She doesn’t give in to the temptation to castrate him, in the end; it would be
too much work. She just sticks her knife in his chest and angles up until he
stops moving, and afterwards she washes her hands in his sink and slinks back
into the dark, to number four.
He fights, that one, but she isn’t who she used to be anymore and it’s almost
disappointingly easy, in the end, a gurgle and a crack and the stink of
emptying bowels.
She keeps the worst for last, the ringleader, the one who slashed her face
open. He’s asleep, and she carefully ties his wrists to his bed before
straddling him and waking him up with his old knife held against his throat.
The terror in his eyes is something she’s been dreaming of for years.
She backhands him when he tries to yell and his teeth go straight through his
lip. “Fucking Paki bitch,” he snarls, bubbling blood. Seems like the years
didn’t make him any more original.
“I’m Indian, you stupid cunt,” she snarls, and stabs the knife into his flesh.
Some time later, she cuts his throat. Blood splashes all over her, her hands
and her hoodie and her face and her hair. She’s used to that smell by now, not
that much difference between him and a butchered pig. But it's not the same,
it’s – Her hands are shaking but he’s dead, and blood is seeping into the old
carpet and she killed him.
She stumbles out, panting like she’s run a marathon, and leans against the
wall. Done, she thinks, and she doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt but still wants
to cry, for some reason.
“You’ll need to clean that.”
She’s not surprised he’s here. He’s always known when she needs him.
She wipes the knife on her t-shirt. “I…” She licks her lips. “I think I left
fingerprints. And someone might’ve seen me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jim says, easily.
There’s something different in his voice. She takes his sleeve and pulls him
into the light. His hair is slicked back, his shoes shine in the glare of the
streetlights, his nails are clean and cut short. And he’s wearing a suit, one
that fits him perfectly, that makes him look years older. She’s never seen him
in anything but badly-fitting second-hand clothes.
He looks like a stranger, like he doesn’t belong in the shadow of the towers,
outlined against a grafittied wall, staring at a bloodied knife.
But then he smiles, crooked, and yes, that’s him. “Missed me?” he asks.
She flicks the knife closed and he pushes her against the wall, hands on her
waist, mouth on hers. She adjusts her feet, hops up and wraps her legs around
his waist. He grunts at the sudden weight but he's strong enough to keep her
up; they know from experience.
She fumbles with his flies and he actually tears her track bottoms, but she
couldn’t give a shit about her clothes right now. He shoves her underwear aside
and she angles her hips up and then he pushes inside and they moan, in perfect
unison.
“I’ll never leave again,” he murmurs in her hair, pressed as close as can be.
“I won’t, promise, I swear, I can’t leave you, can’t – not without you.”
She thrusts her hips and bites his neck and lets the tears fall, because he’s
still Jim and she’s never hidden anything from him.
***
He takes her to a fancy hotel, afterwards, in a fancy car with fancy leather
seats that she dirties with blood and grit. The receptionist stares at her,
with even more fear and disgust than she’s used to, so Sev snarls at her and
the stupid bitch almost falls over in her too-high heels in fright.
They shower together, for the first time ever, and she can’t get enough of the
way Jim's wet hair clings to his forehead, how the water runs over his
shoulders and his thighs and how his fingers feel when they slide over her
soapy skin.
He falls to his knees beneath the spray and makes her come once, twice, and
again, until her knees buckle and she goes down on the floor of the shower and
lies shaking against him.
She repays him once they’re on the bed, makes him scream the way she’s learned,
the way only she can, and when she crawls up again he kisses her for what seems
like hours.
“I needed that,” he mutters, lying entangled with her. “I really – I forgot
how…”
“Yeah.” She nuzzles closer and just breathes in for a bit, the old-familiar
scent of him, and listens to his heartbeat.
“Gonna tell me now, then?” she asks, after a while.
He rolls over and she sits up, pulls his head in her lap. “I needed to, to
become invisible,” he starts. “To just observe, at first, learn all the
variables, who to manipulate…” He stops and squeezes his eyes shut. “It's big,”
he says. “And and – and I'm not sure if I can keep track, if I – it's a lot.”
“Tell me,” she says, again.
His eyes open. Dark, serious. He nods, and starts. She just strokes his hair
and listens. She doesn’t follow most of it, just the basics: London, he says, a
web,and a network, behind the curtains.
And Moriarty.
 
 
VIII
Jim talks different, now. Big words and an upmarket accent – still Dublin, but,
as Jim puts it, the right side of the river.He dresses different, his entire
wardrobe is full of perfectly-fitting suits. He even stands different,
straight-backed and proud where he used to slouch.
It makes her feel odd, awkward, as if she doesn't fit with him anymore. He
changed and she didn't and...
But then he takes his clothes off and all those doubts seem stupid because
she's his and he's hers and his skin still feels the same against her.
***
For her eighteenth birthday Jim gets her a semi-automatic and a rifle and
shooting lessons. She is, unsurprisingly, brilliant at it, and Jim watches her
with a teeth-baring grin and glittering eyes all the way through.
As a birthday present for herself she gets a tattoo.
“Who or what,” Jim asks idly, sprawled in a chair, critically examining the
design, “is Durga?”
“Hindu goddess. Since when can you read Devanagari?”
He flashes her a smile. “Yesterday. Since when are you religious?”
“I’m not. I like the…” she snaps her fingers, looking for the right word.
“Symbolism.”
“Big word for a high school dropout.”
She flips him two fingers. “Pot, kettle.”
“Excuse me, I have an Oxford degree.”
She smirks. “And two Cambridge ones and a Yale one. Don’t count if you made
them yourself, Jim.”
The tattoo artist comes back in. She likes him. He’s one of those rare people
who look her in the face, instead of slightly-to-the-left, or a-bit-too-high.
Or just focus on her tits.
“Right,” he says. “Back and neck, was it? Shirt off, then.”
She pulls her shirt off in one movement. She isn’t wearing a bra; the guy
doesn’t look twice but Jim’s eyes linger.
“Your boyfriend’s going to stay, then?” the tattoo-bloke asks.
“He’s not my – ” and then she stops, raises her eyebrows.
Jim shrugs. “Might as well.”
The bloke gives them a briefly confused look, and then obviously decides it’s
none of his business. “It’s not an easy place,” he says. “If it’s your first
tattoo, you might be better off with something on your wrist. The pain – ”
“I can take it.”
Jim chuckles. “Ooh, aren’t you the tough one.”
She leans forward on the chair and sticks her tongue out at Jim.
The first prick of the needle makes her gasp and push back a little against the
chair. Pain doesn't scare her: she has fallen from heights and scraped her
knees and elbows and palms and got bruises from Jim's hands more times than she
can count. Pain is easy.
But the – the not-fighting, the lying back and taking it and letting it happen,
that's harder.
She closes her eyes and fights against the lingering fear. But just as she’s
about to say no, stop, I can’t –Jim’s fingers close around hers.
“The Invincible,” he says, smiling, because Jim's Jim and he always knows the
way her mind works.
“Almost there,” the tattoo-bloke says, and Jim kisses her cheek.
***
“Why,” he asks that night, gently stroking the tattoo. It’s just the right side
of painful and she's been making happy moaning noises since his fingertip
touched the ink.
“’Cos it’s mine,” she says, eyes still closed. “My body, my choice. The way the
scar wasn’t.”
He shifts, leans up and presses his lips against the tattoo. She arches her
back and shivers.
“You could make it go away, you know,” he says. “We can afford private clinics
now. If you wanted…”
“No,” she says. “It’s… I don’t know.”
“Not your choice, but you still made it yours.”
“Yeah. Unless, of course…” She sits up and flutters her eyelashes at him. “You
want someone pretty at your side,” she says, in a high falsetto and an affected
accent, a cruel copy of the kind of woman Jim sees at cocktail parties and
soirees these days.
He doubles over with laughter. “What the hell,” he says, wheezing, “would I do
with someone like them?”
“Break them, probably.” She straddles him and pins his wrists to the bed. He
digs his thumb into her tendons and breaks her grip, then reaches for her
tattoo again. She closes her eyes and smiles ecstatically.
“You're going to be so terrifying,” Jim says, softly, but before she can ask
what he means he slides his hand down to her cunt and she forgets everything
but bodies and sex.
 
 
IX
After her first long-distance kill shot she gets a tattoo of a long branch,
with one bloody thorn. “If you’re going to get one for every man you drop,” Jim
says, side of his nail trailing the outline of the branch, “you’re not going to
have any bare skin left by the end of the year.”
Six months after that she bares the inside of her thigh to the tattoo artist
and lets him ink a little spider on the smooth skin there. “Other men might
find this disturbing,” Jim remarks, but once it’s healed he drags his tongue
over it like he can’t get enough of it.
There’s a thrill in it, marking her body in whatever way she feels like. The
only price is giving up being a blank slate, but…
It’s Jim who can turn invisible. Not her, never could, because of her tits,
because of the colour of her skin, because of the fucking scar. “Doesn’t
matter,” Jim says, shrugging. “Recognisability has its value too.”
She doesn't understand it at first, but then one day they're meeting with a
guy, all cocksure and arrogant. Until Jim mentions Moriartyand the guy's
defiance completely collapses.
“They're terrified of you,” she says, amused, watching the heap of sobbing
human.
“Not just me,” he says, and she lazily lifts the gun he bought her, takes aim
at the guy's kneecap, and watches him cower.
***
Recognisability, and reputation, and the tales people tell.
It’s hardly new. Boys on the Aylesbury only cared for one thing, being thought
of as hard, and it's not so different here, after all.
And Jim's brilliant at it, at creating the image he wants and making people
believeit. People whisper, that's what they do, and now everyone's talking
about nothing but Moriarty and the amazing unbelievable things he's pulled off.
And she's there too, but it's different. Moriarty’s bitch, Moriarty’s whore,
like there are only two words for women in this business. Women everywhere.
She's still just a pair of tits, even with the gun and the scar and the
tattoos. She's still a girlwho shouldn't be out after dark, even after she's
shown the dark who's boss.
It gets to her, sometimes.
***
“How much for her?” the fat fuck they’re meeting with asks at the end.
Jim blinks in surprise.
“Can’t be that much, yeah, with a mug like that?” he continues, smirking. “But
the rest of her looks fit enough, so throw her in and we’ve got a deal.”
Sev takes a step forward but Jim takes her wrist, holds her back. “Sev,
darling,” he says, camp as can be, “tell the nice man what happens if he gets
ideas.”
“Lay one finger on me and I’ll cut off your bollocks.”
It’s not quite as creative as Jim’s threats, but it does the trick. Especially
once she smiles and adds “You wouldn’t be the first, by the way.”
“Still want her?”
The fat fuck narrows his eyes and looks between them. “Nah, thanks, too much of
a handful for me. I like my girls with shut mouths and open thighs, if you
catch my drift.”
They close the agreement, the fat fuck takes off, and the door falls closed.
“What the fuck?” Sev asks.
Jim leans back, chewing his bottom lip. “They think you’re my weak spot. That
was him trying his theory, seeing if I get protective.”
“Fucked that up, then, didn’t you?”
“I don’t care if they know. You can handle yourself, let them gossip.”
“Do they?” she asks, sitting down on Jim's desk.
“Course they do. Speculating if we fuck. Wondering where I found you. People
always talk, and we're far too colourful to be ignored.” He gives her a heavy-
lidded look. “Pun unintended.”
“Jim Moriarty and his ugly Paki whore,” she sneers, lighting a cigarette.
“People don’t change, do they?”
“People are stupid.” He stands up, stretches, then cocks his head. “Does it
bother you?” he asks, suddenly serious.
She runs her hand over her neck, feeling caught-out. “Just… Just reallyfucking
tired of being judged by a different standard just ‘cos I have a cunt instead
of a cock, yeah.”
He takes her neck and kisses her. “Want me to stop that?”
“What’re you gonna do?” she asks.
“You know what they say about me?” he says, smiling. “That I'm more than just a
man. Well, let's make them realise you're more than just a woman, shall we?”
***
Jim calls it a reign of terror. Sev just thinks of the crews on the Aylesbury
and the way they used to parade across the yard after dark, swaggering, knives
just within reach.
Don't fuck with us.
He shows her who to kill, how to kill, and then talks about it afterwards.
Changing from disguise to disguise, slipping in everywhere from mob bars to
high-class parties, spreading the fear.
The bitch slowly fades out, becausehey, she just might hear you and make you
pay for it – she's done it before, haven't you heard?She becomes Moriarty's
right hand, which beats whoreby miles, and fear changes to terror changes to
something else, something that's tight-lipped and shaking.
And after a couple of months no one even dares thinkof her as the whore or the
bitch anymore.
“Told you so,” Jim says, arms behind his head, smirking, and she thinks of a
kid with a too-large shoe in his hands and fire in his eyes.
“Anything you can’t do, Jim?” she asks.
“Haven’t come across anything, no.”
She holds out her hand and pulls him close, puts her fingers on his crotch.
“Your right hand,” she says with a smirk.
“You have an awful sense of humour,” he says archly, but then he closes his
eyes and moans and maybe just this once the whispers are right.
 
 
X
They move, and move, and move again, gradually going more upmarket. She feels
less at home in each new place, where the faces are all white and the accents
polished and the clothes tailored.
Jim doesn't ask her to pretend, to try and fit in. But she catches him watching
her, sometimes, thoughtful and silent.
She misses the Aylesbury and the roof of the east tower, sometimes. She misses
the way everyone who saw her knew not to fuck with her, to leave her alone; she
misses the violence and the honesty and the community of it; she misses the
accents, the language. It might be shit and she might have hated it but it was
still her home, Jim's home, and this new place might have a bath the size of a
pool and soft feather beds, but it's still alien.
Jim puts her hand on her back, over her first tattoo, and doesn't say a thing.
But she can feel him worrying.
***
“Fuckyou,” she yells, at the top of her voice. Wonders briefly if the
neighbours can hear the fight, like she used to back home. But no, this is a
posh place, with thick walls; fights are private and secret here.
Jim runs his hand over his eyes. “Do we haveto do this now?” he asks, sounding
bored, superior, infuriating.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” He leans back. “What is it you're having trouble with?”
It isn't the first fight they've had, lately. But they're getting uglier by the
day and she can't stop, can't tell where it's coming from, and it hurts her and
it hurts Jim but she can't stop.
“Class traitor,” Jim drawls, when she can't reply. “That's what it's about,
isn't it? Not being loyal?” His eyes narrow. “You think I give a fuckabout
where I come from?”
“You fucking should. Instead you’re so fucking intent on being one of them -”
she spits, “You’re fitting right in, you know that? Hardly recognise you
anymore. Gonna have to call you lordnext, am I?”
”Don't be ridiculous,” he snaps. “I'm not one of them, I'll never be, I fit in
here just about as well as you do.”
She laughs. “Yeah, right.”
“Sev, stop it. I'm - ”
“I can feel them stare at us, you know. Wondering. What's that nice gentleman
doing with that piece of trash?” She kicks a chair. “Why am I even here, Jim?
Why the fuckdid you come back for me? To be your fucking pet?”
“You know why.” And when she just keep glaring at him, he sneers, “Would you
have preferred to be left where you belong?”
She raises her hand to slap him and he catches her wrist, twists it behind her
back. She elbows him in the stomach and stumbles back.
“At least thereI didn't feel like a fucking – a fucking outréaccessory,” she
snarls.
He laughs. “Picked up some fancy words, did you?”
“Don't laugh at me.”
“I'm not.” He smiles, but it's cold, hiding something between the surface.
She's seen that smile often, just before he orders the trigger to be pulled,
the charge to be detonated. “But you're being stupid.”
“You've got no fucking clue what it's like.” She's panting, so furious she's
shaking. “To be different, all the time, like - ”
“Of course I know. It's just playacting, Sev, that's all. If it bothers you
that much, why don't you just put in a little effort -”
She hits him hard and he stumbles back. “It’s all so fucking easyfor you,
innit?” she yells. “Youcan just disappear, be anyone, you’re not stucklike – ”
She falters. Jim straightens up, sleeve held to his bleeding mouth, eyes dark.
“Nothing ties you down,” she says, breathing heavily. “Nothing.”
He whirls and takes his coat, strides out, and bangs the door shut behind him.
She sinks down to the floor and rests her head against her knees.
***
He comes back two hours after midnight, stripping off and sliding into the bed
next to her, kissing her neck.
He never says sorry, just like she never does. Neither of them has to.
She rolls over to face him and kisses him, her hand stroking his shoulder and
she –
Stops. Spreads her fingers wide across the slick skin on his chest.
“There,” he says, almost sulking. “Permanence for you.”
“A tattoo.”
“No, a flesh wound. Yes, obviously, a tattoo.”
“Across your heart?”
He shrugs. “As good a place as any.”
She rolls on top of him and switches on the light, then leans down and pins his
wrists to the bed. He turns his head, avoiding her eyes, but she takes his jaw
and forces him to look at her. “You got a tattoo.”
“Yes.” He rolls his eyes. “Since you obviously have such a need for a physical
reminder.”
“You got a tattoo. For me.”
“Well, partly.”
“You…” She shakes her head. “Fuck you.”
“You say the nicest things.”
She runs her hands over his arms. “You stupid cunt. Why couldn’t you just say –
”
“Because that’s not who we are." He takes her arm and flips them around.
"Because words are easy.” He leans in close, as if to kiss her, but then pauses
a fraction of an inch from her mouth, and stays there, so close she can feel
the heat of his skin.
She strokes the tattoo. “I tie you down.”
“So do I. That's the way it goes, innit?”
She smiles. In anyone else the echo would have been mocking, but in Jim it
feels like a friendly extended hand.
“They don't matter,” she says, the old familiar words.
“They don't,” Jim agrees. He kisses her and she pushes against his shoulder, so
they're lying side by side.
“I think I forgot that, for a bit,” she says, softly.
Jim scoots a bit closer, nuzzling beneath her jaw. “Don't.”
She winds her fingers through his hair and kisses him. “Just you,” she says,
and feels him smile against her throat.
 
 
XI
She’s twenty-five when she finally gives in and gets Moriartytattooed just
beneath her left breast, because if she’s going to be his bitch she might as
well own it. Besides, she’s the only person alive who knows what Jim’s got on
his chest, and it’s only fair she gets something matching. If she’s his whore,
he’s hers as well.
Moriarty, they don't even whisper anymore, too scared, and somewhere along the
road she stopped being Moriarty's enforcerand started being Moriartyas well,
like no one knows anymore where Jim stops and she starts.
When she shares that thought with Jim he laughs. “Well, do you?” he asks.
“Know?”
“Does it matter?”
He grins. She kisses the top of his head and he leans back against her, happy
and trusting, and she remembers a handshake and two kids sitting shoulder-to-
shoulder on a roof, looking at the people below.
“Thanks,” he says, reading her thoughts.
“For?”
“Being you. Being here.”
She straddles his lap and he pulls her close, his head resting against her
shoulder, eyes closed. “Same,” she says, and wraps her arms around his
shoulders.
 
 
XII
She stands on high, lying flat on her stomach on the roof, a rifle against her
shoulder, the wind messing up her short hair.
Her arm still aches a little from her latest tattoo, an intricate Celtic knot,
but her aim is still as steady as it’s always been.
She sights down, finds her target, tiny and antlike. He’s nothing, a smudge, a
fly to be swatted away.
Up here, she’s a god.
“Sev.”
Jim’s voice. Jim’s hand on her shoulder, warm and light.
“Listening.”
 
End Notes
     - title stolen from The Kills song U.R.A. Fever
     - Aaja: Hindi for 'come here,' (as far as I know)
     - The Aylesbury: a council estate, home to 7500 people, with a pretty
     horrible reputation. It’s used as a typical example of urban decay
     and sink estates, and was once infamously called “Hell’s Waiting
     Room” by the Daily Mail. The different parts are all named after
     villages in Buckinghamshire, hence Taplow and Chiltern. The highest
     east tower however is, as far as I know, entirely my own fabrication.
     The Heygate is a nearby council estate with a similar reputation.
     - where her boss takes great pleasure in asking her to chop up pork,
     because arseholes are arseholes and they still don’t know the
     difference between Muslim and Hindu: Pork is considered haram or
     sinful to Muslims and is a forbidden food, while Hindus have a
     similar prohibition against beef. At least, the ones who aren't
     vegetarian do - it's complicated.
     - Durga: Hindu goddess whose name means “The Invincible.” She’s
     considered a warrior goddess and is traditionally depicted riding a
     tiger.
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