A/N: There's not a lot of canon back-story as you guys know so I kind of just rolled with it. Also I tried to research certain Romani customs and didn't want to get to specific with things I'm not familiar with and be all offensive and sad-face-making. And it's not beta-ed. Boo hiss. Also no romance for anyone here, sorry not sorry.
(Also Cillian Murphy looked way too good getting off that boat after getting the shit kicked out of him. I wanted to know what boat magic made that happen. )
He doesn't sleep the whole four days to Camden only the first and it's a restless fevered state of shivering and shaking like the men run into the wire of death, the one's he'd only heard whispers of in France, men who frizzled and fried like fatty meat sizzling on a spike (at the time he'd wondered if the smell was worse than the gunpowder and dust of the tunnels and the fetid smell of stale air and rotting flesh). But while his body burns, rocking back and forth in the cradle of the ship's cabin, he dreams. And not just of France, not like before where the only thing he ever heard in his own head was the same fucking blasting and shouting and scraping that made his jaw clench sharp and his teeth ache all the way to the root No— he dreams of other things, things he'd forgotten, maybe because of the drink, maybe the smoke, maybe all of it.
They aren't all bad, neither. There's a time with his mum down at the Cut, when he was still young and Arthur was still sane and his shite of a father was still around, sucking them all dry like Irish whisky out of a half-empty bottle. It's from a long time before, and in the image, ticking along all fuzzy like a silent film, he's clutching her hand and she's looking at him in a way that hurts to remember and instead of the putrid salty air and sewer water, his lungs fill with jasmine soap so thick he can taste it.
From where they are, he can see the muted reds and dingy whites of tents set up along the river, a ratty flag hoisted on a wood post flapping in the wind like an injured crow. He remembers now, the traveling show that had come in that day, how he and his brothers had stood on Coventry Road, watching the rickety caravans passing by like inchworms.
Arthur and John had had no interest in the whole garish affair, and they'd gone to fishing in the crowd, their tiny fingers loosening purse strings and filching pennies with already-too-practiced ease. But Tommy, Tommy hadn't been able to look away. The people he saw past easy enough, even the freakish ones, as they seemed to him the same as people anywhere else, all washed out, gray and faded like the old sheets on his bed. But the animals were different. The horses he was drawn to, to the way they strained and pulled against the weight of their leather harnesses, and Tommy was close enough to see the muscles of their forelegs bulging, to smell sweat and horse dung and hear the buzz of horseflies. He was close enough to see the blood pool as the driver, a man with tattoos like patchwork patterns on his face, lashed the beasts' backs (broad yet dully coated from too much of the cane and too little of the hand). The horses had barely flinched, already broken and thus accustomed and accepting of the beating. Tommy could tell, tell by the vacant, complacent glaze of obedience in their glassy eyes. Inside, at that moment, Tommy had burned then just as he burned now.
'You've nothing to say of the show?' his mother had asked when Tommy had returned without his brothers and reached for her hand. He remembers he hadn't answered her then, only looked into her eyes, eyes so dark they almost appeared black, and wondered if she was broken too. No one, he had thought then, shaking his head, would break him like that. Not ever.
He wakes fully on the second day, choking on ashes in his mouth as if he's back in the tunnels, but he's face down on a makeshift bed, the smell of sweet, fresh straw assaulting his nostrils—along with the scent of…what was that?...
"Garlic?" he murmurs, shuddering in the cold sweat of a fever freshly broken.
"Aye," a voice answers in a clipped tone, but Tommy cannot muster the strength to turn over. He just sees a swirl of black skirts out of the corner of his eye, hears the tinkling sound of water pouring followed by the press of glass to his lips. He drinks deeply before clearing his throat and finally raising his gaze. The source of the voice is a stern looking woman, likely younger than her wrinkled brow suggested, a black lace headscarf tied neatly at the nape of her neck. It appears to him that her mouth affixed itself into a permanent scowl.
"Where's Curly?" he asks, rolling over and beginning to rise, testing his limbs. They feel boneless, weak and brittle, but the pain is less he notes with relief, and the cuts and bruises he can see appear a less ominous shade of green. Others, he notes, are hidden under bandages made from what looks like cabbage leaves and some kind of orange powder. He can't imagine Curly being the source of this surprising turnaround, let alone possessing the knowledge of herbal folk healing. The man had a fine heart, a good strong one beating in his chest, but christ, he had the brains of a lesser beast to be sure, though a content one at that. He could only assume his caretaker to be the austere lady in front of him, but she neither acknowledges him nor answers his question, so he tries again.
"Are you, m'am, the one to thank for dressin' me like a bloody bird at Christmastime?" he croaks, grasping at the side-table for a pack of cigarettes that simply aren't there. "Fuckin' christ," he swears, pounded his aching fist against his bedside to provoke any kind of response from the tight-lipped woman (after all, Thomas Shelby's not a man used to being ignored).
"No," is the curt reply he finally gets, before the she turns sharply on her heels, ducking her head only a little under the sloped ceiling of the cabin, and then slams the wooden door that shuts with a deep, creaky whine. Tommy feels a drip of water, cold and fresh, and looks up to see the cracks in the ceiling boards. He sees inky clouds and blinking stars and the sight of it calms him like a cool blanket on nerves rubbed raw from over-firing. He feels like a cooled log once burned now ashy and white, parts of him flaking off and falling away, crumbling into nothing. Crumbling into dust.
He waits, unable to sleep again, until finally someone comes.
The girl is such a little thing, he thinks, with dusky skin and cinnamon curls, barefooted, wrapped in gauzy waves of fabric, deep purples, greens and golds. She is a vision. She isn't real; she cannot be, not the way she seems to stand there shimmering in between his eyelids like the Black Madonna herself.
"And where is your mum, child?" he asks, swinging his legs to the side of the bed, steadying himself fast, white-knuckling the edge of the nightstand, vision swaying.
"The grai speaks! But he's a dumb one at that. It took a long time to get the stink of horse oil off of you. You reeked." The girl laughs and it isn't delicate at all; most certainly not Grace's gentle, murmured giggle or Lizzie's twittering chatter—not even one of Polly's disapproving chuckles. It's from the gut. Throaty and cavernous and Tommy cannot remember when he's heard a laugh like that or the last time he even remembered laughing.
"You planning on roasting and eating me, is it?" he gestures to his torso, where some of the cabbages leaves have started to wilt and peel away from the orange paste cracked against his clammy skin.
"Turmeric for the closing the cuts," she says, and unceremoniously steps towards him and reaches out. He's shocked by her sudden closeness, and he flinches, but she does not retreat. Her fingers—shockingly cool—skitter across his flesh, precise and practiced in their movements. "Cabbage for infection," she trails off, examining, he thinks, the tattoo across his shoulder, before she adds cheekily, "and the garlic, to make the horse lively and spritely once again."
"Are you a Lee?" he asks. From up close, he can see she is not as young as he thought, perhaps eighteen at most. She could be one of Esme's cousins, he thinks, with the same darkened gaze that always harkened back to Blackwater.
"I came over with my sister after the war. We know Charlie…knew him in France," she says.
"I've been to France," he answers.
"I know," she replies. "You talk in your sleep, but anyone can smell the blasting powder on you."
"What's your name?"
"I know yours, Thomas Shelby." Is all she says, rummaging in the pocket of her skirts as she speaks.
"' S'my job to be known," he says, sudden pain slurring the edges of his words, "Makes business easier." His head aches, his skin is crawling, and in a second he's back underground being devoured by mites and lice and rats and he has to clutch the rough blankets in his clawed hands to stop from scratching (and maybe screaming). "I need a fucking cigarette."
The girl eyes him, frowns a little, before producing a recognizable squashed pack and his silver lighter from her coat pocket. He grasps at them greedily, lights one up with trembling fingers before taking a long, deep drag.
"I brought you tea. Drink it. Consider it a trade for the cigarettes," she says, and for the first time since he's spoken to the girl, she seems quietly serious, almost demure in her command.
"You can't barter with what's already mine, dove," he tries for a smile, but it comes out a grimace.
"Drink the tea."
He ashes his cigarette and shrugs, taking the cup from the table beside him and drinking from it deeply (later he will be surprised he didn't notice the bitter bite of the poppy pods luring him to painless, dreamless sleep).
"Too many people know your name, and now they've got a power over you. Now they've got into your blood, Tommy Shelby. Better figure out which limb you'd prefer to cut off first. " This is the last thing he hears right before he starts to nod off, before a hand swoops in to stop the lit cigarette in mouth from singeing his bruised collarbones.
"No one has power over me," is all he murmurs before darkness comes.
He doesn't see her on the second day. Only more tea. No dreams. But Curly comes to visit. They will be in London in less than two days time.
On the third day, she brings him a suit, leaves quickly to let him dress, and it's good to put on something that doesn't smell like blood and sweat. When she returns, she's got a bowl in hand, and it's the first time the smell of food hasn't made him want to retch.
He eats, so consumed with a sudden hunger that he barely tastes the hot stew as he swallows it, doesn't flinch as it scald his throat all the way down. She sits and watches him, as if she expects him to make a mistake.
"I can eat fine enough," he grouses.
"Fine," she says, turning to leave.
"Wait," he says, and she pauses, "Why don't you tell me my fortune, little chóvihánni."
At the name, she glares. "I'm not a witch. I don't tell fortunes. I don't pray on the desperate and the destitute."
"And that's what I do?" he asks, arms crossed defiantly across his chest.
The girl shrugs, her hair falling over her eyes. "I don't know what you do, Mr. Thomas Shelby. And Charlie paid me enough not to know."
"I can pay more," he offers. He doesn't know why he needs the girl to do this for him, but he does. She makes him remember things, remember things his mother said and did. Things she taught him. Things he's forgot.
At this, the girl sighs. "You and I will never meet again, Mr. Shelby."
Tommy considers this. The girl is pretty, beautiful even, and he finds himself thinking of John and Esme and how Tommy could've chosen that—could choose that, if he wanted. If he tried, if he really tried, he thinks he could have this girl, a wife in his bed and a child at his knee. All he would have to do is reach out, take it, and pluck it like a sweet berry from a vine. He wonders if this is what Eve felt gazing at evil in hand.
"You can't have it. You want more," she answers simply.
He wishes he didn't. But he does.
On the fourth day, they reach land, and Tommy climbs up onto the dock without falling, which feels more a triumph than he's had in weeks (and he doesn't consider leaning on Curly a bit to be cheating, when after all, he's been on a boat for four days now). He is ready.
The boat is sailing away. He can feel it, and when he shifts his footing to look back, Curly's earnest voice rings in his ears.
"She told me to tell you not to look back...'Don't be like Lot's wife, she said.'"
"Who did, Curly? Tell me true."
Curly doesn't answer, but he holds something out in his giant fist, and Tommy takes it. It's smooth, hard in his hand, and when he examines in the cup of his palm, he sees a perfect stone circle hung neatly on a string.
"She said you'd need it."
"For what?"
"For your day at the races."