Chapter 4
Small Heath, 1918
Lizzie had been doing a roaring trade since the end of the war. Old soldiers - either broken in mind or body, or full of rage and self-hatred - were desperately in need of the kind of comfort that only an understanding woman could provide and Lizzie was known to be very, very understanding. The problem was that half of those in Small Heath who needed her services hadn't a pot to piss in. Still, holding a sobbing man scarcely counted as hard work so there were a few she took in for free - her 'charity work' she called it like she was a proper lady. Her brother and sister were old enough to work now so they could make up for some of the income it cost her.
Danny Whizz-Bang was one of her regulars – or what was left of him at any rate. His missus had come to her for help directly, the poor little bitch. She'd been scared to have him in the house with the babbies, scared to let him touch her. Between Lizzie's thighs he'd found a little bit of calm, not enough to make him whole again but sufficient for his wife to have him back so long as Lizzie saw to him regular. It was when she was letting him out after their usual session that she ran slap bang into Tommy Shelby.
Time slowed so that she felt like she was wading in treacle. She felt sick. Tommy stared at her as if she was a stranger. Completely oblivious, Danny had greeted his old sergeant major heartily, slapping him roughly on the back and commending Lizzie to him as a truly excellent whore.
'If you've got an itch to scratch, sarge, then you could do a lot worse than our Lizzie here,' he said contentedly. 'She'll give you the ride of your life!'
Tommy looked her up and down coldly and shame flamed at her cheeks.
'Been a long time, Tommy', she said stiffly. He nodded in response not taking his eyes from her. Smile fading Whizz-Bang made himself scarce.
5 minutes later Tommy was in her house in the small back room she used for business. He sat in the chair next to the bed and watched her intently. She poured them both a large measure of gin.
'Stay here whilst I go and clean up', she said shakily downing her glass in one.
When she came back in to the room she found him stood up and stripped down to his long-johns, the rest of his clothes folded neatly on the chair behind him. The first thing she noticed was that he had filled out. He was no longer the gawky adolescent that she had first lain with, he was a man grown. He had a tattoo as well, the rays of a rising sun over his heart. Closing the distance between them she gently laid her hand on his chest – splayed fingers covered the markings. She could feel the frantic beating of his heart beneath her fingertips.
There was no need of words between them. She knew his body as intimately as her own and she knew the eyes of a man with shell shock almost as well. She took him in her arms and then used every trick she knew to bring him the release that he needed.
When he was ready to leave he carefully counted out her fee. She tried to waive it away but he insisted. After he had gone she cried herself to sleep.
