Living together with Constance seemed to be the easiest thing in the world, Arthur thought every night when he came home. The small house was tidy, cozy and warm, regardless day or hour. She worked very hard to make everything perfect, to satisfy his wishes, even those he never knew he had. He drank less and slept more, he felt better in general, calmer, more determined. Once in a while his business set him up, he got furious, grumpy, sulky, all the bad things hidden in him got washed to the surface. Still he was a dangerous, erratic man, helplessly delivered to his temper. On days when the shit going on was too much he fell back in old behaviors, in old nightmares. Like on this unforgettable day in February.
"Constance!" He barked, slamming the door shut, storming in the kitchen. "Constance!"
"Arthur?" She answered, turning around.
"Here you are." He spat, his breathing fast and heavy, his anger searching for an outlet.
"I'm cooking dinner. But it's not ready yet." She said and he noticed her hand searching for hold on the worktop.
He was glad to see her, unharmed and safe in his house, but the rage, caused by a very detailed threat against her, just won't cool down. He roared, grabbed a chair and threw it crossways through the kitchen.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, head bowed, her body pressed against the cupboard.
She made herself small, the terrible fear she experienced clearly visible. But he couldn't ... he couldn't stop. His imagination run amok, he saw everything this gutless arsehole described him in graphic pictures, right in his mind. Torture, rape and a slow, painful death, Constance's suffering, her pain, her tears, her begging. He wanted to kill the man, make him experience all the things he said. And he also wanted to show him what a precious human she was, how sweet-natured, how trusting, how caring and devoted to him. This must be the acme of torture: To see how perfect she was, just for him, for Arthur Shelby, all the little things this bastard would never be able to experience. But Tommy had held him back, forbid him to transform this bloke into a bloody mass of rotting flesh and splattered bones.
"Go!" He barked, tearing at his hair. "Go and bring me ..."
What? Whiskey? Vodka? Rum? A bottle full of the medicine Polly gave him? The Vickers gun he hid in the attic? Or just ... dinner and tea? He didn't know what he wanted, what he needed, except the blood and the soulless look in the dead eyes of a yet faceless man.
"Fuck, Constance!" He said, rubbing over his face. "Bring me ..." He stopped, still searching for something to bring him relief.
"But ...," she answered and the first tears watered her eyes. "I ... don't know where the ... things are. You've never told me. I'm sorry, so sorry."
He blinked in confusion, frowning: "The things? Which things?"
"The ... the cane or the birch. Or shall I bring ... a belt? Sir?" Her voice was thin and she hiccupped between the words, because she cried so much.
Silently, of course, just to be as invisible as possible.
"What?"
"Please, Sir, I don't know what I've done wrong, I swear. But I ... accept every punishment you consider as warrantable. Maybe ... Arthur, Sir, please, grant me a delay, just to ... to finish the dinner. You're hungry for sure, and it'll be ready in about 15 minutes."
"Yes, of course, finish it. Wait, what?" He asked again, taken aback, as the meaning of her words trickled in his mind, cooling his rage slowly.
"I ... I asked where you stash the ... your cane or your birch. Or do you want me to bring a belt?"
"I do not own a cane or a birch. I use my hands, my fists."
"Oh, god, oh, please ..., Arthur, please ..." New tears ran down her cheeks, and she looked so horrified that he feared she would lose consciousness. She cleared her throat, regaining control over her voice, before asking: "So ... uhm, after dinner?"
"After dinner what?" He asked, still trying to process why she talked constantly of canes, birches, delays and punishments.
"Teaching me a lesson?" She said hesitantly and looked as confused as he felt.
"Did you do something wrong?"
"I don't know. You are the one who's angry with me, Arthur. Sir. Can ... can you just go on and ... we can get over with it? I'm ... so scared and I want to be over the hump."
Arthur took a step back and looked to the chair he threw through the kitchen. His rage was gone and the only thing he felt was shame. He walked straight to the cupboard, opened it and helped himself to a drink. Then he turned around to face her and cleared his throat.
"No, Constance, listen. I'm not angry with you. You've got no punishment coming, aye?"
She took a deep, shaky breath and forced a small smile on her lips: "Aye."
"Come here," he demanded, opening his arms for her.
Reluctantly she stepped in his embrace, her arms placed over her belly, and he hid his face in her hair: "I'm so sorry, Constance. I scared the shit out of you, didn't I?"
She cried silently, her body shaking in his arms. Once she was quietened down dinner was ready and she set the table, able to breathe normally, the hiccups gone.
He ate in silence, like he usually did, and Constance always accepted his wish to eat in peace, to cut the conversation to a minimum. After he finished she did the plates and he watched her, drinking another glass of whiskey.
"Arthur?" She asked lowly and turned around.
"Aye?"
"I ... I don't know where to start but there's something you ... you should know."
"What's on your mind, love?" He asked, sitting straight up because he thought to hear footsteps. "Give me a second. I'm gonna check the windows and the doors."
"Is everything alright, Arthur? Are you in sorrow about ... unwelcomed guests?" She whispered, listening closely to the silence surrounding them.
"Aye, maybe," he said and walked out of the kitchen. "Everything's fine," he announced when he came back from his patrol through the house. "What did you wanna tell me, love?"
"I ... don't know if I'm right, because I've never been before ... but ...," she mumbled and cleared her throat. "I guess I'm with child, Arthur."
Arthur blinked, the silence in the kitchen grew bigger. Constance looked on the floor, not daring to face him. Once he processed her announcement in every detail, he took a seat at the table, staring at the tabletop.
"Wait, wait ... you never got pregnant from Carl ...," he said, still not fully believing what she told him.
"I know. But maybe ... I don't know ..., maybe he was the problem, maybe he was the one who was infertile. Maybe ... maybe a man can be infertile too?"
Arthur bit on his lower lip and thought about the last weeks: "Aye, maybe. And you are pregnant. You didn't bleed in the last two months. Why didn't I notice this earlier?" He mumbled, frowning.
"You were busy. I hope you ... accept our child with pleasure?" She asked, placing her hands protectively over her belly.
He nodded slowly, thinking about everything that must be arranged, considered and done.
"I'm ... I'm sorry, Arthur. Carl made me think that I'm too dumb to conceive. I ... I didn't want to burden you with a child you ... never wished for."
"No, no! I'm happy." He whispered, pulling her closer, placing her on his lap. "I'm very happy. I'm just surprised and a bit annoyed with myself. Should have thought about it."
"I ... I could ask Vigdis about ... a back-street abortionist ..."
"No!" He answered, his tone authoritative. "I'm gonna kill everyone laying a finger on my child."
"So, we're ... having a child?"
"We already have, Constance." He answered and a smile graced his face: "Fuck! I'm gonna be a father!"
But first he needed to find the gutless arsehole threatening the love of his life. And the mother of his baby. Tommy could preach whatever he wanted. This bastard had to die.