Chapter 65
'I'm not going to do it Tommy. I'm not going to fucking do it.'
Tommy leant back in his chair and looked stonily up at Lizzie, swilling the remains of a yet another whiskey around in his glass. He was perplexed. She had never said no to him before, not when he put his hand up her skirt to test her after he found out she was engaged to John, not when he'd forced her to whore herself out to that army officer at the Epsom Derby, not even when he'd... he pushed that thought away firmly. How was it that she was defying him now over something so important?
'Lizzie, you will do as I say or you will be out of a job.' There, he thought with satisfaction, that should sort her. It didn't.
'You're sick in your head', she hissed, slamming her palms down on the polished wood of his desk and staring down at him furiously. 'Get someone else to do it. I'd rather go back on the streets than get involved in this filthy business. Just you try me and see!' With an outraged glare, more often seen on a dowager duchess than a girl from the back streets of Small Heath, she spun on her heels and stalked out. Polly would have cheered. Tommy did not.
He considered shouting after her, demanding that she come back so that he could browbeat her some more, but something told him she was serious about leaving. Partly this was down to the way she had slammed the door behind her but mostly it was the result of the mingled look of horror and disgust that had flashed across her face when he had told her what he wanted her to do.
Slumping down in his chair, he pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and signed. Despite his threat, he really didn't mean to let Lizzie go. Given the current situation with his blood kin, he wanted to keep hold of as many of the few truly loyal and dependable people he had left. Besides which, she knew where all the bodies were buried – literally in some cases – and it was, therefore, much safer to keep her in the tent pissing out rather than risking her running around wild on the outside.
None of this logical thinking helped him with his current predicament, however. Straightening up he opened the hidden drawer in the middle of his desk. Silently he stared down at the dozen or so small cheap cards that he had secreted there. There was no text on any of them, and none were signed, but each bore the image of a black hand; their message was clear. For a moment he allowed himself a small instance of despair.
He rubbed at his tired eyes and thought longingly of his opium pipe. Opium gave him terrible dreams which woke him screaming in the night, but without it he could not get to sleep in the first place. If only he could have a decent night's sleep, he thought, he might be able to think of another – better – course of action. Instead, when he needed the most, his mind was slow and foggy; his usual instincts dulled by fear.
His nightmares were worse than ever. He no longer dreamed just of the tunnels beneath the German lines. Now he saw his brothers and aunt hanging by their necks, saw Arabella bloody and broken on a mortuary slab – or worse, watched her giggling as she carved at a bound man's flesh. Each image was worse than the next, and every night ended worse than the one before.
He didn't dare share a bed with her anymore in case she saw how badly he was faring and forced him to reveal the truth. He couldn't bear the thought of her finding out how badly he had messed things up.
When his family had first been taken to prison, he had clung on to his wife like a drowning man with a piece of driftwood. She had become a true partner in the business – almost as pragmatic as Polly whilst also being a good deal more prepared to accept his decisions. It had been a surprisingly good time despite his worries.
Finally, he had managed to get his family the pardons he had promised them. He had hoped for a reconciliation with them but none had been forthcoming. Devastated and guilt ridden he had tried to make the best of it but the stress had begun to drive a wedge between him and Arabella. And then the cards had started to arrive.
The first had been handed to him in the street by a half-starved kid, who told him that 'a foreigner' had given him sixpence to hand a letter to Mr Thomas Shelby. Eager to earn himself another coin, the child had fallen over himself to provide Tommy with additional details. Since these had amounted to the fact that the man had 'nice shoes' and an assurance that he was definitely from one of those foreign places 'like Manchester or maybe even London', it had been of absolutely no use.
Recognising that the child was simply hungry and ignorant rather than deliberately dishonest, Tommy had handed over a couple of shillings and waved the lad distractedly on his way. For a few minutes, he had stood fast in the street, staring blankly at the card, unheeding of the people and the traffic around him.
Every time he remembered that moment, he felt the ground move beneath his feet once more. It was the closest he'd come to helpless fear since that perverted bastard Hughes had taken Arabella from him.
After a good long while, he tore the card into small pieces and let it flutter away on the breeze. The feelings the card arouse had not dissipated half so easily.
More anonymous notes had followed, all showing the same simple threatening monochrome image. Some had been delivered to the office, some to the Garrison. One had even made its way to Arrow House. Into his home!
With another deep sigh he stood up, grabbed his coat, and went to call on Polly. He had to hope that she was having one of her periodic flirtations with sanity and would therefore understand exactly what he was asking of her.
