Trigger Warning: Graphic war violence and death.
Waking up beside Arthur Shelby, Sorcha felt less like a traumatized VAD nurse and more like a human being. Each morning she and Arthur sat by the window for their morning tea. There wouldn't be much talking between them, but Sorcha peeked over the brim of her cup to stare, wide eyes filled with love. Arthur would smile bashfully under her admiration then reach out to gently pinch her cheek.
It had been several months since she had returned to Birmingham after being forcibly whisked away by Alfie Solomons, and the Garrison was approaching its grand reopening. Sorcha still hadn't asked Tommy why he had wanted her to dynamite the pub and hand Polly the expense books afterwards. She figured he would tell her eventually but it seemed Tommy Shelby was avoiding her since their return from London.
"Where are you off to?" Sorcha stood close in front of Arthur as he slipped into his coat. "Will you give me a kiss before you go?"
"Aye," Arthur curled a finger under her chin to tilt her head up for his kiss. "I'll be at the boxing ring."
"And I," she put on her own coat and flashed him a wide smile, "I'll be with Pol counting bets."
With a parting look out on the walkway, Sorcha's fingertips brushed against Arthur's palm as they both turned their separate ways. There was something in his final glance that seemed peculiar. It was a strange sort of dimness she'd never recognized before. Shaking the thought off, Sorcha focused on the click-click-click of her heeled shoes hitting the cobblestoned roads.
The betting shop was empty when she let herself in. The writers hadn't arrived yet so Sorcha transposed the odds on the large blackboard then wrote up the odds for each race scheduled for that day. She had seen John do it and forced herself to learn - it was certainly a step up from being a barmaid - not that a pile of ash and rubble needed a barmaid. As Sorcha took a step back to double check her work on the board, Tommy burst in through the backdoor and the wind blew in with him. He was fully dressed and the deep red circles under his eyes were evidence that he hadn't slept in days.
"You alright there, Tom?" Sorcha looked over her shoulder to ask.
Dismissively waving off her concern, Tommy threw two logs into the stove to warm up the room and suddenly asked, "Did you patch up any Black Country men in France?"
"Lads from Wolverhampton?"
"Aye, that's the one."
Sorcha turned away from the blackboard and tilted her head toward the ceiling in thought. "If they were at the trenches with you and made it back, I probably patched 'em up."
"Good," Tommy held her coat out so she could slip it on. "Come with me." He stalked out of the backdoor straight into the rushing wind. Sorcha would have blown away if she hadn't taken cover behind the formidable wall that was Thomas Shelby. "How are things with Arthur, nurse? Have you convinced him to teach you to shoot yet?"
With lips numb from the cold, Sorcha brushed away the loose tendrils of hair that escaped from her bun. Even the feel of her chilled fingertips on her frozen face burned against the weather. "He's been odd lately." She raised her voice to match the wailing wind against her own ears. "I haven't asked him."
Tommy briskly walked from corner to corner, bend to bend, before stopping in a long alleyway. A large wooden pellet was propped against the wall, five glass bottles assembled on top. Before Sorcha could understand it all, Tommy held out the gun he kept at his side.
"My hands," she lifted her red fingers meekly. If she took the gun, she'd be shaking too much to aim properly. Holstering the gun, Tommy reached out and folded her hands into his. After a moment he pulled two gloves out from his coat pockets for her to slip onto her significantly smaller hands.
"Pull the slide back until you hear a click," he directed. "Hold it with both hands now."
"Is this safe? The bullet might ricochet if I miss."
Tommy adjusted her arms so her left one was fully extended and her right elbow bent slightly downward. "Then don't miss." He stood close behind her, instructing to take aim through the sights and to squeeze the trigger when she was confident to hit a bottle.
Sorcha closed her left eye and concentrated on the pinpoint inside the sight. Her arms grew tired from holding up the gun while trying to find the perfect time to squeeze the trigger. Several minutes passed and Tommy was still waiting patiently behind her.
"Don't think too much about it, nurse. There's no hesitation in war."
"Well, we're not in a war anymore, are we, Tom?" Irritated, Sorcha lowered her arms again and looked back at him.
Tommy's face remained blank and impassive. "We are now. Sabini will come for us again and I'll not have you unprotected."
Sorcha turned back to the bottles across the way, raised her arms, took aim, didn't hesitate, and squeezed the trigger. The force of the round exploding out from the barrel of the pistol threw her arms up. The bullet had missed. She pulled the slide back and took aim again. The pin sight hovered around the glass bottles but Sorcha couldn't keep her fingers from shaking.
"I'd be better with a rifle." She pulled the trigger again and the bullet lodged in the brick. "I used the Lee-Enfield once or twice on the Western Front with you boys."
The deep irony of it all was that Sorcha had killed German soldiers who gained land during a charge across no man's land during the Somme. She had been left alone with the half-dead British soldiers torn apart by artillery rounds when she spotted the green uniforms of the Germans. They had fixed bayonets on their rifles, and would have surely killed her and all the men around her.
Knowing she was no match to grown men in hand to hand combat like Arthur, Tommy, and John, she had grabbed a discarded rifle and loaded the cartridge with shaking fingers. They were quickly advancing - less than six hundred metres away. Sorcha had dropped down to the frozen ground where mud had mixed with bodily fluids and dead rats. She had propped the rifle against sandbags, pulled back the receiver bolt, took aim and pulled the trigger. The first man - a mere child of 17 - fell into the mud with a wail. Then the second. But the third…Sorcha shut her eyes tight to erase the memories.
She was back in Birmingham. She was safe from the broken-faced ghosts.
Refocusing on the bottles, she squeezed the trigger as the sight pin hovered back and forth unsteadily. There was the powerful recoil and the bullet shattered the glass upon impact. When all the bottles were shattered, Sorcha handed the gun back to Tommy.
"I'm done for today," she murmured, peeling off the gloves and handing it back to him.
"You need to bury it deep, nurse," he reminded her gently. "It'll do you good to close the door on it."
"There are some things you can't close the door on all the way." Her hand snaked into his pocket to take a cigarette out of his tin. "Light me up, will ya, Tom?" After taking a long pull she looked back up at him. "Not everyone can afford to be as stoic as you. You bounce back no matter what. People like me, like Arthur, it takes more time."
"Well," he looked over her head then curtly said, "square yourselves away quick, will ya? Come on, I need you to meet someone."
Tommy Shelby didn't walk through Birmingham with as much swagger as his older brother. Instead, Tommy's footsteps were quick and deliberate. His coat spread open as he walked straight into the strong wind to reveal the perfectly tailored suit he wore underneath. Tommy didn't have as much bravado as Arthur nor as much swagger like John. Tommy Shelby felt like the threat of an impending natural disaster. Fearsome like a monolith, he was a visage of ambition and power.
Sorcha and Tommy hadn't waited long when Billy Kitchen arrived in the garage across from the Garrison. Sorcha recognized the tufts of red hair peeking under his cap which he quickly shoved into his pocket.
"Corporal Billy Kitchen," Tommy extended his hand in greeting. "Bloody grand to see you. How are you feeling? Just come out of bandages meself."
Billy shook Tommy's hand, curiously glimpsing towards Sorcha. "Ready for active service," he said stiffly in front of Sergeant Major Tommy Shelby. He was an army man alright, Sorcha thought. "Thanks for seeing me, Tommy."
"You don't have to stand in line for us. It's men like you we're looking for, Billy." Tommy pinched his cigarette out of his mouth then gestured toward Sorcha. "You remember her? VAD in France."
Billy studied her face, trying to jog his memory. He shook his head no.
"Well," Sorcha's lips curled up with a sad smile, "I remember you Corporal Kitchen. Nearly had to hack away everything below your ankles from the trench foot."
That refreshed his memory. He may have escaped the war with both feet intact, but Sorcha had to amputate the feet of many poor men after months trudging through wet, cold trenches. If they could only have clean, dry socks regularly and time to dry out the pressure and sweat that built up in their combat boots, trench foot could have been greatly avoided. But that was the war then, Sorcha had to return to the war looming above Birmingham.
"I'll explain her part when it needs explaining. You have to pass the medical first." Tommy tamped out the butt of his cigarette with his heel.
Billy Kitchen undid the first few buttons of his shirt and pulled the cloth away to display the bandages wrapped around his body. "Sheffield mob showed up at Wincanton racing track. I took a bullet."
"When do the bandages come off?"
"When I take them off," was Billy's reply. "You'll smell no rot. No gangrene." He was dutifully informing Sorcha more so than Tommy with that last bit.
"I want you to be the head of a brigade, Billy. It'll be Brigadier Kitchen from now on. You'll have a hundred men under your command, and Sorcha as a buffer. Go home, Bill," Tommy concluded without divulging more than he had to in front of either of them. "Round up as many good men as you can trust. London's clean for the taking."
When Billy Kitchen had gone, Sorcha turned to Tommy accusingly. "What are you up to? All of a sudden you snatch me up from work after no word for weeks. You put a gun in my hands and tell me to shoot, then make me privy to yer business dealings?"
"I told you we're all stuck in this world. You'll be in no danger between Billy Kitchen and Solomons. You're just -"
"Bait?" Sorcha finished his sentence angrily.
"No. You're a buffer. Alfie wouldn't draw a gun at you." He shifted impatiently where he stood. "What happened to you just trusting me without questions?"
Sorcha scowled, hands poised on her hips, and ignored his pointed question. "Does Arthur know?"
Tommy let out an exasperated sigh. "Arthur will follow whatever I say. In the meantime, go - get John to find a rifle you can practice with, eh? You're a shit shot with handguns, but you'll get better by the time we head to London."
Sorcha tried to ask when she would be shipped off to London but Tommy had already started his determined strides toward the Garrison.
It was late when Sorcha finally pushed open the door to her home. Arthur was quick to greet her halfway up the stairs with a doting hand placed on the top of her head followed by kisses peppered across her cheeks. It was a ritual they had lovingly cultivated.
"You had a good day, love?" Arthur was beaming from ear to ear. He had propped himself on the edge of their bed, eyes trailing down Sorcha's body as she pulled off her blouse.
"Aye," she returned his smile and walked into his waiting arms. "I've missed you. Spent most of the day with Tom. Ack, he was a cranky bastard."
"He's always cranky," Arthur laughed.
Sorcha loosely hung her arms over Arthur's shoulders to linger comfortably closer to his warmth. Leaning down, she pressed her lips against the corner of his eye and stroked his face with the soft pads of her thumb. Every night she had to brace herself against the fierce love that brightened his eyes. It was home. Arthur was her safe haven. He was the haunted and wild animal prowling around the forests of her thoughts, keeping away the bad memories. Bad memories like the third soldier… Sorcha desperately repressed the images of him that bubbled up in her mind.
After long moments in the comfort of each other's company, Arthur nuzzled his face into the warmth of her body. "You'll come to bed soon, eh?"
"I might take a cuppa and enjoy the silence a bit. I'll be up in a bit?"
It was a flimsy excuse, Sorcha thought, but Arthur, hopelessly in love and eager to give her her heart's desire, nodded with a smile. With a parting kiss, Sorcha slipped down the stairs, passed the tea cupboard, and poured out a generous glass of whiskey with hungry fingers. She settled in the large chair staring at the dimming embers nestled in the fireplace. Sorcha sipped on the amber liquid and welcomed the burning sensation which immediately numbed the pain she had held inside for years.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…
The rifle cartridge had jammed. And, while Sorcha struggled to clear the chamber, the third soldier had advanced quickly to the wall of sandbags where she had shot both of his comrades. The German soldier jumped over the sandbags mere feet away from her. His footing broke under the thick mud and sucked him toward the decaying bodies inches below the soles of his boots.
The sound of distant gunfire was smothered by the deafening beat of her heart. Thud-thud-thud. Fingers shaking. Heart pounding. Time was suspended. She didn't have enough time to make peace with the God above. Sorcha furiously yanked at the rifle slide.
Thy kingdom come…
The soldier lifted himself up from the muck and mire. He had found his footing on the chest of a dead British soldier. With a swing, his rifle was held above his head, the bayonet pointed down toward Sorcha.
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…
A part of Sorcha considered accepting her death mid-prayer and she braced her body against the butt of the rifle which she gripped between her shaking hands. Her teeth clenched in preparation for the sharp blade to plunge into her chest. It wouldn't hurt. It would feel like the wind had been knocked out of her. She would have trouble regaining steady breath, but the blood would stain the front of her body.
Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses…
The German soldier might leave her to bleed out, but he might also land a final blow to slice open her throat. Or he would be merciful and put a bullet through her temple. She would die instantly that way.
As we forgive those who trespass against us…
Though time stood still, Sorcha looked up to catch a glimpse of humanity, compassion, and hesitation in the eyes of the German soldier as he held his bayonet above his head. He couldn't have been older than the other two boys Sorcha had shot down seconds before. He was just a child. Shell-shocked and terrified, the nurse and the soldier stared at one another for what felt like centuries.
Lead us not into temptation…
In a beautiful world without war and death and pain, Sorcha very much wanted to wipe the blood from his tear-stained face. They would sit together and laugh about what the world had become around them. They would hold one another and mourn the friends they lost. But it wasn't a perfect world.
Deliver us -
Sorcha squeezed the trigger. Her bones rattled when the bullet whizzed through the chamber. The surprise flashed through the young man's eyes first. Then shock followed. He dropped the rifle held above his head and brought his hands to his throat. The bullet had ripped through the soft flesh, severing his trachea. He fell onto his knees.
Numb with fear, Sorcha couldn't move. All she could do was watch as blood poured from his mouth. His lips quivered and the light from his eyes began to fade.
"I'm sorry," Sorcha sobbed. She crawled across the blood, mud, and decay towards him. Pulling his limp body closer to herself, Sorcha held the young man tight. A trembling hand pushed his sweat drenched hair back.
The blue in his eyes were blank and glazed over. "Mama." His words were quiet and gurgled with the blood pooling at his throat. "Mama," he said one last time before going still in her arms.
Arthur had found her weeping over the body of a German soldier. Her shoulders heaved with grief. All he could do was lift her to her feet and checked to see if she was covered in her own blood or someone else's.
"Sorcha," he said her name for the first time. She didn't look up at him; she couldn't tear her eyes away from the German soldier. "Sorcha," Arthur repeated, putting both of his tired and dirty hands on either side of her face to meet her eyes.
She didn't say a word. Couldn't. All Arthur could do was take her cold hands into his and lead her toward the regrouped men down the line.
Now Sorcha, having drowned herself in enough whiskey to rival all three Shelby brothers, sunk deeper into her chair. The glittering embers had long since disappeared in a wisp of cloud, and she was left shivering in her slip, knees tight against her chest. She couldn't move. The wooden floorboards were cold and she surely would collapse if her feet touched the ground.
"Sorcha?"
Arthur stood at the entrance of the room. He had spotted the empty bottle of whiskey first. She hadn't heard the creak of the stairs as he came down. She was but a small shadow. Arthur dropped to his knees beside her and reached out to wipe her tear-stained face. Slowly, he folded her cold hands into his.
"My bright little bird."
"No," Sorcha's voice cracked. "Your little bird isn't as bright any longer."