CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
a hen in the wolfhouse

"Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. And as I gave you the green plants, I give you everything." —Proverbs 19:5

Danny Whizz-bang. Danny Whizz-bang. It was all Trixie could think as she drifted into the church, her shoes still wet from the cemetery's mud. Tommy had god knows how many people chasing their own tails around town, and the guns had been right in front of them all along.

"Someone's been bad."

Trixie started. The Church was dark with early morning, but she had grown used to that voice by now; it was more familiar than she liked. "Inspector," she sang, deciding that she would make an effort to irritate him as much as he did her. "You can come out of hiding now."

Campbell emerged from the confessional, looking far too cheery for the hour. She would give anything for a few more hours of sleep, curved against the warmth of Tommy's chest. Her muscles ached, her hairs stood on end. "Your face is bruised."

"I know," Trixie deadpanned. "Can feel it, you see."

"Come sit," he invited, settling in the first pew and patting the spot at his side. Trixie huffed out a sigh, and pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, but obeyed. Staring up at the crucifix, Campbell muttered, "You Catholics are so gory, aren't you?"

Trixie hummed noncommittally at the Body of Christ. It was hardly a delicate portrait, but then again—it wasn't meant to be. "Are we going to have a long talk about theology?"

"In a sense," Campbell retorted. "I heard last night that two IRA men were found dead in your husband's pub. Would you know how that happened?"

"It's his brother's pub, technically," she corrected. "But no, I don't know anything."

"I don't believe you, Mrs. Shelby."

"You should," Trixie said, twisting around to face him. One of his mustache hairs had dislodged from his face and was caught in the pinch of his chapped upper lip, but he didn't seem to notice. "I'm just his wife. Making dinner, you see. Keeping a clean house. Praying for sons."

The lie was so old it had grown stale, and neither believed it anymore at this point, but Trixie enjoyed evading his questions. Campbell still needed her. "Did he give you that bruise?" he inquired, lifting a hand and tracing the pad of his thumb over her neck. Trixie stilled. Damn him for insisting on meetings in the church. She couldn't very well hit him under Christ's watchful gaze. "You can lie to protect him, Beatrice; you can spy for him, and kill for him; but it would serve you well to remember that you are just another victim of Tommy Shelby."

Wrenching away from him, Trixie narrowed her eyes. "We both know you don't care about dead IRA men, Inspector. I may not be the only liar here, but at least I'm good at it." Besides, if Tommy had given her the bruise, she'd enjoyed it. But the marks from his hungry mouth were blurred with the ones from Byrne's fists, and Trixie couldn't be sure.

Campbell chuckled, and seized her chin, pressing his fingers hard into her jaw. "Careful," he hissed. "I am not afraid of your godless husband. You have been protected from the men of Birmingham by his ever-present hand, but I am here on behalf of the King. And you are not off-limits to me."

If she wasn't so angry, Trixie might've thrown up. Instead, she slapped his hand with her purse, making sure the buckle hit bone. "Tommy's not the only one you should be afraid of," she snapped. "However bad you think I am now, I promise I can get worse."

Neither spoke for a moment, Trixie still feeling so bleary from exhaustion that whatever guilt she was supposed to feel after the events of the night previous had not yet set in. She was still Trixie, still Father Martin's daughter, still an accountant and a friend and a woman. But she felt bigger. The fear she'd felt when they were last together in this church felt so far away she could hardly remember it. Just when she thought he might let her go, Campbell snorted. "Let dogs eat dogs. If you want to meet your maker at the hands of Tommy Shelby, then it'll be less scum on the street for me to clean up."

Let dogs eat dogs. Trixie offered a guileful smile. "You know we call you pigs, right?"

Campbell blinked. "I don't spend much time bothering with the disrespectful customs of people like you."

"I just think it's funny," she said, standing up. "When my father was a child, you know, he lived in Trinidad. He worked on a farm. In the pigsty, once, one of the hogs got its tail stuck in the fence. Started bleeding."

"You Catholics are gory," Campbell muttered.

"I'm not finished," Trixie snapped. She pulled on the finger of her glove, brushing over the wedding ring through the fabric. "When one pig starts bleeding, they have to isolate it. Because if the others get a whiff, they'll come with knives and forks to feast."

"You think we're cannibals," he drawled.

Trixie smiled and rose from her seat. "No. But I think you ought to be careful, Inspector. That pretty blonde thing isn't as loyal to you as you may think."

His mouth flattened into a displeased line, and Trixie worried he might throttle her if she didn't move quickly enough. Taking a step back, she offered him a sly smile. "What did you do to Miss Burgess?" Campbell demanded.

"Nothing," Trixie insisted. "She was offered an opportunity and she took it. Women have ambitions these days."

"Grace is a good girl," Campbell said. "She's always been a good girl."

"Is she?" Trixie asked. "Inspector—we both know that Tommy and I aren't in love. Our arrangement is strictly professional." She recalled his mouth on her thighs, hips, core—the way she'd choked on his name as she came. "But I think Grace has developed a bit of a crush. What else but love would drive a good girl to kill?"

Campbell blanched. "Grace wouldn't."

"But she did." Trixie tilted her head in mock-sympathy. "There was an IRA man who came to town a few weeks back, shot dead. And before you blame us, she's already confessed to it. Your spy is not a very good liar."

"Grace is not a killer. Though the concept may be unfamiliar to you."

"You think you're better because you have other men do your dirty work? Is that it, Inspector?"

"Your sins will send you to hang," Campbell hissed. "And I promise you, Mrs. Shelby, I will be there with a smile on my face to watch."

Trixie's voice twisted into a sneer. "Who's the gory one now?" She straightened. "Don't play God in a church, Inspector. It's disrespectful."

"Tell your husband I'm onto him," Campbell called in reply, as Trixie retreated through the Church's front doors.

Of all the places to find Tommy, Trixie had not expected to run into him on the steps of her father's old church. "Good morning," she greeted warily. She'd crossed town for tomatoes from the Italians, but the scarf over her hair kept her neutral enough. Tommy was a Peaky Blinder, and he wasn't bothering to hide it, even in enemy territory. "Come to pray, have you?" she teased.

"Thought I might find you here."

He was acting aloof in a way she'd never encountered before—it was worse than when he'd pretended to hate her, he seemed genuinely shy. "You're acting strange."

"Am I?" He offered a weak smile. "You were gone this morning."

"Had to take care of some business."

"Thought that was my line."

She shot him a wry grin, and Tommy reached into his coat's inner pocket for something. When he offered her the paper bag, she thought it might be a gun, or a bottle of whiskey, or a pipe—more trouble for her morning, but Trixie found herself accepting the parcel nonetheless, almost ashamed at how willing she was to stand by his side. But when she reached inside, she found fabric. A hat, just like his, with a checkered body. Trixie flipped the brim upside down and found the familiar glint of a razor shining back at her.

"Delivering on my promise."

Trixie thumbed the blade, and held the hat up for inspection. They'd made so many promises to each other. She dreaded what would happen when he decided to follow through on some of the others. A house in the countryside. It had been everything she wanted; now the very thought had her on the verge of tears. "Maybe you are an honest man, Thomas Shelby."

"Don't let that get around, or we'll be in trouble." He offered her his arm, and she accepted, looping her gloved hand through the inside of his elbow. "What business had you up before dawn?"

"Campbell," she replied flatly. "I'm making progress on our pretty blonde problem." Before she could talk herself out of it, Trixie added, "And anyway, I didn't take you for the type to let women lounge around for long after sex, so I thought it might be best to excuse myself before you got the opportunity."

When she'd woken up to rare birdsong, Tommy had been asleep, and Trixie had been too relieved to see him resting to move; and still, she knew that there was a large chance he would tell her to leave as soon as he realized what they'd done—and the prospect of that rejection had made her heart squeeze so tightly it felt like she would choke.

"You live there," he retorted.

"So you knew I'd be back." Tommy glared at her, and Trixie softened. "You're behaving very strangely," she said, not bothering to mask the fondness edging into her voice. "Hardly the Tommy I know, chasing accountants around town after bedding them."

"And you think you know me well?"

I've killed for you. I've bared myself to you. "You're my husband, aren't you?"

She expected him to object, to point out the hollowness of their marriage—it's what she would've done, even now as she began to doubt it—but Tommy just shrugged. "Guess so."

He seemed so defeated. "Come with me," Trixie said. "I have to get groceries. I'll use your reputation to bargain with the butcher. They've raised the prices on chicken again, you know. It's almost ridiculous."

As they headed towards the row of grocers that lined the street outside the butcher shop and the bakery, Trixie watched Tommy closely. He was as watchful as usual—maybe even more on-edge, but she couldn't blame him after Campbell botched their plan the night previous. There was a target on both of their backs.

All morning, Trixie had been waiting for the guilt. She should have felt concerned for Byrne's family, but all memories of the bloodbath in the Garrison were of the way Tommy trembled in her arms, Now you see me tumbling out of his mouth. Had he believed her, when she told him she knew? "Campbell said he's coming for you," Trixie murmured, as they passed a stand selling carrots. "I assume you're aware."

"I didn't think that his officers' mistake last night was an accident," Tommy replied.

"I'll keep an eye out for anything more." She cast sideways glance at him as she selected berries from one of the baskets. "Sleep well?" she asked, aiming for cheekiness and hoping he would recognize that there was more to her question.

Tommy shrugged. "Well enough."

She frowned, placing the fruit back in the basket and moving onto a chest of peppers. "I had a very strange dream," Trixie announced.

He hummed noncommittally, watching her curiously as she rifled through the vegetables for orange bell peppers. "About?"

"You were there," she said. "And you killed a man for me."

"More of a nightmare," Tommy muttered. Trixie straightened, tugging on the cuff of his sleeve until he offered her a hand, and then placing a pepper in his palm.

"You saved my life, Tommy. Now I'm like the rest of the city, and I owe you a debt."

His eyes grew suddenly foggy. "You're not like them, Beatrice." Tommy closed his hand around the pepper and placed it in her basket. "And you never will be."

"I was, once."

"No," Tommy disagreed. "You think anybody here would taunt me like you do? You think anybody here would see me for what I am, and not turn away?" He selected an apple from the fruit stand, nodded at the grocer, and placed it alongside the pepper. "You were never a nice girl. I could tell when I met you. Had a particular look in your eyes. Like you'd never been afraid."

Trixie narrowed her eyes, happy for the familiarity of verbal sparring. "I was nice before you."

"Don't think so." Tommy took the hat from her basket and set it atop her head. He pulled the brim down until it fit nicely over her hair. "You're like me. I've seen you too, Beatrice, there's no more denying it."

She inspected both of his eyes carefully, and found them betraying nothing. You're like me. She wanted to believe that it would've horrified her to hear that last year, but after everything, she wasn't so sure. Surely none of this would have come so easily if she was ever as pure as she liked to think. Trixie pursed her lips. If Tommy had come back from the war, in all his medaled glory, and seen something of himself in her, would she have been afraid? Would she have walked away?

"What did you think of me?" she asked, her cursed voice wobbling. Trixie cleared her throat. "What did you think of me, when you first saw me?"

He broke their gaze, reaching for the inevitable cigarette and lighter. When he held the box out to Trixie, though, she declined, too anxious to hear his answer to bother with deep breaths. "I thought you were a nice girl, Beatrice."

She shook her head. "No, you didn't." Trixie selected a jar of strawberry jam. "You've done bad things, but you've never enjoyed them. You just do what's necessary. And you still hated me from the start, didn't you?"

Tommy took a long drag off the cigarette, shrugging as he blew out the smoke. "Yeah. S'pose I did."

"Why?"

He spent so much time fiddling with the tab that Trixie began to wonder whether or not he'd even heard her question. Just as he tapped the edge of the cigarette to push off the ashes at the tip, she opened her mouth, only to be cut off. "You were not a nice girl, Beatrice Price. Polly said it. John said it. But I looked at you and I knew—you had them all under your spell, but I could see you for what you were."

She inched closer, the rest of the street falling away. "And what am I?"

Now his eyes were heavy-lidded, as they'd been that afternoon in the car before her wedding. Trixie held her breath, waiting for him to confess to whatever he'd kept hidden for so long. "Hungry." It came as barely more than a whisper, dancing down her spine and making Trixie shiver.

It was true, wasn't it? Trixie had been good before, because she didn't need to want; she was cared for. Every day, she was given clothes to wear and food to eat, coins to count and chapters to read. The world was so small, and she had everything she could want. But by the time Tommy met her, she'd been offered the apple from the tree of knowledge and eaten it in full view of her God. The two of them stood now in the streets of Birmingham like it was Eden, like they were Adam and Eve at the dawn of creation, itching to find out what existed beyond the Garden's walls. "You were afraid," she mumbled.

"I wasn't afraid," Tommy denied. "It was something else." He put his palm on her face, his thumb on her scar. Trixie regretted their deal now more than ever, and wanted to ask him for a re-negotiation, please, I'll starve if you exile me to some lovely house and leave me to grow old—please, there will never be anyone like you—but he spoke before she could manage the words. "You think the Irish in town are going to be upset about this?"

Trixie took a step back and cleared her throat, pushing all worries about the house from her mind. "'Fraid so." She fiddled with the hem of her glove. "They'll be after both of us, I'm sure the coppers on their payroll have sent back word already. Though, I think I'm the bigger target, for once. You were in the office. It's my name on the report."

Tommy frowned. As they exited the market strip, heading now towards the Garrison, he turned to Beatrice and said, "We need to get you out of town until it's safer, alright?"

"No," she snapped back immediately, and then wondered how she ever could've agreed to such a safe and happy life. "I'm going to see this through."

He stopped, gaze dropping to his shoes in frustration. "Beatrice—"

"I had another idea," she admitted. "I was going to tell you when I got home, because I needed to sort out one final thing first. It'll fix things—it'll fix everything—but I don't think you'll like it."

Tommy eyed her carefully, before flicking the cigarette aside and nodding. "Alright. Go ahead, Beatrice. How are you going to save us?"

The Garrison that afternoon was quiet, as if word had somehow spread throughout town of all that had happened the night before. Trixie listened carefully to see if the chattering would slow when she entered, but it remained steady. Had they gotten away with it? Or had they placed the blame on Tommy instead of her? It had to be the first, she thought. These men wouldn't laugh so easily if they knew what else had happened on the ground on which they stood.

"Surprised to see you," Grace greeted bitterly. Behind the bar, she was arranging glasses on a shelf.

"Don't slip," Trixie replied, not bothering with kindness. "Wouldn't want to break anything."

"Why are you here?"

"Monthly reports," Trixie replied, pulling the folder of daily accounts from her bag. She'd left the basket in Polly's kitchen, trading her vegetables for the data. "I have to balance the accounts by the thirtieth."

Grace shrugged. "Fine."

As she slipped behind the counter, Trixie remarked, "You seem to be in a terrible mood."

"You think I'm happy about my situation?"

"I thought you were a spy," Trixie replied, quiet enough that the others in the bar couldn't hear her. "Haven't you done worse? I can't imagine that scuffles between gangs are the biggest issue the King faces."

"It is when those scuffles could start a war."

"You feel loyalty to him?" Trixie asked. "The King, I mean. Do you worship him like we're meant to?"

"I feel loyal to my country. I feel loyal to my people."

"Hmm," said Trixie, while she opened the safe. "So it's not the King you fight for after all."

"I fight for peace," Grace hissed.

She'd backed Trixie up against the counter, but Trixie was undeterred. The fury in Grace's green eyes brought a spark of delight to her stomach, and she leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose. "Oxymoron if I've ever heard one," she whispered, before side-stepping the blonde and retreating to the snug, where she began to count out the cash in peace.

It had been a busy month for the Garrison—trouble with the Peaky Blinders meant more meetings, and more meetings meant more men buying a drink to negotiate over. There was more money to count than usual, and Trixie kept drifting back to her conversation at the marketplace earlier. The first time she came up short, she shook out her wrists. Focus, Bea. She exhaled, counting the money out loud as she went, writing things down for the first time in years and doing the sums on paper. It was still short—and not short as in, Arthur is using the safe as his personal expense account again, but short as in, somebody's been stealing from the Peaky Blinders.

Trixie curled her hands up into fists and blew out a breath. Arthur's pilfering was not unusual, though it was about as legal as the rest of the family business. Financial fraud was hardly the worst thing the Peaky Blinders partook in, and so Trixie usually ignored it, but this was not a few quid for a drink or a bet. This was five hundred pounds. An even five-hundred pounds from what the books were to be expecting.

After she'd gathered up the money and deposited it back into her bag, Trixie stood, swinging the door of the snug wide open and surveying the pub.

It could be Harry, she supposed, angry that Arthur had taken the bar over. But even in his anger, she doubted that Harry would be stupid enough to take from them—Tommy stealing his bar was one thing; Tommy having him killed was quite another. If presented with the two options, Trixie doubted he would choose to die.

Grace, then? But why would she, when she had no reason to? If the Crown was paying its agents so poorly that they had to skim from the top of their undercover jobs, the government would have collapsed in on itself already. Still, Trixie headed back towards the counter, depositing the money in the safe, before turning to Grace. "Have you seen five hundred pounds anywhere?" she asked casually, turning the bolt on the lock and sealing the safe. "Someone's misplaced it."

The agent whirled around with a glare. "Are you accusing me of stealing?"

"No," said Trixie. "I don't see what use you would have stealing that kind of money when you're surrounded by the armed men it belongs to all day." She pursed her lips. "Look. I'm just trying to find it before anybody gets strung up and shot. You want peace, right? You've got better odds of that with me than with Tommy."

Grace dropped her hands to her sides. Despite all the lying, she was true to her principles, at least, which Trixie regrettably found admirable. "Arthur said he was taking five pounds earlier to the boxing rings. I told him to leave a receipt, but—"

"But he didn't." Trixie shrugged. "Par for the course. Thank you, though."

"Welcome," Grace replied, frigid. Trixie stared at the wall of bottles for a moment, contemplating a gin, while Grace wiped the bar down halfheartedly. "What happened last night?" she asked after a long moment. There was give in the lilt of her words now—the promise of a truce.

"We took care of them."

"How?"

Trixie pulled the bottle from the shelf, filling a glass for herself. Byrne's bloody body flashed in her mind. "Same as you did, I'd say." She took a gulp from her drink. "They don't have the guns, if that's what you're trying to ask."

"Are you lying?"

If she were, it's not like she would admit it, but Trixie shook her head. "To be honest, Grace, we'd probably sell you out too, if the IRA came knocking. But you're still here."

"Comforting," she bit out.

"I'm so pleased," Trixie retorted. "Has anyone else handled the safe, as far as you know?"

Grace shook her head. "Only Arthur and I are behind the counter, except Harry, but Tommy made us change the locks when he purchased the bar."

"Thank you," said Trixie. "It'll be over soon enough, you know. You'll be back in Galway with all the guns you could dream of."

"I don't dream of guns," Grace told her.

Trixie stepped out from behind the counter. "Lucky you," she said, and then pulled on her gloves, bracing for the cold outside.

A/N: hi hi hello! this chapter is unbeta'd because i got so excited about the fact that i finally finished something and i wanted to get it out as soon as possible, but i'll try to edit it sometime in the next few days and update this chapter with corrections then. thank you so so much to everyone who read this, especially after such a long wait—things got kind of difficult but i'm really relieved at your patience if you've gotten this far without giving up. please feel free to leave feedback, i would really appreciate it as i get back into writing this fic again :)

also, as an aside—i had a few people asking me if i had original work they could buy to support me. i actually just released a chapbook a few days ago that you can order at tinyu rl dot com slash slasherorderform :) it's pay what you can and half the proceeds are donated to mutual aid fundraisers, but if you want a copy for free just indicate in the form and i can send that. obviously no pressure, but i figured i would put it out there in case anybody was interested :)

thank you so much for reading and i will see you soon!

Chapter 27 / Dead to Me

"Would you be up for a honeymoon?" Trixie asked, as if this were a legitimate proposal and not an escape necessitated by the encroaching Birmingham Police officers.

"Somewhere sunny?" Tommy asked, though he was already shoving a fresh round of bullets into his revolver.

"Oh, for God's sake, you two," Polly hissed. "Get the hell out of here."