A Mind to Tear a Soul in Two: Chapter Nineteen
The first night with Ada and Freddie she'd woken with a jolt, shouting "No!" into the darkness that engulfed Karl's bedroom. Twice.
Ada had kicked her into the drawing-room after that. Karl was a fussy enough baby, he didn't need his aunt waking him up throughout the night simply because her mind was running wild with her.
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The second night she'd done the same, this time startling herself as she fell from the sofa smack onto the hard floor.
The smell of wet hay filled her nostrils.
She was light-headed and achy, drenched in her own sweat and wildly nauseous.
Fresh air was sorely needed.
Moving from her spot on the floor, Charlotte shuffled her way across the room to fling open the window.
Trying to push past her nausea, she breathed in deep through her nose as she rested her head on the windowsill. Exhaling slowly, she felt the beads of sweat on her brow cool and dissipate as the late winter breeze picked up and chilled her damp skin.
Relaxing into the gentle touch of London's cold air, Charlotte opened her eyes and was surprised to see a pack of cigarettes wedged between the window and the cabinet.
Reaching out, she snatched one up and moved to light it in the dying fire opposite the sofa.
Taking a long drag, she let the chemicals relax her body — even as she felt her chest tighten against the invading foreign substance.
She coughed. Heavily. Hacking, really.
She'd never been able to indulge in the "filthy habit" — Polly's phrase whenever she'd caught Charlotte in the act — long enough or often enough to get used to the feeling of smoke in her lungs. But, the calming effect of the tar was a feeling she'd not soon forget.
A bit of ash fell onto the floor and Charlotte cursed, "Shit." Ada had strict rules for smoking in the house — it was strictly forbidden. Brushing away the remnants from the carpet, she sighed hoping Ada wouldn't notice. Must be why the sticks were hidden next to the window.
Making a snap decision, Charlotte stamped the cigarette out, fetched a match from the fire, and began her careful sneak into the hallway. Aiming to be as quiet as possible Charlotte made her way towards the back door — farthest away from Tommy's henchmen guarding out front. If she wanted to cool off undisturbed in the fresh air, the back garden was the best — and only — way to achieve her goal.
Just as she reached the door, however, her bare foot kicked an unexpected coal pail and she hissed in pain. Sushing the inanimate object, Charlotte reached down to stop the damned thing from making so much racket. Didn't the stupid bucket know she was meant to be sneaking? Fucking inconsiderate. Frozen in her spot, hovering over the pail, she waited, straining to hear any movement from the rest of the flat.
When all was silent she continued on.
Sidestepping the pail that had likely been placed in the middle of the walkway as a reminder to her brother-in-law that the small family was low on the heat source, Charlotte finally opened the door, gaining access to the somewhat 'fresh' London air.
Leaving the door open, Charlotte sat with her butt on the inside, and toes cooling on the stone steps that lead to a nice small patch of green grass.
Closing her eyes, Charlotte sighed as her skin quickly cooled. This was nice.
Her back and neck still ached, her hands smarting from the fall. But the nausea was fading — as were the memories of the dream that had sent her sprawling onto the drawing-room floor.
Lighting the stolen stick, Charlotte found herself mimicking the way Arthur held his cigarettes — lazy and choked as if he was gonna save half of it for later. Funnily enough — the opposite of how he drank his liquor — fast and rowdy as if the well would never dry.
The thought of Arthur had her groaning to herself — he was bound to be as angry as Tommy was with her. Polly too. Jesus, what had she gotten herself into?
The runner she'd pulled wouldn't soon be forgotten.
She knew she was putting off the inevitable by hiding herself away like this. But she thought she'd rather like to give Tommy time to cool down. It was possible that then he'd be less angry about the gun, and more so about her disappearance.
She knew she could manage the consequences for pulling a runner — she'd done that before and survived. She wasn't so sure she'd survive the punishment she'd receive for shooting at her brother.
She sighed into the cool air, watching as her breath formed a cloud before disappearing into oblivion.
From behind her, she felt the air shift, and her body tensed. Turning slowly to look, Charlotte winced when she saw Freddie standing menacingly above her, pistol in hand.
"Jesus fuck! Freddie! What're you doing?" Keeping her voice at a whisper she raised her hand as if to block his potential shot.
"I could ask you the same." Releasing the hammer on the weapon, her brother-in-law set the gun on the side table and turned back to her.
"Now what're you doing–" He paused, finally taking notice of the scene before him, before crouching down to sit beside her, "What're you doing with that." Raising an eyebrow, Freddie nodded to the stick in her hand.
"You wanna know what I'm doing with this lit cigarette here in my hand? This one that I–" she paused to take another drag before exhaling out into the London air, "-am currently smoking?"
"Yes, you cheeky little shit."
"Well, now. I'd say the answer is in the question, ain't it?"
Rolling his eyes, Freddie muttered under his breath, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I don't know how they tolerate you."
"The brothers?" Not waiting for his nod of confirmation, she barrelled on, "Just barely, I'd say."
"And are any of these brothers of yours now allowing you a smoke whenever you please?"
Taking another drag, she blew the tangy smoke into the chilled air, "Depends on how you define 'allow' I suppose."
"I define it as having given their permission to engage in said act."
"Then, no."
Before she could react, Freddie had reached out and snatched the stick from between her fingers, taking a deep drag himself.
"Where'd you get this, anyhow?"
"Found it — between the window and the table in the drawing-room."
He scoffed and shook his head, "Not a great hiding stop I suppose."
She shrugged, "I'd say not."
"I'll need to find someplace better." His tone was lazy and she nodded at his assertion, wrapping her arms around her legs as her toes wiggled in the cold air.
They sat there for a lazy moment, neither speaking, until Freddie nudged her with his shoulder, "Well, out with it. Why're you sitting out here in the freezing cold, smoking my secret cigarettes, all on your own?"
Again she shrugged, "I needed some air."
"By the looks of it you opened the window in the drawing-room — that not enough?"
"Well, then I found the cigs, and realised Ada woulda smothered me with a pillow if she smelled the smoke and saw any speck of ash in her fancy drawing-room."
"You're not wrong there." He nodded at her — confirming her decision to be a wise one — and she returned the favour, "So I came out here."
"Ain't you freezing?"
"Come offa it, Freddie. It's not that cold. It's nice."
Taking the last puff before throwing the stick to the ground and stomping it out, Freddie reached out to take her face in his hands, "Lemme feel your face."
"What're you doing?" Trying to wriggle away, he held firm. "Your face feels warm–"
Pushing his hands away, she interrupted his administrations, "It's the heat from the cigarette."
"I dunno, Charlie. I think Ada might be right. You've worn yourself out and gone and caught yourself a cold."
She rolled her eyes at him, "I thought I left Uncle Charlie and Aunt Pol back in Birmingham, Fred."
"Well, that's what I get for caring. Me own sister-in-law calling me an old man–"
"I didn't call you old, I insinuated it."
"Alright, Miss Big Words, can we go back to sleep? Your sister made me come out here to see if someone'd broken in. And I need to get back to her before she comes out here with her own gun, ready to take a shot at either of us.
Freddie had then returned to Ada and his bed, while Charlotte headed back to the drawing-room, where sleep never came.
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On the third day, Ada forced her to make a telephone call.
"Just ring him, Charlie. Let him know you're safe and alive. You'll feel better knowing he's not out of his mind with worry."
Ada was growing exasperated at her sister's refusal. As was Charlotte growing exasperated with Ada's persistence. "I can't, Ada. I just can't. You know what he's like! He's equally as frightening over the telephone as he is in person." Ada nodded in confirmation of Tommy's terrifying disposition, "Yeah, you're right about that."
"Me palms are getting sweaty and I'm only thinking about it." She was whining, her voice had hit that particular octave that signalled to her siblings a tantrum was imminent. She just wished Ada would be a bit more understanding, "And besides, how'm I supposed to get over to Missus Russo's place without being spotted by his watchdogs out there?"
Ada rolled her eyes at both her tone and feeble attempt at an excuse, "Out the back door. We do share a garden — and you're looking for an excuse."
Standing there, hands on her hip, taking up as much space as possible in order to seem authoritative, Ada looked like Polly. It was eerie. And quite frankly, frustrating. Because Charlotte knew — just like with Polly — she wouldn't win this fight, "Jesus, fine. I'll make a call, make sure Tommy knows I'm alive."
Ada slapped a sickeningly sweet fake smile on her face — she was a poorer winner than she was a loser, "Good. Missus Russo's expecting you."
"Of course she is."
"You were making a call whether you agreed to it or not. So get your skinny ass over there and get it over with." Ada gave her no choice as she pushed her out the back door and Charlotte heard the distinct sound of a lock slamming into place just as the door banged closed.
As if on cue, Missus Russo stuck her head out her back door to become Charlotte over, "Hello there dear. Won't you make yourself comfortable?"
"Thank you for accommodating me, Missus Russo." Entering into the older woman's flat, Charlotte was ushered towards the dining table where the phone sat ready and waiting, "Oh, no trouble, no trouble at all. A warning though, I am on a party-line, so anyone with a phone on this block could listen in at any time."
The Garrison had once been on a party-line, but Tommy hadn't been too fond of anyone with a phone picking up and listening in anytime they wanted. So he insisted Harry arrange for a personal number for direct dialling and fronted the barman the money from the Peaky books.
Picking up the telephone with a shaky hand, Charlotte froze at the very real imminent danger of speaking to Tommy Shelby. "Hello?" The operator questioned her silence. But still, she couldn't speak. "Hello?"
This time it was Missus Russo that spoke, "Dear, you've got to direct your call to the operator."
Nodding as she licked her lips she finally garnered enough courage to spit out the words, "Sixteen Garrison Lane, Small Heath, Birmingham, please. The Garrison pub."
The perky voice of the operator set her on edge, "Sure thing. One moment please."
After waiting about a minute in dead silence, the disembodied voice finally returned, "Connecting now."
She heard a long beep, followed by a second, followed by a gruff voice on the other line, "Yeah?"
She couldn't breathe.
Again the voice questioned, "Hello?"
She let out a shaky breath she hadn't realised she was holding. This wouldn't be so bad. There was a possibility Tommy wasn't even at the pub. She could speak with John instead! He'd relay the message to their older brothers, and she wouldn't have to deal with Tommy all. She could do this. Just speak.
"I can hear you breathing."
John's voice was joking now. A mix of curiosity and frustration with the silence on the other end of the line.
She took another breath. Less shaky this time.
"There! Heard it again!"
A small smile crept onto her face. She could do this. It was only John. She could handle John.
"Em…"
A loud bang from John's end of the line startled her. Not a gun bang, no. She thought it might've been the sound of a pint glass slamming on a table.
"Lottie? That you?" His voice wasn't joking anymore. He was very serious. That scared her right back into silence. "Seriously, Lottie. If that's you, say something."
From the opposite chair Missus Russo encouragingly waved her on. But she struggled to find the strength to speak. Swallowing hard she managed to squeak out a small, "Hi John…" before her words once more failed her. She was chicken shit, for certain.
"Hi? That's all you have to say? Hi?!" He was pissed. His tone, usually so light and hospitable, had turned sour and uninviting. "Ok, fine. You don't wanna speak? I'll speak."
He paused to see if she'd find her words, but when none came he eagerly started in, "Three days, Charlotte. It's been three days and until this very moment, none of us knew if you were alive, or on your own, or dead in a ditch somewhere."
He was beyond angry.
"Tommy's been…" he faltered for a moment before continuing, "Tommy's been, well, Tommy.
"You need to get your ass back here, buck up and take what's coming to ya. Because the longer you wait it's only going to get worse."
He paused, again waiting to see if she'd speak up for herself. But when no words came she heard him sigh before he started in again, "We're worried, Lottie. Tommy's going absolutely mad. We just want you–"
There was a noise in the background and John's voice trailed off as he paused to listen. Then some muffled words that she could quite make out. Then some muted shouts. A long bang — as if the receiver had been dropped. Then, "Hello?"
She slammed her receiver down in its cradle, hoping that the operator would take the hint and end their connection.
Her heart was about to beat its way up and out of her throat.
Dealing with John was fine. She obviously couldn't find the courage to speak back, but she didn't break out into a sweat at his voice.
But him?
No.
Her instincts took over when Tommy's voice echoed through the line. He had only spoken one word and she was already sweating and shaking.
Ada was wrong. She most definitely did not feel better having heard his voice. Because in one single word she could feel his anger reverberating across the country.
"Oh, poor dear. Are you alright?" Missus Russo reached out to place a comforting hand on Charlotte's shoulder.
"I- I- I don't know."
She sat for only a moment before the telephone began to ring. Nearly jumping out of her skin, Charlotte somehow managed to lift the receiver once again. Urging her to bring the thing to her ear, Missus Russo whispered, "Hello," to help Charlotte along with the process.
Echoing Missus Russo, Charlotte questioned, "Hello?"
"Charlotte? Is that you?" Tommy must've had the operator reconnect the line.
Again she did nothing but place the receiver back on the cradle before rising from her chair, "Thank you very much for the use of your telephone, Missus Russo, but I'm afraid not feeling too well. I better get back to my sister."
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The third night was unexpected, to say the least.
The air was cold and still. And after last night's scare, she decided it'd be best if she stuck to opening up the windows rather than the back door.
But it seemed she was nonetheless destined to be disturbed.
She heard a noise — a creak in the old floorboards — and she couldn't stop the question that left her lips, "What happened with you and him?"
She'd been thinking about why she'd come to Ada for hiding in the first place. Ada wasn't always one for keeping her from Tommy's wrath, but she knew she'd be able to count on Freddie for a bit of safety.
Deep in the back of her mind, she worried that someday she and Ezra would end up heading down the same path that Tommy and Freddie had found themselves on.
Tom and Fred had much more in common than herself and Ezra. His family was far more posh than any of the Shelby's. His mother came from money and that allowed him certain privileges that she couldn't imagine for herself. Ezra had spent summers with his grandparents at their estate in London, and Christmases in the country. He'd often talk of attending the opera and art galleries — normal toff things, she told herself.
But if two men that were so alike as Tommy and Freddie could lose their friendship, then what would ever keep her and the far more reputable Mister Harlow together?
"Hard to say." Freddie paused and she turned from the window to face him, "Things just fell apart."
She waited for further explanation, and it seemed that Freddie might've been searching for one as well. But after a minute, he shrugged and shook his head as he looked off into the past, "Everything fell apart."
Another lonely silence settled between them as Freddie tried to let loose the frustration of his past, finally kicking the idea he questioned, "Why're you up again at this hour anyway?"
"Couldn't sleep." She paused, giving him a raised eyebrow as he stood in the doorway, "You?"
"Same." He grumbled to himself a bit, stretching the sleep from his limbs as he moved to take a seat in the chair across from her bed on the sofa. A few moments passed without a sound from either party before Freddie spoke out, "I've got nightmares too, ya know."
It wasn't accusing or derogatory, simply a statement in commiseration.
Leaning back against the window, she kept her tone even, unsure if she wanted to get into the subject of her nightmares with her brother-in-law, "Who told you I've got nightmares?"
"Ada."
She blurted the word before she could stop herself, "Snitch."
"She's looking out for you. Besides, she had to tell me something after you'd woken up Karl twice in one night."
Charlotte didn't respond. She wasn't certain what it was that Freddie was doing here. Was he looking to pass the time until he was tired enough to fall back asleep? Had Ada put him up to this? She was suspicious that he was interested in her problems at all. If her own brothers weren't interested, she doubted he was.
"Charlie, everyone's got nightmares of their own to deal with. It's not unusual."
"So you've got 'em?"
"Of course." He wasn't prying, and his casual tone surprised her. Tommy'd never admit to such a weakness. But she knew better, "Tommy too."
"Yeah, I bet he does."
"Nearly shot me once." The memory jumped into her mind and she almost laughed. How far had she come in such a short amount of time?
"He what?"
Turning back to the window, Charlotte let the London air cool her face before she responded, "It was late one night not long after all you boys came back. Ada was out — I can't imagine where she'd gotten off to–"
Cutting her off, Freddie urged her to continue, "Yeah, yeah…"
"I woke up and thought I heard a fight — there was a crash. And Tommy was yelling at the top of his bloody lungs. I wanted to help. I was the only one in that night and my brother was probably dying. So I grabbed me gun and ran in. But it was only him. And his gun. Shooting at me." Sighing she let a short cynical laugh pass her lips, "No intruder at all."
"Did he get ya?"
She shook her head and shrugged, "No, but he made me promise not to tell anyone about it."
"But you told me."
"Add it to the list of grievances."
Freddie chuckled, promising, "He won't hear about it from me, I swear."
"My hero." He sassed at him.
"Did he ever tell you why he shot at you?"
Again, she shook her head, "No. I've got a few guesses. But I figured they all fell into Polly's 'no talking about the war' category so I never asked. And Tommy's not much for volunteering information."
Freddie nodded, a small smile etching across his face before he leaned back in the chair adding, "I might have a guess as to what haunts him in his sleep."
"How's that?"
"Because I was there. His nightmares are mine too. If I close my eyes I can smell the dirt and sweat and the smoke that sat in the air as the clouds hovered and the rain fell. And in my dreams, I hear the sounds of the screams and guns firing. The dull thud that a body makes when it hits the mud."
Turning from the open window to face Freddie, Charlotte stared at him in shock, "You don't hafta tell me this." He'd told her more in thirty seconds than any of her own three brothers had mentioned in the two years since they'd been back.
"I know I don't. But I don't mind — it's good to talk about it." He sighed and motioned for her to come away from the window, "So why don't you lay down and listen, eh?"
Moving back to her makeshift bed she quipped, "You always been this bossy? Or Ada rubbing off on you?"
"Cheeky." Waiting for her to get comfortable, Freddie continued, "We were tunnelers. Your brother and I, Danny, and a dozen or so other men that never made it home. Normally we'd be tasked to dig a tunnel under and over on the other side of the trenches."
"Why?"
"Most of the time they didn't tell us. It was on a need-to-know basis, and the grunts doing the work didn't need to know." Pausing for a moment he seemed to search for a direction for his story, before shrugging to himself and continuing on, "I suppose they did tell us in their own way. They'd hand us the charges to place and when we managed to crawl our way back out, we'd set those bombs off and watch from a distance as the front lines exploded.
"When we got there they put that brother of yours in charge, gave him a chance to do what he does best — toss around orders like he does so well and grumble at the incompetence of the higher-ups. We'd tunnel our way — five hundred yards or so — day and night so we could place those bloody explosives on the enemy side before a large advance.
"When them bombs would blow it'd take out their front lines, giving our side the advantage. We'd done it the whole war, tunnelling to plant bombs. Sometimes they'd have us tunnel our way into enemy camp so we could get close enough to gather intelligence for those toffs on the topside.
"But this time it was different. We were about to have our own front-line battle. Us filthy tunnelers and their filthy tunnelers.
"Turns out, their grunts weren't as good as us grunts. Much louder, not as efficient. We could hear 'em coming from a mile away — not quite, but nearly.
"This time, It had rained the night before, which made the ground unstable, but we went at it anyway — couldn't disobey orders. We'd started digging, but could only get so far — we didn't want to give away our location. So for days, we waited underground, weapons in hand, as the Germans tinkered away at their tunnel. The clanging permeated our thoughts day and night — there was no relief from it. We couldn't talk, couldn't rest, couldn't keep our fucking sanity.
"We'd guessed that they'd be on us in another twelve hours or so, so we waited. But we were wrong — they got to us much quicker than expected, and we weren't prepared. And before any of us knew what'd happened, the Germans were crashing through into our tunnel. They were shouting and we were shouting — none of it making any bloody sense. Nobody could make anything out anyway — and even if we could there was no room to move. We were stuck, and before we knew it, the integrity of the two tunnels gave way. The rain was heavier than anyone had realised — their side and ours."
Freddie's eyes were closed as he remembered his experience. He was surprisingly calm and collected as if he'd told this story a thousand times.
"So much happened so quickly. It's still a blur no matter how many times I go over it in me head." So he had told the story before — over and over again to himself. She understood.
"I'd been shot. I couldn't see straight. And one of them had gotten on toppa me. I didn't know if he was trying to kill me or save himself. But Tommy — he'd managed to wrestle the fucker offa me before the dirt began to rain down on us. Danny'd come up on 'em and stabbed that fucker right to death as Tommy held him in place.
"I watched and I could feel the blood leaking outta me. It was sticky. And Tommy had a hold on me. It's strange but I felt safer with him nearby. He was the closest thing I'd ever have to a brother, and if I were gonna die, I'd want it to be with him at me side."
Freddie stopped and Charlotte thought he might've been surprised at his own words. He seemed to mull over them for a minute or so until he remembered that he still had a captive audience.
"Earth is much heavier than you'd think. Especially when it's wet. We had to dig our way up, lungs filled with damp dirt, eyes pasted shut with drying sweat, oxygen running low as the ground compacted around us. Blood running through my fingers and out my chest.
"Men don't usually survive a collapse. But that hardheaded brother of yours didn't stop. We dug and clawed ourselves up through the earth, there was no thinking involved, only the need to survive.
"We clawed and dug. It felt like hours and hours. I could hear others doing the same, clawing and choking — gasping for air that wasn't there. Working as hard as possible before our lungs filled with earth. Before there was nothing but death to look forward to. I wasn't even certain I was digging the right way up — me head was spinning and it felt like we'd been caught up in an ocean's tide.
"Almost all of us died that day, it was only me, your brother, and Danny that made it to the surface. And afterwards, I almost didn't make it either. I swear it was the cold that saved me — slowed the blood pumping through me long enough. Saved us all until the Calvary could arrive."
She wanted to ask if the Calvary was really filled with men on white stallions, or if it was just a saying. But she didn't want to interrupt. She wanted to hear more."They say it's easier to die in the cold, ya know?"
She nodded weakly before mumbling out the thought that had jumped into her head, "It was cold that night, in the barn, at the yard." The words came out before she had a chance to stop them.
Why had she said that?
Maybe she wondered if that copper had died more easily because it was cold.
Maybe she wanted Freddie to know that she was paying attention.
Maybe she didn't know her own mind at the moment, and there was no reasoning.
Either way, Freddie didn't respond. He waited for her to continue. Clearly hoping that his sharing had opened her up.
It hadn't.
Eventually, he raised an eyebrow, asking if she had anything else to add. She shook her head, looking down at her lap, and he continued, "I woulda thought they'd have Tommy's head for disobeying orders — but wouldn't ya know? They gave him a bloody medal — gave us all medals. What a load of shit that did for us."
She was confused for a moment, "What orders did he disobey?"
"He was supposed to lead what was left of the tunnelers and any infantrymen up the hill and through the battlefield to the camps when all was said and done. But he refused. We were all too injured. Too tired. The snow was falling and Tommy didn't have the heart to kill any more of us on a march to safety. So we waited for them to come to us. We wouldn't have made it anyway. There woulda been a trail of bodies."
Freddie stopped and breathed deeply. She was certain he was feeling the constriction in his chest, and the lightheadedness that comes with a lack of air to the lungs.
"But now. That's what I hear, the sound of cascading dirt. The heaviness in my lungs. And the worry that someone on the other side is gonna shoot at me again."
"Do you wake up screaming and shooting at people?" It was a bit of a joke, but she truly wanted to know.
He shook his head as he slowly released a deep breath, "I'd have to say that reaction is Tom's alone."
"So what'd you do?" She was genuinely interested. "I'm more of a heaving my guts kinda man, myself."
She pulled a face at him, "Gross."
He raised a questioning brow at her, "It's better than shooting at people, aye?"
"He doesn't shoot anymore. He's got the pipe."
"Yeah? How'd you know that?" He seemed concerned. For her? Or for Tommy? She wasn't sure. "I saw it — a few times. He doesn't know though."
"So that's how he does it. Smokes the pipe to keep his brains from leaking out his ears."
"You don't approve?"
"Bloody hell, no." His voice was firm, and he turned a hard gaze on her, "You stay away from that pipe, you hear me?" Surprised at his tone she tried to assure him that wasn't the plan, "I wouldn't–"
Cutting her off, he continued his warning, "I'm serious Charlie. If I hear that you're messing with that shit, I'll throw you at Tommy's feet myself."
"I wasn't planning on it." It was the god's honest truth too.
"Good." There was an unsteady silence between them before Freddie started in again, "So, you gonna tell me about your nightmares?"
She stilled. Did she want to talk about this? Freddie had shared his story with her — she should reciprocate. She figured when all was said and done, she'd end up sharing. But she tried to sidestep the discussion one last time. A last-ditch effort to avoid the inevitable uncomfortable conversation, "There's nothing–"
"Girl, you're literally making yourself sick. Now come offa it and tell me what's going on in your head, eh?" He was growing frustrated with her avoidance, and she was getting frustrated in response, "Suddenly you're a goddamned mind doctor, Fred?"
His response was short and clipped, "Takes one to fully understand you Shelby's."
She paused before questioning, "Ada included?"
"Especially Ada." Freddie grinned, and Charlotte let his joke settle in the thick air between them. As the silence quelled their emotions, Charlotte continued to think, adjusting her blankets as she chewed on her fingernails.
"Bloody hell, Charlie. Spit it out, won't ya?"
Rolling her neck the way she'd seen Arthur do time after time, she let out a heavy sigh, "I don't even know what to say or where to start."
"Don't overthink it. Just tell me about your nightmares, start at the beginning." Freddie's voice was calm and genuine — he truly wanted to hear what she had to say.
"The dreams…" She trailed off.
The dreams weren't anything new. She'd been tortured by her mind's nighttime adventures since — she felt bile rising in her throat as she thought the word: attack.
Since the attack.
The attack.
She had been attacked.
She had also been the attacker.
A man was murdered that night at her hands.
She'd attacked until he was dead.
And it all reflected in her dreams.
She'd promised Aunt Polly and assured Tommy that they were gone. But in truth, she'd only gotten better at managing. They'd never stopped.
And here she was about to confess her lie to the only person in all of England that neither Tommy nor Polly had any sway over. Freddie was the perfect confessor. It made sense. So she cleared her throat and started, "It's like I'm somewhere in the middle between awake and asleep. I can feel things moving around me, like a breeze or an added weight on me bed. But I can't do nothin' about it. I'm frozen. Then I smell it. Hay and horses. A damp and foul stench of breath — just like his. And I wanna scream, I wanna run. But I can't do nothin'.
"Sometimes I can feel the thick warm blood on my hands, but I know there's nothing there." She itched at her hands as if to scrub away the blood and dirt and hay that she knew wasn't there. "They've been worse the past two nights. More…" What was the right word? Real? No. Vivid? No. Dramatic? Still, no. Real? Yes. "Realistic. They feel real. And stronger, I guess. Like I can actually reach out and touch… him." She took a deep breath before continuing, "They happen at home too. But I don't really remember. They don't come back until something reminds me."
Freddie sighed, his eyes filled with brotherly concern, "You gotta deal with this shit, Charlie. You're making yourself sick and you don't even see it."
"I'm not sick — just tired. I'm not sleeping all that well." She'd gotten pretty good at functioning with little to no sleep. She'd watched Tommy do it for months and months, she had the perfect role model.
Leaning in closer, Freddie informed her, "Ada tells me you heaved up yesterday."
Fucking Ada. She really can't keep her mouth shut. "That's the dreams — look at yourself!"
"It's not the dreams when you're emptying your stomach at three on the afternoon."
She threw her hands in the air, "So what am I supposed to do? Make my way back to Small Heath, tell Tommy I'm drowning in dreams, making meself sick, oh and by the way — sorry for shooting at ya."
He shrugged, "Maybe."
She scoffed, "Not bloody likely."
"Go to Arthur — he's got his own demons to deal with. He might be more understanding than Tom."
"Maybe." But she knew it wasn't true. Arthur would turn her over to Tom the first chance he got — if John's anger over the telephone was any indication — Arthur's mood would be far worse.
Once again the two let silence settle over them. The wind whistling as it whirled past the open windows seemed to lull them both into a comfortable half-sleep state. It was then that she found herself thinking about Ezra again. Speaking up, she nearly laughed when her voice started Freddie, "You never said what happened between you two. He saved you from the collapse and you wanted to die with him. It couldn't have been that. So what changed?"
"That's what started it all. It changed who we were. It changed what we wanted. It changed our views on life." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "It's hard to say why we are the way we are now. But you can think about it this way," adjusting himself in the chair he struggled to continue, "we both went into an impossible situation — we were ordered into an impossible situation. We knew we wouldn't survive — we believed it to be true — and we made our peace with it. But when we did survive, we came out different than we went in. Different views, different opinions. We became completely different men."
"But you two were in the exact same situation."
"You and Ada were raised in the exact same house, and yet you're both incredibly different people."
"I suppose…" She trailed off before adding, "But she had our mom."
He shrugged and closed his eyes, leaning back into his chair, "I suppose you're right. But it's the same basic idea; we just have different perspectives on the same situation."
Watching Freddie relax in his chair, Charlotte took the opportunity to ask him an even more difficult question, but she had to bait him first, "Do you remember much from back then?"
He nodded, eyes still closed, "Sure I do."
"Do you remember my mom?"
He sat up, eyes open, no longer the relaxed figure he was only seconds earlier, "Charlie, you know that it's not my place to be talking about your mother."
She bristled at his pitying tone, "Why not? You knew her."
"But she's not my mother. She's yours and Ada's and Tommy's. And the rights to those stories belong to them."
"And me?"
Freddie nodded, "Sure — when the time is right."
Trying to keep her temper in check she all but growled at him, "It's not bloody fair. Everyone has memories of her — even you. And you won't fucking share them! I didn't get to make any memories, and I'm not even entitled to share someone else's."
His tone turned sharp, but still held a lilt of pity, "Memories of parents aren't all they're cracked up to be, let me tell you."
She crossed her arms and pouted, "I don't care." Giving him her best sorrow-filled look, she hoped to sway him. Finally, after a few moments, he narrowed his eyes before groaning, "Fine."
Settling back in his chair he continued, "I'll tell you this, you're a lot like her — you and Tommy both. You've both got this wildness that was in her. She had this part of herself that always seemed to be unsettled." Charlotte couldn't help but smile. The information wasn't much — but it was something. And something was always better than nothing in her books.
"And that's why Tommy wants to keep you in the dark, he doesn't want you influenced by a little bit of the wrong knowledge. He wants you to grow as you are. You've got too many influences already — those brothers of yours, Polly, your Uncle, Curly — each one gets to have their own little stamp on you. There's no use bringing the dead back to have a say."
Her mind stuck on his one particular word, "Knowledge about what?" Freddie shook his head, and she tried again, "What doesn't he want me to know?"
"It's not my secret to share."
"What's a secret? What're you on about?"
Freddie ran a hand down his face. He was tired, and she was obviously pushing his buttons, "Nothing, Charlie. Take it up with your brothers if you've got questions."
She pouted, "They never answer me."
"Then maybe you don't need to know."
"Why's everyone else get to decide what I should and shouldn't know?"
"Because it's the way of things."
That was an insufficient answer as far as she was concerned, "Says who?"
"Says Thomas." Freddie fired back and she growled, "Who died and made Thomas king of the world?"
"I'd say your mother did."
That hit her like a punch in the gut, and she had no more words for him. So he continued in her silence, "Your mom died, your Da left, and then part of Tommy died — Arthur and John too. But with Tommy, that part that balanced him — that's that part he left in France. Bits of himself died at the Somme. And that was that. There's no coming back for him and he's the way he is because of it." Shaking his head, Freddie looked as though he was trying to clear away his frustration over Tommy's new outlook on life. "Now, with your mother — the whole family's agreed to keep you outta it, and you'll not be getting me in trouble by trying to drag me into it."
"But why?" Freddie had just explained why, she knew. But she couldn't fully understand.
"It was a decision that was made a long time ago. But you'll not be getting any more than that outta me. You want more? Take it up with Ada or Tommy."
Tears pooled in her eyes and she angrily wiped them away. She was frustrated with the turn this conversation had taken. More than that, she was bitter and tired, and simply overwhelmed — with everything.
She felt the couch dip beside herself and on instinct, she leaned into the warm body of her brother-in-law, "It's gonna be alright, Charlie. My mom used to tell me that everything was temporary and that all the bad in our lives, it'll all pass eventually."
"But doesn't that mean all the good will be gone too?"
She felt him shrug beneath her, "Sure it does. But you gotta have the bad times to know when you're in the good times. That's just how life works."
"You think that someday my mom's memory will pass, and I'll feel better about it?"
"No. I think that someday that brother of yours will finally open up and share everything you've always wanted to know. But until then, you've got to live your life."
The tears pooled in her eyes once more and she squeezed them tight in an effort to make the waterworks disappear.
No such luck.
The tears leaked and her frustrations grew.
Sensing her distress Freddie shifted to the end of the sofa and urged her to lay down, "Come on." Placing a pillow in his lap, he patted the thing like she was a dog, coaxing her into a lying position. But she was exhausted and tired of fighting, so she gave in.
Almost as if he were rewarding her for following his suggestion, Freddie spoke the most outrageous thing she'd ever heard someone utter about Thomas Shelby, "You know, Tommy once told me he missed your old man."
That sentence didn't make any reasonable sense. Tommy'd always hated their dad. Never had a nice thing to say. He'd abandoned the family — and the blinders — left everything in Arthur and Tom's care, and never looked back. And there wasn't a single fucking sin that could ever be committed that would ever be more egregious than that. End of story — in Thomas Shelby's opinion.
Gathering her senses and forcibly calming the hiccup in her throat she questioned Freddie, "That can't possibly be true."
"It is — I swear it. But not the way you think."
"Ok then, explain."
"One last story, and then it's to bed — for the both of us." She nodded in agreement and he started, "It was after we got our orders to ship out. He'd just explained it to you and Ada earlier that night — and if you recall, you did not take the news well."
"I sorta remember." The memory was fuzzy and filled with emotion. She remembered crying and yelling. Arguing back and forth. Forcing Tommy to explain over and over again why he had to leave her all alone with Ada.
"He hadn't wanted to visit the pubs that night. He wasn't in the mood — still mourning Greta, and worried about how he'd left things with you–"
Interrupting, she recalled, "Crying in bed with threats of a smacking if I put a single toe out of bed before the sun came up."
"Sounds about right." Freddie grinned down at her, "We'd walked all over Small Heath that night. He was so serious — which wasn't as normal as it is now — gazing off the bridge out over the cut by your Uncle's yard. We barely spoke, sipping on your Uncle's corn mash whiskey. I honestly thought he might've fallen asleep when he finally did speak up — nearly jumped outta me trousers in surprise."
Charlie laughed at his horrible joke before he continued, "'I miss my dad, Fred.' I was certain I hadn't heard him right, and I made him repeat himself twice more. He explained to me that it wasn't the actual man he missed. But rather the dad he could've had. The father that stays, the one that loves his family and cares for them well into old age. He wanted that person for himself, but mostly for you and Ada.
"He and Arthur were all you ever had. And now they were both packing up to leave, leaving you with nothing but an aunt — an excellent aunt she may be — but an aunt nonetheless. Not a mother or father, just a sister and an auntie.
"He thought it all woulda been so much easier if there were a dad to take care of you three — Polly included. But now he had to carry that added burden — the knowledge that he was possibly leaving you behind forever. All of them were.
"But Tommy felt the weight of the family, the peaky boys, all the finances, your safety, Ada's safety. And now for the first time in his life, he had to care about his own safety. Because you cared. And he needed to care enough to come back to you.
"If he had a proper dad — he wouldn't hafta care. He could be reckless and foolhardy, just like Arthur and John. But because there was no dad, he had to be all things to all people." Suddenly, Charlotte felt more guilty than she ever had in her entire life. She hadn't thought about the life her brother could've had if things were different. She only ever fussed and groused over the life they currently had — and how miserable he made her.
"Then when we got to France, they put him in charge. And all of a sudden he had to care for those men as well. And he shouldered that responsibility better than anyone could've hoped for. But all that responsibility — it changed him to his core. He changed into this serious machine of a man. He had to come home to you, he had to get his men home to their families, he had to take care and caution, and in order to do so, he had to plan and analyse every little thing. He tried to foresee and manipulate every outcome for every scenario. Nothing could be left to chance.
"But no matter what Tommy mapped out, there were still the higher-ups sending down orders that were out of Tommy's control. So he focused on what was in his control — and he controlled the living shit outta that.
"Losing all those men the day that the tunnel collapsed… It broke something inside him, and he's spent every single day since then manipulating, controlling, influencing every single person and possible situation so that he doesn't lose anyone else ever again.
"So you can be angry with him for keeping secrets from you. But you've gotta understand — he's only doing it because he cares. He cares and he's scared."
She didn't have any words.
Freddie's story was earth-shattering. Maybe her brother was just a deeply broken man — frightened of losing everything he holds dear. Had he come back as broken as Danny Wizz-Bang had been? Danny would get lost in his mind and lash out at the invisible demons. But maybe rather than lashing out, Tommy just worked tirelessly to keep his demons in tightly wrapped boxes inside himself.
"Time to sleep now, eh?" Freddie smoothed her hair down and slipped out from beneath her pillow. She nodded as he wished her a good sleep, "Try to remind yourself that things will get better with time."
And then he was gone, leaving her with her thoughts.
She thought about everything that Freddie had told her in the past hour or two and she started to feel her heart pick up its pace as her anxiety rose. For the first time in days, she wished for a line of snow to give her mind a distraction — but mostly she wanted it for the quick, hard crash. Some of the best sleep she'd ever gotten was during the crash. Dreams as vivid as the day, but remarkable sleep.
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On the fourth day, Charlotte felt miserable.
She kept herself occupied in the drawing-room, playing with Karl, and singing songs to pass the time. But she still felt miserable.
She wasn't hungry, couldn't sleep, was achy and grumpy, and Ada thought she might as well have been Karl for all the use she was around the house.
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On the fifth day, Charlotte decided it was time to go home.
She'd overheard a conversation — more of an argument, really — between Ada and Freddie, and she knew she couldn't intrude on their family any longer.
Exiting the drawing-room, Charlotte heard whispers coming from the small kitchen across the hall, "It's not safe, Freddie. She's got to go home."
"Ada, you're not being rational–"
"Don't you tell me what's–"
"Ada, just listen. Please?"
A small pause before Freddie started up again. "The grippe is all but gone. They haven't quarantined any neighbourhoods in months. Nearly a year, yeah?"
"But the ministry says we need to be vigilant. Protect the elderly and the young. Mister Laughlin, he's elderly. He's suffering."
"It could be anything, Ada."
"But it's not. It's the flu — he says so himself."
"Mister Laughlin says a lot of silly things–"
"Freddie, this is serious!"
A deep intake of breath and a scrape of the chair against the floor set Charlotte's nerves on edge.
"We have to protect both of them. But we can't protect Karl from Charlie if we can't take care of her. And we don't have the space. She needs to go home. She'll be safe there. And Polly will know what to do if I'm right."
Right about what?
"We can't just kick her out, send her back. She's got to do it on her own. Or we'll never see her again."
"Leave it to me, I'll talk to her."
"You Shelby's-" Before Freddie could complete his complaint about their family he was cut off by whapping noise and Ada's harsh tone, "Keep it to yourself, or you'll be sleeping on the sofa–"
"Which is currently occupied–"
"Out! Right now. Outta my kitchen."
A squeal from Ada and laughter from Freddie told Charlotte that their conversation was through, and she better beat it quick before she gets caught listening in.
Turning to the drawing-room, the call of the fire lulled her in.
Wrapping the knitted blanket 'round herself, she settled in, letting her eyelids flutter close. She wasn't getting any sleep the past few days, and the chill that had taken hold of London seemed to take hold of Charlotte herself. A nap before supper couldn't hurt. Plus it'd give her time to figure out how she was gonna get back to Birmingham.
She didn't want to overstay her welcome. And if Ada was right and there was a sickness going around again, she didn't want to endanger anyone in this home.
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On day six she found herself in Sparkbrook — just outside of peaky territory — eating lunch at Mister Ortega's deli.