Like a Horse Made of Air
Chapter Nine: Following the Map (That Leads to You)He can't find her.
He returns to the house, aching from the wound in his shoulder. He hadn't expected Wren to fight him so hard when he'd tried to take the gun again with the consequence being the weapon had pointed at him just long enough to be a problem. Upon returning to the kitchen he finds Ella Whittaker still fucking there.
"You're a stupid bitch aren't you?" He snarls.
"What are you going to do, threaten to shoot me?" She sneers.
"How did you get in?" He demands.
"There's a back up key," she huffs as she holds up the aforementioned item. "I took it ages ago, right around when the old man died."
Tommy covers the space between them in seconds and firmly removes the key from that hand. Changing the locks really would have solved the problem he thinks angrily. This woman certainly wasn't smart enough to pick a lock.
"Hey," she cries indignantly and Tommy smacks her across the mouth.
"I told you," he grits out as his grip flexes on her wrist. "I told you to stay the fuck away from her. I gave you fair warning."
"You're hurting me," she dares to complain.
"You think this hurts?" He laughs darkly. "Just you wait."
He leaves her to stride out and open the front door. The man he'd posted had finally come out of wherever the fuck he'd been hiding and jerks as Tommy appears in the doorway.
"Get the fuck over here," he orders sharply.
"I heard gun shots," the man—Islington—starts but chokes off when Tommy grabs him by his shirt and hauls him into the house.
"You heard guns shots several minutes ago," Tommy seethes. "If me woman had been in danger she'd be fucking dead with your useless arse out here. Did you see Ella Whittaker enter this house?"
"I," The man blinks before blurting, "you're bleeding."
Tommy slams the man into the wall and repeats slowly and clearly, "did you see Ella Whittaker enter this house?"
"Yes, sir," the man answers fearfully.
"Have you seen her enter this house before?"
"Yes, sir," comes the gasping answer.
"So when I asked you had you seen anything of a night," Tommy starts slowly before slamming a hand next to the man's head, "you fucking lied to me!"
"No!" The man panics.
"She's not supposed to be in this house," Tommy growls.
"But, but she's her sister! And she has a key!" The man cries.
"What are the rules of the watch, eh? Tell me!"
"Wr—Wren Ashby's house. Watch front door at all hours. R-r-eport any coming and going that isn't," the man begins to cry.
"Report the comings and goings of?" Tommy pushes.
"Of anyone that isn't Wren Ashby, or Tommy Shelby. I didn't mean to fuck it up, Tommy. I swear, I didn't. She had a key."
"I don't care if it was me who opened the door for them," Tommy snaps. "You're job was to report anyone coming through here who isn't Wren or me. And you fucking failed for months! But hey, don't feel too bad. You aren't the only one are you, eh?"
Tommy turns to find the woman watching form the doorway with morbid curiosity written all over her. He spies the tie hanging from one of Wren's coats and grabs it. And then he grabs Ella fucking Whittaker and ties her hands together behind her back. When she won't shut up he fashions a gag.
He orders Islington to get her other side and Tommy locks up behind them before he escorts the woman to Charlie's yard.
"What's going on, Tommy," the man himself asks slowly.
"I made a promise," he tells his uncle, "time for me to keep it. I need to borrow a boat, Uncle."
"Tommy," Charlie starts but Tommy cuts him off.
"Don't ask. A boat, Charlie."
The older man presses his lips together but obeys. Tommy gets the woman secured then waves the others off, taking the boat alone.
After awhile of silence as they near the spot he's aiming for he says, "do you remember what I told you? When we talked about you staying away."
The woman is still gagged so Tommy isn't really looking for her to say anything, but he does watch her face as realization dawns and fear creeps in.
"I didn't let Wren shoot you because I didn't want that weight on her conscious, or the coppers to have something to hold over her. Turns out, I shouldn't listen to me better nature. But, I'm a man of me word. I said if you didn't do as you were told, I'd see you thrown in the Cut. Well," Tommy cuts the engine, "here we are."
She's struggling as best she can, but she's clumsy with inexperience and fear. He hits her hard enough with his gun to knock her unconscious. Then he unties her hands and removes the gag as he shoves her over the edge. She hits the water with a splash and sinks. Tommy turns away and starts the boat back up.
He drives for a while remembering that Wren said she found her gun under a bridge the last time she'd wandered the streets. Checks as many places as he can think of. The sun rises offering better light to see by, but eventually the boat runs low on petrol, and he has to head back to the yard. He ties the boat into place and passes off the key.
Then he heads home. He passes his family sat at the table for breakfast and heads up the stairs, ignoring their questions. It's been hours since the confrontation and as he enters their room at the top of the stairs his hope that she'd fled here dies. He turns back the way he came.
"Tommy, you're bleeding," Ada gasps as they get a better look at him.
"Has anyone seen Wren?" He asks ignoring Ada.
"What's happened?" Arthur asks as Polly grabs the first aid kit.
"Found who was knocking over her house. I took care of it. Now, has anyone seen Wren?" He repeats.
A chorus of negatives meets his ears, and he grudgingly lets Polly push him through to his office where he strips off his upper layers so she can get to the wound in his shoulder.
"Bullets still in." Polly says crisply. "I'll send someone out for Jeremiah."
She steps out for few minutes the returns.
She asks, "what happened, Tommy?"
He's quiet a long moment, "it was her sister. Wren was with me; we'd gone to the house to grab something she'd forgot. Found Ella fucking Whittaker at Wren's table, eating Wren's food and helping herself to Wren's cash."
Polly's head comes up in surprise, "Jesus Christ. What'd she do?"
"Would have shot Ella if I hadn't interfered. There's apparently a lot of anger there. First shot went into the floor. Wren was…she wasn't that angry when she killed Langley. Not by half. And the stupid bitch just wouldn't shut up and let me calm Wren down."
Tommy pauses to light a cigarette and leans back in the chair while they wait.
"The second shot, we were fighting for the gun…I misjudged the second shot and instead of the wall I took the hit… The look on her face, Pol."
He scrubs a hand through his hair and stares at nothing, the memory of watching the devastation wash over her.
"I think she thought she got me proper. It's the first time I've ever seen her hands shake. I tried to reassure her, tried to get to her, but I'm not even sure she heard me. She ran. I'd hoped she'd come here, but."
"That woman loves you," Polly tells him firmly. "Do you hear me? You're the center of her world. If she believing she's killed you? It's probably tearing her apart. I can't even imagine what she felt right then, what she's going through now. Could you imagine it being reversed? If it had been your finger on that trigger?"
Tommy feels a cold terror at just the thought, and swallows harshly.
He grabs the bottle of liquor and takes a pull straight from the bottle.
"Do you've any idea where she might go?" Polly asks with a frown.
"Owens' maybe," he thinks aloud. "She and Rosie and Danny are close. Maybe not though. When she found out she was to be married to Langley she wandered the streets for a couple weeks. That's when she found the gun. Took Charlie's boat out and checked under the bridges, but I didn't see her."
"Get cleaned up," Polly orders briskly. "I'll go and check if the Owens have seen her."
"I'll do it," He tells her.
"You need to have that shoulder taken care of," Polly counters. "Won't do her any good for you to show up with the bullet still in you."
"If she thinks I'm dead she'll run from you," Tommy frowns.
"No she won't," Polly tells him as she leaves.
Tommy doesn't like the implications of that statement, but he doesn't have long to brood on it before Jeremiah shows up. Then he's sitting on his cleared off desk as his brothers hold him steady. His throat aches from the strain of shouting while trying not to.
"Take it," Jeremiah tells him over and over.
Then finally the bullet comes out, watches the little piece of metal get dropped into a glass.
"Alright, now," Arthur asks him, "ready for the worst part?"
Tommy nods as he lets Arthur hold the bottle while he drinks. Then Arthur's arm is holding him hard as he holds that bottle to the open wound and burning liquor sears his raw nerves. He's left a sweaty, aching mess. He scraps together the will to clean himself up a bit.
He doesn't want her to see him like this, not under these circumstances.
He's bandaged and changed, pretending to do work when Polly returns.
She's alone.
Polly purses her lips and says, "she isn't at the Owens, but they'll keep an eye out for her."
Tommy closes his eyes and whispers, "she's on the streets."
"If she is, someone will see her," Polly tries to reassure him.
"She hid for two weeks the last time," Tommy frowns. "People hadn't seen her at all."
"This time is different," Polly declares firmly. "You're the one looking for her."
When hours turn to days, Tommy does his best to hold himself together. He busies himself with his own work and hers. With Rosie's help and Wren's detailed bookkeeping he figures they have a good four-five months of stock to fall back on, and the women can keep working.
He desperately hopes Wren's back long before that.
The bed is too big and too cold without her there to share it with, despite being the single bed he's always had. His nightmares come back with a vengeance, the shovels loud in his ears as he searches the tunnels for her, begging any god that will listen he'll find her before they break through. He's both glad and frustrated he's gotten rid of the opium and the pipe. He wants it and he doesn't, but at least the stuff isn't sitting there tempting him.
He wants to avoid sleep and his appetite wanes, but he forces himself to keep himself going. For her.
Always for her.
He has no idea how to host the dinners without her. Polly helps, and he tries. He really fucking tries.
He needs her to come home.
He gets notice the black stallion is nearly done training. The horse will be enroute soon, due to arrive by the end of the month. He makes a mental note to take Wren to see him when he gets here. Regrets that he hasn't done so before. He'll start taking her to Charlie's yard, at least once a week, so she can be near horses again. He'll get her a horse of her own. They'll go riding together, get out of the city and into the green countryside.
Days turn to weeks.
"What happened, Tommy? Please, she's my best friend and nobody will tell me anything," Rosie Owens begs when she has him cornered in the kitchen at Birch House.
"We caught the rat," he relents but still hesitates a beat.
"The one's been getting in for months? Who was it?" Rosie frowns.
"Her sister," he admits.
"Ah, Wren killed her then," Rosie sighs like that's the only way it could've played out.
Tommy shakes his head slowly and gestures at his shoulder, "I took the bullet."
"Why?" Rosie looks appalled as she sputters. "That would, God. Wren couldn't. Why would you do that?"
"I didn't want her to have to kill her own blood," Tommy scrubs a hand over his face. "And I definitely didn't want her to do it here. I could bribe the coppers into letting it go, but they'd know. I wasn't keen on giving them anything to hold over her."
"I prayed," Rosie sighs, "over and over for you to act like a normal, decent man. For her, you know? Then you do and I regret asking for it. Wren kept telling me you're best as you are. She loves you: cold blooded gypsy gangster and all."
There's a long moment of quiet before Rosie whispers, "It wasn't really my place, was it? To want to change you to suit what I thought you should be."
Tommy clenches his jaw, before going for the whiskey. He pours them both a glass. He throws back his and pours a second.
"I shoved Ella Whittaker into the Cut that night," he confesses into the silence.
Rosie meets his eyes and says, "good. Even if Wren never tells you the details, you should know that bitch deserved worse."
Tommy leans forward over the table, "I should have just let her take the shot."
"Maybe, maybe not," Rosie sighs. "Either way we can only live in one direction."
The kids keep asking about her, and he doesn't know what to tell them. That Keeva is a fucking godsend, always somehow managing to save him from having to answer and keeping them occupied. The kids look happier for having her. It was a good idea, hiring her. He should do something to properly thank Wren for it when she's home.
News spreads about Ella Whittaker being found dead in the Cut. It's a stroke of luck that she's found near a bridge with obvious damage, no one suspects foul play. Tommy says nothing, feels nothing. Only a few people know for sure what he's done, and they keep their silence.
Wren has to come home. Tommy can't do this without her.
He finds himself standing in front of the crates and stares at the contents with carefully veiled disbelief. His men were supposed to lift four motorcycles for their buyer. Not fucking guns. He orders the shipment be stashed in Charlie's yard. He doesn't tell anybody about the mistake, instead waits a few days before saying the buyer wants more of the same and finally gets it right.
He's not sure what to do. Plans and schemes coming together and falling apart in his head.
He prays, for the first time in years, that she's alright and that she'll be home soon.
He needs her.
He gets the missive the horse is only a few days out and will be arriving soon. He goes up to their room sits on the edge of their bed with his head in his hands and cries.
He knows the strain is beginning to show, if he even ever managed to hide it in the first place. It's not a gathering night just the Shelby's at the table. It's so quiet he can hear the clink of cutlery against the plates, the tap of glasses being set down, the sound of people breathing. His plate sits untouched while he drinks her amaretto, eyes trained into the middle distance.
The knock at the door echoes harshly.
He's up in an instant, ever and always hoping every knock is finally news.
"Mr. Shelby, sir," the young man is clearly a chimney sweeper, streaked with soot and smelling of ash.
"Yes, what is it?" Tommy strains for civility.
"Well, see," he hesitates. "Everybody knows you're looking for a woman, sir and—"
"Where," Tommy interrupts grabbing the man's arm.
The man looks like he's about to say something but instead says, "this way, Mr. Shelby."
Tommy's led across a fair distance then into an alley. He half wonders if he's being set up but can't find much will to care if he is. But he's pointed to a ladder set in a little alcove that he realizes must lead to the rooftops.
"She's up on the roofs, sir," the sweeper tells him when Tommy lifts a brow at him. "We'd have tried to get her down, but she's a gun in her hands and she doesn't seem coherent enough to reason with."
All at once, Tommy knows it's Wren and now he knows how she stays out of sight. It's fair clever, who but a sweeper spends time up on the rows? But Tommy doesn't waste any more time, quickly climbing the ladder to find another man up above.
"Where is she," Tommy demands.
"She's not doing too well, Mr. Shelby," this new man gruffs with a frown.
"That's not what I asked," Tommy growls.
"Fair warning is all, sir," the man shakes his head. "We think she's got Black Lung."
"What's that?" Tommy frowns, concerned.
"Ash and coal smoke in her lungs," the man answers. "Ain't the same as a cigarette. Hurts the chest, makes it hard to breathe. Fever and cough. In some bad cases, a bit of delirium."
Tommy swallows hard before he makes himself ask, "is it fatal?"
"If she gets treated? Not usually," the sweeper tells him honestly. "There's always some that don't make it, but it's usually due to things getting out of hand. Illness stacking on illness. If you get to a chemist they'll have medicine for her: a syrup for her to take and a powder to put in hot water for her to breathe in. I've gone through it meself. It's rough, hacking up black air, but it passes. Depending on how bad off she is, might take awhile for her to recover, but she'll get better."
Tommy gives a jerky nod of acknowledgment.
He's led across the roofs to where two chimneys meet and form a little nook. It takes a moment to realize what he's looking at. She's curled in on herself, huddled in the shelter of the brick, and the gun is still in her hands, but she's so covered in ash and soot she's hard to pick out against the grey of the world around her. Tommy's heart breaks even as it rises from the pit it'd sunk into.
He's found her.
He inches closer and slowly sinks to his knees calling out gently, "Wren. Hey, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm right here. Can you hear me?"
She stirs slowly and it's when he gets a look at her face he realizes what they meant when they'd told him she isn't doing well. There's something glassy and unfocused about her, and as he eases carefully closer he can see a splotchy flush made dramatic against the pallor of her skin through the tear tracks on her cheeks.
"Tommy," she looks at him likes she's seeing a ghost even as the ruin of her voice confirms she's ill.
"Aye, it's me," He swallows tightly as he realizes she's shaking, a fine tremor only visible up close. "I'm right here, Love."
"I shot you," she whispers, the devastation so plain on her face it hurts to look at her.
"It's alright," he tells her.
"No," she whimpers.
"It wasn't your fault," he tries again. "I misjudged the angle; you weren't aiming it at me."
"I pulled the trigger," she sobs.
"It wasn't for me," he tells her as tears sting his eyes. "I know it wasn't for me. It's my fault, sweetheart. Mine, alright? Don't you take that on."
He gets his hand on the gun and she doesn't resist at all as he takes it. Her hands are filthy, and he thinks she never even got around to washing off the blood. He tucks the gun away and gently gathers her up. She's crying hard now, and her sobs turn to coughs. She's hot to the touch with fever burning through her and leaving her weak.
He stands with her is his arms, mindful of his footing. She's clinging to him, or trying to, her little hands fluttering against him as her strength fails. He murmurs soothing nonsense to her as he moves, just letting her hear his voice.
Getting her down is a trick, but with the sweepers' help he manages. He reaches in his pockets, not even bothering to count as he presses the notes into the men's hands.
"Thank you," he tells them. "Don't tell anyone where she was found. Simply tell people she was hiding, if they ask. If they push let me know and I'll take care of it."
Then he turns away and takes her home.
It takes filling the tub several times, but with Polly's help he gets her clean. He's relieved to see no lesions, or abnormal markings on her skin.
"Ash in her lungs," Tommy tells the older woman. "The sweepers call it Black Lung. She was in a place that got too much bad air. Get the fever down and get the mess out of her lungs and this will pass. Man told me there's a syrup and powder the chemist gives them."
He clings to the sweepers certainty as they get her settled in their bed.
"I'll stop by the chemist and see about getting her some," Polly tells him as she presses a hand into his arm a moment before leaving.
News spreads she's been found, and Tommy can hear the noise building down below. He should probably go down, be seen and heard while he waits for Polly to come back. He stays where he is at her bedside, her hand in his as he watches over her. The position is painfully familiar.
He'd sat for three months at Greta's bedside while she'd slowly wasted away in front of him.
This time will be different, he tells himself. It isn't consumption, just bad air. They'll get her some medicine and she'll be alright. When she's strong enough, he'll hold her as they ride out of the city. Go somewhere green where the air is sweet, give her a rest where she can breathe easy.
He somehow isn't surprised when Rosie Owens is brave enough to climb the stairs.
"How she's doing?" The woman asks, concern clear on her face.
"Sick," he sighs. "Polly went to go get the medicine she'll need."
"Where was she?" Rosie asks as she slumps tiredly against the wall.
"Hiding," Tommy tells her and ignores the woman's scoff.
He knows where to look now, should he ever need to again. That's enough.
Finally Rosie says, "if you need any help for her, let me know."
Then she leaves.
Polly comes back and hands over the medicine with the instructions: a syrup and a powder just like the man said. He makes sure the fire is stoked and has kettle and a bowl ready. Then he waits.
He doesn't know how long its been when she finally stirs from her stupor. She clings to him when she sees him—babbling apologies—and he shushes her with soft words. He gets the syrup and some water into her and makes sure to note the time. The fever is the most dangerous part of her illness, and she needs a spoonful of syrup every four hours until the fever breaks.
The next few days becomes a routine of getting medicine and broth in her, holding her hair back for her as she coughs up black sludge into a bowl, soothing her as she wavers between thinking him alive and thinking him dead, and doing his best to keep her clean.
On the third day her fever finally breaks and Tommy breaths a sigh of relief.
For the first time she's sleeping something like peacefully and he staggers down the stairs. He splashes water on his face from the pump out back and tilts his head back to look up at the smog choked sky.
"Tommy?" a small voice asks.
He turns to find Finn framed in the doorway clearly uncertain. Tommy opens his arms to his little brother and the boy moves quickly into the embrace.
"Is Wren going to be ok?" Finn asks after a long moment.
"Aye," Tommy reassures. "She's going to be ok."
"When'll I be able to see her?"
"Next time she wakes up," Tommy tells him.
"Really?" The boy perks up. "When you think that'll be, Tommy?"
"Sometime tomorrow I suspect," Tommy smiles tiredly.
"Oh," the boy deflates. "Are you going to be at the big dinner tonight?"
Truthfully, Tommy has forgotten all about the gathering. Hasn't made plans for it one way or the other. Still, he knows what Wren would say if she were better.
"Not for long," he tells the boy, "but I'll come down."
"Awesome!" Suddenly excited the boy wiggles out of the hold. "I'll go tell the others!"
Then he's racing past Arthur—"Did ya hear, Arthur, did ya?" "Aye, boy, I did."—who steps out as the boy leaves.
"She's alright, then?" His older brother asks as he claps a hand on Tommy's shoulder.
"Fever broke a couple hours ago," Tommy answers. "Means the danger is past us."
"Glad to hear it," Arthur tells him gruffly as he throws an arm over Tommy's shoulders.
They walk back into the house together and Arthur says, "but as your brother, it's me duty to tell you to take a fucking bath before you come down to dinner."
"You tryin' to say somethin'?" Tommy feigns a frown.
"Aye," Arthur laughs. "I'm tryin' to say you stink!"
A good-natured bit of bickering follows this pronouncement as everyone who hears feels the need to voice their opinion. Tommy does concede Arthur has a point though and takes the time to get himself cleaned up before dinner.
Everyone's relieved to see him and offers their well wishes for Wren's recovery. The kids give him homemade cards and trinkets to give to Wren, so she knows they miss her and want her to get better. It fills him up with lighter feelings, the weight he's been carrying for weeks finally dissipating.
Remembering, he flags down Charlie and asks him to get the horse for him tomorrow and the man easily agrees. Tommy has plans for Monaghan Boy, and it won't due to leave the horse unattended.
He can't make himself stay more than a half hour, returning to their room to watch over his woman while she rests.
Hope returns to him. They'll get through this. And he'll do better, be more what she needs.
She's told him over and over that he doesn't need to be the man he was before France.
Both Polly and Rosie have told him she loves him as he is.
What he is, is a ruthless gangster and leader of men.
It's more than time he makes his peace with that.