A/N I highly suggest you listen to the songs: Wrong side of heaven, by Five Finger Death Punch and Zombie, by the Cranberries while reading this chapter. This will be the first of many Tommy POV's:

Chapter 4) Wrong side of heaven

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She was a proper rider, he had to give her that. Although he'd rather eat his flat cap then pay her the compliment; her technique was good.

Tommy stood in the middle of the ring, holding on to the lunge line as Bourdon trotted around the sandy area with Maria riding bare back. To see whether a horse had a shot at the races it was important to see his motions, everything needs to connect and have a flow, a rythme. It was easy to overlook certain things when a horse had a saddle on.

And partly he just wanted to see what she was made of, if she would last on a race horse. To make it a little more difficult he'd picked Bourdon, the stallion had a high withers and could be uncomfortable to ride bareback. Most men would refuse, concerned about their privates being chaffed. She had the advantage of being a woman.

She held the reins loosely with one hand, the other tangled in Bourdon's mane. She was balanced. Didn't have her legs pushed forward, straight back, heels a little bit too high for his liking but other then that a good posture. And she enjoyed moving along the rhythm of the horse.

He clapped his hands to get her attention and motioned: gallop.

She nodded and took the reins in both hands, at the same time applying pressure with both her legs. Bourdon neighed and took adrift, lively speeding up. He had a good pace, Bourdon was a good acquisition to their stud.

After the seventh rounds he clapped his hands again and motioned: trot. Never forget the cooling down, it's important for the horse and the rider. He'd first handedly seen hasty horse owners crippling an accelent race horse.

He clapped his hands three times: stop.

The girl gave a long nudge on the reins and swooped forward as the horse's steps slowed down. Steadying herself back in a straight position she navigated Bourdon to the wooden fence securing the ring.

Clumsy she dismounted the horse but landed on both feet, cheeks flushed from the ride.

Tommy rolled up the lunge line and handed Maria three shillings: Tomorrow, see you at seven. Six thirty if you need to eat first.

Hasty she tucked the money safely in her oversized trousers. Shyly she plucked on the hem of her sleeve: "I'll be here at six thirty then." She answered humbled and handed the reins over to him. "Good evening mister Shelby."

With a nod he dismissed the girl and gently stroke the stallion's neck, his pelt damp from the action.

He was alone at the yard and he felt at eased. He liked being alone in the stables with the horses. The calm animals had a soothing influence on him, always had. As a young boy his mother would leave him in the stables whenever he had a tantrum. He couldn't be mad around horses, it felt wrong.

He took Bourdon back to his box and started to rub his fur coat dry with straw. He wondered when Curly would be back on his feet. The poor man had fallen between the dock and one of their river boats and fractured his kneecap. Tommy missed the bold broad fellow, he talked a lot but babbled on instead of speaking directly to him.

He'd developed a habit of avoiding questions and conversations in general. It was teeth clenching painful if the person you were trying to communicate with was clueless about what you were saying. His family only knew the very basics of sign language and half of the city seemed fucking illiterate. He had a suspicion that some of the bastards deliberately claimed that they couldn't read just to mock him. And he allowed it, simply because he couldn't tell them otherwise.

His family hoped that he would become his old self again, but he was still only a fraction of the old Tommy Shelby. Half lay shattered in France and had been left there to rot, some had bled out in the hospital bed. All but a shard remained after he found out he lost his voice. He wasn't Tommy Shelby anymore, he knew it and everyone around him knew it. The guilt was killing him, but the pity and hopeless gazes of his family killed him more.

If it wasn't for them he would have eaten a bullet. He'd never been a man to give up, to take the cowards way out. But there was only so much a man could take and he'd long since crossed that boundary.

The nightmares tormented him, suffocating him during his sleep and haunting him when he was awake. From time to time his heart would jolt, his vision would blur, and he would find himself back in France, simply because a loud noise would startle him. Could be a car horn, the hammer of the working men, a child clapping his hands. In matter of seconds he would find himself back in the tunnels, covered in mud, piss and blood. Screaming his guts out because the walls where giving in. And he would be trapped in the overpowering darkness, unable to shout, breath or see.

He'd find himself awake at night, pissing his damn bed, blankets tangled all around him, choking and trying to ask for help. Only to realise once again that he couldn't fucking speak.

It tore him up from the inside, every time he woke from the nightmares. Screaming, gasping and then...his silence fell once more. As a fucking imbecile, he wasn't able to form words, only sounds. Like an animal.

All that remained of him were the memories of his old self and this new version could not compete, not come even close to the person he used to be.

"I see you've met your new employee." Aunt Poll said, a little too thrilled for his liking. She had always had the nerve-wracking habit of creeping up at people.

He didn't react to her statement and continued to brush Bourdon.

Polly walked around the stable box and leaned over the wooden frame. "Is she doing her job well?"

He sighted annoyed, knowing his aunt would press the matter until he gave her the thumbs up: She'll do.

The face of the older lady lit up, lips curling into a satisfied smile. He hated this; being treated as a child.

"When are you coming home, Thomas?" Her smile remained but her eyes lost their shimmer, making way for sorrow.

He hated this even more, disappointing his family, letting them down. But if he stayed away their life would be easier. They wouldn't have to wake up in the middle of the night because of his terrors. He hated seeing the frightened face of his young sister Ada when she woke him up during a nightmare. One time he'd swung at her reflexively, still under the impression that he was trapped under the French soil. She'd had to stay indoors for a week until her black eye had faded enough. After that only Arthur and John would come in his room if his dreams took the best of him.

No-one would mention it during their breakfast, but he heard them whispered to each other about it when he wasn't in sight. Hell, he knew the entire population of Small Heath was gossiping about him. He was Small Heath's 'talk of the town'.

"Finn misses you," Poll continued carefully.

His jaws clenched and he had to take a few deep breaths. He missed his little brother more than anything. Finn had been the only one who was always happy to see him. His lack of maturity made it so much easier. Finn was content with a ruffle through his hair, a smile, a little frolicking about outside; he simply accepted that his brother could no longer speak. When their eldest brother Arthur had taken Finn aside to tell him he'd been puzzled for a moment, then nodded and gone off to play. If only it had been so simple for the rest of them.

"We all miss you Thomas," Poll confessed quietly.

He unleashed the bridle and walked it into the back closet. His heart ached and he longed to go back to Watery Lane - where there was always a kettle on the stove, the coal fireplace always glowed, and, past the curtains, an illegal betting shop was always buzzing with activity. And most important, it held his family.

"Come home Tommy," his aunt had walked after him, placing her hand on the crook of his neck. It was a gesture that took him back to his childhood years when life had been hard with not a lot of food on the table but filled with childish hope.

But now, hope was all gone, hope was as a flame drawing in the moth. Hope was what had been killing him. For months in the hospital he'd kept his hopes up, doctors promising him it was temporary. If his head wound healed enough his speech would slowly return. He'd spent many hours with a speech therapist, sounding like a mongoloid, trying to make his brain identify words, to vocalize his thoughts.

All for nothing. His hope and his voice were both gone, buried in the trenches of Mons.

Soon, he signed, I'll be home soon.

Her hand left his neck and he could feel her whole bearing change without looking at her. He knew he failed her again, though she tried not to let it show.

"All right Tom," she sighed, dejected, "I'll come back to see you in a bit. Then you'll come home?"

He nodded, fully aware it was a lie, and in her gaze he saw that she knew it too.

"Take care." She hugged him goodbye and he pulled one hand around her shoulders, detached from the loving gesture. If he gave in there was no saying of what would happen, there was so much grief, anger and sorrow built up in his body nothing would remain if it all came out.

So he hid it all, everything, including himself. He'd made a bedroom in the attic of the stable, in the corner by the window. He'd taken some of his belonging from Watery Lane and for the last few months he'd shut himself off from the rest of the world. Taking care of the horses during the day, drinking himself into a mild coma during the night, occasionally smoking opium if he could get Charlie to bribe Arthur.

That was his life now and he had no other plans for the future. He was silently waiting for the moment when he wouldn't wake up in the morning.

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And that was the first Tommy part, I loved writing this, taking away all hope and give nothing back in return. I've read articles about the first world war because I didn't know many facts, I'm from Holland and therefore brought up with everything about the second world war. The first seems more 'forgotten' and many soldiers suffered from Shell Shock. It saddens me that the number of soldiers with severe PTSD are still not acknowledged.

Please be so kind to leave a review, I'm very excited about how this chapter worked out and really want to know what you, the reader, thinks!

Xoxox Nukyster