XXXIII | THE WIDOW, THE TRAINER AND THE GANGSTER

THE LIVELINESS OF THE DARBY left a sour taste on her tongue, much like a thick, unpleasant syrup her mother used to give her when she was sick and feverish, only serving as a reminder to the memories she tried to lock away and forget.

It brought up memories of one other race, when she clung to his arm in a lacy red dress, wide-eyed and clueless, taking in the wonders of a grand event, its crystal chandeliers and secret business transactions.

She was another person then.

Grace Campbell pulled the satin coat closer to her body, trying to hide in plain sight, among the crowd arrived to witness the spectacle of the year. The wound of his rejection was still fresh, the dark set of his eyes when she asked him to sleep with her one more time and he promptly asked her to leave, slammed the door into her bewildered face and left her to stand on the steps of his London house.

There was nothing for her here save pain and bitter reminiscence, an unreal taste of what ifs and could have beens, and yet still, she was drawn to the Derby, not like a moth to a flame but a murderer to a scene of crime.

She left with the first morning train from Victoria Station to the rundown, far too small Epsom Station after scribbling a short message to Chester, and left it on the kitchen table. Though, she was fairly sure he would not be returning home, not until the holidays. Or at least, not until his work was done.

By that time she hoped she would be away already, thousands of miles away across the sea, far away from the maddening streets of England, where every nook and cranny held a memory, a every alley smelled of regrets. Or perhaps, if the stars aligned today, she would be tucked away in his embrace.

She checked her watch again — a nervous habit she developed over the years — and then noticed a woman in a fine red dress enter the room. She took no peculiar note of her, at least not until she crossed the room and stood right beside her.

Her words, spoken in deliberate, posh intonation snapped Grace out of her chain of smoking. "I guessed and then John confirmed it."

Grace finally turned to look at the brunette, an unnerved look in her eye. "Guessed what? Who are you?" She hardly had time, or the nerves for small talk with some snobby heiress.

"I'm May Carleton," the woman replied, extending her hand in greeting, though her face contradicted any sort of warm sentiment. "I train Tommy Shelby's horse. And you're the woman who sold him out to the police."

When Grace refused to say anything, May languidly continued. "I see he didn't tell you the whole truth about me," she waved a hand to the bartender, ordering a gin and tonic as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"He did tell me about you, I wonder if that's significant."

"Tell me what about you?"

May took a sip of her drink, eyes scanning the crowd around them; the ladies in their best finery; the men trickling in slowly to collect their winnings. "Do you have any idea where he is?"

Begrudgingly, Grace shook her head slightly and turned to face the other way. "I'm waiting for him here," she said, lighting another cigarette from her silver engraved case.

After a pregnant pause May spoke again. "There's been trouble on the track. All the bookies have had their licences burnt," she continued in a light tone.

"Shouldn't you be down with the horses?" Grace interrupted crassly, giving the trainer a one over, deducing what she wanted to see from May's ornate red dress and rich brown curls that framed her face nicely. The woman was fine looking, Grace had to admit to herself begrudgingly, obviously wealthy by the attire and the way she held herself, proud of her cultured speech and unbreakable manners even in the face of an opponent.

With one more pull of her smoke Grace decided she hated her.

But May Carleton grew up in the high society, and the venomous, jealous remarks of an Irish barmaid could hardly hurt her. She belonged with the horses, yes, but that was hardly an insult, for she loved her horses more than most people she encountered in her life.

"Which means they'll have to re-apply for their legal pitches. It's all part of Tommy's plan for the future."

Grace had had enough of her musings for the day. "What do you know about Tommy's future?"

"The applications will be denied, of course. And all the pitches will be allocated instead to Tommy's bookies," she looked at Grace, a flash of victory in her eye. "Then all the pitches will be allocated instead to Tommy's bookies. I know because I'll make sure of it. I have influence with the board."

"There's business and there's love," Grace said, her eyes narrowed.

"Is there?" the other woman let out a breath through her nose. "There's Thomas Shelby. I'm pretty sure he likes those two mixed up."

"What do you want from him?"

"Same as you. I want to feel alive." She looked at Grace almost pityingly, as if she managed to see right through her very soul and all its turmoil that brewed inside her.

"I want what should be mine," the blonde retorted impatiently. "Did he tell you my name? My name is Grace," she tilted her head upwards, throwing a dirty look at the horse trainer. They had something, they did, no matter how hard he denied it. She knew it.

May simply shrugged in retaliation. "What does it matter? We both know it's insignificant comparing to her."

There it was, again. The unspoken name that rested on everyone's lips, the face that still sometimes appeared during her restless nights, pointing a gun at her, at Chester, and blood. So much blood.

"Did he tell you the name of his horse? The one that came fourth today?"

She was met with silence from the Irish woman, and it filled May with a glimmer of petty glee, the satisfaction of revealing it to the blonde.

"Lady Cat," May let the other woman absorb this information for a moment, tilting her head to look at her. "Did you really think we stood a moments chance?"

Grace raised her headful of blonde hair and gave May a sharp glare. "Speak for yourself."

"They make you feel as if you are the only people in the world — or at least, as if you are the only people that matter," May inhaled sharply, a tired sound, one that intimately revealed the same pain that filled Grace's heart.

"The thing with them – it's like the sun shines on you and it's glorious, then they forget you and it's very, very cold. You feel used, empty. They're not even aware of it. But once the job is done, or their attention shifts to something else entirely, you're thrown aside and they turn back to each other, inseparable."

"I know," came Graces quiet reply. She fidgeted, playing with the bracelets hanging around her wrists til she summoned the strength to look May Carleton in the eye. "Is it possible to love two people at the same time? I could never choose between them."

May only returned a tight lipped smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She understood.

"Grace Burgess... or should I say Grace Campbell, now? How does the married life suit you?"

Both Grace and May snapped their heads in the direction of the voice, the thick Birmingham accent enriched with the remains of an Italian drawl.

In the far end of the room stood a woman she both longed and detested to see, dressed immaculately in a cream and gold dress with a matching coat over it. Her hair was shorter than Grace remembered, pushed back to frame her face, and the set of pearls around her neck and on her ears showing off the new money that trickled into the company accounts.

"Caterina," Grace greeted her former friend shortly, unsure what to say, what to do with herself. The last time they saw face to face Caterina held a gun pointed to her head.

Of course she knew Grace would show up at the Darby, an information provided by Polly's clever son who gave her a call that very morning, telling her that a woman with Irish accent called the office, asking for Tommy Shelby. Michael was proving to be a valuable asset, and a loyal one at that.

"Polly's about to make you a widow," the brunette remarked casually, strolling past the tables and chairs to the place where Grace sat.

The blonde stood up from her barstool, suddenly alert. "What?"

Caterina nodded gravely without looking at her, placed a cigarette between her lips and let the flame of a match light it up. Polly had the honour of delivering justice to the man that felt is as his personal vendetta to ruin their lives. "You heard me. We were thinking about offing you too, but I reckon, among all the lies and deceit two years ago, there was a silver of friendship."

With her free hand Caterina reached into the inner side of her coat and fished out a boarding pass, the date on it showing the departure date as tomorrow, with the final destination being New York, USA. Grace took it from her hand.

"I've called ahead some of my connections in the States that would be willing to take you in until you've settled," Caterina explained curtly, trying to cut the formalities as short as possible.

Grace couldn't help but to glance between the ticket and her former friend in disbelief. "How can I ever repay you? All I ever did was cause you pain. I don't deserve it."

There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but her voice failed her.

She tried to give it back, but Caterina pulled her into a tight embrace, bringing her lips close to Grace's ear. "Don't ever set foot in Birmingham again, Grace Burgess. I will not hesitate to put a bullet in between your pretty eyes," she hissed, bitter words masked by a radiant smile once they pulled back.

"Tell Luca I say hi."

Trying to rid herself of the daunting chill that ran over her spine, Grace clutched her purse tightly to her chest. "Goodbye, Caterina."

The Italian woman assumed her neutral expression, though her eyes seemed hollower than ever.

"Goodbye, Grace."

Not even looking back over her shoulder, Grace kept her head firmly down, taking long strides in the attempt to leave the Darby as soon as possible, the air around her choking her mercilessly. The two women watched as Grace disappeared out of the tent, and hopefully out of their lives.

Away she went, the only woman who ever managed to deceive her, who almost singlehandedly created the rift between her and Tommy, who made all her insecurities resurface in a snap, with a letter and a phone call.

No, not anymore. Grace was no one, and she was Caterina Cardinale.

As if snapping out of a trance, Caterina took the last puff of her smoke and squashed the remaineder under the sole of her heel. She turned to her friend. "May, love, you look beautiful," they both smiled, exchanging a curteous peck on the cheek.

"I should be saying that to you, you must tell me the name of your tailor," May eyed her outfit appreciatively, brushing a stray piece of thread off Cat's coat. "Where's Thomas? He told me he would meet us by the bar."

Caterina gave a light sigh. "I have no idea and thats what worries me the most." She let her eyes travel over the sea of pastel coloured hats bobbing in the crowd like spring flowers that swayed with the wind.

"Let's go down to the paddock, he might have gone to see the horse, yes?" May tried to disperse both of theirs anxiety.

Cat nodded silently, allowing May to link their arms and lead the way to the paddocks, both careful with where they stepped in their heels, the ground already littered with broken bottles and garbage.

Caterina couldn't help but squint at the sun's harsh glare when they exited the tent, holding her free hand over her eyes. It was a beautiful day, that was hard to deny, and yet all day she felt an unsettling weight on her shoulders, pushing down on her lungs. There were just far too many thing that could go wrong.

"Why did you let her go, after everything she did?" asked May, curious.

She didn't know, not truly. Maybe she was weak, or a coward. Too many people already died by her hand. "I suppose I do have a bit of sentiment in this rotten body of mine," she bumped her shoulder with May's with a small smile.

"But don't tell anyone."


LIZZIE DREADED TO THINK what would have happened had Tommy not had a sudden change of heart and burst in the lavatory before Russell had the opportunity to go further than groping her breasts.

She was a whore once, yes, and she was neither proud or ashamed about it. But in all those years she had never felt as violated, as betrayed as she felt now, unable to stop her fingers from shaking even after her fourth cigarette and a hearty dose of overpriced whiskey.

Lizzie could hardly concentrate on John's enthusiastic speech as he hugged her, wiped the tears that trickled down her pale cheeks.

"We won. We fucking took Epsom," he placed a finger underneath her chin, giving his best to cheer her up. "We kicked the Cockneys' fucking arses."

"Congratu-fucking-lations." Lizzie rolled her eyes. She didn't even have the energy to scoff at the idealistic spark in his clear eyes, so drunk on the ideas Tommy placed in his brothers' heads, of a happily ever after — after this job, and then another one, and another one.

This was just the beginning, Lizzie was well aware of it. Men like Tommy Shelby could never be satisfied with a tranquil family life, a slowly increasing business.

He would always want more, and more, and more, a tempered bomb that would surely destroy everyone close to him.

"We fucking beat them, all right. John didn't even shoot his gun!" Arthur barked jovially, pouring a generous dose of Tokyo on the table in front of them. "We're kings! Kings of the fucking world!"

Lizzie took the opportunity to grasp Johns hand, bringing him closer so she could whisper to him . "John, I don't see the same thing in your eyes that I see in Tommy's. You should get out," she placed a hand on his cheek for a moment, looking in the same eyes that she could have loved once, and she did love John, perhaps like a brother she never had. He was always the kindest out of all the Shelby's, and the one that understood her the most.

Sometimes she wondered how her life would look like if she truly ended up marrying him. "You should get out," she gave him one last wavering smile before she turned back to her cigarettes.

Arthur looked around the yard. "Where is Tommy, anyway?" He squinted, searching for any sign of his younger brother, though his sight was going bleary from all the things that he had consumed.

"That's exactly what I was about to ask you."

Cat and May were walking over the grass to meet them, both sporting matching frowns on their pretty faces. Arthur was first to greet them, proclaiming loudly — again — their victory over Sabini.

The Italian noticed the discomforted look on her friend's face, deepening her frown. She laid a hand on her shoulder, looking down on her with concern in her eyes.

"Lizzie, are you alright, darling?" asked she, bending down to her sitting form to take a look at the small bruise appearing on her jaw. It could have been worse.

"I'm fine, don't worry. Just disheveled from all this pushing through the crowds," her friend faked a light laugh and focused on lighting another cigarette between her fingers.

Trying to relieve the tension among them John spoke up.

"We're rounding up our boys for the little celebration at the Garrison tonight, you ladies willing to join us?" he asked them, standing up and dusting off his coat.

"I'll ask the driver to bring my car around," May offered, taking a glance at Caterina.

Cat nodded. "I'll be right behind you. Come with us, Liz," the other woman took her outstretched hand readily. She then turned to the brothers, giving them a slight roll of her eyes. They were already a bit tipsy, if not on alcohol, then on the adrenaline that came with such a victory.

"Drive carefully, you idiots."