Sorcha was trapped in mud; it sludged halfway up her legs and made her feet feel like bricks. All around her were dead French, British, and German soldiers - their bodies pale, still, and rapidly decaying under the sweltering July sun. Rats skittered around with beady eyes, eagerly waiting for her to succumb to a muddy grave. Debris rained down on them all. Men screamed in the distance. But in this moment, it was just Sorcha trapped in a muddy pit with the bodies around her.
She froze - not that she could move far through the mud without sinking deeper to the bottom like the men and horses decaying underfoot. Her back was turned to no man's land and any second a bullet or fragmented artillery shell could ricochet into her jugular or her femoral artery. She could be dead within seconds with no one to save her from the muck and mire.
Even though she stood at the edge of chaos, a new fear superseded the adrenaline pumping through her veins. It made her hair stand on edge. It was as if someone was watching her from behind. It felt dangerous. Sorcha forgot how to pray in what felt like her last moments, but she mustered enough courage to turn. There was nothing romantic in looking death in the eye but, if it was the end of her life, she didn't want to die facing the earth. In her final moments she didn't want to peer into the dead faces of the men below her.
What she saw standing behind her made her stomach turn. A decaying corpse stood up and stared down at her from a bundle of shot-up sandbags. There was no way to make out his bloody expression as his face was distorted by the rotting flesh hanging where his cheek should have been. The bodies surrounding the pit rose one after the other, lumbering down into the mud towards her with arms outstretched. Sorcha didn't dare move. She was knees deep now and whimpering - hoping a bullet, or Arthur, found her before dead fingers ransacked her skin.
The bodies stumbled in closer. Though their mouths didn't move, she heard a collective bellow, "you didn't save us, you let us die. You didn't save us. You let us die." She felt fingers on her ankles, her calves, up to her thighs. She squeezed her eyes shut as the fingers grabbed at her arms, her shoulders, and her neck until putrefied fingers clamped her mouth shut.
Sorcha jolted awake, panic growing inside when her eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar room and the low embers glowing inside the stove. Her body wasn't soaking in sweat nor were her eyes damp with tears. In fact, awake, she felt fine. Safe. It was just her soul that hurt. Sorcha remembered the alleyway and Arthur.
Oh, Arthur! She placed her sore feet on the floor, dragging the thin blanket on her way down. As she adjusted herself against him, Arthur sleepily wrapped his arm around her and guided her arm across his chest.
Arthur woke up first that morning with an unholy throbbing at his temple. Sleeping on the floor had made his back hurt and he was about to hoist himself up when he noticed Sorcha tucked beside him, fast asleep. There was a hard line between her eyes which softened when he pulled his arm tighter around her. A small smile played on his lips.
Being a Shelby made him feel important without question. He was a fearsome sight to behold on the cobblestoned streets of Birmingham. His name made him important by default. Being part of the Peaky Blinders made him respected and feared. Yet somehow Arthur never felt needed. Nothing he owned was his own. It was the family's. John couldn't even choose his own wife. But Tommy. Tommy could have things of his own. He had his horses and Grace. The rest of them were just bargaining chips. Toy soldiers.
But Arthur took a moment to look at the small flat, the sun streaming gently through the curtains, and the soft yellow glow of the embers left in the stove. It was all his. He looked down at the woman beside him. With Sorcha, he felt needed. And, as much as she needed him, he needed her too. His nightmares had gotten worse and there were large chunks of time that started disappearing during his day. He was emotional. He just didn't know what fucking emotion it was. Arthur brought his free hand up to his neck but couldn't feel the scarred skin from his first attempt at ending it all. Drinking to death was easier and a lot more fun, he figured.
Sorcha stirred in his arms and Arthur smiled as her eyes fluttered open. His hand rested on the feminine curve of her waist, and he gently stroked her skin with his thumb. Now, in the sober morning light, he saw just how black and blue her left eye was and all the scratches that peppered her face.
"How bad do I look, eh?" She pulled the hem of the blanket up to her chest before sitting up against the bed to show him her face more clearly. With a small laugh she continued, "is it worse than the time you elbowed me face in your sleep?"
"Oy," Arthur exclaimed playfully, "you snuck up on a man while he's sittin' in the trenches waiting for the enemy. I ain't apologizing for that."
Sorcha bit her bottom lip in a futile attempt to stifle a laugh but a large grin splayed on her face. So large that her cheeks began to hurt. To Arthur, it was a beautiful sight. "No," she finally shook her head, "no, you don't have to apologize for that."
After a moment, Arthur reached his large hand out to cup under her chin, his thumb gently running over the full lips still tender from the beating the night before. "If you saw the men who did this to you, think you would recognize them?"
Before Sorcha answered, she took note of the dangerously low drawl of his question. A darkness had passed over his eyes and, momentarily, Arthur was unrecognizable. She decided to answer slowly with a nod. Resolute, Arthur stood up and held both hands out for her to take. The blanket fell off her body and she stood before him in the slip, suddenly feeling red in the cheeks and exposed. Arthur noticed the way the silk fell off her shoulders and draped her body. Any man would have noticed. But Arthur pushed aside this desire and, instead, pulled her closer, hands placed on either side of her face, and said,
"You want to stay? 'Ere. With me?"
"If you'll have me."
Another smile played on Arthur's lips. "I'll surely hav' you. My bright little bird."
It was a quarter to eleven in the morning according to Arthur's pocket watch and he was fixing for a meal. Mostly a drink. His family were used to his overnight jaunts, but he'd never bring someone into their home the morning after. But Sorcha was different. She wasn't a prize to be won - she wasn't a conquest. He draped his large coat over her shoulders, buttoned it up to keep away the cold November air, and waited a moment to look at her. There was no hiding her black eye or the bruises or the red welt on the bridge of her nose.
"What if the men come back and hurt me again?"
"Oy, look at me," he leaned down to meet her eyes. "Nobody will ever hurt you again. You 'ear me? If anybody even looks at you strange, you just tell 'em to take it up with Arthur fuckin' Shelby. Yeah?"
Unconvinced, Sorcha nodded.
"Good girl."
It wasn't at all a long walk to the Shelby household. Sorcha followed close beside Arthur with her head bent low. She noticed how he turned every street corner with the swagger of a confident man, shoulders squared back and head held high. The war hadn't at all affected him it seemed. For a moment Sorcha was jealous - jealous of Arthur's pride, his strut, his lust for life. It seemed she had lost much of that zeal when the war finally ended. How could Arthur, a man who saw the worst atrocities of war having put his own life on the line digging tunnels - not feel the weight of what he had endured? Instead, he smiled, laughed, and walked with his head held high. She pulled the heavy coat closer around herself, desperately trying to outrun the wind that snaked up the slip she wore underneath.
Rounding one more turn onto a lane of homes, Arthur reached back to take her hand and paused at a black door. Sorcha could hear the sound of happy voices just behind it. Suddenly she was afraid again. She had been alone without kin for close to four years. What if Arthur's happy family had her seething with jealousy? Just as Arthur poised his hand over the door knob, he turned to Sorcha waiting for any indication that she was ready to step inside. She nodded.
"Oh, ha!" John dramatically threw his hands up when he saw Arthur enter the house. "Who'd you have this time, eh, Arthur? The blonde from last week? Or that sweet redhead from - " John stopped his sentence short as Sorcha peeked into the house behind his older brother. John had to squint hard and cock his head to one side, but he could just barely recognize the girl's face. During the war, John hadn't been a tunneler like his two older brothers. Instead, he was a machine gunner. Though Sorcha hadn't crossed paths with him, John distantly recalled seeing her with Arthur and Tommy as they marched back from the Western Front, empty shells of the men they used to be. The state of her face was enough to make all the Shelby's pause and briefly wonder if it had been Arthur's handiwork.
Polly spoke up expectantly, "who's this then?"
Arthur looked at Polly, then to Ada, before twisting at his midriff to look back at Sorcha. "She - Sorcha's" he snatched his cap from his head and raked his hair back with his fingers, "an old friend from the war. A nurse. She fixed me and Tommy up more than once."
Polly, having prayed each and every day for her boys to return home safely, moved toward Sorcha, took her by the hand, and smiled. As far as Polly was concerned, the girl was an angel sent by God. "Sit down, love. I'll fix you up a plate and clean those wounds."
"Oy! What about my plate?" Arthur nearly howled.
"Fix yer own damn plate," was the response from the kitchen. "Ada, you're a trained nurse, see what you can do for that poor girl's face."
John scoffed, "Aunt Pol, she went to one first aid class in the church hall and got thrown out for giggling."
"Not before learning how to stop somebody from choking," was Ada's response, rising from her seat at the table to find salve, obviously up in arms in her fixing-up capabilities.
"Aye, but she ain't choking is she," Arthur guided Sorcha to the table and sat beside her, protectively lounging his arm on the back of her seat.
Sorcha spoke up for the first time, directing her small voice to Ada with a smile. "Stopping somebody from choking is important."
To Ada, choking was just food going down funny. Sorcha remembered holding young men's heads up on her lap, desperate to keep them from gagging on their own blood and spit as the medics tried to find the bullet wound that punctured the major organs. Just the thought made Sorcha sick to the stomach. Her hands were shaking when Ada took them in her own, inspecting the angry gashes on the knuckles.
"They've done you up good, haven't they?" Ada remarked as she gently spread the salve over the wounds.
"Johnny," Arthur shared a serious look with his younger brother and John nodded knowingly - they both knew what had to be done. The oldest Shelby stood, placed a warm hand on Sorcha's shoulder, and said, "We're going out, but we'll be back. Nobody's going to hurt you, yeah? Ada, get her some clothes and tell Harry he's got a beautiful new barmaid."
Ada nodded and, once John and Arthur left, it was only women left at the Shelby household. Polly gently placed a plate of food before Sorcha, taking Arthur's spot beside her. "Thank you. Thank you for looking after my boys."
Raising her eyes from her hand where Ada worked, Sorcha exhaled. "They're good men. And what they saw and had to do…" her voice trailed off. "But I'm happy Arthur found peace in the aftermath. I certainly haven't."
Polly and Ada shared a look. They both knew Arthur was drinking too much, fighting too much, and crying too much. That wasn't the actions of a man who had found peace post-war. Arthur had nearly beaten a poor boy to a bloody pulp. John and Charlie had to peel him off. But it was neither Polly or Ada's place to break the young woman's hope.
When her wounds were covered, and Ada had dressed her in clean clothes, Sorcha used a small mirror to smooth her unruly curly hair down. There was no taming it. Polly and Ada had made her feel welcome and being with any semblance of a family made the young woman feel safe. She didn't feel completely wanted but she felt welcome. At least Arthur wanted her to stay.
In France, they didn't have a chance to say proper goodbyes as the Shelby brothers were shipped off to where the next battle needed to be fought. The VAD sent Sorcha to Belgium to look after the wounded fighting in the Passchendaele campaign. Not a day passed without Arthur dancing through her mind; his smile and his resilience. But it was none too obvious that pieces of his goodness had been chipped away, day by day. This bitter world was taking away his sweetness. So, when Sorcha met him again in Birmingham, she was glad he was so happy, confident, and formidable.
"Are you ready?" Polly asked while pinning her hat in place.
Sorcha nodded and followed Polly out the door onto Watery Lane towards the Garrison. It wasn't far of a walk but on sore feet Sorcha braced herself. Noticing the wide berth Polly received as they made their way down the streets of Small Heath, Sorcha held her head a little higher - just as Arthur had. It wasn't her place to question the deference in those they passed. Arthur promised her she would be safe.
If anybody even looks at you strange, you just tell 'em to take it up with Arthur fuckin' Shelby.
At the Garrison, Polly settled the arrangement with Harry Fenton. Sorcha would be the new barmaid. No one was allowed to touch her. Harry had no choice but to agree and that was that. The girl was a sight to behold, he had thought, all patched up with a blackened eye. No poor sod would touch her in her condition anyways.
"Polly," a smooth voice spoke from behind the two women who stood at the bar.
Sorcha turned to see a familiar face. Tommy had a cigarette fixed between his lips, cradling a glass of whiskey in the palm of one hand. His blue eyes settled on her. Sorcha noted how tired and beaten down he looked. Tommy's shoulders didn't have quite the same squared back bravado as his older brother. The world weighed heavy on Thomas Shelby.
"Has Arthur's elbow done it to you again, nurse?"
Sorcha might have laughed if her tender face would allow it. All she could muster was a small chuckle, "ack, if only, Tom."
"Arthur," Tommy took a long drag on his cigarette, momentarily offering it to her and making a smoky exhale when she declined, "Arthur told me you'd come. We're always 'ere in the Garrison. It's clean work, and Harry will keep a watchful eye when we're not 'ere."
Before the young woman could express her gratitude the doors of the Garrison slammed open. Arthur sauntered in victorious like Julius Caesar, a wide grin forming on his face when he saw Sorcha standing with Tommy and Polly at the bar. "Come on outside, little bird," he cheerfully roared.
Out in front of the Garrison, Sorcha saw two men standing nervously with John. Arthur clamored down the stairs, grabbed one man by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him up before Sorcha. Like a gift.
"These two?"
Sorcha stood still, uncertain how Arthur would react if she gave an affirmative. She turned back to Polly and Tommy. Polly's face was expressionless, but Tommy's was softer and he gave a reassuring nod that she should answer honestly. Sorcha faced Arthur again, looking briefly between the two men who seemed scared out of their wits, and she nodded. It was them that had hurt her the night before. With his free hand, Arthur took a moment to reach out under Sorcha's chin and coax her head higher. Chin up, my little bird his eyes seemed to say.
In the blink of an eye, Arthur landed a hard blow across the man's face, sending him to the mud with a surprised yelp. Sorcha couldn't help but gasp at the sudden aggression. John followed in suit, beating the second man into the ground. Panicked, Sorcha turned to Polly and Tommy. Polly's face was resolute and Tommy was casually leaned up against the Garrison's door-jamb nursing his drink. Sorcha looked on in horror as Arthur beat the man to a bloody pulp long after John had the second man unconscious. Arthur was relentless. He had a handful of the man's shirtfront gripped in one hand and, with the other, ferociously pummeling his knuckles down into the man's throat, jaw, nose, and temple. And his face - Sorcha was terrified at the malice that shadowed Arthur's eyes. There was so much hate. He was unrecognizable.
"Right. Arthur," Tommy flicked the butt of his cigarette down, "that's enough."
Arthur didn't stop. Or couldn't. He kept going and going until Tommy and John both had to drag him back. Dazed and confused, Arthur looked upon his works and down at his hands, sticky with blood. To Sorcha, he wasn't a vibrant, confidant man with a lust for life as she thought. It was his facade. Inside he suffered deeply and the shell shock was written all over his face, across his slumped shoulders, and on his heaving chest. Arthur sat still for a moment too long because Tommy, John, and Polly filed back into Garrison's without a word. They'd seen it all before. Arthur would be back to normal soon enough.
Sorcha lingered, cautiously waiting for the two beaten men to rise and go their own ways but the Shelby boys had them knocked out cold. Slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, she knelt before Arthur, waiting for him to meet her gaze. "You are a good man," she whispered. "Arthur. You are a good man with a good heart." Sorcha slipped her hand into his, cringing inwardly at how the warm blood stained her work-roughened hands. She thought of the putrefied fingers groping at her body again - the dead soldiers, the men.
"I'm not," he scraped back his disheveled hair and lifted his head up to her in defeat, tears and sweat starting to mix across his skin. "I'm not a good man."
"You are." Sorcha was determined. She put her hands on either side of Arthur's face, wiping away his tears with her thumbs. "You are," she repeated.
"For fucks sake, Arthur," Tommy leaned out the door of the Garrison with obvious annoyance, "get out off the ground and come inside."
Sorcha snapped her head toward Tommy with daggers shooting out of her eyes. She held Arthur's head tight against her chest, daring Tommy to say another word. And Tommy had seen that look on her face only once before. It was just as disconcerting the second time around several years after the trenches. He ceded.
"You're a good man, Arthur Shelby," Sorcha said once more and placed a firm kiss on his temple. She rocked back and forth, in the mud, with Arthur in her arms.