Arthur found Sorcha hanging off the bar in the Garrison.
He had been stopped by Tommy, who was ever at ease with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips, and told that Sorcha was drunk, alone, and at the Garrison. Arthur had chuckled at the sight he imagined in his head. In his head, Sorcha had Love Sends A Little Gift Of Roses playing from the gramophone. Her cheeks would be rosy, her eyes dewy. He would walk in with the swagger of a more confident man, take her in his arms, and lean in to gently press his lips against hers. And she would wrap her arms around his neck. They would sway and dance until the sun was a soft purple haze in the sky.
Instead he found Sorcha hanging off the bar, damp with tears, and half-awake.
"What's Tommy done to you, eh?" Gently he sat her up, bringing her safely against his chest to hold on tight. "My darling," his voice trailed off.
"Have I made a mistake coming here, Arthur?" Sorcha's lips were dry and her voice cracked after each word. "Should I 'ave stayed home?"
"No," Arthur whispered almost pleadingly, "this is yer home now. I'll care fer ya."
When Sorcha's knees buckled from under her, Arthur scooped her up in his arms and laid her down gently on the more forgiving cushions in the reserved side room where the Peaky Blinders met. He blanketed her with his coat and watched from the adjacent seat as Sorcha took deep breaths to stave off the painful pressure in her throat. Her eyes were red from blinking through tears.
The taste of whiskey was heavy on her tongue. "Pour me another drink?"
Arthur chuckled and reached over to place a hand over her hot forehead for a moment. "Had more than enough you 'ave."
It had been worth a shot. She went still again, concentrating as hard as she could on steadying her breathing. Slowly the world around her became a little clearer. Everything was beautiful. Like in the pictures. In a lazy movement, Sorcha dropped her arm from the side of the seat and reached back to Arthur. He took her hand in his own, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.
"Better shut the door on it all, yeah? There's no use forgetting and no use holding on," she spoke up into the wooden panels of the ceiling above her as though they were the vaults of heaven. "Some good did come from that nightmare though."
Her head lolled to the side towards him, blurry eyes now focused pointedly on his face. He was beautiful. A wide sheepish smile splayed across her face and her eyes drifted back up to the ceiling, cheeks flushing red. Just looking at him was overwhelming. She brought her hands back beside her body like she needed to keep a close account of where her limbs were.
"What ya smilin' at, eh?" Arthur almost leaned over her to get a better view of it. What a welcome sight it was. "Eh?"
"D' you really not know?"
There was a playful glimmer in her eyes that Arthur relished. She sat up, perhaps too quickly. Her head hit the wooden wall with a hard knock. Groaning in surprise and pain, she took a moment to nurse her head between her hands and wait until her drunkenness stopped making her mind roll about in heaving circles. It was exhausting.
"Even Tommy knows."
A sharp tension settled across Arthur's shoulders at the last bit. What did Tommy know about Sorcha that he didn't? Jealousy flashed through his eyes but Sorcha was too dizzy to notice. His voice was flat when he asked, "what does Tommy know?"
"That I've been half in love with you."
Sorcha spoke as it was obvious. Matter-of-factly. She downplayed it with a casual air. She hadn't, in fact, been just half in love with Arthur Shelby during the war; she had been consumed by him. She loved him furiously and forever. She had been beset by the deep richness of his voice, the comfort of his shoulders, the warmth of his touch, and the utter kindness in his eyes. His kind eyes were what did her in. That poor young girl she used to be didn't stand a chance against those eyes. He was loud, brash, and strong - everything she was not - and she loved him for it. Arthur gave her courage.
Arthur felt as though he'd been socked in the stomach. He stood, carding his fingers through his hair. Stunned and in disbelief. And immensely happy. Sorcha watched curiously as Arthur Shelby turned back and forth on the toe of his shoes then on his heels. After a moment he turned to her with a finger aimed in her direction.
"Oy, you're havin' a laugh, aren't ya?"
She shook her head. No, she wasn't.
Arthur's eyebrows furrowed deep between his eyes and his face twisted to hold back the surge of emotion that caught in his chest. He leaned in to cradle her face between his large hands. Sorcha wrapped her fingers around his wrists, smiling into those kind eyes she had loved so much. The affection in her gaze released the flood of tears welling in his eyes. Arthur sobbed into her shoulder and she held him tight. She gently wiped the damp from his face and brought him close to kiss his eyelids and the hot tears that escaped.
"You're a cruel one."
Sorcha chuckled and nuzzled her nose into the crook of his neck, "what 'ave I done?"
Arthur pulled back to hold her face again, earnestly studying her eyes, her lips, her countenance. "When - when did you know?" His breathing was labored and his voice unsteady.
"When you elbowed me in the face and blackened me eye," she grinned wide before they both fell back into laughter.
They looked at one another for quite some time, not daring to move as though it would break the world they had built around themselves within those small spaces between seconds. Her smile faded for a moment.
Sorcha raised her green eyes sincerely and whispered, "I'm sorry for drinking so much."
Arthur couldn't help let a deep, rumbling laugh escape from his mouth. Her voice had been so soft and earnest, so genuine and sorry. He brought her close against his chest again in an embrace.
"Don't be sorry. We all need to drink fire to heal better, yeah?"
Sorcha nodded. She wanted to believe him. She was hopeful. Perhaps, she thought, this would be a bright new start - as bright as smog filled Birmingham could be, that is. Her mind flew to the future. In Arthur's arms she imagined beautiful things. She wanted to take him to Ballycloghduff, to show him the shades of green and the sparkling springs. Hand in hand, they would walk barefoot along the soft Irish grass and sit along the Dungolman River under the cool shade of the downy birches. She would show him where she would wade along the water as a child when the sun would beat down upon her shoulders. Oh! how she wanted to feel the water travelling around her body. She wanted to dry herself in the warm blankets of light. And she wanted Arthur with her - forgetting the darkness for a moment.
Neither Arthur nor Sorcha could say how long they sat with their arms around one another, each lost in a daze, but it had been John that barged through the door to fetch Arthur. There was business. That was a phrase Sorcha heard over and over again. It was the same business that kept her safe and it was the same business that kept her close to Arthur. She was resolved in her gratitude.
She was instructed to stay in the side room and sober up if she insisted on tending bar again that day. Arthur left a large glass of water on the table beside her before he went into the chill with John. He left his coat still draped across Sorcha's lap lest she get cold. Before he shut the door behind him, Arthur Shelby promised he would come back to her and took one last look at the woman who loved him, a perfect calm swathing his mind and his body.
It took longer than she anticipated to feel well enough to stand and, when a pounding began in her temples, Sorcha swore to never drink again. The taste of whiskey lingered on her tongue and she felt sick at the smell of it. Nevertheless, she stepped out of the side room to perch herself behind the bar in anticipation of the crowd of men willing to spend their recently earned money. Though her head swam, it was important to stay.
Hours later, after gagging at the smell of spilled liquor, Sorcha was fully sober with a pounding headache. The crowd in the Garrison was thinning and men were drunkenly stumbling back home to their families. Harry hadn't needed to warn her that any man could have her at their choosing like he had done with Grace. Instead, Harry Fenton spent many nights those first few weeks of her employment warning men to keep their hands and eyes off the new barmaid. "Arthur Shelby's keen on her. Don't be a yampy," he would snap under his breath several times each evening.
When the Garrison was empty, the doors locked, and chairs overturned on the tables, Sorcha waited impatiently for Harry to leave. She leaned over books, pretending to be busy and deep in thought over sums.
"You'll be okay in here?" Harry paused at the door to adjust his cap on the crown of his head..
Sorcha nodded. "Tommy asked me to finish these statements," she lied. "I'll be fine. Say hello to your wife for me, eh, Harry?"
"Aye," Harry stifled a loud yawn before shuffling out the doors of the Garrison and locking it behind him.
After waiting for several minutes in case he came back, Sorcha shut the expense book loudly before rushing into the office to rifle through files and papers. Her heart beat like machine gun fire inside her chest. Every few seconds a small sound would jolt her up, listening into the silence for the rattling of the door handle or footsteps falling on the wooden floorboards. When all was still, she continued rummaging for important documents with Thomas Shelby's scribbled signature. When she found all she could, Sorcha carefully arranged the loose sheets of paper inside the pages of the expense book and hid it in the folds of her skirts. Grabbing Arthur's coat and sliding her arms into the oversized sleeves, Sorcha made her last stop behind the bar.
With unease, she checked in the very bottom shelf under the bar, in the very back as was instructed, for a bundle of dynamite with a red fuse attached at the end in the shape of a T. Sorcha didn't know who placed it there or when, but she knew it was supposed to be there tucked behind clean pint glasses. She took five bottles of liquor which were perched on the shelves behind the bar, poured them out on the ground by her feet, and rounded to the opposite side of the bar-top. Sorcha reached into the pockets of Arthur's coat where she knew he kept his cigarettes, and fished out a matchbox. She reached down to make sure the expense book was where she had tucked it away on her person, lit a match, and, with shaking hands, flicked it across the bar. A large flame jumped up from the alcohol and began licking at the foot of the bar. It wouldn't take long for it to spread to the explosives.
Sorcha hurried out of the back door where the sky was dark and the streets empty. Fear crept into her chest as she slowly approached the darkened alley where she had been assaulted over two months ago. She craned her neck to search into the darkness. She caught sight of the red eye of a cigarette burning in the shadows.
Polly emerged from the alleyway, "you have what we asked?"
Sorcha fished the expenses book out from skirts and cautiously handed it through the darkness. Polly quickly went through the pages and documents, smiled, and snuffed out the cigarette with a blocked heel.
"Well done, love. He's waiting for you. You know where."
"Yes. I know where," Sorcha wrapped Arthur's coat closer around her to keep out the cold breeze.
Polly's footsteps travelled rapidly down the alleyway, leaving Sorcha alone to navigate into the night before the fuse lit. Slowly making her way through damp alleys and down crowded roads. Drunk men reached out to grab at her arms but, even in their stupor, recognized who she was by who she knew. They muttered an apology and lumbered on with their heads bowed down in fear, eyes shifting back and forth to be ready if they caught sight of the shoes worn by Peaky Blinders.
Sorcha finally reached Charlie's Yard where Tommy stood facing the glistening water, cigarette dangling from his lips. He turned when he heard her approach.
"Is it done?"
She nodded.
"And you gave over the expense book?"
She nodded again.
Tommy pinched his cigarette from his lips to hold out to her. Sorcha brought it to herself and pulled the warmth down into her lungs. It was a welcome embrace. Tommy watched her intently, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He was ready to tell her about the insurance scam he'd planned, but she didn't ask.
"You've got no questions?"
Sorcha took another drag. "It's no business of mine."
Tommy lit another cigarette for himself. The wisps of white smoke drifted with the breeze. "I need more women like you on my side," he mused, gesturing towards her approvingly with his cigarette carefully poised between his middle and pointer finger. "You don't ask questions. Don't fight back. You trust me." He waited a moment for her response before continuing, "Did you tell Arthur you loved him? He left happy."
"I did," Sorcha tamped out the cigarette butt under her heel and reached up to pull the cigarette out of Tommy's mouth for herself.
"Good," was his response, unfazed by losing another cigarette. He slipped a hand into his coat pocket to pull out a folded sheet of paper. "I received this telegram from someone I suspect you know." Tommy placed his finger under the sender name and held the telegram up to Sorcha's face to read.
"Aye," Sorcha nodded, "I know 'im."
"Will you come speak with him?"
"Me?" She was hesitant. "I know nothin' 'bout your world, Tom."
"Don't worry, nurse. I'll keep you safe." He plucked the cigarette from her fingers and pulled a long drag. "You've done excellent work. Keep what's done to yourself, Sorcha. Just between the two of us."
"I 'aven't been here long, Tom, but I know the rules." She squinted around at her surroundings in an attempt to find the best way back to Arthur's small flat where she stayed. "Is this where you'd meet Greta? You remember, you'd tell me about her in France?"
"No, no," Tommy braced himself at hearing Greta Jurrosi's name. "It wasn't here," was all he said. "I'll take you home."
Sorcha smiled and accepted in great relief. It would have been daybreak by the time she navigated back to her flat in the dark on foot. Tommy cocked his head to one side, indicating she should follow, and led her to the luxurious Napier Type 23 automobile parked behind the stables. He held the passenger door open with one hand and helped her in with the other.
It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She cautiously laid her hand flat on the leather seat and felt the seams that kept it together. It was stylish. So much more comfortable than the bumpy lorries she rode on during the war. It was class.
"How many litres?"
Tommy cracked a smile. "Are you an expert in automobiles, nurse? A secret hobby?"
"Don't be an arse, Tommy Shelby," Sorcha playfully hit him on the upper arm.
"And you've got quite a mouth on ya. Picked it up from us, no doubt."
Beaming self-satisfied having made Thomas Shelby smile, Sorcha folded her hands in her lap in preparation for her first automobile ride. The car jolted forward and the night air breezed past her ears through the black curls of her hair. Her Irish lilt was always more pronounced when she was happy. It transported her back to her Westmeath childhood. There was more in her than just Irish - on her mother's side. All the Brummies in Small Heath could tell she wasn't fully Irish. The Shelby's didn't seem to mind. They were half-gypsy after all.
Tommy parked the vehicle outside of the grim dark bricked tenement. His gloved hand gently brushed loose strands of her hair behind her ear.
"Do I remind you of someone?" Greta? Grace? Sorcha wanted to ask but thought better of it.
"Persephone," said Tommy rather thoughtfully and brought his hand back to the steering wheel. "A bright little bird taken from green meadows down to catacombs of hell."
"I've come on my own accord."
"Aye," he agreed, "but hell is hell regardless."
"Have I made a mistake coming here, Tommy? Should I have stayed home?"
"Yes," Tommy said pointblank. "Sleep well, nurse. Arthur will be back from London in the morning. There's a family meeting tomorrow and I expect you to be there."
Missing a beat, Sorcha finally stepped out of the car after giving her assurance she would attend. She shuffled up to the flat, still wrapped warmly in Arthur's coat that smelt like smoke, and was asleep the second her head sunk into the soft pillows.
Sorcha shot up in the middle of the night, instinctively feeling the sheets for Arthur. He wasn't there. She heard voices and heavy footsteps outside of the door. The voices were low and harsh. Sorcha froze in fear that it was the police coming to arrest her for setting the Garrison ablaze. Her hand snaked under Arthur's pillow hoping to find a loaded Smith and Wesson. Her heart sank when all she found was the photograph of herself before the war.
The door handle loudly rattled.
Sorcha jumped again at the sound. The window was too high to climb out from. There was nowhere to hide in the small room. All she could do was huddle in bed waiting, praying, and dreading.
The door flew open and the bright hall light momentarily blinded Sorcha before a large figure of a man darkened the door frame. She squinted against the light to see his face. Three pairs of heavy footsteps filled the door and a large hand gripped the front of her shirt, the other hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming. Sorcha couldn't have screamed even if she wanted to. She was paralyzed with fear.
"It's just the girl." The first voice was low, cruel, and smelled foul.
"Good," a second voice growled. "'S who boss was looking for. Gag her and bring her down."
Sorcha was hauled to her feet and dragged down the stairs with more force than she was willing to fight against. The Small Heath sky was still dark with sleep, and Sorcha prayed to whatever God may be for Arthur to arrive just in time. Her eyes combed the streets. Empty. A fear seized her - a doubt that Thomas Shelby would be unable to save her from this. An even more fearsome thought crept in - perhaps Tommy was behind this.
Hell is hell regardless, he had said just hours before.
Persephone, he had called her.
Sorcha climbed into the car with shaky limbs. For a brief moment she wondered if there was any way she could go free. Fighting, perhaps? No, she didn't have the same anger in her like Arthur did. As if they had overheard her thoughts, the gruff men holding her immediately put a blindfold over her eyes.
Hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes forcibly shut, all Sorcha could do was wait to reach the destination.