25 May 1919

The Black Swan Inn was teeming with men, spilling in and out of the doors, hats pulled low in case someone was watching.

Someone like Harry Fenton.

He stood at the top of the street, peering around the corner of a brick wall to get a glimpse of the pub entrance, making sure no one could see him. He didn't really know what he was looking for, a man that looked suspicious, perhaps, someone who looked like they might have information on the guns, although Harry wasn't sure he agreed with Inspector Campbell that the Irish had them.

He hadn't actually seen the Inspector for weeks, and there had been no contact, so, impatient, Harry decided to take things into his own hands, especially after overhearing a conversation in the Garrison between Thomas and two IRA members.

Fenton had always been a close friend to Thomas and the Shelby family, and it was never his intention to betray them, in fact what he was doing terrified him, but in recent times Harry had been growing tired of their violence, which was spreading thick and fast across the city like some unstoppable plague, now more than ever after the war. So, when an officer contacted him late last year, days after Fenton's own son was beaten bloody by Arthur Selby, he found himself complying. He knew the family; he knew what they were like, where they went, what they drank. He also knew that the wall between the private room and the bar wasn't as sound-proof as Tommy believed. Simple, he had thought, just listen to a few things and report back anything necessary.

And then Elizabeth Scott returned to Birmingham. And with her she bought several problems for Harry. Not only did she make listening into conversations hard, with her so often behind the bar with him, but it made what he was doing weigh that much heavier on his conscious. She was kind, a sweet girl who had helped him out at the pub since she was young, someone he had grown to care for, especially with no daughters of his own.

Elizabeth's return was unexpected, though not un-talked of. It was a discussion had on many a night, when men knee-deep in their Blues would come stumbling into The Garrison, drowning their sorrows in amber liquid. Forgetting France and instead choosing to remember easier times, when a pretty, red-haired girl served them drinks as they danced. They would sit across the bar from him, slurring their words as they asked when she was coming back, hoping they could have just that little bit of normality back in their lives.

Where's that pretty Scott girl gone, ey Harry? When's she coming back so I can dance with her again?

And then the rumours began. Some said she was dead, which he never believed, buried six feet below French soil. He would rebuke those claims, but he couldn't stop his own suspicions as his Maggie told him of the rumours that she had moved to America, run from this city and its people the first chance she got. He thought back to those conversations with his wife across the kitchen table and how one night she said that even Polly Grey wasn't denying it anymore.

He could never understand the obsession in Small Heath with the Peaky Blinders, why so much of the gossip centred around that family, but nevertheless he indulged in the whispers and therefore didn't have her on his conscious as he made his decision to work with the Inspector. And then, just his luck, Elizabeth turned up in Birmingham again. It was much to the delight of his Maggie, who started going on about introducing the 'very much flowered woman' to one of their boys. He couldn't find the same joy in it though, having never anticipated her returning here from France, which was what made his decision to betray the Peaky Blinders that much easier. But once she was back, Harry found himself doubting his decisions, struggling to actually do his job, and wondering if he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

His attention was moved suddenly from his thoughts as he watched a man leave the pub, stumbling over his feet, drunkenly singing Fenian songs. Harry Fenton's hand went to the gun in his coat pocket, which was cool to the touch, as he left his spot, walking slowly behind the drunkard. He teetered down the road, swerving and tripping as the alcohol clouded his vision. Eventually, the Irishman rounded a corner, walking up an empty street. When Harry followed cautiously behind, he found the man gone. Advancing slowly, shoes crunching on the gravel, he tightened his grip on the gun that Inspector Campbell had given him. Suddenly, a foot shot out from behind a door, sweeping Fenton's legs from under him. The drunk man came flying at him, knocking the breath from his lungs as they tumbled around on the ground. After a few minutes of scrambling across the street, twisting and grunting, the man gained control, sitting on top of Harry and tightening his hands around his neck.

"I saw you following me," he spat, a thick accent made worse by the alcohol which stung his eyes as the man breathed, "why were you doing that, hey? You interested in me?"

"Get. Off. Me." Harry gasped, kicking his legs desperately as the man tightened his grip, blocking his windpipe.

"Don't think I will, actually. I know you, don't I? You work at the Peaky Blinder's pub." The man grinned, his small eyes twinkling, "What business do you have following me, working for them are you? Or you a Copper? I might just take you in for questioning, hey, on behalf of the Irish Republican Army. Would you like that?"

Harry found himself panicking, his plan to get information unravelling before him, the thread disappearing in the wind like the air in his lungs. Trying to gasp for breath, Harry scratched uselessly at the man's fingers, trying to pry them off.

"Tell me," he gasped, desperate, "about the guns, and I won't shoot you."

"Shoot me?" The man hesitated long enough for Harry to reach to his pocket and draw out his gun, pressing the barrel into the Irishman's neck. He paused, eyes wide, and slowly released Fenton from his grip, holding his hands out beside him.

"Calm down, you crazy bastard," he croaked, sliding off Fenton and kneeling in the mud. "I don't know about any fucking guns, alright? Just put that down and we'll forget about this."

"Tell me about the guns." He repeated, sitting up slowly, trying not to show that he could barely focus, his vision swimming wildly.

"I'm serious, I don't know a fucking thing. If you're talking about the stolen BSA ones the Coppers are after, we was trying to buy them, alright but that's it, that's all I know."

Confirming his suspicions, and Tommy's conversation, Fenton was now sure that the IRA didn't have the stolen weapons, and that his job here was done. Keeping a close eye on the man, he rose, slowly lowering the gun to return it to his pocket. The minute he went to put it back, however, the man lunged forward, tackling his legs and knocking him back into the floor. Not thinking, Fenton found his finger wrapping around the gun trigger and firing.

A bang echoed through the street, and above him, the Irishman stiffened and then collapsed.

Fenton's world seemed to slow, his heart pounding his chest and his fingers turning numb. He pushed the man of his chest and stood up, shaking. Harry looked down, watching as blood blossomed from the man's chest, a dark red stain creeping across his clothes, seeping out onto the dusty ground. Harry looked down at his own chest, which was splattered with the man's blood, and, trying not to be sick, he wrapped his coat around him quickly, turning and running from the dead man.

27 May 1919

Elizabeth sighed, pushing her hair from her face as she surveyed the mess that was John's kitchen. Four screaming children were sat around the table, bickering amongst themselves, throwing food and pencils and, a gun?

"Get your hands of that William before I clip your ear!" She shouted, pushing away from the kitchen counter and dashing across the room, grabbing the weapon from the giggling six-year-old. "Where did you get this?"

"Pa left it here." The child laughed, before his attention moved to his siblings around the table.

Elizabeth cursed John silently, reminding herself to give him a shouting whenever he returned tonight. Her mind wandered to John as she tried to block out the high-pitched screams that filled the room.

Helping out with the children felt like the least she could do to provide comfort since Martha's death. The woman's lack of presence in the house was felt dearly. From the mess that was John Shelby's home, to the state of discipline and order amongst his children. Little children, who were no more than babies when Elizabeth had last seen them and who didn't recognise her when she met them again. She could tell how much it hurt them as well. Katie and William, eight and six respectfully, understood why their mother had passed, even in all their childhood innocence, but she still caught them looking at her photo on the wall with grief in their big eyes. The youngest two, however: Rupert, five years old, and Ellie, who wasn't even born when Elizabeth left, she could see it in their faces that they didn't understand. She felt it as she tucked them into bed, kissing their cheek and trying not to let her heart break as they whispered for their mother in their sleep.

Elizabeth had known Martha since she was a girl, and though they'd never been particularly close, she had always admired the girl stuck to John Shelby's arm, who could stand his unbearable ways, keeping him under control and loving him to her last breath, even after he got her pregnant at sixteen. Helping Martha's children wasn't only from a sense of duty to John, but a sense of duty to the woman who'd stuck beside him.

And despite all that, she still wanted to scream in frustration at the gang of children who never slowed down, even for a minute.

"Alright!" She shouted suddenly, clapping her hands together to get their attention, "I'm sick to death of your screaming, so let's try something new, since you refuse to do your spelling."

Elizabeth could already feel the regret of her decision building up inside her, but it had been made. Putting Katie in charge, she locked the four of them in the kitchen as she dashed down the road and to her apartment, grabbing the box of art supplies that Polly had handed over to her two weeks ago. There and back in five minutes, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as she walked back into the battlefield, glad that none of the children had started a fire, or killed each other, since she was gone.

"Who here likes painting?" She asked, looking at the intrigued faces, their eyes brightening. She was met with a chorus of cheers, smiling as they scrambled onto the table to grasp first choice of supplies. Knowing the risk of mess that this activity posed, she laid cloth across the table and made sure each Shelby had a suitable supply of paper to spread paint over.

Elizabeth settled down in a chair beside Ellie, gently helping the youngest girl to unscrew the lid of a green paint tube, laughing as they both smeared the thick substance over the paper with their hands. She couldn't help but watch the four with a glowing heart, their tongues stuck out in concentration, voices quietening to a whisper as they worked on their pieces. Years ago, the idea of handing her supplies to the mercy of children would have horrified her, but Elizabeth found nothing made her happier than watching them paint with the same ardour that she possessed at their age.

"Do you like, Aunt Eliza?" Rupert asked, beaming as he held up a very messy sheet of paper, a scramble of pencil lines and pink paint swirling across the page.

"I love it Rupert," she replied in earnest, kissing the thick crop of curls on his head. He smiled, putting it to the side and starting another painting.

Whatever God had smiled down on her that night, Elizabeth thanked them. The children, calmed by the art, settled down to sleep agreeably, hours later, excited to wake up and see what their pieces looked like dry. It had terrified Elizabeth, watching them dart for the box when she'd first put it down, wondering if she'd be cleaning paint from the ceiling by the end of the day, but instead all had ended well.

She finally made her way down the stairs, yawning as she packed her things back into the box and found a drying rack from the cupboard. She spread the young Shelby's many pages across it, inspecting their creations. Some were nothing more than hand prints across a page, others little scenes of a garden or a beach. A picture by Katie caught Elizabeth's eye, as she pegged it up, a painting she could only assume was of Martha. A tall woman, painted pink, was standing outside a house, holding the hand of a small, green child, with brown pigtails to match Katie's. The front door clicked open as she pegged the last work on, turning around to smile at John as he entered the kitchen.

"Bloody hell, what did they do to you?" he whistled, removing the toothpick from his mouth and looking her up and down. She followed his eyes to her chest, where her shirt was stained with paint that she hadn't realised was on there.

"Fuck," she cursed, throwing her hands in the air in desperation. "It's ruined!"

John only laughed, pushing past her to look, intrigued, at the work she'd hung up. Elizabeth turned around, smiling slightly at the look of pride on his face, as he inspected his children's work.

"You let them mess with your stuff?" he asked, touching the painting of Katie and her mother, John's finger brushing gently over Martha's likeness.

"I didn't have much hope," she admitted, gathering her coat and bag, "but it was a surprising success."

"Thank you, Eliza." John said earnestly, looking her dead in the eye. She squeezed his arm gently, kissing his cheek and going to leave, pausing suddenly as she reached the kitchen door.

"Oh, and John, if I catch your children with one your guns one more time," Elizabeth turned around and picked the weapon up from the sideboard, pointing it at John, who cursed under his breath. "I will tell Polly, and then we can have a bit of fun, the both of us, blowing your bloody balls off."

John grimaced, nodding in understanding and disappearing upstairs, as quick as his legs could take him, desperate to get away from her aim.

Elizabeth sighed, looking at the weapon in her hand, unsure of what to do. If she left it where it was, no doubt one of the little ones would have it in their hands by the morning, but the idea of putting it in her purse didn't appeal to her much either. Reluctantly, she settled for the latter, pulling on her coat and leaving John's home. Stepping outside into the darkness, she stifled a yawn and set of down Watery Lane, desperate for her bed.

"Walking home alone?" A voice called from the side of the road. She turned around to watch Tommy push himself away from a wall he was leaning on, cigarette smoking swirling around his face. She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, is there a problem with that?" She retorted, resuming her walk again.

Tommy only shrugged, falling into step with her.

"Not very safe, is it." He said, arm brushing against hers.

Elizabeth laughed, looking up at him.

"I think I'm alright." She picked the gun out of her bag, pointing it at his head as they walked.

Unlike John, Tommy didn't even flinch, his step not faltering as they turned a corner.

"John left his gun lying about again?" He asked, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

"Who says it isn't mine?"

"Because whilst Ada was chasing birds with one of them," he inclined his head towards the gun that Elizabeth had lowered from his head, "you were chasing after her in tears."

"I never cried." She bit back, raising her eyebrows indignantly.

"Yes you did," Tommy scoffed, his fingers brushing against hers as he took the cold weapon from her grasp, tucking it into his waistband.

"Well, if I ever did- and I'm not saying I did- it was only because Ada spent half her time pointing those things at me and Finn."

"Fair enough, she is a terrible shot." Tommy admitted, the corner of his mouth curling upwards, slightly.

They had reached her door, apparently a popular spot for conversation between the two of them now, and Elizabeth looked up at Tommy as he stood before her. Taking her hand in his, he moved it so that her palm faced the sky, taking the gun out of his waistband and pressing it back into her hand. The metal was warm now, but a shiver still ran through her.

"I don't want it Tommy, I just took it so Katie doesn't follow in Ada's footsteps. I'd have given it back to John tomorrow." She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but Tommy only folded her fingers over the gun. He stared at her, blue eyes illuminated in the dim street light, and his look suggested the matter was final.

"You don't have to use it, but I'll feel better knowing that you have it." He stated simply, squeezing her hand and walking away.

"Why?" She called after him, her hand falling down with weight of the gun. He never replied and Elizabeth could only curse, tucking the firearm back into her bag.

hope you enjoyed

e x

(08/07/2020)