28 May 1919
"Eliza!" Arthur roared as she entered the pub, slamming his hand down onto the bar, "a round of drinks to celebrate!"
Elizabeth laughed, shrugging of her coat and slipping behind the bar, placing her bag on the surface and grabbing an apron. She looked at the men around her. Arthur was sat down, a grin spread across his face and eyes sparkling with joy to match. Tommy was stood behind him, and though his face was far less emotive, she could still see the small smile that tugged at his lips. The third man looked far less enthusiastic. Harry was standing beside her, mouth slightly open in shock, shaking.
"And what exactly are we celebrating?" Elizabeth asked as she poured two glasses of whiskey, pushing them to the Shelby brothers.
Arthur downed his in seconds, wiping his hand across his mouth and passing his glass back for a refill.
"We are celebrating our new Shelby residence, Eliza," he held his hands out beside him, gesturing to the room. "The Garrison is now, officially, under the order of the Peaky-Fucking-Blinders!"
She couldn't help but laugh, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head in disbelief. Elizabeth looked to the pale Fenton beside her, who was still frozen in his spot.
"I think you'll find that it's been under your orders for some time now, Arthur."
"Not with me as its owner, it hasn't!"
"Sorry?" Elizabeth paused as she was tying her apron around her waist, looking between Arthur, who was nodding vigorously, and Harry, still shaking, the reason for his shock now clear. "And did Harry have a say in this?"
"Nothing's changed for him, Liza," Tommy finally spoke up, smoke clouding his face. "Now get to work, or Arthur's first role will be hiring a new barmaid."
Arthur roared in laughter, slapping his brother on the back and downing more alcohol.
"Ridiculous brother, I would never dream of replacing our Eliza." He winked at her and she rolled her eyes, passing him the whole bottle of whiskey.
Harry felt frozen in place, unable to move and unable to think. All he could do was watch as his pub slipped through his fingers, an anger burning up inside of him like the hot tendrils of rum on a cold day. He had no choice in giving up ownership, to deny the brothers would be to sign his own life away, but a part of him had hoped, as Elizabeth entered the pub, that she'd be the one to stick up for him. Clearly, he was wrong.
His eyes followed the woman as she picked up her bag from where she'd left it on the side, slinging it onto a shelf under the bar and making her way across the room to a group of drunk men. Once Elizabeth was on the other side of the pub, his eyes flicked back, attention moving to her bag. He'd heard a familiar clunk of metal hitting wood when she'd dropped it onto the shelf, and glancing down, Fenton could see that the barrel of a gun within had slipped out, revealing the metal weapon hidden inside.
With Tommy and Arthur in the room, he dared not do anything, but as the hours ticked by and Fenton went about his work, his own gun, which was nestled in his trouser pocket, pressing against his leg through the fabric, seemed to burn hot. The same gun that had a bullet missing in its chamber, lodged in the chest of an Irishman three days ago. He could still feel the blood beneath his nails.
1 June 1919
"That was never part of your job, Mr Fenton!" Inspector Campbell hissed at him, keeping the anger in his voice restrained to barely a whisper. "Killing a man? What were you thinking?"
"I thought he might have information," Harry replied, "I followed him, he attacked me, I had no choice."
"No, you had a choice, you had a clear choice not to follow him, and yet you did it anyway!" Campbell rose from beside him, turning to face the barman and pointing a finger at his face. "Observe and report, that was your job! I gave you that gun as a safety precaution, I never instructed you to use it."
"You'll forgive my words, Inspector," Fenton spat out suddenly, rising from the bench to match Campbell's stance, "but I have not heard from you in weeks, so I did not know what my instructions were. I overheard a conversation at the Garrison, I followed up a suspicion, I did my job. I can now confirm that the IRA Fenians in Birmingham do not have the guns, is this not useful information?"
Inspector Campbell begin to laugh, a bitter sound that had Fenton scrunching his brow in confusion. He had expected the man to be grateful for what he had learnt.
"I know who has the guns, Mr Fenton, and it is not the Fenians. You see, I had a meeting with Mr Thomas Shelby a few weeks ago, and he was more than eager to admit it is the Peaky Blinders who own the guns, the very men that it was your job to report on." Fenton swallowed nervously, sinking back down onto the bench and running a hand through his hair. "You are fortunate enough that I will deal with this problem of yours, you will not be blamed for the murder I assure you, if more for the sake of the investigation, than for you, but from this moment on your job as an informant is at an end."
"Inspector!" Fenton gasped, his eyes widening in shock, "I did no more than was asked, firing me puts me at risk!"
"Save your cries, Mr Fenton, it is below you." Campbell held out his hand towards him. "I require the gun that I gave you, and the reassurance you will not speak of what we have done."
"I won't say a word." He whispered sullenly, hanging his head in defeat.
"And the gun, Mr Fenton."
Harry swallowed nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead and looking up.
"Of course, Inspector."
He took the metal weapon from his coat pocket, pressing it into the Inspector's outstretched hand and dashing away.
"Stop!" Campbell called out; his voice angry. "What are you playing at? This is not the gun I gave you."
"No, Sir," he froze in his spot, turning around slowly to meet Campbell's eyes. "That is not the gun."
"You thought you could trick me?" He spat out; his nostrils flared in anger. "What have you done with it, man?"
"I didn't- I hoped," he sighed, looking guilty. "That gun belongs to Elizabeth Scott, Inspector, I swapped my gun for hers when she wasn't looking."
The Inspector's mouth opened and closed in surprise, but he seemed unable to find his voice. Looking at the gun in his hands, and at Harry Fenton, who stood nervous and uncertain before him, Campbell had no clue of what to do.
"So she now has the gun you used to kill the Fenian?" Fenton nodded. "Why did you do that?"
"I'm not sure, Inspector. I was angry, and I wasn't sure that you wouldn't arrest me for what happened, so I thought if I didn't have the gun, you didn't have evidence to accuse me."
"That's not strictly true, but still, if she has a weapon that contains bullets to match the one found in the man's chest..." The Inspectors voice drifted off as a plan began to make itself clear to him.
He looked more closely at Harry then, who hadn't moved from his spot, forehead glistening with nervous sweat. The man was weak, scared of almost anything it seemed, unable to do the job that was required of him, and, yet, he could be surprising cunning when required.
"Mr Fenton, this does not change my decision on your employment within the Police Force, but it does, perhaps, alter my opinion on you. This is useful, what you have done, more than you realise. I will keep in contact with you, expect to hear from me, you can go."
Harry Fenton nodded, clearly confused, but nevertheless rushed from the terraced meeting spot as quickly as he could, not wanting to risk another change in the Inspector's mind.
Campbell watched him go, tossing Elizabeth Scott's gun between his hands, cogs whirring within his mind.
Perhaps it's time we meet again, Miss Scott, he thought, but I believe this time I owe you a proper introduction.
2 June 1919
The scratching against the wall is quiet, but crouched in the dark tunnel, silent, the three of them can hear the shovels as clear as day.
Danny goes ahead of Tommy, crouching low as he moves through the passage, towards the sound. He turns his head as Freddie comes to stand beside him, nodding at each other in understanding:
I've got you.
Tommy turns his head back to where Danny waits, ear pressed up against the wall. The seconds seem to tick by like hours, the sounds of heavy breaths and scratching all he can hear, the soldier's minute growing shorter as the sound gets louder.
Then everything turns to hell.
A German soldier bursts through the wall, shouting, yelling. He bundles past Danny, knocking him to the floor, and Tommy wrestles with the Jerry, a sharp pain splitting his shoulder. Freddie starts shouting at him, pushing him out the way as a gunshot explodes through the tunnel, hitting Freddie square in the chest. The man goes down yelling, his cries filling the tiny space. And then Tommy is in the German's grasp, his hand clamps over his mouth and he writhes, scratching at the man's hands and arms, kicking his legs to try and get him off as the breath leaves his lungs. The world feels as if it is collapsing down on him in the tunnel, darkness and dirt all he can see.
And then there she is.
Standing before him in the passage, illuminated, an angel, red hair glowing like the lights on the wall. She's beautiful, an image of glory, tears running tracks down her cheeks, a smile stretched across her face, the last view he'd ever got of her as the train had pulled out the station.
She reaches out for him, her touch ghosting against his hand, her eyes shining into his. He feels at peace.
Danny bayonets the soldier, who goes down screaming, realising his grip on Tommy. He gasps for breath, falling forwards as Danny and the soldier tackle each other on the ground, swords slicing through flesh. Tommy's own shoulder burns hot where he was cut, but he ignores it, getting shakily to his feet and finding the gun in his uniform, shooting the soldier who lays next to Danny. A silence spreads through passage, and Tommy goes scrambling across the bodies, lifting the injured Danny onto his shoulders and moving towards Freddie.
A knock on the door woke Tommy from his nightmares, bolting straight up onto the bed, lungs heaving. Danny Whizzbang called his name from outside his room as Tommy rushed about, putting the opium back into its tin and pushing it out of sight. He straightened up, running a hand through his hair.
"It's open." His voice was rough, croaky from sleep and from pain.
His bedroom door opened and Danny stood before him, raising a hand in salute.
"Private Whizzbang reporting, Sir." Tommy smiled at the notion, but it felt strained with the dreams so fresh in his mind.
"At ease," he replied, sitting back down on his bed. "So, what news from London?"
Danny placed his lantern on a shelf and moved from the doorway to sit on a chair beside the bed.
"I was at a pub," Danny lent forwards, resting his arms on his legs and bringing his voice to a low whisper, "it's called the Mother Redcap, an Irish pub. I got talking to some old bloke there about Birmingham, he said there's been trouble, an IRA man's been shot. Their high command thinks it's the Peaky Blinders who shot him. Is it true?"
Tommy shook his head in disbelief, massaging his eyes to try and process the information so early in the morning. He'd had Irish boys' approach him about the guns, but to his knowledge none of his men had harmed any.
"No, it's not true." He replied, sipping at a glass of whiskey he must have left on the side earlier in the night.
"They also said..." Danny furrowed his eyebrows in what looked like confusion, "it didn't make much sense, but they said that people having been saying they saw a woman there, down the road the Irish man was shot."
"You think that's true?"
"I don't know Tommy. What business would a woman have with the dead man? Why would that be connected to us?"
(22/07/2020)