Unbeknownst to Arthur and John Shelby on their way back to Small Heath from London, they had driven past the car in which Sorcha was tied up. The Shelby's had been bruised but in great cheer after their run-in with the Sabini men at the Eden Club. They roared with laughter remembering punches that sent the Italians flying across tabletops and the beautiful women who eye-fucked them on their way out the door.
When they reached Banbury, an hour out from Birmingham, Arthur had the idea to surprise Sorcha at the Garrison - to pick her up, whisk her into the automobile, and take her home. Arthur wasn't one for great ideas but he was a bleeding heart romantic. The oldest Shelby beamed ear to ear imagining Sorcha's look of surprise when he waltzed in the doors, guided her arms around his neck, pressed her against the bar, and kissed her like a man dying of thirst. He lost himself in the beautiful daydream.
The sight that awaited both Arthur and John at the Garrison sent fear skittering down their spines. The Garrison lay in red hot rubble, small fires licking at what remained of the bar top, the walls, the chairs. Ashes lay in small heaps beside shattered glass. And there, at first hard to spot under the scorched cushions, Arthur found Sorcha's coat. Singed and burnt. John ran to Watery Lane as fast as he could to tell Tommy. Little did he know, Tommy knew about the Garrison and, upon his arrival at home, had come face to face with Darby Sabini himself. Arthur gripped Sorcha's coat and drove erratically through the quiet blackened streets of Small Heath to the flat they shared together.
Arthur Shelby wasn't much of a praying man but he prayed to whomever was listening that he should find the woman he loved asleep in their bed. Untouched, unharmed. What he found was the door hanging from its hinges and a mess around the small room. The bed was toppled, sheets torn from the mattress, and a blanket of pillow feathers sticking to every surface.
He braced himself against the wall at what he saw before him. There was no blood, no mangled bodies, no empty bullet shells, warm to the touch. But his throat tightened as he lifted the picture of Sorcha that he always kept under his pillow. Arthur brought the photograph close to his chest and stumbled back to the car in tears.
Behind those tears though, anger rankled deep in Arthur's chest. Anger that Sorcha had been forcefully taken from their bed. Anger that he could not have been there to protect her. Arthur was filled with much more than anger. It was rage. A call for vengeance, destruction. Hatred.
He cranked the car to life but, before he could peel out onto the streets of Birmingham, two pairs of strong arms wrenched the door open and dragged him out onto the street. Disoriented and unable to fight back against the hailfire of punches, all Arthur could do was receive the blows to his skull, the kicks to his stomach, and the deafening jabs to his ears. His lungs heaved for air and warm blood began soaking his face, collar, and shirt.
Sorcha's name began to form on his lips before the darkness clouded Arthur's eyes.
Alfie Solomons sat behind his desk staring at the still body situated across from him. There was only a faint rumble to be heard from the streets of London but it was still early in the morning and the world was only just waking up.
A burlap wheat sack was tucked over her head. Her hands were laid flat on her knees, untied but anxiously waiting to meet her captor. Hearing him rise from his seat, Sorcha squirmed nervously. Alfie rounded the space between them and snapped the sack from off her head. He leaned down to face-level as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room.
"Were they kind?" he inquired right away in reference to the men who had taken Sorcha from her bed. "Gentle?"
Sorcha crossed her legs and then her arms tight against her chest at the formidable man before her. "Yes, very kind. The one with the sour breath did give me his coat when I was cold on the way here. Very decent of him."
"Oh yeah," Alfie drawled and straightened his back, "that one prefers Gefilte fish." With very slow steps, he was soon back in his own seat with the desk between them. "You're wondering why you're here."
Sorcha cocked her head, glanced back over both shoulders with too much gusto, before sardonically asking, "this isn't an infantry reunion, Captain Solomons?!"
"Ha," he dryly stated. Alfie had never found her quips especially witty. "You're at least gonna thank me?"
"What fer?"
Alfie leaned forward with his eyes squinted as if deeply analyzing her face which had softened with discomfort. With a raised finger, he said, "at this very moment, in Birmingham, Darby Sabini is picking off the Shelbys. If he'd 'ave found you in bed with Arthur Shelby, you'd be gone." Alfie made a horrible slicing noise in time with a pointer finger crudely jerking past his jugular. "So," he concluded with a smarmy and crooked smile, "you're welcome, nurse."
Sorcha silently mused on what he had to say. She had almost assuaged herself to his truth then suddenly narrowed her eyes. "Are you lyin' to me, Alf? Eh?" Her voice sharpened to play the only card she held over him. "You remember in triage when I fought for your life in Caporetto? I made sure the surgeons attended to you first and I - "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Alfie shook his hands impatiently to stop another word coming out of her mouth which would elicit gratitude on his conscience. "Why would I lie? Glad you mentioned fuckin' Caporetto 'cause, you and me, we're even now. A life for a life."
Sorcha had nearly shocked herself with the previous shrewd defense. Far be it from her to use the saving of a man during the Great War to keep herself safe. Tommy wasn't here to speak on her behalf. Arthur wasn't here to protect her. Sorcha was alone and desperately trying to be clever and maneuver ahead of Alfie's plots and schemes.
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing."
She waited skeptically for a moment giving him time to elaborate. "Nothing?"
"Nothing," he repeated again more matter-of-factly. "Tommy will come. Because he wants to make a proper deal with me and because he needs to be a big man and rescue you."
"I'm bait?" Sorcha scoffed.
"Oh no, love," Alfie knit his brows with only a hint of concern, "you're essential to peaceful negotiations between me and those gypsies. You see? Tommy's coming anyway, but he'll be real fuckin' sensitive now that you're involved. Sweet, poor, little captured nurse."
Rummaging through his desk drawers, he brought out two glasses and a bottle of rum to the desktop. Pouring out an ounce for her and a larger portion for himself, Alfie nudged the first glass toward Sorcha. And Sorcha, having just recovered from her previous whiskey stint, briefly hesitated but finally relented under Alfie's skeptical eye. She caught a whiff of the rum, fully prepared to twist her face into a disgusted visage, but found she quite enjoyed it.
"I'd much rather have lime with this."
Alfie nearly rolled his eyes, "you've been captured. You've no right to make requests!"
Slowly sipping at his own rum. Alfie Solomons completely reconsidered including Sorcha into his greater plan. He'd forgotten what a pain in his ass she was. Breaking his glance from the rich liquor in his glass, he looked back at Sorcha's face. She was afraid. Over her head in this new dark world of violent characters such as himself. At heart, he knew she was sweet. He remembered the ruckus she had caused in Caporetto demanding surgeons not amputate on his nasty femoral injury. Because of her, Alfie had both legs. Feelings of gratitude crept up in his broad chest. He hated it.
"Ah," he growled and slammed his glass down. "Oy, Ollie! Get a lime!"
"A lime?" The curly-haired assistant innocently repeated. "Limes in Camden Town? At this time of year?"
Clearly annoyed, Alfie blasted forward with his head hung, disappointed in himself a little bit, "find a fuckin lime for the woman, eh?"
Sorcha stayed quiet during the interaction trying to suppress a victorious smile. Alfie was still kindhearted. Often during their time in Italy, they would share bits and pieces of their rations. Alfie would always give her the largest half of his chocolate bar in exchange for stolen gills of rum. Rum was easy for VAD nurses to pinch.
Once Ollie had left, Sorcha didn't hide the wide grin splayed across her face much to her captor's displeasure. "Are you at risk of becoming a good man, Alfie? Sending that poor boy out for limes. At this time of year."
Alfie grunted again and polished his glass off.
After several moments of taking small sips of her drink in silence, without lime, Sorcha's small voice came back to business. "When will Tommy come?" He gave a shrug. "So, what am I to do until he does?"
His head perked up in the peculiar way only he did, responding with, "you'll stay here and get used to the smell of Gefilte fish."
Sorcha waited close to two weeks guarded under heavy supervision. There was no sight of Arthur, no word from Tommy, and her heart was on the edge of being broken. Each night she would sit at her window to look out over the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of a Peaky cap or a familiar long coat. She felt abandoned, forgotten, deceived.
Every night Alfie would stand in her room above the distillery to chat. Some nights he'd attempt to coax some cheer with babkas or chocolate-covered matzo from his bakery. On many occasions, he had sent Ollie up to Greektown in Palmers Green to connect with Sorcha's roots. He'd send for halva, moussaka, and tiropitas. A smile had itched at his lips every time her eyes would widen at the food he'd sent out.
"Is it a bit of your childhood?" Alfie would ask.
Sorcha would smile faintly with gratitude and nod, remembering all the familiar hearty dishes her Larissa-born mother had cooked so far away in Ballycloghduff.
Alfie had tried his best over those four weeks before a battered Tommy arrived along the canals, eyes still blackened by his run in with Darby Sabini. Tom looked close to keeling over completely but swaggered to Alfie Solomons' distillery with a cigarette swaying between his lips.
As soon as Alfie caught wind that Tommy Shelby was at his doorstep, he had fetched Sorcha and brought her to meet their guest. Sorcha's steps felt heavy as they walked down the rows of heavy barrels to where Tommy stood with Ollie at the entrance of the distillery. Her eye line danced through the door hoping Arthur was standing in the street. Tommy had come alone. Tommy met her eyes as he pulled the cigarette from his lips.
"Sorcha," Tommy greeted.
Alfie looked between them with a curious squint in his eyes but all Sorcha did was nod in acknowledgement. She was hurt by Tommy's brief greeting. Alfie nearly put a protective hand on her. He'd come to feel fondly of the woman during their two weeks together. Well, she was something of his prisoner but Alfie decided to ignore this momentarily. He'd almost enjoyed her quips. She'd given him a tongue-lashing more than once.
Even at the moment a glimmer of happiness began in his bluish-green eyes. Alfie caught the feeling quickly, glanced once more at Sorcha, then at Tommy, grunted and gestured for the two of them to follow him back through the distillery toward his office.
While he had been curt, Tommy was relieved Sorcha was safe. He had hedged his bets on her kind treatment. It was the only way to convince Arthur not to lay a siege of gunfire on the Solomons' distillery to save her. Tommy had rolled out of his hospital bed three days earlier, clutching his fresh wounds, and secretly floated down the Cut to Camden Town. It was the only way. Arthur would have hung his jaw and ruined all the plans Tommy had with Alfie to overtake Darby Sabini.
Tommy reached out to gently nudge Sorcha's elbow. Sorcha gave him a weak smile as they entered Alfie's office, and sat down on a chair by the bookshelf detached from the desk.
"No, no," Alfie furrowed his eyebrows at her actions, "you sit in front of me." He pointed to the empty seat beside Tommy.
"I'm not part of your world, Alf. You said so yourself, I'm bait."
"Essential," he cut in to clarify, "I said you were essential, mate, yeah?"
Tommy pulled the empty chair out for her as he spoke over his shoulder. "Come sit."
Sorcha hesitantly relocated. She took a short moment to reflect on becoming part of a world much greater, larger, and colder than her own. The term bait was incorrect and so was the word essential. Sorcha was influential. She had dug shrapnel from Tommy's back and saved Alfie's legs from being amputated. At the realization, Sorcha sat a little taller in her chair, leaning back comfortably to watch the two men begin their negotiations.
"Well," Alfie began, rubbing his beard, "I've heard very bad, bad, bad things 'bout you Birmingham people. You're gypsies, right? Sorcha wouldn't tell me whether you live in a tent or a fuckin' caravan."
"Shut up, Alfie," Sorcha growled under her breath in warning for the ignorant remark, "or I'll cut off your leg meself."
Tommy, tamping his cigarette against the side of Alfie's desk, finally said, "I've come here to do business with you, Mr. Solomons. And I'll be taking Sorcha with me when it's done. You're losing the war to the Italians. Let's join forces, you and me."
"Ha!" Alfie nearly threw his head back to laugh and slammed the palm of his hand against the desktop. "Fuckin' no."
Tommy leaned forward in his chair. "Your distillery provides one-tenth of your income. Police protection is another ten percent, and the rest you make from the race tracks. I'm offering you a solution."
Sorcha spotted Alfie's hand grip the handle of his desk drawer where he kept a pistol. She had seen anger flash across his furrowed eyes. "You plannin' on shootin' me too once yer done with him?" It was a fair warning to Tommy in case Alfie felt especially trigger happy during the conversation,
"Perhaps I will if you don't shut up," Alfie carded his fingers through his beard again and cleared his throat as a rest.
"You see, Mr. Sabini," Tommy plowed on, "is running all your bookies off your courses. And he's closing down the premises that take your rum. People don't trust your protection anymore. I can give you a hundred good men. Police protection."
Alfie's hard gaze jumped to Sorcha. It wasn't lost on Tommy.
"We have contacts who provide us any information we need." Tommy continued, "Sorcha didn't contact us with any information. You've had her well guarded."
Sorcha rolled her eyes, "fuckin' ass," she muttered. "Ought to have left your leg in Caporetto."
Alfie Solomons mused longer before relenting. "Well, tell me your plan then."
Though the negotiations were tense and Alfie had nearly blasted Tommy's head off, Sorcha leaned down to place a kiss on Alfie's cheek before she left back for Birmingham. "Thank you for the safe abduction, the warm bed, and all the food."
He brushed her away as if annoyed but there was affection in his voice when he muttered, "yeah, well, I don't want to hear any more about Caporetto."
Chuckling, Sorcha made her way out of his office with a promise she'd be seeing him again one day and met Tommy on the street. She left empty-handed, just as she had arrived. Tommy handed her cigarette and peeled off toward the canals.
"Did they hurt you?" Sorcha hurried to catch up to his long strides. "That Sabini fellow didn't hurt Arthur too?"
"Aye," he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Hurry up. Arthur might burn down all of Birmingham if I don't take you back fast. Ask your questions when we're safe, yeah?"
She was grateful that Tommy navigated through the ever confusing roads and footpaths of London. There were very few moments to catch her breath and take warm drags of the cigarette at the same time so she quickly abandoned the cigarette into a puddle in the cobblestoned roads. She'd swipe another one from Tommy's coat pocket at the barge where Curly waited patiently. Once they were aboard and Curly began steering back up towards Birmingham, Tommy sat back on the small cot and a proud smile spread across his face. Sorcha, sitting in the opposite cot, cocked her head to the side with curiosity.
"Little bird, indeed!" Tommy laughed. "You've never looked so comfortable with Solomons."
"I had no choice," she took a small offense to his flippant remarks. She hadn't wanted to be involved.
Tommy nodded in understanding and paused to light a cigarette to home between his lips. Wisps of white smoke escaped from his mouth to disappear in the dark corners inside the barge. With the cigarette poised in his fingers, he said, "we're all stuck in this world in one way or another, eh? I'll keep you safe. Arthur will keep you safe. You'll need for nothin'."
Sorcha nodded. A silence settled but the lapping of the water outside continued.
"Did you mean it when you told Arthur you loved 'im?" Tommy finally asked hoping she would say no.
He had not stopped wondering for the last two weeks. When she had burned down the Garrison by his order without question, a rankle of lust began in his chest. And it was the same desire which flashed through his eyes every time she dared to snatch cigarettes from him. Sorcha wasn't scared of him. The Peaky Blinders didn't mean anything to her. Her loyalty was to the Shelby name, not what their name represented.
"Of course," Sorcha scoffed having caught the glimmer in his eye. "Why do you ask?"
Tommy had imagined what it would be like to have her - instead of Arthur. He imagined what it would feel like pulling her into his bed at night and having her any way he pleased. Sorcha was no lost young love like Greta nor was she a burning, passionate love like Grace. Sorcha reminded Tommy of the war, of smoking brown opium to deafen the sounds of the shovel, of horror and screams silenced by blood. Somehow, he thought, it was more intimate and primal that way. They could be two people reduced to their most animalistic urges. Tommy wanted relief for his pains and heartache. He wanted her to lay on top of him like a blanket and lull him into security - just as she had done for Arthur. He wanted to take her for all the wrong reasons.
Tommy didn't want to answer. Sorcha leaned across the short space to lower the cigarette from his lips to see his face more clearly.
"Ack, Tom," she softly began, "you loved Greta. You love Grace. I heard talk around the Garrison. Everyone liked her better. They said she sang beautifully. Sang so beautifully it could break your heart."
"She certainly could." Tommy took the cigarette back from her and watched as she sat back in the cot opposite him. He wanted to change the subject. He wanted to push down the well of jealousy bubbling up in his chest. He didn't want to see her crawl into Arthur's waiting arms when they reached Birmingham. Self-pity took root in his chest, and Tommy hoped it would consume him.
Sorcha suddenly appeared stiff in her demeanor, hoping it would melt away the peculiar tension that had settled between them. "I don't want to be abducted again."
"A house has already been arranged for you beside John. Any other requests?"
After a moment of deep thinking, she said, "Arthur promised to teach me to shoot."
Tommy agreed but warned her that Arthur would be less than pleased to be reminded of his wartime promise. Either way, Sorcha was set out to convince him.
She was anxious to see Arthur again. It was a surprise to herself - especially after confessing her love to him before Alfie had her abducted. She was afraid he wouldn't remember her, that he would blame her for not fighting to escape, that he wouldn't want her anymore. Over the last two weeks she painfully imagined his confusion at seeing the scorched Garrison and the fear at seeing the flat ransacked. Though tempted to ask Tommy about how Arthur was, Sorcha waited quietly to arrive in Small Heath to ask him herself.
It was past dawn when they pulled in beside Charlie's Yard. Sorcha poked her head out of the barge to let the warm morning sun stream soak into her skin. Arthur stood tall and formidable on the dock, face peppered with bruises and scratches, and Sorcha nearly fell in the canal in her hurry to jump into his waiting arms. All fear she had had disappeared. It was just the two of them: Arthur and Sorcha.
"Tommy said you nearly burnt down the whole city," Sorcha took comfort in his strong embrace and the kisses he planted on the top of her head.
"Aye," Arthur held her face between his hands to warm her cold nose with three kisses, "nearly did. They treated you kind?"
She nodded. "Very kind."
Tommy, having watched their reunion, spoke up, pride laced in his otherwise bitter words, "she wouldn't stop reminding him how she saved his leg."
"Good girl," Arthur lovingly stared down at her rosy face. "My bright little bird."
"Take her home, eh?" Tommy flatly said to Arthur while climbing out of the barge, cigarette in mouth. A pain pulsed at his throat that no cigarette smoke could alleviate. "You're part of us now, nurse."
Sorcha nodded.
Arthur took her hand in his and walked her down to Watery Lane. They didn't speak much to each other but exchanged quick glances and big smiles. It was a comfortable silence. He would lead her around the puddles, horse droppings, and hungover laborers stumbling toward their factory jobs.
Often Arthur would squeeze his hand around hers firmly. It was his way of saying: I love you. You are safe with me. You are the one that my soul loves.
To Sorcha, Birmingham suddenly felt much brighter in the morning light. She had only remembered it as a dark and foreboding place with the fumes of smokestacks. It was warmer now with Arthur. Arriving at a brown bricked house, two doors down from Polly, Arthur fished the keys from his pockets and led her in, still hand in hand.
"What do you think?"
Sorcha looked around at the scant furnishings through the den, the kitchen, the parlour. She stopped at a table beside a large window. "I'd like to sit with you here each morning."
Her fingers ran along the wooden tabletop before wandering up the stairs. Arthur followed close behind. The home wasn't picture perfect, but it was perfect. Two of the three rooms were empty, but the largest had a bed with soft sheets and warm sunlight dancing along the floorboards.
"I wanted to have something made up for you," Arthur muttered softly, wringing his cap in his hands nervously. "We were in the hospital healing up all this time. They beat me to a bloody pulp. I wanted to come get ya...I'm sorry I couldn't come to ya."
Sorcha brought him into her arms, hearing the soft patter of his tears hit her blouse. All the thoughts she had about feeling deceived, forgotten, and abandoned had long disappeared. "I'll hear no more of it," she whispered into his ear. "I'm safe now with you. I won't leave again." She kissed his neck and the corners of his jaw, leaning out to hold his face. "I don't want to leave you again. I am yours forever."
Arthur nodded. He believed her. "Kiss me," was his labored request.
Sorcha consented. She brought her lips against his beginning slowly, calm and caring, feeling as his body moved with hers. They stumbled back to the edge of the bed, groping at layers of clothes. In desperation to finally feel one another after so long.
She paused for a moment while Arthur fuddled with the buttons on her blouse. A wide grin was splayed across her face. "It doesn't feel different. Even after so long. I was afraid it would be uncomfortable coming back. That you wouldn't want me…"
Arthur's fingers stopped. "I always want you." He pressed his lips against the sensitive skin of her neck until she moaned, pushing her back onto the soft sheets, and climbing over her. His arms locked her underneath his body. His kisses were earnest, loving, and desperate. "I'll always need you, Sorcha."
Looking up at him a moment, Sorcha yanked her skirts up and dug her nails into the muscles of his back. Her body ached with desire. Her lips pressed against his again. With him, she felt safe, whole, and loved. Sorcha didn't remember what she was losing, giving him her life and entering their dangerous world. Those dead fingers that groped at her became a distant dream, The pain of not saving everyone during the war felt like a lighter burden.
There, in their own bed, with Arthur on top of her, Sorcha felt like everything would be okay. She'd dipped her toe into their world and felt more confident taking the big plunge.