I just want to trigger warning this chapter to say it contains racial abuse in keeping with the time/canon of the show and its setting, similar to what was explore in Season 2 Episode 4 with Michael and Isaiah so please feel free to skip if you need to, I completely understand.

Chapter 89

"Let him have a beer, it's his birthday!"

"He's not having a fucking beer Arthur, he's twelve."

John snorted, "Like you hadn't had a beer when you were twelve Tom."

That was hardly the bloody point, was it?

"Please Tommy!" Finn whined, Isaiah looking hopeful behind him.

"Absolutely fucking not," he growled down at his youngest brother, "And if I catch you drinking one at any fucking point tonight, I'll drag you home by the ear and have your guts for garters, you got it? I don't care if Harry Mallin himself stands up and protests it."

Finn reddened but nodded.

Jeremiah was going to meet them in town, and then Isaiah's potential drinking habits wouldn't be Tommy's responsibility to police, but until then, he figured he was better making sure the other boy knew where he stood, so turning his eyes on him and added, "And that goes for you anol."

The boy nodded, muttering, "Yes Mr Shelby."

"Call him fucking Tommy," Arthur roared, already drunk and displaying his usual lack of volume control as a result, slamming his hand down on Isaiah's shoulders hard enough that the boy winced, "You're out with us, you're a Peaky Blinder now boy!"

"He's a child, Arthur," Tommy said through gritted teeth, turning back to the bar, "Two lemonades or whatever the fuck we stock that isn't alcohol for these two, beers for the rest of us."

Grace smiled and nodded, getting to work on pulling the pints.

"You off somewhere nice then with these two in tow?" she asked.

He sparked up, taking a deep inhale before figuring the truth couldn't hurt, "Harry Mallin fight in town - Finn wanted tickets for his birthday, turned into a family outing."

Lily was spending the night with Pol, since neither he nor Rosie would be back until well after the child should be asleep and he had instructed Rosie to go to his aunt's home after her meeting, to wait for him there. Number six wasn't unguarded, Scudboat, Nipper and Lovelock were there. Though the truth was, in the back of his mind, Tommy had begun to question his own concern, to wonder slightly if he was overreacting. Nothing had happened, not from the IRA or the Lee's. He'd shaken the wonder away though - there had been a bullet with his name carved into it delivered to him – from the whole Lee clan, Charlie had said - and that wasn't something he could afford to put aside too easily. Something would come - he just didn't know where or when, but even as he had issued the orders for that evening, he had begun to wonder if he sounded slightly paranoid, ordering an empty house to be watched.

And as for the IRA man he had met who had ended up dead - well, he hadn't heard anything. He'd told Danny to get a message to them, to tell them he wanted to parlay and according to his letters Danny had delivered the message alright, but no one had come to him. Whether that meant the man's death was low on their list of priorities or whether, for all Danny had said their high command thought it was the Peaky Blinders who were behind it, they had gotten wind that it hadn't been them or even whether it possibly meant they weren't prepared to parlay at all and would simply come to avenge at a time that suited them, Tommy didn't know. That was the problem – too many possibilities, and he was trying to keep a finger on being prepared for how to react to every single one of them.

"Lots of men going to the fight," Grace remarked as she passed the first few pints over to them.

Tommy made a non-committal grunt and lifted them over to Arthur and John, who took them and started drinking. They weren't staying long, one drink and on to town to meet Jeremiah, have a quick one at another pub and then head to the fight, that was the plan – and the reason they were standing in the main bit of the pub. That, and it made sure that they were seen – together and strong. Between whatever talk had been going on about Ada and the whisperings Tommy had overheard since Arthur had started spending time behind the bar and away from number six, it would do no harm to have people bear witness to the Shelby brothers united, even with two kids in tow.

"You never go to the football," Grace continued, taking her time pulling the third pint for him, "On match days – the men all come here before they go down to St Andrews, you're never amongst them."

It was all very odd, her conversation – in that it wasn't odd at all. He hadn't spoken to her since Cheltenham. Rosie had said to keep her on side, and that was what he was planning to do, but he hadn't managed to find the time to speak to her. Not that he had tried particularly hard. But for a woman to have been offered up as he'd offered her – and she knew he'd offered her…

"You're a fucking bastard, offering me like that," she'd said to him in the car afterwards.

He hadn't responded. His thoughts had been on the redhead. On Kimber offering his own wife in return. On not wanting to become that type of man.

"But then you changed your mind," she'd said in response to his silence, before she'd asked, "Why did you change your mind Thomas?"

He hadn't answered that either. Had driven them home the entire way without a word passing his lips. Because, despite how he ensured he appeared to most people, he didn't always have things entirely figured out. And that had been one of the times he didn't have it figured out, one of the times where he wasn't sure how to proceed. He'd been so desperate to get back to Rosie, that was all his mind could focus on.

But despite him offering her up and her knowing it, here they were – her attempting to draw him into conversation still. Any normal woman would have – well, it wasn't that he thought any normal woman would have risked being rude to him, but they'd have probably avoided him, asked Harry to serve him or, if they'd had to serve him, to do so with minimal conversation. Still, if her plan was to try and keep him interested in her and their plan was to keep her onside for him – the two plans could work in tendem.

He cleared his throat and leant casually against the bar, flicking his cigarette ash into the tray on the counter, "Never was much one for football. Didn't mind a kick around when I was growing up but I've never had much patience for standing on the sidelines and watching other people play."

"You're a participator only when it comes to sport then?"

"Something like that."

"Except when it's your kid brother's birthday outing," she replied, giving him that smile she seemed to think was coy and attractive.

He was loathe to give any indication he might be soft on the kid, anything that might be reported back to Campbell, anything that might make them use Finn – so he grunted, shook his head and said, "Not every day you get a chance at seeing an Olympic gold medalist in action – figured I'd take the time to see what the fuss was about rather than just letting this lot go without me."

"Tommy Shelby only settles for watching if he knows he's watching the best," she said, pouring the second cordial and lemonade mix.

"Something like that," he repeated.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The truth was of course that Tommy Shelby spent practically every waking moment of every damn day watching. Watching the best, watching the worst, seeing it all – the problem was, if you didn't, you sometimes realised later that you hadn't taken notice of something you should have. It was like with Lily when she'd come in filthy after her trip to the cut – he'd seen what he'd wanted to then, that she had been playing and was upset about her dress being mucky because she knew Rosie would go spare. In hindsight, he'd realised he should have pushed her more at the time, got the truth from her.

People who watched sport as their chosen form of recreation were people who didn't spend their working time watching. It was a way of switching off for them.

Tommy had always watched and noticed everything and everyone, right from when he was a kid. He could always predict his father's moments of leaving them before anyone else, he was never surprised when they happened – he saw the signs, the tone of his voice changing just every so slightly when he answered their mother, the fact he almost seemed to relish beating them less when his freedom was in his grasp.

That was some of the worst of it – when his father was home and the novelty of being home to a wife to take care of him and children to order around wore off, usually sometime around two weeks after his arrival, Tommy would see the clouds gather in his father's eyes and he would know they were all about to start being dragged out the back for the slightest infringement. Tommy suspected those moments of swinging the strap down them (and their father went on until he figured they'd 'learned the lesson', none of what he dealt Finn, one stroke for every year of his age, he'd learned that technique from Danny's father and it had always seemed more fair to him, even as a kid) had been some of the brief moments of respite from the disappointment of his real life that Arthur Shelby Snr had known.

He suspected it, because he had turned out just the same.

Not that he was disappointed with his life. He wasn't content, by any means, he had ambition to go further, to get more. And he knew failure, all to bloody well. But he wasn't disappointed with his lot. Not since his lot had expanded to include Rosalie Jackson and the baby.

And not that he got his kicks from beating children.

But like every Watery Lane kid, Tommy had learned to use his fists young. They had fought the Italian kids and the Irish kids. And each other, when there was no one else. And even back then, Tommy had realised how, when you were fighting, you couldn't notice everyone and everything, only who or what was in front of you in that moment. It wasn't logical, organised or neat. It was primal. Instinctive. His mind would shut off and his body would take over.

And as real life had become more and more demanding of his mind, the gap had grown bigger. In the war, when he'd almost felt at times like he'd left his body entirely, like he was hovering above the battlefield and watching himself battle to stay alive. When he'd had the soldier's minute, made the decisions and then stood back and let himself carry them out.

That night, when he'd found Rosie reading The Communist Manifesto. That bloody night. He'd clung to her then. He hadn't wanted to float out of his body then, he had wanted specifically to stay with her, to feel everything in connection with her.

But then he'd taken Evans' tongue. Burned his shop. He'd stopped thinking and feeling, he'd just been acting, just been physical. And it had been such a relief – a rest. He slept better now, but sleep was no guarantee for him. He didn't tend to wake shouting like he had done. But he still would dream and wake. His mind didn't stop in sleep the way it did in a fight.

So, for all the atmosphere was charged, watching the Olympic medalist boxer and his opponent go at one another did not amuse Tommy, entertain him or relax him the way it seemed to do for the others. No, watching this fight was simply an opportunity to watch technique, to see if he could correctly predict which ways the fighters would move, dodge and attack one another.

What did almost amuse him were the twin gasps that escaped Isaiah and Finn's mouths as a punch landed with a crack and, from their seats in the front row, they got to watch a man's jaw break.

He snorted and exchanged looks over the kids' heads with Arthur, John and Jeremiah. For all the other men seemed ready to enjoy watching the sport, it would take more than a broken jaw to get any of them to gasp.

The fighter spun, trying to block another punch from landing and the whistle went, signifying the end of the round.

"You gonna go offer your help Jeremiah?" Tommy grinned as they waited for the scores.

"He has a team of medics," the man replied, waving his hand, "Don't think my soldier's training will be of any use."

"Aye but if you go help him, he'll have God on his side, eh?" he replied.

The preacher grinned, "If he is a good man, God is already on his side Thomas."

Tommy snorted and lit a fresh cigarette.

"Would you be able to help?" Finn asked Jeremiah, his interested piqued enough that he and Isaiah had stopped their excited re-enactment of the way the jaw breaker had been landed.

"Broken jaw? Not much to be done. I've strapped up broken wrists, arms, legs – but jaws – nah," Jeremiah said, shaking his head, "Best you can do is put a sling around the head to keep the unfortunate from moving too much and let time do its work – but it's not such a practical undertaking."

"How will he eat?" Isaiah asked.

"He's a boxer, Isaiah, it's probably the tenth time his jaw's been broken," John snorted, "He'll eat soup for a week and be back to normal."

Finn and Isaiah looked almost reverently over at the man, so impressed that Tommy didn't have the heart to tell them John's take on it probably wasn't true.

"Were you a doctor, before you were a priest?" Finn asked Jeremiah.

"Someone had to take care of your brothers when we were away fighting."

"Aye, Jeremiah's pulled bullets and shrapnel and fuck knows what else from all of us," Tommy nodded.

"Where did you learn that?" Finn pushed, wide eyed.

"The school of war – we got back to the trenches after our first trip over – those of us that did get back," Jeremiah said, his voice turning dark for a moment before he continued, "That Freddie had gone and got a big spike of wire stuck in him, worked up under the flesh. I got it out. Disinfected it with a bottle of something – I remember not being too popular for that," Jeremiah broke off to give a bark of laughter – his face bright as he remembered the events.

Events Tommy had witnessed too, events he wouldn't be bright as he spoke about. Perhaps that was the difference between being Godless and not.

"After it healed up," the man continued with a shrug, "I became everyone's go to for extractions."

"Aye, medical tents were too far away and always stinking of death and rot," John added.

That was true. For all the medical tents were away from the fighting, it was almost better to be stuck in the trenches where there was a grim determination to just get the fuck on with it and try to stay alive.

"Did you fight like that?" Finn asked him, gesturing at the ring.

Tommy considered. Yes. And no.

"Most of the time we fought with weapons. But sometimes it came down to your bare hands, aye."

The scary thing was, those times were the most exhilarating and freeing of all, when it came down to his bare hands.

"I'm going for a piss, this scoring's taking too long," Arthur roared, standing and heading off.

Arthur never did cope well with any talk of it.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Yeah and then he landed it like this!" Finn said excitedly, bringing his fist up high and slamming it into his own cheek in slow motion.

"And that was when the other guy went from below," Isaiah replied, bringing his own fist up to his own chin, dramatically throwing his head back and waving his arms like he was going to fall.

They had, it seemed, thoroughly enjoyed it and were running slightly ahead of the rest of them, jumping around as they replayed the match, audibly and physically.

"How long do you think we're gonna be hearing the blow by blow account for?" Arthur demanded grumpily.

"A while yet brother," Tommy replied with a snort.

He could see it quite clearly – Finn was going to tell Rosie about it tonight, then Lily about it tomorrow at breakfast, then probably try and tell Polly, who would be entirely disinterested, Scudboat, Nipper and Lovelock – lasting until he was thrown out of the shop no doubt – then the two of them would be out on the street telling all the other kids, holding court with the tales of their great adventure. Well, that was what kids did, eh?

"Let's get a quick one, if my ears are gonna be bleeding with this," Arthur shouted, pointing at a pub.

They looked between one another, nodding agreement – Finn and Isaiah were far too hopped up to be expected to go home to bed, a drink wouldn't hurt.

"Right you two – c'mon, you're needing to cool off before we get you home," Tommy shouted at the kids.

It was getting late though, near closing time, and it was Friday – most of the men would have been paid that day, meaning the drinks would have been flowing freely.

Still, people had the wits to quieten and split for them to make their way to the bar, get their drinks and find a table that had been vacated for them. His mind wandered to Rosie, to her meeting. She should be back by now, he imagined. Or at least on her way.

"Can we go again sometime Tommy?" Finn asked, bringing him back into the room.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"To a fight. Can we go again?"

"You've seen Mallin in action, I don't reckon you'll see better – but I'll keep an eye out fir what else is coming," he replied, indulging the kid a little.

Finn was so different to how he had been at the same age in so many ways. Softer, nicer, as kids went, he reckoned. Maybe not quite as sharp, though that was perhaps no bad thing. And far more interested in cars than horses. If he liked the boxing, it was something they could go to together.

"How's the bike riding going?" he asked.

"Aye, it's good, we can go quite fast now," Finn nodded, "Can't we Isaiah?"

"Yeah, you don't seem to be falling off the same as you were – there's been no scratched up faces for a while," Tommy replied before Isaiah could.

Finn shifted a little, biting his lip.

"Ah, yer not a bad one," Tommy told him, ruffling his hair, wanting to hold onto the elation of the night a little longer, not wanting to bring the kid back to earth so quickly.

His attempt was working, Finn was grinning up at him, but the innocence of that childish elation had run its course.

"I want my fucking table back," a man was shouting, growling in their direction.

He'd just come in the back door, had obviously been having a piss out the back. Didn't seem to have pissed out much alcohol though, he was drunk, pupils dilated.

"Ron, leave it," one of the other men was trying to reason, to grab at the arm Ron had outstretched, pointing at them, but the drunk man shook the other off and continued to jab in their direction.

"Give me my fucking table back!"

"You want it mate?" John said, grinning his usual easy grin, "Come and fucking take it."

"I'm not giving my table up for a fucking darkie!" the man slurred, as if he hadn't heard John's goading.

Tommy tensed and stood, Arthur, John and Jeremiah following suit.

The pub had fallen silent.

"You want to say that again mate?"

"I said-" the man stumbled as he took a step towards them, clearly about to repeat himself when he was cut off by the barman bellowing at him.

"Out! You – out! I don't want trouble. They're Peaky Blinders and I don't want trouble in my pub!"

The drunk man looked for a long time at the barman, then slowly back to them.

"Peaky Blinders eh?"

"That's right," Tommy nodded keeping his voice cool, "And I think I fancy reminding you why we're called that – skin colour offends you so much maybe I'll make it so you don't see it."

"Heard the whore of a sister's pregnant," the man grinned, laughing, looking around at the barman and the other customers as if expecting them to join him.

By the time his face had started turning back toward him Tommy was there and letting his fists fly.

Everyone else had had their entertainment, their respite – why not him?

The man fell and Tommy went down on top of him, punching again and again until the second jaw breaking of the night happened.

Tommy didn't know if Finn or Isaiah gasped this time. Didn't know anything about what was around him. Didn't know anything. He was just a physical being and he was free. To hurt and damage, to let the darkness in him, the anger in him, fly free, to take over him, to enact its will as it wished, not in the way he tethered it most of the time. Liberation.

He pinned the man with his knees and lifted his hat from his head, his other hand reaching for the shattered jaw, pulling it down, reaching in and grabbing the tongue.

The man was thrashing as best he could under him, trying to stop it – but Tommy's will, Tommy's strength, would not be overcome by a drunkard.

He thought the man might be screaming, be begging and pleading but the rush was taking over his whole body, thrumming through him, delighting in itself, filling his ears so that all the sounds of the world didn't reach him. So that no pleading or begging would ever soften his heart, not when he was letting its true nature run free for the first time in so long. In so long.

He stood up, kicked the wretched body and put his hat back on his head, crossing to the bar. He was coming back into himself now. He was sure his footsteps were the only sound in the room.

"You don't want trouble, barman?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The man's mouth moved but no sound came out and he gave a tiny, terrified shake of his head.

Tommy slapped the tongue down on the counter.

"Keep this. Hang it up. Show everyone this is what happens when someone insults my sister, my family or my friends," he growled.

"By order of the Peaky Blinders," Arthur growled from behind him, as John hopped up on the counter, lifted a bottle, tossed it to Jeremiah and then lifted another two, tucking one under his arm and lifting the second to his lips.

As Tommy turned from the bar he saw John pause, mid drink, over the man whose tongue now lay on the bar. His hands were clawing at his face, at his broken jaw, at his lips.

"Burn does it?" John asked, "Let me help you with that," then he tipped some of the contents of his bottle into the man's raw mouth.

To the sounds of the guttural screaming and choking, they left the pub. No one moved – not to help, nor to hider.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Tommy cleared his throat as they approached Watery Lane, "Finn?"

His younger brother looked up at him – and Arthur and John looked round too, but Tommy gestured them to go on without him.

He waited until he and his youngest brother were alone on the street before he went down on his haunches in front of him.

"I told you I was proud of the man you're becoming Finn," he said – and waited for Finn to give a slightly confused nod in return before he continued, "And I am. But being a man Finn, part of that is about protecting our women, eh?"

Finn nodded solemnly, "That's why you took his tongue, wasn't it? Because of what he said about Ada."

"Yes," Tommy nodded, not entirely sure if he was alright or not with how non-plussed Finn seemed to be with what he had witnessed, "Because of what he said about Ada. And Jeremiah."

Finn nodded again.

"That Finn, what I did tonight – it means everyone who saw that, everyone who hears about it, will know not to speak badly about our Ada, about our family eh?"

The kid nodded again.

"But sometimes, Finn, it's not just about physically protecting our women. You can protect them by making sure they don't hear about things that will upset them, you understand?"

Finn paused, then nodded – but Tommy had the very distinct impression that his brother was giving him the response he thought he wanted and not necessarily the truth.

"Finn – if Rosie or Lily hear about what happened in the pub tonight, about what was said about Ada, it'll upset them, you understand? There's no need. We can keep it between the men, alright?"

Finn nodded more freely this time.

"Alright, good boy," Tommy said, standing up and clapping him on the shoulder, "Let's go get Rosie and go home."

He watched Finn run ahead of him towards Polly's door.

It had been a lie. She had heard Ada called a whore. And she knew what he'd done about Evans in response to it. But the less she knew, the better. The less she'd remark on it, the less she'd question him about it. The less chance he'd have of exposing that bit of him, that bit of him that liked it. That bit of him he didn't want her to know.

Thank you as always for reading and commenting.