Chapter 126

"Mrs Shelby, I don't quite know what I've done to deserve this kind of reception," the oily voice replied, every syllable of it raising Tommy's hackles further.

"And I don't quite know why you haven't answered my question."

"Mrs Shelby," he said, giving a weasel-like, humourless laugh, "I'm here to do God's work."

"I doubt God has much to do with Small Heath," Rosie returned, mimicking the humourless laugh, "Or if He does, I've got questions for Him."

"God is everywhere, Mrs Shelby."

"I'll take your word for it," she said sarcastically, stepping back and going to close the door as she added, "So if He's here He can do his own work, doesn't need you does He?"

"Mrs Shelby, God relies on His servants to do His work - and I'd think twice about shutting Him out if I were you," Hughes replied, keeping his snide voice at the same even level, but lifting his hand and stopping her from pushing the door into the frame.

"But you're not me - so get off my doorstep or I'll call the police regarding you forcing yourself in uninvited," Rosie snapped, "You see, unlike a lot of the people you try to intimidate, we do have a telephone - and what you might call a personal, two way relationship with the local police department - so I can have them here near enough instantly."

Tommy shook himself from his frozen state and started crossing to the door as the priest said, "Mrs Shelby, I'm looking for your husband's brother and I suggest you assist me before it's me who gets the police - and the council - involved in the search. I think we can safely say my relationship will outrank yours."

His tone was patronising - but if he had got to her with it, she didn't show it.

She took a breath and lifted her chin as she cracked the door open about an inch further and said smartly, "You'd need to be more specific, he's got a few brothers."

Tommy reached her and put an arm around her waist, trying to pull her back, place her behind him, but she elbowed him hard, not wanting him to shield her.

"Ah, there's Mr Shelby now."

"Just which one of my brothers is it you're looking for and why?" he growled over her head, glaring in a way that made the fiercest of his opponents look away.

But not the priest. He was entirely collected, unperturbed.

"Your youngest, I believe - Finn. The children over there told me he was here."

The priest looked over his shoulder and gave a well practised, beatific smile and nod to a group of children who weren't looking at him to return it. Tommy watched in disgust as the man's face darkened a little, irritation at the fact they seemed no longer concerned with him, that the children weren't staring after him in fascination or adoration or even terror - whichever way it was he wanted them to look at him, whatever emotional connection he got off on making them have with him - causing his expression to harden.

He schooled his features back to what they had been - the patronising smile and cock of the head one might adopt when talking to an infant taking over - as he turned back to them and went on, "And whilst I'm here I'm also looking for your nephew, George. They indicated he was here too."

If Rosie's heartbeat had sped up in anger like Tommy's had, there was still no indication of it in her voice, and no trembling in her figure as she asked sardonically, "And what business do you have with children?"

"Young Finn and George were caught by the police trespassing on the railway lines, were they not?"

"Yes and my husband went to the station to pay their fines - the same as he did for all the kids involved - so we'll have no need of you or your reformatory if you've got any notions about landing on our doorstep and dragging them off," the redhead snarled, stepping forward into the space she had left open on the door, getting into the priest's face.

Tommy's heart hammered - they hadn't paid Finn or George's fines, because the files hadn't been there. They'd been taken to the council. But she had stolen them - he tried to focus on that and calm himself - she had stolen them and they'd burned them in the kitchen behind him - turned them to ash just feet away from him - he had watched it happen with his own eyes - and Finn had said they had only taken the prints once, that there had only been one copy of that file.

"I'm aware of that, Mrs Shelby," the priest replied, looking too pleased at the reaction he had roused in her, almost like her fierceness excited him, not stepping back from her as most people would have done, not bothering to put that distance back in - almost like he enjoyed the thrill of being so close to her in her anger - "But the fact that the would have been in my care - in our church's care - for a period of time as a result of their actions - that's not simply about justice or punishment for wrongdoing. Children come to a reformatory school like ours rather than a prison as their souls are precious."

The priest opened his hands, his palms facing upwards, adopting the sort of pose he might take behind the altar on a Sunday, that impression of a beatific portrait back on his smug face - as if he expected God's light to shine down directly on him. Well, not in Small Heath.

But he didn't let the lack of light stop him as he went on, his voice slow, sing-songy, like he was reciting a nursery rhyme, as if he thought he was speaking to someone like Curly, "All children are precious and dear to me. At the reformatory, Mrs Shelby, it's not simply about locking them up, it is about reforming them, saving them, giving them spiritual support and guidance and turning them from the path they've been on before they become adults."

Rosie scoffed, opening her mouth to say something, but the priest went on, ignoring her, bringing his hands together like he was praying, "So I've taken it upon myself Mrs Shelby, to come by and offer that spiritual salvation one on one with the children involved." He paused, cocked his head and then continued on in that soft, lilting tone, so at odds with what Tommy knew of the man, "Strange thing though, Mrs Shelby, this has been on my list to check in on and so I went to the police station today to collect the relevant files - and they were all there aside from the two Shelby files."

"Well, if you've no files you've no proof they were even involved, do you?" Rosie challenged him, "So once again - get the fuck off my doorstep."

"Mrs Shelby the police know those boys were involved, they were quite baffled as to where the files had gone - so if you don't want me raising that those files might have been stolen, perhaps by a family member with an interest in removing them, I'd suggest you take me to your youngest brother in law and your nephew," there was a pause, a slow blink and a raising of a brow as Rosie didn't respond, nor make any sign of moving, before the singsong voice took on just the slightest of edges as the priest added, "Now."

Rosie remained completely still then, her voice tight, "Thomas."

He grunted in response, keeping his eyes trained on the priest over her head.

She didn't turn to look at him as she continued, "There are four empty milk bottles I've washed out in the kitchen - they're by the sink, will you go fetch them for me."

It was more of an instruction, given from behind a locked jaw, than it was a question. But he didn't want to leave her.

"Rosie," he murmured, dragging his eyes from the priest to the top of her head.

"Please," was all she replied, not returning his gaze, keeping hers locked on Hughes.

Tommy swept his eyes coldly up and down the man, "Only if this bastard stands back so you can shut the door while I go for them."

"Language, please, Mr Shelby - and I don't see what-" the priest started to scoff in patronisingly gentle tones, holding a hand up as if he thought it might halt Tommy's tongue from swearing at him again.

"Oh you'll see soon enough," Rosie cut over him, in her tone that bore no arguments, "Now stand back and rest assured I've got plenty to show you."

There was a pause as they both held their ground, then the priest gave one of those slimy smiles and bowed his head, joining his hands again as he took a single, minimal step back, as if he intended to stand with his nose to the door, praying for the house and everyone in it. Though Tommy was sure the man had never had as good or giving an intention as that in his body.

"Rosie - what are you-"

"Just go get me them," Rosie barked, not looking at him as she whirled around and went to pick up the gun he'd removed from his desk, checking the chamber for bullets.

He stood still, debating whether to argue with her, then moved his feet through to the kitchen to do as she'd asked. Whatever she had in mind, he could tell from the set of her jaw that she was going to go through with it - and, here and now, facing this priest - he trusted her. Trusted her judgement. Even with a gun in her hand.

It scared him shitless, imagining her walking into a real fight. But the priest was unlikely to retaliate out on the street. And whatever she had in mind with that gun, she wasn't stupid enough to shoot Hughes out there in the early evening light.

Besides - it was him who had put it there, who had taught her how to use it, wasn't it? The gun she held now. He could hardly protest when she put her learnings to use.

And he was there should anything go awry. He was there to protect her.

So he picked up the bottles, re-entered the living room and returned the grim nod she gave him without debate.

"Line them up out there for me, not so close that when one goes it'll knock the others," she instructed.

He nodded again and they held one another's eyes for a moment, her silently asking for his support and him affirming she had it with a slow blink, before she rolled her shoulders and opened the door.

"Right, priest," she said, walking out and forcing him back from where he had waited right at the door, "Let me make some things perfectly fucking clear to you."

Tommy watched the priest notice her gun, and took satisfaction in the way he suddenly looked a little less sure of himself.

"You'd best stand back," she said, using the gun as a casual extension of her hand to wave him away from her.

The priest's eyes stayed trained on it as he took a few steps, but already the man was composing himself, that unnerving smile falling back into place as he began, "Mrs Shelby -"

"First things first," she said, speaking over him, cutting him off as she stuck her arm up and fired into the air above his head.

The shot cracked out and, in its wake, a silence was suddenly imposed - the chatter of the kids up the other end ceasing instantly, even the hum of conversation, which seemed on a street like Watery Lane to spill out of the thin windows and doors, stopping instantly. Stillness descended, and - after what seemed an age - the bullet dropped back to the ground with what seemed a resounding thud in that stillness.

She took the fall as her cue to begin.

"You're quite used to walking all over people - because you're good at picking your victims, aren't you? Poor people, desperate people, devout people - people you can easily take advantage of - people who can't or won't argue with you because of the position you hold," she said, lowering her arm slowly, keeping her focus on the priest, "But you mark me - and mark me fucking well, Hughes - I'm not one of them."

There was nothing but authority in her voice as it rang out around the silent street. Tommy's heart raced and his breath caught in his throat as he admired her. He'd always admired her when he'd seen her working in that tobacco shop, way back before he'd spoken to her properly, before he'd done anything more than ask questions about his sales and figures - questions he didn't really need answered half the time, but they were the only safe things to discuss with the redheaded shop girl who barked back at men who overstepped the mark as easily as any foreman.

He never forgot her exactly, the way she had been - but he was used to basking in the glow of her softer, warmer, domestic side. Taking refuge in her softness and kindness. Seeing her make dinners, bake cakes, bathe children and tuck them into bed with a lullaby. He'd seen her angry of course - but there was a difference between the anger of a mother in the face of some childish recklessness or disobedience or even that of a wife - when his own actions went against her wishes - and the anger that he was seeing now, the rage and disgust directed at the man before her. He felt a little weak, as if that rage radiated and cut anyone nearby.

But in spite of the power she wielded as she stood upright, speaking unwaveringly, he still had to fight his own instincts to put himself between her and the priest, even if she did have a gun. But she didn't want that. She had told him what she wanted him from - she wanted him to set up her bottles.

Yet, as he went against his instincts and walked away from her, in the opposite direction from the priest, he took the steps backwards, kept himself facing her back, kept an eye on the priest. His eyes stayed focused on the scene before him even as he bent to place the milk bottles as she had asked, his hand itching to reach for his own gun, the weight of it in his holster suddenly pulling him more than it usually did, its presence offering some reassurance, some semblance of control. He wondered if she felt the same about the gun in her own hand, if its weight in her fingers was what allowed her to steady herself, to stay so calm, so collected, to shepherd the rage in her to ebb and flow at her will rather than letting it take over.

"I've no time for your God, nor any authority you might claim to have in His stead," Rosie continued talking to the priest, "I'm not desperate, not out here looking for help or answers, not stuck in the bottom of a pit and scraping to get out, willing to take any hand that offers itself regardless of where that hand comes from. And I'm not poor. That bullet I just wasted by firing into the air? Plenty more where that came from. I have money and means - I will get every bullet in England - in Britain - in the bloody world - if need be - and fire them all at anyone or anything I choose if I feel the need to - and I will always know I can get more. So don't make the mistake of thinking for a minute that I'm one of the defenceless creatures you usually feed on. If you attack me, I will fight you. And, having no care for you or your God - I won't hesitate to do whatever I need to to protect my family - and I assure you, I will get whatever I need to help me achieve my intentions. So I'll advise you - it wouldn't be too clever on your part to make it so that you have those intentions trained on you."

Tommy straightened up from placing the last bottle and moved forward, staying behind her, letting her keep her place on centre stage, but coming closer, positioning himself side on, his back to the door of number six, away from the bottles so she could have clear shots when she wanted them, forward enough that when she did turn to shoot, he could have a clear shot at the priest if he needed it. He could see the bastard deciding to try and take advantage when her back was turned. He knew the priest would fight dirty, even with a woman.

"The second thing you'd better understand," Rosie said, turning to the line up, lifting her gun and shooting the first bottle quickly, hardly taking any time to aim.

He had taught her well and her practising at Charlie's yard had paid off.

The priest and the redhead watched the bottle smash.

The man's eyes widened and narrowed, though he said nothing as Rosie turned back to him with a raised eyebrow and continued, "Is that when I say I will fight you - when I say I will fire every bullet in Britain if I need to - I don't mean that as a woman in anger. As a woman who would come filled with rage and no knowledge of how to channel it or weaponise it, like the majority of the women I imagine you anger. I mean that as a woman with all that anger - all that anger that every mother whose child you've ever threatened or harmed - all those children you claim are precious and dear to you - I know exactly why they're dear to you, I know exactly what you really mean when you say that and I feel every ounce of anger that has been aimed at you for it during the years. But the difference this time, the difference if you think about taking me on, priest," she spat the title, as if to physically illustrate the way disgust dripped from her for the man, "Is that this woman is trained. This woman knows how to aim. And she will aim at you, without a second thought."

Tommy watched the priest's face. Although his eyes had narrowed, his posture still seemed a little too relaxed for someone in his position.

As someone who would shoot himself, Tommy knew how to recognise in a person whether they would shoot too - or whether they were all talk and no follow through. But he didn't think he'd need his own life experience to be able to figure out that Rosie was one of the ones with follow through.

Either the priest was too stupid to be scared - so ill-equipped to understand that the person threatening him was one to be taken seriously because he was so used to picking on easy targets that he didn't have the sense or experience to recognise the danger before him. Or it meant that he wasn't scared because he had his own protection.

Rosie smirked, shaking her head a little, as if in disbelief as the priest's lack of fear, "You don't look like I'm convincing you - let me make it even clearer. Point three -" she whirled around, smashed the second bottle with another clean shot then turned around and spoke, opening her arms wide and gesturing to Watery Lane, "Look around you. Since these shots rang out, the curtains have twitched. Look down there," she turned and pointed to where the kids had been gathered, where women were now grabbing kids by the wrist, as if they'd waited for Rosie to break the silence she had ushered in herself before they'd dared to move, but now they were moving as quickly and quietly as possible, getting the kids yanked out of the way.

He was reminded of the reception he used to get - reminded of the day he had taken the horse to the Chinese woman to do the powder trick - the way the street had gone silent as women whipped children behind their aprons and older kids had crouched behind walls, desperate to see what he was doing with the horse but not wanting to be seen by him, not wanting to draw attention to themselves.

He noticed Polly's front door open, and his aunt come to stand in it, half hidden, not stepping out properly. He looked back to Rosie, ignoring Pol. No doubt she'd be looking so she could come up and give them both an earful about causing upsets with the neighbours and keeping this kind of business away from the house later. She and Rosie were speaking - on his orders, from that day with Stanley Chapman's address - and they were feeling their way back to one another. But he could well imagine Polly would take an opportunity to assert her age and authority with a lecture if she could.

"Mrs Cardy's taken her Gillian in, Mrs Lyons is pulling her Richard away, Mrs Anderson is getting Sarah and little Robbie into the house," Rosie narrated, not mentioning Polly, turning back to the priest, "Notice that they're not looking up here as they do it. No one around here messes with the Peaky Blinders. No one sees anything, not even if I point this right at you."

She raised her arm straight in front of her then, aiming the gun right at his head. He flinched, just a little.

She smiled and began stalking towards him, making Tommy's heartbeat quicken as she closed the distance, made his clear shot not so clear. He edged forward, mimicking her, trying to keep their triangle without undermining her, his hand reaching for his own gun in case he needed to have it out fast.

"Not even being a man of the cloth will get anyone on this street to come out here and try to intervene," she went on, "And if I were to pull this trigger, and your body was found dumped in a shallow grave a few miles outside of Small Heath - no one would have seen either of us out here doing this. They'd have seen you talking to the kids and leaving. They might have seen me spending my evening at the wash house, or my husband there at the pub with his brothers - and everyone in that pub and that wash house will have seen us as well, make no mistake."

She was so close now that the tip of the gun was flat against the priest's forehead, pushing into it. The man swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing against the dog collar.

"You're used to wielding silence as your weapon, aren't you? Forcing people into it, using it. Well, you remember this - we use silence too. We inspire silence."

She tipped her hand and dragged the gun across his forehead to his temple, keeping the end pushed into his skin, letting it rest there for a second, letting the silence hang between them, keeping her eyes boring into his before she slowly trailed the gun down, positioning it under his chin, speaking so softly Tommy, even at his close distance, struggled to hear her as she told Hughes, "Even if I make the biggest bang in the whole world on this street right now - no one will report anything but silence. No one except you - but you'll be dead, so you won't be able to report any music. So actually, I won't need to bother about your tongue-" she pushed the gun up into the fleshy underside of the priests's chin- "But believe me, if you think you're going to come here and try and intimidate my family, my kids, into silence - you're going to hear me beat my fucking drum until I burst your fucking earlobes" - the gun trailed up to his ear, nestling into the hole - "With the sound of it. Do you understand me?"

There was no answer and Rosie cocked the gun before repeating the question.

"Yes," the priest bit out.

Rosie gave a scoff, but to Tommy's relief she lowered her gun and took a few steps back, giving him his clear shot, should he need it.

She shook her head, raising her voice, as if to make sure anyone listening at windows or doors would hear her, "You don't understand though, not really, what I mean when I say no one will talk, when I say they'll stay silent. You think it's through fear - and I imagine you think whatever we can do to inspire fear, you can do more. But it's not all through fear. Some, it is. But a lot of it is through loyalty. Like when we paid the fines for every kid on this street to stop you getting your filthy hands on them. We protect the people around here, and they know it. And that loyalty can't be bought, or taken, by you - because the majority of them know what you are. They know what's said about that reform. Because it's the kids from round here you pick on. The people who fund you, who support you - the good ones at least - they do it because they think they're supporting a worthy, Christian cause. And their kids never end up in your care, other than to have you baptise them or confirm them. They never get to hear about what goes on behind your doors. But the people around here - the poor ones, the defenceless ones - it's their kids you pick on, so they hear. They know. And they know they maybe can't stand up to you individually, but they can let us do it for them. And they'll support us. And that's support you can't overrule."

The priest stayed silent, but tipped his chin up a little, his eyes flashing around the deserted street, as if trying to see who it was she'd spoken up for the benefit of, as if to identify who he needed to silence later. There was defiance all over his face now, defiance just like hers actually, mirrored in his soft and aging jaw as it was in her smooth and firm one. He wasn't as oily as he had presented himself on first arrival, the truth of his character was coming out. But he wasn't going to go to pieces either. He stood there, owning what she was levelling at him. Not bothering to deny it or to defend it. Just letting her lay it at his feet and standing in it with no remorse.

"Next thing," Rosie said, turning and shooting the third bottle, "The reason I have the means to access as many bullets as I could ever need? And the reason I know how to use them? How to aim? How to fire a gun? It's because of my husband. It's because he supports me - he's the one who taught me how to shoot. He's standing there now, watching me do this, he's not going to stop me, but he has my back. Don't think for a second he isn't standing there ready to shoot his own gun if he needs to. I have him there, watching over me."

She took her eyes off the priest for the first time to look at Tommy as she said, "I'm a Shelby. We're a family."

He didn't look at her, keeping his eyes on the priest, who had also turned his attention his

way. But he nodded his agreement with her words.

He felt her eyes lift off him as she returned her burning gaze to the priest and continued, "We're a family - and we value that family. We support one another. And there's a lot of our family. You asked for his brother earlier and I said you'd need to be more specific? We're like the hydra - us Shelby's - you cut open one head you'll get three more snapping at you in its place. And outside of that blood family - we're the Peaky Blinders. Men up and down this county work for us, answer to us - and we have links to people all across Britain and beyond. That's the thing with travelling blood, or with common, working class street gangs - we spread like the rats you think we are. There will be nowhere you can run or hide from us if you decide you want this fight then realise you can't afford it - that you can't win it. Not Manchester, nor Cardiff, nor London, nor Newcastle, nor Glasgow, nor the highlands, not Dublin, not Cork, not Belfast. Not even France. Or America. Not that you'd even get on the boat - our men on the dock would stop you before you'd even get your ticket checked. There will be nowhere you can go." She'd spoken coolly, quietly and calmly as she delivered her speech, but she slowed even further as she pulled out the syllables as she reiterated, "Ab-so-lu-tely no-where. You understand? You get into this with me and this ends only with your death, priest."

She stopped talking, letting the statement - and it was a statement, not a threat - sink in. Tommy thought Hughes finally looked like he might be realising that she meant it - and that she would follow through. He didn't look frightened enough. But the smug smile was gone and he was looking at her slightly differently, his head cocked - but not in the cartoonishly exaggerated way it had been earlier, when he'd practically rested his ear to his shoulder and sang words at them. No, it was just a slight tilt now, the muscles around the eyes working as if he was focussing on her properly - seeing something in her - for the first time.

"Thomas," Rosie called loudly, asking for his attention.

He cleared his throat to let her know he was listening.

"That last bottle? Will you give it a kick for me, so it goes by our dear Father Hughes?"

"Let me," Polly answered for him.

He looked up the street to where she was walking forward.

"So it goes up past him?" she clarified as she reached the bottle and knocked it over, resting her boot on it to keep it still.

Rosie nodded.

If she was surprised at Polly inserting herself, she didn't show it - she just said in a relaxed voice, "Not too hard though, Pol. Can't have him thinking it's luck that smashes this one. You know how men like to write things off as luck when a woman manages them."

She gave the priest a sardonic, sarcastic smile and a flick of her eyebrows as Polly took her kick.

Rosie raised the gun and shot the target right as it went by Hughes. He jumped as the glass shattered and flew at him, losing his composure for a moment.

"Just thought I'd give you a visual to remember, in case my words aren't enough," Rosie said, not waiting for the priest to straighten up or look back at her, "Moving targets aren't an issue for me - for us. If we come for you, it won't matter where you try to roll or run to, where you try to hide. There will be nowhere safe, we will find you - and we will get you."

The priest was red and angry now as he looked at her, the last bottle in her funfair apparently just what was needed to pull the emotions forth from within him.

She smiled, staying calm as she told him, "Now you remember all this, priest - remember all that I've told you here - and you remember you walk out of this neighbourhood alive tonight not by the grace of your God, but by the grace of me. And know if I hear a whisper that you've sniffed around here again or come anywhere near any member of my family, I will change my mind. So you best clean the fuck up starting from the second you walk away from here - start leading the life you're supposed to, actually live the example you're supposed to set."

Hughes smiled - or half smiled, half snarled - bearing his teeth as he returned, "And what about you? What about the example you should set for those children watching you?"

He pointed in Tommy's direction and she looked, her face going white, eyes widening and jaw tightening just for a second before she covered it, returned her face to its blank look.

Tommy looked over his shoulder and felt his stomach swoop as he realised Finn, Isaiah, Katie, George and Lily were all standing there, watching the scene. He'd been so engrossed, so focussed on Rosie he hadn't heard them. He looked between them and Rosie, unsure whether to try and get them in, to leave her to it, or whether to stay where he was, guarding her from the sidelines, ready to shoot if need be.

"What example will you be setting for them when you and your husband hang for your criminal ways, Mrs Shelby?"

Something about the way he pronounced her supposed name grabbed Tommy's attention, and he froze, poised and tense, coiled and ready to spring it need be.

Rosie laughed mirthlessly, looking a little insane for a second before she spoke, reaching her hand up, pointing at Hughes with her gun, making it an extra long, thin, black finger, like some mythical figure from a judgement day scene as she told him, "Death comes for everyone sooner or later, Hughes. That's unavoidable. No matter who deals the hand. But I've less to worry about than you. Of us both, I'm the righteous one. Whereas you? You're going to hell."

She dropped her hand and started closing the distance again, getting her face in his as she spat, "To the very depths of hell. So I advise you start trying to do what you can now to redeem yourself if you want any chance of clawing your way out of the depths of the pit you'll be going to. And stay the fuck away from us while you're at it, because if you go down this route - you'll be in that pit before you've even had time to start atoning for anything. And if I am the one who goes first of us both, I'm sure I'll be sat at the right hand of the Father with a front row view for casting you down when you arrive. Because you will arrive - make no mistake. It might be in bits though, if it's my husband, or one of his brothers, or one of our men, or even my aunt there who has to send you. I'd be the kindest one, ironically, if I got to do the deed myself. But even if I don't manage it - like I said, you cut off one head and you'll get three more. Someone will manage it. So take my advice - don't fuck with the Peaky Blinders."

She didn't step back once she was done speaking. She stayed nose to nose with him, meeting his glare with her own, holding her ground until the priest straightened up and took a step back. She rolled her shoulders and jerked her chin, her lone figure upright and unyielding as he turned from her.

Tommy was just about to unclench his own muscles, to cross to her when the priest turned back.

"You know, Mrs Shelby," the man said, his own voice cooler now than it had been, calmer, more collected, more like hers - with that same dangerous edge to it, "It's curious. You talk about your husband, your family. But I did look after our last meeting - and there's nothing in the council records about Thomas Michael Shelby marrying anyone. And once again, your wedding band seems absent from your finger. I suppose it's just coincidence that you must be having it cleaned again, is it? You know, for someone from the filth of this place - this place I, in my humble duty, try to save from itself, to raise up to be worthy of God," he inclined his head in that arrogant impression of a duteous servant of the church, even in the wake of having just admitted his distaste for the ground he stood on, "For someone from here - you're awfully diligent about keeping that band shining."

Rosie didn't reply, nor did her face change or give anything away, not even for a split second - she simply lifted her chin higher.

The silence remained as the priest gave a satisfied smile, then turned and walked away, apparently not worried about presenting his back to the woman with a loaded gun and an impeccable aim. Walked out of Watery Lane at an unhurried pace, his head held perfectly high.


Thank you as always for reading along - and particularly to those of you who take the time to comment or send me notes on Tumblr, I hugely appreciate it! As someone did ask recently, a little reminder that if you're on tumblr mine is findinghisredrighthand dot tumblr dot com.