Mercy, 1921 Camden Town, The Black Stallion
Alfie has been in a mood all day. Grumbling and muttering to himself, he's listless, snapping at boys to clean up messes, move barrels, and get out of his way. He fetches me in the morning only an hour after we arrive, his low voice a rumble in my ear.
"Down to me office now, Dove. Not a day to be in front of the windows, yeah?"
I feel my heart thump sluggishly as I nod. He walks behind me until we're in his office. It's quiet in the cellars despite the fact that it's packed with people. There are more men working today than there usually is.
"What's happening today, Alfie?"
"Got a visitor comin' 'ere today, Mercy. He's comin' to see wot I'm made of, I think. Best you stay close to me."
I want to be upset with him. I don't have much of a job upstairs but I try to do my best. I try to be helpful. I'm not allowed to make the bread and I feel awkward telling the men working how to do their jobs. So I sit on my stool and I make adjustments to the inventory as sack after sack of flour is used. I watch eggs cracking, sugar pouring, and yeast frothing. I tick off my list, tick, tick, tick and I watch.
For a while I've felt useless. For a long while I've felt frozen. A bug trapped in sticky sap, dripping down a tree trunk. Father used to say they were attracted to the sweetness so they went willingly into it only to be held prisoner until they died.
"Be weary of sweet things, Chauv. Be weary of pretty looking traps. They will beguile you, tempt you, and draw you in. Look for the trap before you step into it."
I can still remember what his face looked like. Still remember how he had lain by the docks, blood seeping from his chest as fires roared around the horses and people screamed.
"Jonathan made us a special delivery this morning, Mercy. Brought some o' those crackers you like so much."
I pull myself from the memory of blood and fire and death, looking up at Alfie's eager face. He holds out a stack of crackers wrapped in paper.
Pulling myself up on his deck, I sit on the only clear space, my legs dangling beside Alfie as I unwrap the crackers and nibble on one. The buttery salted cracker soothes some of my nerves.
Alfie seems pleased to have me close, smiling at me before he shuffles papers, his glasses coming up to rest on his nose.
The tick of the clock on the wall and the scratch of Alfie's pencil on paper is the only sound until Ollie comes in an hour later. I gaze unseeing at the dull painting behind Alfie's desk, lost in thought over my dream from last night. The dream where the stallion came fully from the mist, pawing and rearing, muscles bunching, coat shining. Blood leaked from its nose, its black eyes were wild in terror.
Alfie leaves with him, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
"Stay 'ere, Dove. I'll be right back, yeah."
He's only gone ten minutes before I hear the door open again and feel Alfie's presence behind me. He walks around the desk and sits down, placing a hand on my thigh, fingers digging into the flesh.
Startled, I look at him and notice out of the corner of my eye another man. He's short, with dark black hair and bright blue eyes. He'd recently taken a beating, yellowing bruises on his face, a redness still in his right eye.
And he's a gypsy. I'm sure of it.
"Well, I've 'eard very bad, bad, bad things about you Birmingham people. Tsk, Tsk, eh? You're Gypsies, right? So wot do you live in, a fucking tent or a caravan?"
My back goes straight, my stomach hollowing.
Alfie rubs soothing circles on my thigh, an apology and a plea all in one. I put another cracker to my lips, biting off the end. The words are like his cane. A mask. I have to tell myself that.
"I came here to discuss business with you, Mr. Solomons."
"Well, rum is for fun and fucking, in'it? So, whiskey, now that, that is for business."
Alfie strokes his hand down my leg and I lift it up, pulling my knee onto the desk and turning to fully look at this man sitting across from Alfie. His icy stare flickers over me, a hint of surprise in his face. Alfie opens the desk drawer beneath me shuffling around inside it.
A bottle of whiskey is plopped on the table with two glasses before Alfie plucks me off the table and sits me in his lap.
"Let's talk first, eh?"
The man's eyes flicker over Alfie's arm holding my waist and then to my hands holding the sleeve of crackers.
"Suit yourself," Alfie says quickly, slamming the drawer shut. "They say you 'ad your life saved by a policeman."
"I have policemen on my payroll."
"Well, I don't like policemen because policemen, they can't be trusted."
"Mr. Sabini uses policemen all the time. That's why he's winning the war in London and you are losing it."
The grip on my waist tightens.
"A war ain't over until it's over, mate. You were in the war? I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian, yeah. I pushed his face up against the trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking nose and I hammered it home with a duck board. It was fucking biblical, mate. So don't come in here and sit there in my chair and tell me that I'm losing my war to a fucking wop."
"That war was a long time ago. You need to be more realistic."
The man's eyes flicker to me again, lingering.
Alfie tenses beneath me. His chest tightening against my arm, the hand that was settled on my thigh clenches.
"Realistic, yeah? Realistic?"
His focus goes back to Alfie.
"Well, if you weren't losing the war, then you wouldn't have sent me the telegram."
"Really? You forget your fucking telegram. The telegram just said, "Hello." Very simple, you want to sell me something. What?"
"We join forces."
"Fuck off. No! Categorical. Fuckin' ridiculous."
The man clears his throat and pulls out a cigarette. He takes his time lighting it, blue eyes studying Alfie.
"Mr Solomons. Your distillery provides one-tenth of your income. Protection is another 10%. And the rest you make from the race tracks. I know you keep a gun in the drawer. I know you keep it beside the whisky. I know you offer a deal or death. I know what I'm saying makes you angry. But I am offering you a solution. You see, Mr Sabini is running all your bookies off your courses. And he is closing down the premises that take your rum. And people don't trust your protection any more."
Alfie rolls his head before looking back at the man.
"This is me Mercy. Say 'ello to Thomas Shelby, Mercy."
I turn to look at the man.
"Hello."
"You're Romani."
I bob my head.
"Mercy Holland."
A sense of knowledge flickers in his eyes but quickly fades, his eyes glazed and bored again.
"You're the bloke who shot Billy Kimber, right? You did, you fucking shot him. That's you. You fucking betrayed him, mate. So it'd be entirely appropriate to do what I am thinking in my head to you right now."
The air in the room thickens. Thomas Shelby ignores the jab. I stiffen even further. Gypsies were thieves and trickers but it still rubbed me the wrong way to hear that this man, the first gypsy I had met in years, was dishonest.
"I can offer you a hundred good men. All with weapons. And a new relationship with the police."
"Intelligence. Intelligence is a very valuable thing, innit, my friend? And usually it comes far too fucking late."
Like with the cane Alfie's arm shoots out, a revolver in his hand pointed at Mr. Shelby. My hand comes up automatically and I grip his forearm but he doesn't bat an eye, doesn't move. His arm is like iron. I'm afraid to try and lower it. I'm afraid Thomas Shelby will also have a gun.
"Let's say that I shot you already, right, in the fucking face. And the bullet goes bone, mush, bone, cabinet over there. Which is a shame, innit, 'cause that cabinet's fucked now and I got to get shot of it. Not to fuckin' mention, I'll upset me lady 'ere. Delicate she is. Sensitive. 'Specially to violence."
I fight my snort. Alfie had seen me do violence. Not in years but he'd seen me do it, and relish it. I had calmed in the four years of separation from Alfie but it lurked under the surface. It always would.
A thin line of blood seeps from Thomas Shelby's nose and an image of a black stallion flashes over my vision. I clench Alfie's arm tighter.
Alfie lowers the revolver, setting it on the desk and leans forward, taking me with him.
"So, what I'd do is this... It's fucking simple, mate. I send me lady 'ere out the door and I shoot you. Then, I cut that cabinet in 'alf, don't I? I do. I just literally... I cut the cabinet... I cut...I cut the cabinet literally in half, mate. And I take one half of the cabinet, all right, and I put it into a barrel and I take the other half of the cabinet and all its pieces and I put that into another barrel, right? And I send this barrel off to Mandalay. And the other barrel off to somewhere like…I don't know...Timbuktu. You ever been?"
"No."
"No?"
"Would you like to go?"
"No."
"You know, I always thought that you'd have a great big fucking gold ring in your nose."
Alfies hands come up, making the shape of a large bull ring in the air then leans back, fingers digging into my ribs.
"I'm sorry, love," he murmurs in my ear.
"Do go on, Tommy, Tell us your plan."
As omens go, the black stallion was decidedly the mildest I'd had. Thomas Shelby's promises held up. He provided Alfie with a hundred men, who were coming in waves to get their papers and aprons. It was agreed that Mr. Shelby would help Alfie push Sabini out of London and Alfie would get to install bookies at Epsom and other racetracks. Alfie would get thirty five percent of the business that Thomas brought into London since it spilled over into Camden Town and in return we would play nice with the Peaky Blinders.
It was a tense and tenuous friendship that Alfie brooded over.
I still dreamed of the black stallion. Still saw it weaving in and out of the dense fog. But it wasn't aggressive. Merely watching me, studying me.
I had retreated into myself, these past two months. I rarely spoke, preferring to keep to myself and had even stopped going down into Alfie's office. My mind wandered between worlds on my tall stool, clipboard loosely held in my hands, only coming into the present to sign off on deliveries or make note of when the bakers took their brakes.
The last round of Tommy's men were coming today. Twenty five men to finish the hundred.
I had a stack of order forms that I needed Alfie to sign off on. I had been putting off for days. There was nothing for it but to take it to him this afternoon.
When the men left at three, I cleaned up, letting the repeated motion of sweeping sooth my frayed nerves. I wiped down the counters, closed the oven doors for the day and rolled up any leftover bags of flour.
With nothing left to do, I wind my way down into the cellars. Familiar faces glance at me but woven between them are new faces. Mean faces. They stare at me longer, eyes cutting through my clothes. My steps hurry until I come to the large open area just before Alfie's office. Men are lined up in rows, Thomas Shelby standing off to the side and Alfie standing before a man with a sly grin on his face. Like an attor he swipes out, that cane cracking over the face of the man beside him.
Down in one hit. I think in horror that he might be dead until I hear a pitiful gurgle and whine before he shudders and passes out. His chest rises in quick pants even in unconsciousness.
I listen as he tells the man that his friend will remember his joke. Then he tells them about the difference between bread and rum and how it is not ever discussed. For a moment his eyes search the faces of the men standing before him and pass over me, skipping back and lingering.
"Right, and another thing. Jewish women, yeah. Jewish women are off the fuckin' menu for you lot. C'mere, Mercy."
My shoulders jerk and I startle, as heads begin to swivel around.
I walk quietly to Alfie's side and he drops his arm around my shoulders, the cane in his hand coming over my chest.
"And this one. This one is special. The most fuckin' special you'd ever 'ave the the chance of seein' but you do not look at 'er, do you? You do not speak to 'er. You do not even fuckin' think about 'er. Or I will pack you up in a barrel and send you down the Thames. I will slice your fuckin' eyes out first and cut out your sodomizing tongue and throw you in that barrel, yeah and you will bob and float and drift until you reach the ocean, never to be seen again."
Alfie stares the room down, each and every face. The silence is stifling as men look anywhere but at me.
"Now, I'm sorry, yeah. Tommy, I interrupted you."
He moves us back and turns us toward his office without further delay. As we're clearing the door I hear a man screaming at them to move.
The door shuts, muting the noise of stomping feet and yelling.
I push out from under Alfie's arm and turn to look at him.
"Nothin' for it, Treacle. Nothin' for it. Tommy's brought in his thugs, yeah. We'll be done with Sabini shortly. Nothin' for it."
My head throbs and I drop the clipboard down on his desk.
"The orders for next week."
"C'mon now, Mercy. Don't be like that, yeah. I'm doin' me best 'ere. C'mon."
Alfie crowds me against the desk, the cane thrown on the desk over the clipboard and his hands framing my face.
Warm lips press against mine, his beard tickling my face.
I can't help but kiss him back. When Alfie pushes it further, pressing his body against mine, I slip my arms around his neck and shoulders, holding him tighter. A low rough sound vibrates from his chest, his tongue striking firmly against mine, a hand threading into my hair, tightening into a fist.
His other hand smooths down my back until he's cupping my bottom, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
I pull away.
"We can't, Alfie."
The fist in my hair tightens briefly before relaxing.
"Marry me, Mercy."
I look up into his eyes, the color of sea water, and gape.
"I wanted to ask you so many times, love. I wanted to make it special, yeah. But I'm a fuckin' brute and you're all I've ever wanted besides to make me bread, so marry me."
My chest is too small for the feelings inside it. A thousand small birds are trying to escape me. A tingle flows down over the crown of my head all the way to my toes.
"I'll take care of you, Mercy, like I 'as been. I'll be a good 'usband, I swear it. I won't let nothin' 'appen to you. No more starvin'. No more stealin'. No more. I promise."
"Yes, Alfie. Yes, I'll marry you."
Because I long to be free on the moors again with a wagon and a mare under the great expanse of stars but I long for Alfie more.
The wedding is a small affair.
My dress is ivory silk and crushed velvet with delicate beading and lace details. It has a high neckline all done up in intricate lace. It is the finest dress I've ever worn. My dark hair has been washed, combed, and curled before being pulled back with pearl combs.
The ceremony is done in Jewish tradition and I don't mind. I think it's beautiful and reminds me of the gypsy traditions my blood family holds to. The tradition of it- the formality, is calming. I listen patiently and concentrate because I want to get it all right. I want to make Alfie happy. I want him to remember today and be proud even if he is marrying a Pikey. Because I know after today, some will not let him forget that.
Alfie is dressed in a fine suit today. He's trimmed his beard and hair, slicking it over in a neat style.
Alfie writes out a sort of contract but it's all in Hebrew so I'm not sure what it says. It's written in beautiful sepia ink on delicate paper. He reads it out loud in front of the rabbi and I sign the bottom in swirling loops, trying my hardest to make my name look as nice as the words on the page and Alfie's bold script beside it.
When that's done, Rebecca takes the contract away and I watch her as she disappears behind a heady wooden door. We leave the Rabbi's small office and I'm led to a room beside the main chamber. Here, Alfie lowers my veil after pressing a chaste kiss on my cheek.
Outside there are few people in attendance. Ollie, his sister Rebecca, two men who have known Alfie longer than I have and strangely enough Thomas Shelby and some of his family. A woman I was introduced to as Polly watches me with a small smile, a knowing smile. She unnerves me. Gypsy eyes. Dark eyes. I wonder if we dream the same dreams.
I've circled Alfie three times, he's circled me thrice, and we've said our vows before he stomps on the wine glass we drank from and shouts 'Mazel Tov!"
A cheer goes up in our small group of witnesses and then Alfie carries me down the aisle to a small room with a sofa. He sits me down on his lap, his hands coming up to grasp my face and press hot wet kisses against my mouth.
Our fifteen minute seclusion runs long, and soon Ollie is knocking on the door, telling us that we have a reservation at a posh restaurant. My mouth feels swollen from Alfie's kisses, my breast tender from his grasping hands.
When we emerge from the room, Alfie's grip tightens. At the door to the synagogue he tugs me back and my smile slips. The two men who witnessed the wedding go in front and I watch them as they peer down the streets in both directions before signaling that we can leave.
My heart thumping, the joy of the day ebbing away from me, I remember that we are not safe. Not really. And today of all days we are not immune from that darkness touching us.
The reception brings my spirits back though. There's a large gathering of people from our community who are smiling and congratulating us. I can see the resignation in some, the true happiness in others. Alfie's work has touched many lives, for good and for bad. Men who were out of work because of the war owe their livelihoods to Alfie as do their families. He provides income and protection. He provides them with a measure of safety. The sheer number of people is astonishing to me, to see them all congregated in the same place at the same time. This. This is Alfie's burden. The weight on his broad shoulders.
We don't stay long. Ollie promises to collect all the gifts and bring them to the house in a few days. Alfie had prepared the bakery to go without us for a week while we're on our honeymoon.
He hasn't told me if we're going anywhere special so I assume we're staying home. It's not strictly tradition but Alfie has told Ollie that we were not to be disturbed at all during our honeymoon.
"Right. I don't care if the fuckin' bakery burns to the ground, mate. You'll all fuck off that week and leave us be."
Ollie's face was priceless. Especially when Alfie told him he was leaving him in charge.
When I slide into the back seat of a new Rolls Royce, Alfie beside me, I see that we're traveling with other vehicles. Two men get into a car in front of us, two into a car behind.
"Best to relax, Dove. Get there when we get there."
"Get where, Alfie?"
"To our 'oneymoon retreat. To our small slice o' 'eaven on earth for the next week, yeah."
Alfie bundles me into his side, my arms going around his waist instinctually.
The car ride soon lulls me to sleep. When I wake we're stopping for petrol and Alfie shushes me, tucking me deeper into his side and I sigh before succumbing to the warm darkness again.
The next time I wake the boot is being shut with a muffled thump and the men who were in the cars around us are shuffling about in the darkness, walking and winding around a mammoth of a brick house. Alfie holds me tightly in the back seat of the Rolls Royce, his fingers stroking my neck. I look up at him in the darkness, opening my mouth to ask where we are when his lips meet mine. The kiss is tender, sweet, and lingering. When Alfie pulls away, his eyes are dark, almost black.
"Sir?"
At the muffled question, Alfie tips his head up, staring over me.
"Right, let's get inside, Dove. Got a surprise for you. A wedding gift."
The men walk with us, up a rounded walkway. In the dark I can't make out much about the building. It's made of dark red brick and looks to be two stories tall. When we clear the side, I hear the roaring waves out in the blackness. A light flickers on, illuminating a long porch with rocking chairs and windchimes.
My heart pounds.
"We're in Margate, love."
Alfie's words come right beside my ear, whispered tenderly, and I smile widely.
He quirks his lips in a small smile back at me, his eyes darting over my face in the yellow light.
"It's wonderful, Alfie!"
"C'mon, let's get inside. More to see."
Before I can go through the door, Alfie pulls me back and my stomach clenches. But it's not because he wants the men to walk through the house. He grabs me, swinging me up in his arms before crossing the threshold.
"I'll always take care o' ya, Mercy. I promise," he whispers close to my ear.
My heart thuds heavily in my chest and I grip his face tightly before kissing him.
Alfie carries me up a flight of stairs and into a dark room. He turns on a bedside lamp and I see a quaint room with a comfortable bed, bohemian curtains and a large colorful rag rug in the center of the room. Mismatched dressers and a vanity line the walls. A closet is off to the side by the door and across the room is a door leading to what I assume is a bathroom.
"This place is lovely, Alfie."
He bobs his head, stripping off his coat and hat, dropping them on a chair beside the bed.
"I'm glad ya like it, Dove. C'mere."
Turning I see Alfie shuffle toward me. I go to him and when I'm only a foot away he turns me around pulling my coat off my shoulders and running his hands down my arms. After a sweet kiss pressed to my neck, he starts to unbutton my dress. Deftly, each button is pushed through its loop until the silk sags off my shoulders.
"Get ready for bed, yeah. I'll wait 'ere for ya."
Our suitcases have already been placed in the corner so I grab mine and dig out the nightgown. The special satin one that I bought just for tonight. It's the color of a ripe peach, falls to my knees and is held up with thin silky straps. Intricate lace covers my decolletage. I study myself in the mirror before deciding to wash the makeup off my face. I brush out my hair, softening the curls and take a deep breath.
Now that the moment is here, I find myself stalling. For years and years I have guarded my virginity. In the caravan I was protected and if I had stayed in one, I would have continued to be. But the fighting and the fires came and I lost everyone who would protect me from wandering hands and forceful intentions. I was like a frightened rabbit, that first year on the streets. Darting away from grubby hands that wanted to grasp and push and take.
It was how I met Alfie. In a piss soaked alleyway on the border of Camden Town and London Proper, struggling against a man almost twice my height and three times my bulk. Alfie had heard my grunts and muffled screams and saved me. Like an avenging angel, Alfie had thrown him off me. He had hit the man, again and again and again until his face was nothing but a bloody pulp of mush. Until his skin was split and his eyes were swollen slits.
Then those bloody hands had hauled me up, calmed me, taken me to Annabeth Rosenthal to be cleaned up and checked over. I still remember him, standing in that small living room, bloody hands being wiped clean by her gnarled fingers. Ordering him to sit and wait until I was cleaned up as well.
She had been so kind. So soft and gentle with me. Her hands had combed my hair, wiped a wet cloth over my face and arms before asking me in soothing accented tones if I had been hurt elsewhere. When she was done with me, I was returned to the large boy in the living room.
Alfie had spent his last few coins on flatbread and a skewer of lamb. He shared it with me speaking in quiet tones, telling me his name, where he lived, where he worked. I can still remember the savory taste of that lamb. The soft chewy bread that dusted flour on my fingertips.
So now, in the mirror of this house in Margate, I looked for that girl again and could not find her.
"Dove? You alright? Did you get lost in the bathtub? Do you need a rescue, eh?"
I smile softly and turn out the light before opening the door.
Right there on the other side, Alfie stands in nothing but his undershorts.
When the soft yellow light of the bedroom spills over me, his breath hitches.
Alfie's hands ghost up my arms before threading into my hair. Large shoulders hunched over me, his broad chest feels warm and dry under my hands. I watch as his eyes turn dark and flutter over my neck, my chest, and breasts.
"Take me to bed, Alfie?"
He moves, letting me pass by him to stand beside the bed. We both settle in under the quilted blankets and Alfie pulls me into his chest, his body soothing mine with gentle strokes. He gathers me to him, our legs tangling and I breathe in his warm smell. Alfie presses soft kisses to my neck and chest, his hands trailing over my sides to my thighs. We move together, the friction building between our bodies. Where his mouth presses, it's demanding, needy.
Soon, my thighs are clenching and my breasts heaving. Alfie's hands are everywhere, squeezing, gripping, branding. When he settles between my legs I feel the hard thickness of him, it excites and terrifies me. After an awkward moment where he slides his undershorts off, I'm left panting and trembling and thinking of how I belong to him now and he belongs to me.
There are no words in this bed, only sighs and grunts and moans. Only hands and lips and teeth scraping over heated flesh. The muscles in his shoulders ripple as he holds his weight above me. When Alfie has had enough he rears back and my eyes train themselves on his face, unwilling to look down at his exposed manhood. He slips my nightgown up to my hips and I lift for him so he can pull it off the rest of the way.
Once I'm naked beneath him, I watch his face as he takes in my naked body. The way his eyes linger over my breasts, my belly, then the apex of my legs.
A gruff sound chuffs from him before he's back against me, our bare chests pressed together, the slickness between my legs coating the hard length of him.
Alfies leans to his side, his right hand pressing my thigh wide and I gasp and buck when thick fingers slip over the sensitive flesh at my core. He strokes and strokes and strokes. The pleasure builds and builds and it feels like hours of sensation.
"That's it, Mercy. That's it, Dove. God, you're beautiful. So fuckin' beautiful."
His murmured words of praise are enough to tip me over the edge and I cry out as I ride the waves of pleasure.
Alfie's mouth covers mine, swallowing my rapture. I've barely come back into my body when I feel the blunt head of him pressing at my opening. I tense, afraid of the next part.
"Just this one time, love. It'll 'urt just this one time. I'll be gentle as I can. Bite down on me, yeah? Bite down and we'll feel it together."
It starts as pressure. Uncomfortable. Foreign. He slides into me in short strokes, easing himself inside. Then it feels as if I'm being split into two, as if he's breaking me and reforming me to mold to his shape and size.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes and I hold absolutely still, the burning, searing sensation like white hot fire between my legs, all previous pleasure lost.
I can feel it, the moment he breaks through like a light snap inside me and then Alfie is surging. I cry out again, this time in pain and Alfie stills, his breathing harsh and disjointed, arms bunching, face contorted in pleasure. My mouth latches onto his shoulder and I bite down hard tasting the coppery tang of blood.
"Fuckin' 'ell!"
But he's not angry, he's in ecstasy and I am only granted a short reprieve before Alfie is moving, that searing burn reaching a crashing crescendo before it begins to ebb away and I release his shoulder, a red smear over the shape of my bite. My thighs grip his hips as he bucks, my breasts bouncing with each thrust. His eyes are wild as he looks down at me, down between us to where we're joined. The erotic sight has him pounding faster, groaning low in his throat, his back bowing.
The feeling inside me changes like a tide turning. I know I won't crest that wave again with him but it calms me to know that it can feel good.
When Alfie reaches his peak he makes that feral sound in his chest before pressing into me as hard as he can. His body is like a marble statue over me, skin damp, sweat rolling from his face and neck, eyes like glittering emeralds. Low grunts burst from clenched teeth as he spills inside me.
His tongue swipes through my mouth, demanding, possessing as he twitches within me, hips bucking in jerky motions.
When he's spent, he rolls to his back, taking me with him. I settle, my legs draped over the sides of him, still joined, still connected as his chest heaves like a great bellows.
"Fuckin' 'ell, Mercy."
We're slicked in sweat but his hands rub over my back and neck anyway, moving my hair away so that the cool air of the room can touch the flesh there.
"I love you, Alfie," I rasp.
"I fuckin' love you too, Mercy. Always, Dove."
"Always."
We make love again that night before sleep takes us away. In the morning Alfie draws me a hot bath and washes me tenderly, our eyes shy again, our kisses sweet. When he washes between my legs, I feel a low throbbing begin and it's different now. It's like my body knows how it can feel and it wants.
My bath ends shortly after that and Alfie shows me what he can do with his mouth and fingers. My back arching on the bathroom counter, my wet hair dripping over us as he spreads my thighs and kneels between them. His tongue swipes at my core, fingers pressing into me rhythmically. When I'm shuddering and panting, he takes us back to bed, slipping inside me and brings me back to those same heights.
It's three days before we leave the house. The kitchen has been stocked with easy to prepare meals. Soups in pots, a large smoked brisket and creamy mashed potatoes, greens in covered bowls, cakes and pastries, fruit and cheeses. The first day, Alfie refused to let me down the stairs. He left in his undershorts bringing back snack foods that we ate in bed with flavorful wine and sweetened lemonade.
By the third day I was delightfully sore and so in love with my husband, I could burst from it.
Alfie was his old self again in those days. Boyish and charming, smiling and laughing with me, teasing me, and loving me. I knew I would cherish these memories for the rest of my life.
When we finally leave the house, Alfie is more reserved again. We walk on the beach, the gulls swiping at us. We eat fish and chips and wander through shops full of junk. It's calming to be with him like this. Everything around me feels new and different but still the same.
The brine soaked air is stout and refreshing. It's not long before the pins in my hair have fallen out and the curled strands are tangling around me.
Alfie is watchful and subdued, his eyes roving over my face as I point out small shells and fish as they jump out in the distance.
"I think Margate suits you, Mercy. I think it does, yeah."
I grin up at him, spinning in the damp air, enjoying the wildness of it.
"I can't believe you brought us back here, Alfie."
"One o' our best memories, it is. One of the best ones. You on the beach 'ere, your little feet in the water."
I laugh at the memory.
"C'mon, Alfie! Let's dip our toes in!"
"Bloody fuckin' cold it is. I ain't puttin' my fuckin' feet in that water. All kinds of nasty things in there, innit?"
Rolling my eyes, I shuck off my shoes and run toward the foaming sea. It's ice cold. I squeal and Alfie guffaws behind me. Turning, I glare at him and reach down to cup two handfuls of water.
"Don't you fuckin' dare!"
Shrieking laughter, playful curses and Alfie's arms swinging me from the surf…
It was three summers before the war and we had ridden on the back of a petrol truck all the way to Margate. It had threatened to rain that morning, but Alfie was not deterred. He bundled me in a coat and said he had a surprise. The sky had cleared in some miracle of nature and we had spent hours on the beach, watching other people stroll with children and dogs, then picking over small shells while Alfie told lewd jokes.
When the sky turned a ruddy red, Alfie had smiled sadly and tugged my hand, pulling me away from the beach. We rode back in the empty petrol truck, our hands clasped together.
"I saw it in me 'ead when I was in France. Kept me sane, yeah. Kept me from fallin'. Every day I woke up in that cold mud and I closed me eyes again for just a moment and thought about you right 'ere, feet in that fuckin' cold water, smile on your face, yeah, I did."
The mirth slips from my face and I press closer to Alfie, the wind a low howl around us.
He never spoke of France. He spoke of the war in vague, general terms but never like this.
"I'm glad you thought of me, Alfie."
He looked over my head, out at the ocean, but I knew he wasn't seeing it. He was back there, back in France, in that mud.
"Let's go back to the house now, Aflie. Let's spend the rest of the evening inside, together."
My face tingles pink and Alfie's smile is warm again.
When we return to Camden Town, the dining room in the house is full of wrapped boxes. The table is completely engulfed. Just by looking at the mound, I think there must be over a hundred of them.
My hand twitches when I think of all the 'thank you' cards I will have to write.
It will give me something to do though while I'm not making bread in the morning I suppose.
I look at my keyring with its shiny new addition.
It was my bride's gift from Alfie. The house we stayed in was ours. He had purchased it, even before his proposal, as a surprise.
"Alfie! You can't be serious!"
"I am. I am very serious, Mercy. This is our 'ouse now. A promise too. One day we'll live 'ere all the time, yeah. We'll walk on the beach and I'll 'ave sand in all me creases, all the time, but we'll be 'appy 'ere, yeah? We'll 'ave peace 'ere."
"Thank you, Alfie. Really, this is too much. I- I didn't get you anything. I didn't know-"
"That's 'cause you are me gift. Ain't nothin' else I want is there? No, I got all I want right 'ere."
I hang the ring on a hook beside the door, a smile on my face.
Alfie is tense as we unpack from Margate. I go ahead and put away both our clothes, pushing the dirty ones that will need to be laundered into a wicker basket. When that's done I see Alfie has retreated to his downstairs office. He's tapping a white card on the table and looking at the windows that face the front of the house. He's miles away.
"Alfie?"
He snaps his head over looking at me with a startled expression before dropping the card and pressing his hand over it.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothin', Dove. Not a thing, just thinkin' bout some business is all."
"I'm your wife now, don't you think you should stop hiding things from me?"
"I ain't 'idin' nothin'. Just business is all. You know-"
"I know what 'business' means, Alfie. You can try to hide it from me and keep me out of it, but I know what kind of 'business' you get up to. What's in the card?"
Alfie's fingertips go white as he presses down harder on the paper.
"It's just an invitation, Dove. Just a sort of summons."
"From who?"
Alfie hesitates.
"Sabini."
My stomach hollows out.
"What does he want?"
"Probably to talk about Shelby. The races and 'is bookies."
"Are you going to talk to him?"
"Aye, I think I am. I must know wot 'e wants after all. I must know so I can make me own plans."
"Will you betray Thomas Shelby?"
Alfie's eyes go back to the window, seeing and not seeing.
"I will do wot needs be done for our future, Dove."
"Don't cross, Thomas, Alfie. It's a bad omen. Please. Sabini was the one who…"
I clasp my hands together, bringing them to my chest.
Alfie surges from his chair and comes around it quickly, folding me into his embrace. He holds me tightly, fiercely.
"I 'ave not forgotten, nor will I forget. I will have Sabini's blood for it still, yeah. But Tommy is a big player. He's pushin' 'is way into everythin' 'ere. Got his own boys in me bakery. Got 'is own boys takin' over clubs and pubs. Not in Camden Town 'cept for the bakery and that's temporary mind ya but 'e's movin' around. Sabini's worried and 'e wants to par-lay. Just a sit down, yeah. Just talkin'."
"I want to be there, Alfie."
"No. Absolutely fuckin' not."
"Yes, Alfie. I want to be there. I want to hear what he says."
Alfie's eyes have gone hard and glittering.
"No, Mercy. That's me final word."
"Yes, Alfie. That's my final word. I will be at the meeting. I will hear what Sabini has to say right along side you. Together. You promised me, together."
Alfie's shoulders droop and his head drops down to press his forehead against mine.
"Alright, Dove. Alright."
Sabini had been insulted that I was at the meeting. He had railed and screamed, spittle flying but when he was done with his tantrum, he had sat calmly and Alfie had blinked when Sabini called him a friend. They negotiated a treaty of sorts with the border line going back to Farringdon and Alfie being able to send his bookies back to Epsom. In return, Alfie will serve up the Shelby brothers to Sabini, helping him to topple the growing power in London.
When Sabini leaves Alfie is thoughtful. I assume that the meeting is over and we will go home but after a while, the rear doors open and Thomas Shelby walks in with his brothers and aunt.
They sit in the same seats that Sabini has just vacated.
"Yeah, you 'eard 'im, mate. Sabini wants your balls, he does."
"I heard him. I heard him."
And then a plan is hashed out. I stay quiet, listening and avoiding the drilling stare of Polly Gray.
When the meeting has been finished, Alfie pulls out my chair and helps me with my coat.
"You're a Fury."
I jerk, the room suddenly deathly quiet. Alfie's men have frozen around us, Alfie behind me has moved, I can feel him unfurling, drawing himself up from his hunched pose.
"What did you call 'er?"
There's a crackling tension and I look anywhere but at Alfie.
"It's no insult, Mr. Solomons. In fact it's rather impressive. Fury's are a rare breed of gypsy."
She turns to me, a small coy smile on her face. Thomas watches us intently.
"I knew Joy Holland. She married Fennix Fury and had a brood of children in the wetlands. I was there when Jory was born. You're her kit. I see her in your eyes but the rest of you… the rest of you is Fennix. What do you see I wonder when the darkness comes to call you?"
My breathing is shallow and quick. I had told everyone my name was Mercy Holland because it was safer that way. Even as a child I had been aware that being a Fury was dangerous.
"You still have kin, Chi Shugra."
And with that she walks from the basement room, her family following, Thomas' eyes lingering before they're gone.
Alfie leads us out of the bakery and into an idling car. The ride to the house is tense and quiet.
When we're safely in the house and a man has checked to make sure it's empty, Alfie follows me to our room.
"What did she mean, Mercy."
"She means that she knew my family, Alfie. But she was wrong. They're all dead. I watched my father bleed out and my mother burn in her vardo along with my two sisters and my brother. They locked them inside and set it on fire. I- I was supposed to be in there with them…"
Alfie's hands are warm and dry on my face, wiping away my tears.
"You never told me."
I shrug.
"It was a long time ago, Alfie."
"What does it mean to be a Fury?"
"The Fury family earned its name with blood. They are the true savages of the gypsy clans. Hot headed, ill tempered. Most of them are mercenaries. My father was one before he met my mother. It's dangerous to be a Fury, Alfie. It was the reason my family died… part of it anyway. An old grudge that came to a bad end. I took my mother's name after… it was safer that way. Fury women are…"
But I'm not in our bedroom anymore. In my mind…
I'm sitting in an old wagon, my knees pulled to my chest as I listen to Mama Mina's croaking words, incense swirling into the air, candles burning in waxy puddles.
"You have the sight, Chauv. You must learn to master it. You must learn the rules-"
When I blink I'm back, looking at Alfie's chest, my fingers plucking at his buttons.
"It's alright, Alfie. It's just words… just a name. Just a reminder, I don't know what Polly Gray intended, maybe to put me off guard or to remind me I'm like her, like them."
Alfie holds me tightly all night and before the sun is up, he pulls me on top of him, our bodies connecting, our mouths seeking, hands clenching. Our joining ends in a rush of bliss and tender kisses. His whispered endearments soak into my skin, sinking deep into the dark parts of me and dispelling the chill that Polly Gray had put there.