Mercy, London, November 1925 - Changretta
The house is falling apart but it's still strong enough to stay standing. Thin plank boards are visible as the plaster cracks and falls around the ceiling corners. There's a strong mildew smell that permeates every part of the room. It's dank and dark and I'm very aware that there are rats in here with me. They squeak and shuffle through the peeling paper and random garbage littering the floor.
Part of the roof has collapsed in the upper corner but the ceiling is too tall for me to reach and look out. I tried several times to literally climb the wall to get to it already. My thumping attempts had drawn too much attention however and I had earned a beating for the noise.
The men who camped outside the room wore expensive suits and angled hats. They spoke in Italian or an American accent. There's a slop bucket for a toilet and nothing for a bed. My clothes are oily, my skin grimy. I've passed the time by staring into the darkness or studying the room in the daytime. I don't sleep much. Each noise from outside the room startles me. I've been beaten twice already in just three days. Once for the noise, and once just because. My ribs hurt. Each breath is a struggle. My ankle was stepped on and while I don't think it's broken, it's mangled.
My fingers trace a bit of old wallpaper, my eyes following the curving flow of ribbons and flowers. This must have been someone's sewing room at one point. There were bobbins scattered on the floor and several balls of loose thread that had become tangled together.
I know it's my vision that has come to fruition.
I haven't heard a child. I haven't seen any cats. But I did hear them speak of a dead Shelby and my heart clenches wondering if it's Tommy. I wonder if Polly and Esme made it out of the tea house. I wonder what Alfie is doing right now. I wonder if Rebecca came to clean this morning.
Today is my anniversary. Today marks four years of marriage to my Alfie. Four years of love and devotion to a man I had sacrificed my whole person to be with. But there was one part of me that had not been so willing to let me go, those damned dreams and their portents.
I know he's in a rage. I know that by now he's frantic with worry. I know that the lads in the bakery are suffering under the brunt of what is the hottest anger my husband has ever known.
If I close my eyes I can see his face as he gazes at me with wonder. The warm Margate sunshine slanting into our bedroom as I sit astride him, our bodies pushing, pulling, flexing, weaving together. The sound of his breath against my ear and his strong chest beneath my hands as we learned from each other so many years ago.
I thought I had more time. I try to pull away from this place, the wretched smells and the sounds of those men outside my door. I try to remember what the sea smelled like. I try to think of Alfie's smell, musky and warm. I try to think of the soap I use on his laundry and the potpourri I sift in those enameled bowls in the house.
On the fourth day there's movement. And a lot of it. Angry words snapped out and then, the cry of a small child. My shoulders press back into the wall and my heart beats a frantic tattoo against my sore ribs.
The cut on my ankle is festering now. My breathing has become more shallow in the last few hours and I know there is something wrong with the bones in my chest. My headache from the knockout blow in the car has only gotten worse. I have had little water and almost no food in these past four days. I am wasting away with no energy and no hope.
Still, I have not met the gray cat. I have not seen Thomas Shelby. I have not met the beast.
Of the three I'm not sure who I'm more afraid of.
On the fifth day the door creaks open and my eyelids break apart, crusty and dry.
A tall man in a light gray suit strolls into the room, a match between his teeth.
"Jesus. Get rid of that." he says gesturing to the slop bucket.
Another man moves into the room and grabs the bucket, taking it away.
"So you're Alfie Solomons' wife. The Gypsy Jew."
So the gray cat stands before me.
I stare at him, seeing it now. The likeness. There is a feral quality to him, a slinking sort of grace.
"It's nothing personal to you, you know. I just needed to keep your husband in line and out of my way. But now that I'm here… I do like what I see. I like this place. It's… ripe. I think I'll stay now and take the best pieces of meat. So now, I need to do something with you. What do you think your husband will give me, huh? What do you think you're worth?"
My lips are dry and cracked but I peel them apart, my throat scratching and burning. My voice is hoarse from screaming and then disuse.
"He will give you death."
The man pauses, his eyes searching my face before he scoffs and smiles.
"You're in no position to threaten me, little girl."
"It's not a threat. It's a promise," I whisper. And my voice sounds old and young and like the screams of a thousand dying men in one.
I watch his face pale. I see his anger and his fear.
A man surges into the room.
"Luca, we have a lead."
Luca doesn't take his eyes off me but the matchstick moves from one side of his mouth to the other and then back again.
"Let's get it done."
And then they're gone.
As the door slams shut I listen and listen and listen but the tell tale snick of the lock never comes.
I stand, bracing my hand against my ribs and feel a rush of energy surge through my body. This was it. Either I escaped or I died but I would not be used against Alfie. I would not be bartered back to my husband. I would not let him make that choice. I would make it for him.
As I'm reaching for the door it swings open, a burly man in a brown suit jerking back in surprise. He's holding the cleaned slop bucket in his hand, the doorknob still in the other and it takes me a second for the surprise to melt off me and I lunge. I slam my palms against his chest knocking him off balance and the bucket clangs noisily on the ground. He falls flat on his back, my ankle barking in pain, my ribs screaming in protest at the lunging motion.
I fall on him, ramming my sharp knuckles into his throat quickly, once, twice, three times, until I feel the hard shell of it give way, his gasping breaths cut short. His hands go to his throat, not to me and when he rolls back and forth his suit jacket opens and a black gun gleams at me from a leather holster. I do not hesitate, I pry the button off and yank it out, hefting it only once in my hand, to learn its heft and shape. As I walk out into the hallway, I listen and after a few clumsy steps on the bare wood, I kick off my shoes. My ankle is weak and wobbly beneath me but I tip toe down the hallway until I'm beside another door and I can hear a snuffle. Pushing the door open I see a lump on the bed, it's curled into a ball but I don't question it.
This is the child. I slide my arms around the warm shaking mass and heft it up. He struggles for only a moment before big blue eyes focus on my face. Thin arms wrap around my neck and I fit his legs around my waist, before I bounce him once just to get him settled and then turn.
I hold the gun out in front of me, shaking slightly from the thought of using it. I know I will have to. The snake had bit many cats but we were not yet at the beast and stallion.
The hallway empties into a larger sitting room. It's empty. I skirt the walls, the child pressing his wet face to my neck. I don't have to tell him to be quiet. He's shaking in my arms, terror radiating from his tiny form.
The door to my right is a way out, I know it, I feel it inside me. Just like I feel the gun in my hand growing heavier and wobbling harder. Taking a deep breath I drop my arm, letting the strain go as I press my back against the wall just beside the door.
A few more deep breaths and I know I'm not ready but I've run out of time. It's now or not at all.
I open the door just enough to slip through and let my eyes adjust to the twilight. The colors are all black and blue and purple. The dark shapes of cars parked haphazardly only a few feet away break up the bruised horizon. I smell cigarette smoke and hear the low murmur of voices to my right.
Through the glass of a car I see the bright orange cherry of a lit cigarette.
I move left, the bundle grunting softly with each movement. My breathing is short and coming in pants now, I don't have the energy to hide it. The gravel cuts into my bare feet, I can feel the slices of the sharp rocks gouging and breaking the tender skin. The furthest car from us feels like it's a mile away. My knees bend to try and relieve the pressure on my feet but I can't with the added weight of the child. I throw the rest of my caution to the wind and move as quickly as I can, the muffled stir of rock against rock causing the hushed voices to quiet.
Their steps start slowly, cautiously but then one of them shouts and I clear the back end of the car, opening the passenger door and pushing the child into the back, down on the floor before my hands blindly feel for the key. I pray this one doesn't need me to crank it from the engine. I can't afford to get out again. My eyes skitter frantically, finding the lit cherry of that cigarette just before it's thrown to the ground and the dark shapes of men come flying toward me. The driver's door is yanked open and the gun thunders from my hand. I shriek as it recoils up, my hands fumbling to keep hold of the handle. The passenger door opens and I turn but not fast enough and I'm struck on the side of the head. I reel, blood flooding my mouth as I bite my tongue, searing pain radiating from my skull and neck and mouth.
My legs kick out and a pained groan has my attacker dropping his head down, arms falling from my arms. A curled fist rears up and I manage to miss it hitting my chin when he brings it down on my hip, pain blossoming in the bone when I feel something crunch.
I kick again and again until he's halfway out the door, moaning and rolling. My fingers catch on a flat tab of metal and I grasp it desperately, turning it and pumping the gas pedal before the engine roars to life. Throwing it in reverse I slam on the gas uncaring of the man who's holding onto the passenger door, screaming at me.
The car jerks to a stop when I back into something solid, the child in the backseat screaming out in alarm.
I put the car in drive and brace as it jerks forward, the man slamming into the side and finally releasing his hold.
The driveway is overgrown on both sides, tall grass coming up almost to the top of the car. At the end there is another vehicle, a man leaning against the hood straightens in the bright yellow lights. He moves to the center of the road but I do not slow down. I do not stop and he doesn't move fast enough to avoid the hit. His body folds over the hood and for a terrifying moment I think he'll come through the windscreen but then he slides off to the side and I feel the car bump twice before I'm turning onto the main road.
I have no idea where I am or if I'm even driving in the right direction but if I can get to a phone I can all Alfie. Alfie will come and everything will be alright.
But it's dark now and just as I'd felt that rush of energy, I feel exhausted now. My body throbs all over. I spit out a mouthful of blood and reach behind me, running my hand over the boys soft head of hair.
"S'aright, 'ove. We're safe now," I slur, my tongue swollen and bleeding in my mouth.
It takes an hour of driving but I find a cross sign that points me toward London and almost stop to weep from relief. We're not far, maybe another hour away. I look at the petrol gauge and feel dizzy. Half a tank. Surely enough to get us there. Surely.
The drive is difficult. Several times I drift and come back to myself, jerking the wheel straight before we run off the road. When I enter the city limits I see a set of headlights coming up behind me and quickly. I press the pedal down as far as I can and the car behind me still comes. Still gains.
Straightening in my seat again I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles popping from the strain. The bow in the back is growing agitated, whimpering and crying softly.
I jerk the wheel to make my first set of turns but the following car follows easily almost as if it was expecting it.
So they had caught up.
I was so close. So close. It was late but I was almost sure Alfie would be at the bakery. I was so sure of it.
Decided, I take the most direct route that will bring me right to the archway in the front. There is a roadblock ahead and I honk the horn maniacally screaming now. Swerving the car up onto the sidewalk, the side scrapes against the parked cars bumper. Gunshots pop off and I duck my head down low, the windshield cracking, a hole punching through the center.
I reach behind me, trying to keep the wheel steady as I push the boy down again, frantically grabbing any part of him that I can and yanking him forcefully to the floor of the car. I hear the crunch of the pursuing vehicle as it isn't so nimble to get by. In the side mirror I watch as fire blossoms in the dark behind me, men shout and run from the blaze.
When I'm past Alfie's men I see a large group of cars parked in front of the bakery and then I see him. Boys from the bakery are spaced around the archway, guns drawn on me.
I slam on the brakes, the car not so quick to respond, its tires locking and sliding forward several feet before finally coming to a stop.
"Please! Please!" I scream. Reaching behind me I gather the boy to my chest, weakly shushing his cries, and hold my arm out of the door, waving it as if it held a white flag.
Alfie's shout reaches me even over the growl of the engine.
"'Old your fuckin' fire! 'Old your fuckin' fire!"
He pushes through the crowd, Thomas Shelby hot on his heels. They're both frantic. Both stop in the headlights of the car, guns held in their hands. Jewish lads from the bakery, gypsy strangers that belong to Tommy all tense and angry stand behind them.
"It's Changretta's fucking car, Alfie!" Tommy warns, reaching his hand out to grab Alfie's arm, to pull him back.
I pop the door and watch carefully as both Alfie and Tommy raise their guns but I push my hand out again, pushing the door open and holding my hand up. My right eyelid is closing even though I don't want it to. I can't see from it anymore.
"Alfie… Alfie…" I whisper, my voice failing me now, my throat weak.
I take two stumbling steps from the car, the boy's weight pulling me to the ground before I correct myself and heave up.
Alfie is moving toward me in a lurch, his eyes going wide.
"Fuck!"
Then Tommy is yanking the boy from my arms, wrapping his own around him. My body surges forward, not prepared to be unburdened so quickly.
"Jesus. Jesus. Fuck!" he mutters. The boy going limp in his hold.
Alfie intercepts me, hauling me up in his arms, carrying me like a child, and my head lolls onto his shoulder.
"I picked up the snake, Alfie," I whisper.
"Quiet, Dove. I'm here, I'm going to make this right. I'm going to make this right. Fuckin' 'ell, Mercy. Fuckin' 'ell I was so scared."
And in the safety of Alfie's arms my mind and body agree as one and let go of the fight to stay awake. We had made it. I could let go now.