Charlotte's sandwich felt and tasted like cigarette ash in her mouth. She knew she must be hungry — she hadn't had breakfast nor much supper the night before. And she loved a good sandwich. And the sandwiches from Mister Ortega's delicatessen were nothing to turn your nose up at — in fact, Charlotte thought they might be the best in all of Birmingham. But still, her stomach churned at the thought of taking even one more bite.
She knew she should undoubtedly eat the meal before her — after today, Charlotte didn't know when she'd see the light of day again. She knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that Tommy would have her shut up at Watery Lane until her hairs turned grey, and she'd forgotten entirely what a decent meal tasted like. This roast beef on rye might be the last tolerable thing in her life for quite some time, but she still couldn't enjoy the damn thing.
Honestly, she wasn't even sure why she'd come here. Ada had told her to head straight home. No more running; it was time to face the consequences of her actions. She knew she was only digging herself a grave she'd never be able to climb out of.
This morning seemed a lifetime ago that she and Ada stood on the platform at King's Cross Station waiting for the first train to Birmingham while Ada gave her a lecture straight out of Polly's book — all the while fussing over Charlotte's wild, mussed hair, "You better not doddle in Birmingham. Best you find his men waiting at the station straight away." They both knew that if Tommy had men stationed outside Ada's flat, he'd have them waiting at the train station for her potential arrival. "We both know the second you step foot on his territory, he'll know it. Don't go off running and make him hafta find you — you'll only make it worse for yourself."
"He's gonna kill me, Ada, I know it. He's gonna kill me or send me on the road or worse…" She wasn't sure what 'worse' would be in this situation, but she was convinced that if the option existed, Tommy would find a way to make it happen. Resourceful bugger he was.
"Christ, Charlie. It's not as dramatic as all that. You're not tied up in some bloody Greek tragedy. You've done something rash and impulsive — not to mention impetus — and you've got to pay for those actions. It's all part of growing up."
Scoffing at her sister, Charlotte couldn't help but point out that Ada hadn't been forced to deal with Tommy or Arthur during her formative years, "Yeah, well, you did most of your growing up while they were all gone, didn't you?" Not waiting for her sister's reply, Charlotte continued begging, "Besides, wouldn't it be better if I stayed here with you and Freddie and Karl for a little bit longer? I'll watch the baby, and you and Freddie can have a night in town, eh?"
"Nice try, Charlie. But you can't run from him forever. The longer you wait, the worse it'll be, I promise you that."
"It's already pretty bad — can't imagine it's gonna get any worse."
Ada sighed in that motherly way that you only learn how to do once you've given birth, "You've given him enough time to cool off. He'll not be as angry as he was, but if you wait any longer, you'll reach a tipping point where he'll only get angrier and angrier the longer you're away."
Ada had the right idea of it. And in that knowledge, Charlotte had been — and presently found herself scared, plain and simple.
She wasn't scared Tommy would leave any lasting marks on her — he wasn't their father. She'd been reminded of this every time she'd wailed and sobbed after any punishment had been delivered.
But she was scared in the way that anyone who's ever done something stupidly impulsive becomes. The way in which one desperately — and immediately — wishes to go back in time and change every action that had brought them to the point of actual fear and genuine remorse.
There had been several times in her life in which she'd almost immediately regretted her actions and would've given her whole left arm to go back in time right then and there.
She knew she wouldn't be able to face Tommy right away. She needed time. She needed to dip her toe in the water before she jumped in. Besides, she — and everyone else in her family — wasn't the type of person who could walk willingly to the executioner's block. She was a going down kicking and screaming kind of girl. It was the Shelby way.
It wouldn't be of any surprise for them to find out she'd avoided Tommy for as long as possible.
Starting at her uneaten meal as she contemplated her narrowly impending doom, Charlotte heard the bell over the front door chime, and the three least desirable words in the English language immediately followed, "Afternoon, Mister Shelby."
Fuck.
A chilly response of acknowledgement followed, "Mister Ortego."
Head snapping up, she made eye contact with her brother, and she felt the blood drain from her face as her heart plunged into the depths of her stomach.
She wasn't ready. She wasn't nearly ready at all.
He stared back at her, calm as you please, seemingly unphased by her presence. His next words came — not directed at her, although his eyes never left her own, "Sorry for the inconvenience, Mister Ortego. I've got a little something for your trouble." Then, reaching into his pocket, Tommy gently placed a rolled-up lump of cash onto the counter.
'Lump' was the only way to describe the amount of cash that had just been given to the man. An amount that looked as though it would allow Mister Ortego to close up shop for a week without worrying about making his payments on time. Charlotte Shelby showing up at his place of business might be the best thing that had happened to the man since he returned from France.
"Everybody! Out!" Charlotte's eyes narrowed. Tommy's lips hadn't moved, yet she'd heard the order clear as day. Apparently, so had the rest of the lunch-eaters as chairs all around her began to scrape across the floor.
His eyes finally broke away from her own as he looked around the small restaurant, making sure his orders were being followed.
That was when she finally noticed Arthur holding the door open for the exiting patrons — eyeing her like the guard dog he was. His eyes, too, seemed locked on her as if he were attempting to relay a lecture from his mind to her own.
It was then she realised it wasn't Tommy who had shouted the evacuation order, but Arthur instead.
Bloody hell. Where was her mind?
She'd left it in that dingy jail cell all those days ago; she was sure of it. She hadn't been thinking clearly since then.
She knew clarity had forsaken her when she realised it had been a full sixty seconds, and she hadn't so much as twitched toward an exit. Even her subconscious had accepted her fate.
As the last customers passed Arthur, Charlotte finally looked around, panic belatedly manifesting. She knew there was no way out of this. Arthur was blocking the only exit. She was well and properly cornered.
If she'd had her head screwed on right, she never would've chosen a place with one point of entry. She would've picked a much larger location to hide away until she'd built up enough courage to face her family. Why'd she come here for a sandwich? She wasn't hungry in the first place. She should've gone to the library — or the museum. What had she been thinking?
When the door was finally free to close, Tommy seemed to be quietly negotiating with Mister Ortega, so Arthur used the opportunity to make his way to her spot in the back of the room.
Fucking fuck.
Careful not to make any sudden movements, Charlotte tried to sit perfectly still as she waited for Arthur to do or say anything.
Nothing came from the man, and just when she thought he might be going mad, he finally reached out to take her face in his hands. Bending over, he brought their foreheads together, "You had me worried, you know that?"
She sighed at this small gesture of brotherly love, "I'm sorry, Arthur."
"You're 'bout to be even sorrier." And just like that, her soft brother was replaced with a hardened peaky blinder.
She knew he wasn't wrong. She also knew now was the time to plead for her life. Maybe, just maybe — if she could get Arthur on her side — he could convince their brother to forgo the thrashing she was sure to receive. To forgive and forget, as it were, "Arthur–"
Pulling away from her, he kept his hands on her face as he refused to allow her the time to plead or make excuses, "Now, he might not seem it, but Tom was just about pulling his hair out with worry over you being gone. So you better behave for him, you hear me?"
She couldn't stop her eyes from rolling at that, "You putting me on, Arthur?"
He was about to respond, but Tommy appeared beside him all too soon, the younger brother's hand coming to rest on the older's shoulder, "Brother, keep a handle on things outside, will you?"
"Aye, Tom," Arthur straightened at the order. Bringing his hands back to his sides, Arthur kissed her head, giving her a stern glare before making his way outside with Mister Ortega and the rest of the expelled diners.
Charlotte watched Arthur as he went, refusing to give Tommy a single glance lest her instincts take over and she was to find herself bolting for the door.
The bell on the door jingled again behind Arthur, and she knew this was it for her. Tommy was gonna strangle her this time.
A sweat broke out across her brow, and she felt her stomach dip further.
She'd pulled her fair share of stunts in the past — but she didn't think anything would compare to this.
She'd run away before.
Well…
She'd attempted to run away before.
Well…
Truthfully, she'd never actually attempted to run away — not as far as she was concerned, given the definition of the term. She'd only ever considered it adventuring out into the world. It was everyone else in the family who thought it 'running away'.
Tommy'd lectured her on the matter.
Polly'd lectured her on the matter, so had her Uncle.
Hell, even Arthur'd lectured her on the matter.
Each of them had done so on several occasions.
Not that any of their words had ever made any sort of successful impact on her.
And as she'd explained to the adults in her life — ad nauseam — adventures weren't running away. If she fully intended to return home once the journey was complete, her adventures should be considered just that — adventures. This conversation usually ended with her sitting on a sore bottom, writing lines that outlined the 'correct' Shelby family definition of running away.
'Running away is to have left the boundaries of home without explicit permission from an adult — whose name must be Shelby.'
She was certain Polly kept that bloody book of lines somewhere at Watery Lane — should she ever need it again.
The damned book had come into being not long after she and Ezra had managed to get picked up by Tommy before making it to the stone circle.
She'd manage to fix an absolutely barmy plan to take Annabelle out for the next adventure with Ezra.
But somebody had tipped Uncle Charlie off, and he'd started locking up the stalls at night. She'd seen him doing so for the first time, and she couldn't stop the frustration in her voice when she questioned him, "What're you doin' that for?"
"I'm doing this to keep truant children from getting any harebrained ideas."
"What's a harebrained idea?"
"The type of idea that gets you a beating from your Auntie."
Not wanting to show her cards, she recalled nodding at his words as she gave him a wink, "Aye. Good idea, Uncle Charlie. Wouldn't want John or Tommy goin' off and getting themselves inta too much trouble."
Her Uncle had laughed, and she was sure she'd thrown him offa her scent. So when the decided-upon day came, she and Ezra snuck into the yard just before the sun came up, equipped with a gun to rid themselves of the loathsome lock.
Charlotte had figured that Curly and Uncle Charlie were always so busy at night hauling loads off and on the long boats that the morning would be a better time to make a bit of noise before riding off on their adventure.
She'd figured wrong.
Charlie had come running at the shot, eyes wild, braces hanging off his hastily dressed trousers, and two guns raised — one for each hand.
"What in the name of the almighty are you two doing out here?!"
Eyes quickly darting to Ezra and then back to her Uncle, Charlotte dully responded, "Nothing, Uncle Charlie."
"Nothing?!" Looking around, catching his breath, her Uncle seemed to remember the two guns clutched in his hands. Quickly setting the weapons aside, he covered them with a blanket before marching toward the two six-year-olds.
Taking the opportunity given to her by her Uncle's momentary distraction, Charlotte crammed the gun deep into the pocket of her oversized hand-me-down jacket. Slapping what she thought was an innocent smile on her face, she waited for her Uncle to focus his attention back on herself.
She didn't have to wait long, "You…" Pointing to her in the firm way that adults so often did, she wasn't given a chance to run before he grabbed her by the waist and hauled her onto a hay bale — to look directly into her eyes. Charlotte wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he'd taken his time looking.
After an eternity of scrutiny, Uncle Charlie raised an eyebrow and asked, "What was that noise I heard?"
"What noise?" She was aiming to be deceptively sweet. She thought it was working.
"The bang."
"I didn't hear any bang, Uncle Charlie." She shrugged and batted her eyes at him. She'd seen Ada do something similar once, and now seemed like the right time to try it out.
The older man sighed, hands on his hips, "Listen here, girly. Your mother didn't like being lied to, your brothers don't like being lied to, and I sure as shit don't like being lied to either. So, I suggest you tell me the truth before I take you over my knee."
Charlotte supposed she wasn't as sweetly convincing as she'd thought she was, "But Uncle Charlie–"
Her Uncle interrupted her, his finger wagging in her face again, "If the next thing that comes outta your mouth isn't an explanation, you're gonna be one very sorry little miss."
It was then that Curly'd come bustin' through the barn door, startling everyone inside, "Charlie! The noise! Didja hear it?"
"Aye, Curly, I did, and our Charlotte here was just 'bout to explain what it was."
Suddenly noticing the small child, Curly innocently waved his hand in greeting, "Oh, hiya, Weasel."
"'m notta weasel."
"What was that?" Her Uncle paused, a hand brought up to his ear as if he needed to listen more closely, "Was that an explanation?"
"It was me." Honestly, she'd been so focused on her Uncle she'd forgotten entirely about her partner in crime.
Turning to face Ezra, Uncle Charlie had the absolute strangest look on his face, "What was?" It seemed he, too, had forgotten about the boy.
"The noise, the bang. It was me, Sir." She wanted to roll her eyes at him. He was rubbish at lying — everyone knew so. But here he was, trying to get her outta the hole they'd dug.
"That so?" Uncle Charlie was suspicious of Ezra's claim.
"Uncle Charlie, I–" Once again, that damned finger was in her face, silently instructing her to stay quiet as Uncle Charlie spoke with Ezra.
"Yes, Sir. It was me." His voice trembled, and Charlotte knew he'd never be able to keep it together under her Uncle's questioning.
Leaning over the boy, Uncle Charlie rested his hands on his knees, "And how exactly didja make the noise, son?"
"With a gun." It was more of a squeak than an answer.
"A gun, you say?" There was something wrong with her Uncle's voice. It was almost as though he were teasing Ezra.
"Yessir." Ezra was fidgeting now, unable to look up at the older man. His eyes set squarely on the hay bale where she stood just behind her Uncle.
"And where'd you get this gun from?"
"I em…" Poor Ezra didn't have an answer for the man, "Well, you see, Sir…"
"Yes?" Charlotte did not like the sound of her Uncle's voice, nor was she pleased with the amount of stuttering coming outta Ezra's mouth.
"I, um…"
"Speak up, boy. Your mother hand it to you?"
Ezra shook his head, and Charlotte knew they were in for it. She'd kept the tiniest bit of hope that Ezra could withstand the fierce interrogation. But he wasn't a Shelby — he came from a good family where lying and stealing weren't known at birth.
"Your dad?"
Ezra shook his head again.
"You're granny?"
Again he shook his head, but this time he didn't stop. His breathing hitched, his eyes closed, and his whole body began to sway in time with the shaking of his head.
"You find it?"
After this, she'd have to give her mate a few lessons on how to fib your way through life. Rule number one — look 'em dead in the eye when you're doing the fibbing.
"Or maybe it wasn't you that made the bang, eh, son?"
Ezra shook his head a final time; head bent so low his chin touched his chest as he stared at his boots.
Turning back to face her, Uncle Charlie started in again, "Or maybe somebody here pinched a gun that don't belong to her." There was a long pause as her Uncle waited for any sort of response from her.
Taking a lesson from her own book, she looked her uncle square in the eye as she shrugged at him.
"Maybe a little someone that lives with a buncha heathens that keep guns as toys stashed around the home."
Again, there was a long pause, and again, she shrugged.
"Does that sound about right, Charlotte Lee Shelby?"
The jig was up. Uncle Charlie had used all three names. This was dangerous territory, and she knew there'd be no squirming outta this one. She nodded, but she should've known that wouldn't suffice — not in this family.
"I can't hear you, girl."
Much like Ezra, Charlotte's eyes had fallen to the bale of hay she stood on, "Yes, Uncle Charlie."
"Right, hand it over then." Charlotte's shoulders sagged as she groaned at the command, trying her hardest not to give in to the full-blown tantrum she desperately wanted to throw at this very moment.
"Quit your whinging and give it here," Uncle Charlie scolded her as she placed the gun in her Uncle's outstretched hand, "Who's is it?"
"Arthur's."
"Girl, you got a death wish, don't ya?"
"Do not." She hated it when adults assumed she was doin' or thinkin' things she wasn't.
"Well, it seems to me that you've got some deranged desire to get the bleeding stink beat outta ya before the sun rises."
"We only wanted Annabelle for an adventure."
"That so? Only an adventure?" His questions seemed innocent enough, but something in his voice told her to tread carefully.
"Yessir…"
"So you two here thought it would be permissible to take out our Annabelle here for an early morning adventure?"
She didn't fully understand the question, and she felt like a right idiot as she asked her Uncle, "What's permissible?"
Sighing, he cleared his throat, "Lemme rephrase. You — the weasel you are — thought it might be allowed to take this horse out for a ride before sunset?"
She wasn't sure how to answer that. She knew she wasn't necessarily allowed, and she didn't wanna lie to the older man — who was losing his patience. But she wasn't just gonna confess either. No peaky blinder in their right mind just confesses. That'd be mad.
"Adventuring is allowed."
"So it is. Then tell me, Charlotte Lee…" Uh-oh. Only thing worse than an adult using her full first, middle, and last names was when they only used her first and middle ones. "…Who is it has given you permission to go adventuring?"
She shrugged.
"Is it your Auntie?" She looked to the ground rather than answer the question. But Uncle Charlie was having none of it. "You answer me usin' your words right this instant, girly."
She was getting more scared of the amount of trouble she was in with every moment that passed. She'd never seen this side of her Uncle before. It reminded her far too much of Arthur and Tommy when they had a bone to pick with her. That was a fun phrase she'd just picked up from Anne of Green Gables. The book itself has taken her some time to become truly invested in the story — in fact, she'd nearly given up on more than one occasion. But she remained glad she hadn't because she'd reached an altogether hilarious moment in the book when–
"Oi! Are you listening to me?"
"I– I– I–"
"Quit your stammering; everyone in Small Heath knows you're not some dumb fool. I asked you a question — and I expect an answer. Does your Auntie know you're out here with this bit of trouble?"
Once again, the words got stuck in her throat — this time due to the tears she was holding back. So, instead, her Uncle was answered with a shake of her head.
"Arthur?"
Another shake.
"Tommy?"
Another shake. He was really giving it to her.
"How about that imbecile, John? Did that daft brother permit you to go gallivanting from Watery Lane to my yard?"
Sniffling, she gave her Uncle another shake.
"So neither your Auntie nor any of those mumping pigs you call brothers gave you permission to go adventuring?"
A final shake of the head.
She tried to take a breath, but it got hitched in her throat, and a single tear managed to escape. She tried to wipe it away before her Uncle could see. But she wasn't quick enough.
"Ah, Ah, Ah. None of that. You got yourself into this mess. You best stick it out bravely."
"But–"she was about to let loose the gates when he interrupted her, "You want to be an adventurer? Or do you wanna play at it? Because if you wanna be legitimate, you better pull up your breeches and face this head-on. None of that crying rubbish. It might work with those boys at home. But it don't work here. And it don't work in the real world."
Still sniffling, she rubbed at her eyes, trying to hide evidence of any tears.
"Now, what in your right mind thought it was a good idea to snatch Arthur's pistol here and go shooting up my barn?"
Right. Charlotte supposed it was time to put her cards on the table. Maybe if she were truthful, her Uncle would give her a whack over the head and send her home to bed.
Clearing her throat, she steeled herself, "You remember last month when me and Ezra tried to get to the stones?"
Her Uncle scoffed," 'Course I do. You bloody run away. You're Auntie had half–"
"It wasn't running away!"
"I think you know better than to interrupt me, girl."
"Sorry, Uncle Charlie."
"Now, if I recall correctly, after the two of you were brought home from that adventure, your brother explained very clearly that it mightn't be called running away, but you still weren't allowed without permission. Isn't that right?"
"But I thought–"
"Answer the question before I thrash you meself."
"What was the question?"
Mumbling to himself, her Uncle ran a hand over his brow, "Attention span of a gnat, you've got."
"'msorry."
"Are you allowed to go adventuring without permission?"
"No."
"So what made you think this was a good idea, eh?"
"I thought with the horse here, we'd be back in time. Nobody would need to know."
"Nobody would need to know? Jesus Christ, girly!"
Behind her Uncle, Ezra's gasp at his foul cursing garnered the older man's attention, "You got something to say, boy?"
"You– you– you said the lord's name in bane."
"Son, it's vain. It's called sayin' the lord's name in vain. And you're bloody fucking right I did." Turning around to face his niece, Uncle Charlie continued his lecture, voice raised, "You two gobshites better fuckin' stay in school! Thinkin' you'll make your way down south and back in one night? That's about as daft as it gets!" Turning away from the two children, Charlotte grew surprised when her Uncle shook his fist at her, "Aye… If you were my child…" Bringing his hand again to his receding hairline, he continued to mutter to himself, "When your Auntie gets aholduv you… My god, if your mother was alive…"
"Uncle Charlie, we're sorry."
"Yessir, we're really sorry!"
"Sorry ain't gonna cut it this time. You've racked up quite a list of offences here." He then proceeded to count them on his fingers, "Stealing your brother's gun. Sneaking outta the house. Running away. Shootin' up me barn and scaring all the horses."
"Please, Uncle Charlie. We're so sorry. We'll go home right now and never do it again!"
"Oh, I don't think so, little miss. It's what?" Pulling his watch outta his pocket, he checked the time before continuing, "Quarter to four. You both will stay here and muck out these stables until it's time for your brothers to be up. Then we're gonna take a nice long walk back to Watery Lane, where you'll have your Aunt to answer to."
"But Uncle Charlie!"
"No buts here, little miss. You're gonna do as I say, or I'll be taking care of that disobedience right now for Curly and you're little friend here to witness — and then you'll still have your Aunt to deal with!"
She growled, tilting her head back as she responded, "Fine."
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that. It sounded like someone was being disrespectful. Do I tolerate tantrums in this yard?"
"No, Uncle Charlie."
"That's right, I do not." Letting out a long, exasperated sign that sounded all too similar to the deep sighs that often came outta Polly, Charlie ran a hand over his face before hauling her down from her bale of hay, "Now you take your lad there and show him where the tackle shed is. When you're back and ready to get to work, I'll unlock the stable for you."
"Yessir." Taking Ezra by the hand, Charlotte led the way to where the tools were kept, barely turning as her Uncle called after them, "You two better stay in school."
After that, they'd certainly not been allowed much of anything other than school. It seemed as though it had been months and months that she'd not been allowed anything other than school and home.
Thinking back now, it had likely only been a week — maybe two. But back then, it had been an eternity.
Right now, though, in this moment, she thought she really might've been sitting for an eternity waiting for Tommy to make his first move.
Wanting to keep a cool front in the face of certain death, she picked up her sandwich and took the bite she'd been unable to take only a few minutes earlier. Turning from her, Tommy casually, almost indifferent to herself — almost — sat down in the chair across from her and lazily lit a cigarette.
She knew this game. They'd played it so many times before. He was to sit there, completely emotionless, smoking his stick as he did so. All the while waiting for her to break under the discomfort of their awkward silence.
Swallowing her bite, she reached for the glass of water — trying to keep her hands from shaking as she did so.
Tossing his match to the ground, Tommy's eyes bore into her as he waited.
She knew she couldn't avoid his gaze forever. So, rather than angering him further, she wobbly set her glass back on the table and wiped the sweat from her palms on her trousers. Taking one last deep breath, she slowly forced herself to look him in the eye, "Orright, Tom?"
To anyone else, it was a statement of greeting. But she and her brother both knew it was a sign of concession. Charlotte was giving up the game of chicken before it could start.
Her sign of remorse in the concession was all he'd been waiting for, "Where'd you run off to these past few days?"
He didn't sound mad. That was her first clue that she was treading on thin ice.
In all honesty, it was a simple question with a simple answer. But something in Tommy's voice made her mind go blank. Quickly looking from him back to her glass, she reached out again and slowly sipped at her water, finding the bit of courage she'd managed to gather instantly fail her.
She'd been marginally prepared to tolerate some kind of long-winded lecture. She figured she'd sit, and Tommy'd shout and spit, make threats — some idle, some not — and then she'd be sent off for her beating and future life in solitary confinement.
She certainly hadn't prepared herself for any kind of back and forth. She hadn't been prepared to have this verbal battle just yet. And she sure as hell hadn't been prepared to have it in a public place — as vacant as it may be in its current state.
She truly hadn't any wits about her whatsoever.
Moreover, she simply couldn't focus. He was just sitting there, smoking his stick, staring at her with that cold look. The look that to any outsider would seem indifferent, but to those who did know… it was a glare of barely constrained anger. She didn't need to look at him to know that he was fidgeting with the end of his cigarette; one eyebrow was likely raised, and he was about to start scraping his bottom lip with his thumb.
He was as predictable in his anger as she was reliable in making him so.
Flicking his ashes onto the table, he sternly reminded her, "I asked a question, Charlotte," before repeating, "Where've you been?"
His glare was burning a hole in her soul. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to answer him.
She took another sip of water, both hands grasping the glass like a child. She needed something more to settle the boiling acid in her stomach, but there was nothing more for it. She knew he was waiting. She knew she shouldn't be testing his patience. But in this, too, there was nothing more for it.
Once more, she shakily set her glass on the table, still unable to meet his stare.
Taking a shaking breath, she again wiped her damp palms on her lap before gripping the fabric in an effort to steady herself. She shouldn't test his patience for much longer. But she needed to be able to open her mouth to answer him without feeling as though she'd be sick all over the table between them.
Closing her eyes, she took a solid, deep breath, preparing to answer. But it seemed as though in that additional second it had taken for her to draw the extra breath, she had gone and pushed Tommy's patience to its limit.
The table shook, the plate rattled, and the delayed sound of his hand crashing down between them had her wincing where she sat. The jolt sent a shock wave through her, and she managed to take hold of the single speck of courage she possessed. Forcing her eyes open, she knew she needed to say something before he got half a mind to slap some sense into her — rather than just the table.
Rage coloured his face, and as he leaned across the table towards her, bracing himself on his hand that had nearly broken the damned thing, he questioned her once more, "Where the fuck have you been for the past six days?!"
Water flooded her eyes, and she struggled to keep herself from becoming emotional. This wasn't like her — she was usually able to meet his anger head on. But today, she was all out of sorts. She couldn't eat, couldn't pull a runner to save her own neck, and now the horrid sensation of tears welled in her eyes, and she hated it all. Blinking away the moisture before tears formed, she squared her shoulders and forced herself to speak, "I'm sorry."
Her voice trembled over her apology, and she cursed herself for sounding weak. It wasn't even an answer to the question he'd asked. She needed to fucking answer him!
She tried desperately to loosen her tongue further, but still, she sat, wordless — as if she were actively trying to anger him further.
Across the table, Tommy sighed as he lowered himself back into his chair. He took a heavy drag from his stick and slowly blew smoke out the side of his mouth. He was trying to calm himself just as she was trying to garner courage.
He took a deep breath and tried again — stern as ever, "What were you thinking, eh?" He tapped the edge of the table with his small finger, the cigarette resting between his index and middle fingers spitting ash onto the table, "Fighting with the coppers, getting yourself arrested, firing a gun at me, running–"
"I'm sorry, Tommy. Really, I didn't mean to, I swear I–"
"You, what?"
Instant regret.
She shouldn't have interrupted.
She should've kept her mouth shut.
His tone had her practically vibrating in an effort to reverse time. Once again, she would've given her left arm to go back in time just a few seconds — to undo the damage she'd just done. Her backbone had indeed chosen the most inopportune moment to show itself.
"Use your fucking words, Charlotte. Explain yourself to me. Now."
She knew she had to respond. She knew if she didn't, it would be worse. The look on his face, though… If she had more of her wits about her, she'd reach for her gun and shoot herself just to get this inquiry to stop. But as she'd realised several times over the past few minutes, she hadn't a lick of common sense whatsoever.
Ignoring the sweat trickling down her spine and swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat, she gathered just enough fortitude to shakily answer him, "I didn't mean to shoot at you." Her voice was small and timid, and she hated how she sounded. Apparently, so, too, did Tommy. Because the next thing she knew, he'd reached out — quicker than she'd thought possible — grabbed her water glass and threw it against the wall beside them.
The light shone off the glass as it flew through the air, flecks of water splashing against her cheek before its untimely demise.
At the sound of the shattering glass, Charlotte jumped in her seat — the force of it rattling the legs of her wooden chair. Her shaking hands rose to her ears, covering them as she closed her eyes tight. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her head, same as she could hear her own hyperventilating heavy breaths. Shaking her head back and forth, she stuttered, trying to explain herself, but she couldn't form a single word.
She should've expected this violence. She'd seen it before — both directed at herself and at others. But the suddenness of it had her shaking, the neighbour's cat having taken hold of her tongue.
Her eyes flew open when she felt his grip on her wrists. Looking into his eyes, she saw his anger and frustration about to boil over. He was still firm and stern, but he gently pulled her hands away from her ears. Setting her hands on the table before them, he removed his grasp on her. Eyes still locked on hers, he brought his hand up to the cigarette hanging from his lips and, once again, flicked the ashes on the table.
"Here's how this is going to go, Charlotte." Staring at him, she didn't know if she should be terrified or furious with him. "I'm going to ask you some questions. You're going to answer them." She nodded at him, unsure of her voice at the moment.
"Then you're going to stand up, follow me out of here and into the car waiting just down the street — without pulling a runner." He paused, and she nodded again. Confirmation that she both heard and understood him. "Once you're in the car, you're going to keep your mouth shut until we get home."
Another pause. Another nod.
"Once we arrive, you're going to walk inside and sit your ass in my office. Do you understand me?"
Taking a shuddering breath, she nodded again and squeaked out some sort of "mmhmm" sound. Taking another drag from his stick, Charlotte took the opportunity to avert her eyes from his own. Looking at her palms — still pressed into the table where he'd set them — she could see the heat pulsing, creating waves of moisture on the shiny lacquered table. She itched to move a finger, wanting to draw a heart shape — as if she'd blown hot breath onto a cold window.
"Use your words."
Damn it. "Yes, Tommy." It was a whisper, but it was what he wanted to hear.
Nodding at her in the slightest show of approval, Tommy leaned back in his chair, and she aimed to follow. But Tommy's hand was on her own before she could move her palms off the tabletop. "No. You keep your hands on the table where I can see them." Chewing on the bottom of her lip, she nodded her head. "Which reminds me, where's your gun?"
She tried to pull one hand out from under his to reach into her holster to deliver the weapon to him, but when she tried to move, he pressed down harder with his own hand, reprimanding, "Two fucking seconds ago, I told you to leave them hands be." Then reiterating, "I said to keep your hands on the table. And I mean you to keep them there."
Gasping slightly, she murmured an "Ow" before he let up the pressure and clarified, "Tell me with your words where your gun is."
Nodding with her head to her left arm, she informed, "It's in the holster, right here."
"Is it loaded?"
"Yes." She nodded in confirmation, just in case he found her voice to be too quiet.
"You fire any more bullets?"
"No."
This time, it was Tommy's turn to nod at her, "Good."
Then, leaning forward across the table, Tommy reached into her jacket and pulled the gun from its home. Leaning back into his chair, he casually — if not expertly — flipped open the cylinder and dumped the remaining bullets on the table before placing the weapon in his jacket pocket.
Scooping the bullets off the table, Tommy fiddled with the now useless metal bits as he informed her, "The gun is mine now. You'll get it back when I decide you've earned my trust again."
Swallowing hard, she nodded in agreement. His words hit hard in the same sort of way they would when her Aunt would inform Charlotte of her deep disappointment in her poor behaviour. It was always easier to manage rage and anger than it was disappointment. She wasn't sure what that may imply about her and the Shelby family as a whole, but her agreement seemed to please her brother, and his mood lightened ever so slightly, "You not gonna argue with me?"
She shook her head at him and almost instantly regretted it as a bout of nausea bubbled up from her stomach into her throat. Focusing on pushing her nausea back down, she almost didn't hear him as he asked after her knife, "Where's it at, Charlotte?"
"It's in me boot." Then stretching her left leg from beneath her, she jerked her chin towards the damn thing as she continued to press her sweaty palms into the table.
Nodding in response, Tommy took a moment to think as he savoured a drag on his cigarette. Forcing her to wait on his actions in an almost insufferable silence, Tommy slowly exhaled as the ashes flittered from the end of the stick onto the tabletop while he ran his thumb along the length of his bottom lip.
Her incessant impulse to chew on the tips of her fingers was in no way a singularity within the Shelby family.
As she stiffly waited in this uncomfortable silence, the pull to gnaw on her fingers grew stronger. The act an effort to soothe herself in times of stress. But still, she kept her hands rooted where Tommy had placed them, instead letting her teeth nibble at the tender skin on the inside of her cheek and the edges of her lips.
Tommy watched her closely, eyes boring into her as if he were trying to extract every silent secret she kept. Finally stamping out the cigarette on the table, Tommy motioned to herself, demanding, "Stop biting before you make yourself bleed."
He wasn't giving her an inch of comfort. Typical Tommy — even before the war, he knew exactly how to manipulate a moment to give himself an edge over everyone around him.
"You'll keep the knife on you." She nodded, slightly surprised. "I'll not have you completely unprotected should the unexpected arise." Then, pointing a finger in her face, he added, "That is in no way giving you any allowances to venture out on your own without my explicit permission."
She opened her mouth to agree with him, but before she could say a thing, he clarified his order, "Not Arthur's. Not Polly's." He rolled his eyes as he spoke the next name — as if exasperated with her for forcing him to reach so far as to scrape the bottom of the Shelby family barrel, "Not John's fucking permission. Mine. You understand?" She nodded as he repeated, "Mine."
Pulling out another cigarette and taking a slow moment to light up, Tommy leaned back in his chair as he returned to his initial line of questioning, "Now… Back to my question: Where have you been since you shot at me the other night?"
She knew she was supposed to only answer the questions asked, but she had to clarify, "I didn't mean to shoot–"
"Again with this shit?" Fuck. She should've just answered the damn question. Now he was mad again. "You keep apologising and making excuses, but that's not what I fucking asked you, it is?"
Pressing her palms into the table, she shook her head and tried to make things better, "With Ada. I was with Freddie and Ada."
"No, go back. Explain yourself." Tommy made a motion in the air as if he were turning back the hands on a watch clock, resetting time. Making a literal motion for the fervent wish that filled her head. The smoke from his cigarette made circles before fading into nothing, "I'd like you to tell me how you didn't mean to pull that revolver on me. Tell me how you didn't mean to prime a loaded weapon aiming right for me." His voice was rising again. She tried to make herself as small as possible as his voice grew angrier and angrier. She wanted to duck and run. She wanted to cover her ears as his voice boomed off the walls, making her ears ring. "Tell me!"
She sat in her chair shaking, afraid to move a muscle, as he continued, "Go on, Charlotte. Explain yourself!"
He waited, and when she hesitated — for only a fraction of a second — he lost all patience again.
Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he stood and began to stalk away from their table. Running a hand through his hair, she could see him practically muttering to himself — a rather un-Tommy Shelby-like behaviour.
It seemed like an eternity as she waited, and she honestly couldn't tell if he was managing to calm himself down or if he was only getting angrier.
She knew it was technically her turn to speak — he'd asked her a question. And it was her refusal to speak that had sent him off on his pacing rampage in the first place. But she worried that explaining herself now would only make matters worse.
She was caught in an impossible situation — a situation she'd created for herself, certainly. But an impossible situation nonetheless.
Lost in her thoughts on how to fix her present position, Charlotte wasn't sure how long it had been since Tommy'd risen from his seat. She thought he'd eventually start in on her with a patented Tommy Shelby lecture, or maybe he'd haul off and smack her a good one. But what she got instead was wholly unexpected.
Slowly, Tommy made his way back to the table, and the heavy silence settled between them. She could see his mind running in circles, even as he leaned over to brace himself on the back of his chair.
She watched his face closely, reading him for any signs or clues as to what he'd do next — or what he expected from her, but Tommy growled to himself before she could reach any conclusion. Seemingly needled by his thoughts, he took hold of his chair and threw it across the room.
Angrier.
No question about it anymore. He had absolutely managed to make himself angrier.
And there was nothing for it at this point.
The chair crashed against a table on the far side of the room. The glasses and plates that had been left there rattled to the ground, and Tommy turned his head to curse the sky, "Fuck!"
Yelping at the cacophony of noise, she felt a strange sense of pride when the dining ware had settled; Tommy'd stopped yelling, and she was still sitting — hands on the table — exactly like he'd told her to stay.
Her head was bowed, staring at the sandwich she'd only been able to take a few bites of, watching as tears dripped off her nose onto the crust of the rye bread. She was shaking and very nearly sobbing — scared out of her wits and sick to her stomach — but she hadn't moved. Maybe she hadn't answered his questions precisely as he'd told her. But her hands were still on the table, and her butt was firmly seated in her chair.
He stood not six feet from her, hands on his hips, eyes settled firmly on the ceiling. She would've thought he was praying if she didn't know any better.
Her heaving breathing created an echo of Tommy's own raging breath before his senses seemed to return to him, "Shit."
Unwilling to look up from her now soggy lunch, she heard Tommy sigh and felt him walk farther from their table. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. Was she supposed to follow him outside now? Was he done with the questions? Unwilling to move until told, she resigned herself to sitting at this awful mess of a table until told otherwise.
Setting her entire focus on not moving, Charlotte nearly jumped out of her skin when the chair that had been thrown was placed back where it had been — directly across from her. Expecting him to take his previously vacated seat, Charlotte grew surprised as Tommy rounded the table and knelt beside her.
"Look at me, Charlotte." Turning slightly, she tore her eyes from her sandwich to meet his — palms still proudly on the table. A tear stubbornly escaped and rolled down her cheek, and she startled when her brother reached out to wipe it away with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry for that — just now." Pointing to the chair first, then motioning to the shattered glass beside herself, Tommy waited a fraction of a second to ensure she understood him before continuing," I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have thrown anything." An apology. She didn't know which shocked her more, the chair being thrown or this.
Tommy stayed frozen in his spot longer than she'd expected, and Charlotte suddenly realised he was waiting for her to acknowledge his apology.
Nodding her head at him, she tried to look away. But his hands shot out, taking hold of her face.
Holding her fast, his thumb moved across her cheek, wiping away track marks left by runaway tears, "I'm not our father. I shouldn't have acted that way. No man should ever act that way with you. I need to know you understand that."
Turned awkwardly in her chair, Charlotte nodded at him as she mumbled, "I understand."
She couldn't remember much of her father's wrath herself. But she'd been warned of its majesty more times than she could remember. She knew all three of her brothers had marks from his belt still on them to this day. She'd been told how lucky she'd been to have never felt the sting of his anger, to never have had the fear of god put into her with just a look.
She knew that the strop Tommy used on her clothed backside was the same their father had used on the boys — however, a much different punishment on their bare backs.
Tommy had a scar on his arm, a mess of raised skin that had come into existence when the end of the leather had missed its mark and torn open his bicep. According to Arthur, their old man had been drunker than a squirrel in spring and hadn't known up from down when he'd gone after Tommy one night.
Arthur had miserably confessed the story to her when he had been much too deep into his own bottle. From what she could gather from his slurred story, it had been the first time he hadn't been there to protect his younger brother, and Charlotte thought that the sight of Tommy's scar gutted Arthur to this day.
Seeing that her mind had taken a vacation from the subject at hand, Tommy sighed as he rose to his full height, tugging her up with him. Pulling her into himself, he gathered her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin, "You did something real daft, Charlie." Still not letting go, he continued, "You can't pull a gun on me and run away just because you've gone mental."
Leaning into his warmth, she nodded and attempted to mumble an apology, only to find her throat tight and swollen, her voice cracking and meek.
Her own arms snaked up to wrap around his body, her fists balled into the back of his finely tailored jacket, and she just breathed him in for a moment. He smelled like her childhood, of morning rain and cigarettes and a subtle hint of the lavender Polly added to their laundry. After a few seconds, Tommy loosened his grip and attempted to guide her back into the chair he'd pulled her from. But she couldn't let go, not just yet. She needed his strength for just a little while longer.
She tightened her hold on him, and she could clearly imagine the confusion written on his face. They both knew he was going to tan her hide, but right here, in this quiet moment, it felt like she had the old Tommy back. The young Tommy that had been warm and friendly. The one who loved to dance and ride. And didn't care how poor they were as long as they were happy.
Squeezing him tighter, she knew she had to tell him what was on her mind. Ada was right; if she didn't speak it out loud, it was going to eat her up from the inside.
"I'm so sorry, Tommy. Really. I'm just–" The words were coming now; she was about to unload, and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it.
Trembling, she tried to quickly explain, "I don't know why I do these stupid things, daft things, absolutely mad things," she tried to take a deep breath, but to their mutual surprise, a barking sob escaped instead.
One sob came, followed by another and another. And before she knew what was happening, she seemed to be confessing all the horrible thoughts that had been swirling around in her head since the men came back from France, "There's something wrong with me. Something isn't right inside."
Tommy's arms squeezed her firmly, and she could feel her fingers tingling with numbness as she gripped his jacket tight, refusing to grant him permission to let her loose.
"I'm always in trouble. And I don't know why — I mean, I do know why. It's just that I do try — I know you shouldn't believe me. But I do. I try so hard to do the right thing, to do what you and Polly say. But then, when it comes time to act, I never get it right."
"Charlie–"
"It's like my brain knows what to do. It knows what's right. It knows what you've told me to do and what Polly's said as well. But when it comes time to act, I'm not meself."
"Charlotte, you need to calm down," his arms let loose his hold on her, and he tried to take her face in his hands. But she wouldn't let him. She squeezed tighter, burying her face into his chest.
"There's something different about me, something's not right." Seeing that she wasn't going to let go, he bent over her, one arm around her back, the other cradling her head. He tried shushing her, but she couldn't hear it. She needed to finish spewing what she had to say.
"All the other girls, they're different from me. They go to school. They don't get in fist-fights. They don't wear their brother's old trousers. They're nice and polite." She was picturing Hester Martin. Or Rosemary Levy. Or Evelyn Bruce. Or even Dorothy Ennis. All beautiful, perfect girls who obeyed their parents and teachers and likely had a wonderful future to look forward to. "And they've got boys who fancy them. They go to the pictures holding hands. They know how to bake and do their own hair. They know how to rouge their lips and powder their cheeks. They're everything I'm not."
She was rambling on so quickly now she didn't know how she'd ever come to a stop — or if she was even capable of such a feat.
"There's this darkness inside me, and it's frightening. It's like it wants me to be bad to do bad things — like I'm incapable of doing the right thing. It knows I'm different — that I'll never be like all the others — and it takes advantage." She took a quick gulp of air, her body still shaking precariously
"It's just that I get lost… or confused.. or distracted, maybe? Everything gets flustered, and I lose track of which end is up." She wasn't explaining it right. But she couldn't pause to figure it out for fear of Tommy interrupting her rampage. If she stopped now, she'd never get it all out, "Things seem to get all jumbled in me head. It's like the world goes all topsy, and by the time everything's straightened out, I've gone and messed it all up again.
"In the moment I believe I'm thinking straight — that I'm doing the right thing. But when everything is said and done, and the dust settles, I know I haven't."
Charlotte gulped down another shallow breath before continuing, "It's like the world is a house of cards, and I'm an eastern wind coming through, leaving destruction in my wake." She was growing increasingly light headed.
"Charlotte, you need to calm down and listen to me–"
Cutting him off, she ignored his demand, continuing her rampage of prattle, "I didn't mean it — any of it. All those things I said. I don't think you're a monster," Most of the time, "I know you care about us more than the money," Usually, "You try, and it's not easy," For any of them.
"I don't know why I said all those horrible things," Under normal circumstances she was very good at keeping the horrid thoughts to herself, "It's just that Everything spiralled. And I felt like every ounce of control was slipping through my fingers. When I panic like that… when I go angry and mad… it's like I get this tunnel vision. Everything's blurry. Me ears are ringing. And I feel like a cornered animal."
"Charlie, come on now–"
"I'm not explaining it right, Tom. It's like everything speeds up, and I can't focus or think. Or– or– or–" damnit! What was she even trying to say anymore?
"Charlie–"
"I wish I could explain it better."
"Charlotte!" Reaching behind himself, Tommy took hold of her hands fixed to his jacket and forcibly removed them. When he could finally manoeuvre her, he took hold of her shoulders and pushed her away from himself — just enough so he could see her face, "Look at me." Raising her eyes from his chest to his face, Charlotte braced herself for whatever he would say. "Are you listening?" She nodded.
"Everything that you're saying — I understand," he sighed and ran a hand down his face, "Better than you might think."
Charlotte sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She didn't know what to say to her brother's little confession. Certainly, she wanted to know more, but she didn't want to push him too far. She'd heard Freddie's version of what happened in France that had changed him and her brother so irreparably. But she didn't know if that was what Tommy was alluding to or if something else was on his mind. So rather than risking their uneasy peace by peppering him with questions he didn't want to answer, she kept her mouth shut and worked to calm her tears and even her breathing.
After a moment, Tommy pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, handing it over for her to clean up her face. As she worked to wipe her tears and snot, Tommy reached out to brush her hair away from her face. She was certain her blonde locks were nothing short of an unkempt bird's nest.
Nearly a minute passed as Tommy continued to smooth out her untamed hair, and she set herself to calm her nerves, "Your hair's getting so long." He'd spoken the words aloud, but it didn't seem as though he were speaking to her.
It was true, though; her hair was growing longer than she usually kept it. Ada had always been the one to cut her hair, and with her sister living in London, she hadn't really thought about it too much. Besides, it was never herself who wanted her hair cut; it was always Polly. Polly would complain at how unmanageable her mop of hair had become, and Ada would treat her like a living doll for the 30 minutes it took to do the cutting. "You've always been a little towhead, just like Arthur and John…" he trailed off before adding, "And our mother."
Charlotte kept perfectly still; Tommy never brought up their mother — not voluntarily and certainly not without an overabundance of prodding.
"When you were born, you were a freckle-faced little lump of squirming curly hair. The finest and lightest of us all. Ma' always said the rest of us had all been born with such dark hair and blue eyes. With John, it was after a few years that his hair started to lighten." Tommy sighed heavily, giving her the smallest of smiles before tugging her back into his embrace. His chin rested on her head as he spoke, "You were such a strange little creature, especially after Ada with her dark wood nymph features — she'd been the darkest of us. Should'a known then you two would be opposites."
Sighing, Charlotte couldn't help but admit, "I always wanted pretty dark brown hair like Ada's."
"No, Charlie. You're perfect just how you are."
"I think not."
He sighed at her, "Maybe a little too wild for my liking. And we could certainly work on your obstinance. But you've always been our perfect little Charlotte."
Stroking her hair like he'd done when she was a child she felt his chest rumble beneath her, "It's alright that you feel different. That you are different. You're surviving in an ugly and broken world and learning how to forge your own trail. No one wants you to be like those other girls — we certainly don't want you putting rouge on your lips and going out hand in hand with any of the lads 'round here. This world is hard on people like us; we're all doing our best. That's all I want from you, Charlie — your best.
"Everything that you've described — that's all part of growing up. You're learning who you're to become. It's alright if you don't know what you want. Or if you want something different from everyone else. What matters is that you become the best version of yourself. Being different is alright. Being in jail isn't."
"But you've been in jail."
Pulling her away from his chest again, he tapped her forehead — as if to make her remember, "And I've told you, I want a better life for you."
She huffed, and he took the opportunity to point behind her, instructing her to take a seat as he moved to retake his own.
"How 'bout you finally tell me where've you been this whole time, eh?" Apparently, Tommy had deemed her well and calm enough to continue his inquiry.
"I was with Ada and Freddie — and Karl."
Nodding his head, he settled himself into his chair, "Good."
Unsure of his reaction, Charlotte repeated herself slowly to confirm he'd heard her, "Ada and Freddie…" It was a statement of fact, but it came out of her mouth as though she were asking him where she'd been.
Again, he nodded. So again, she elaborated, "Thorne."
Inclining his head towards her, Tommy raised his hand to scratch his brow with his thumb. With one eye cocked, he again nodded.
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, "You're not mad?"
"As of the evening of your speechless telephone call, I knew exactly where you were."
She wanted to sigh at him; his manipulations were exhausting, "You wanted to see if I'd lie to you." He nodded once at her observation. Typical. Tommy didn't ask questions he didn't already know the answer to.
"How'd you know?"
"Ada rang that night."
"And you didn't come to drag me home?"
"You've got Ada to thank for that." She must've looked as confused as she felt because Tommy clarified, "She plead your case. And as it turns out, our Ada can be very convincing when she wants to be."
A silence settled between them before Tommy pointed to her uneaten meal, "You not hungry?"
She shook her head; the sandwich before her was a wholly unappealing soggy disaster.
"Ada said you hadn't eaten much these past few days."
Charlotte shrugged, "I've been stressed. And Ada might be the worst cook in all of England."
"So terrible, you couldn't keep it down?"
Apparently, Ada had done more than plead her case to their brother. "What else she tell you?"
Turning away from her, he dug through his pockets for a new cigarette — his old one having been thrown to the ground in his tantrum. He took his time lighting up, letting the silence settle in, doing everything he could to keep her on edge. She should congratulate him — all his efforts were wildly successful. "She told me that you were having nightmares, making yourself sick with stress, staying up all hours of the night."
"I was not."
"Wasn't, what? Having nightmares? Or making yourself sick?"
Looking away from him, she could stop the pout in her voice, "Neither."
"Do I tolerate lies?" Once again, his voice had turned cold, and she squirmed in her seat. She didn't want to answer him; they were both well aware that she knew the answer to his question. Pulling her lip with her teeth, she brought her hands up to assist in the worrying, only to find Tommy'd reached across the table to smack at them, "Stop biting, and keep your hands outta your mouth — it's a disgusting habit."
Shaking the sting outta her hand, she whined at him, "You hurt me."
Rolling his eyes, he ignored her — the accusation not worthy enough to address. Instead, leaning forward in his chair, he demanded, "Answer the question: do I tolerate lying?"
She shook her head.
"So what are these nightmares about then?"
She wanted to scoff at him, "You know what they're about."
"How about you tell me anyway? What is it exactly that's keeping you up at night?"
"You first." Narrowing his eyes at her, Tommy nodded, thinking deeply. She could tell he was debating forcing her to tell him the whole truth of it right here in the diner.
She'd given him enough confessions today. The rest of Ada's advice would have to wait for another day. If she were going to tell him what her dreams were, she'd have to be prepared to tell him the details from that night. As well as the constant pangs of fear that stalked and haunted her waking hours. And if she were being completely honest with herself, she wasn't feeling brave enough for that just yet.
Thankfully, he moved on with a sharp nod, "That's fair. "
"So Ada told you I'm not sleeping and heaving my guts. That it?"
"Is there anything else I need to know?"
There's probably so much more that he'd like to know. But he wouldn't be getting it outta her today, "No."
"You certain?" Obviously, he knew there was more to be told. But he'd hafta pull her fingernails off if he expected her to do any more confessing. She did, however, have a question for him, "Arthur said you were worried."
"Is that a question or a statement?" She wanted to wring his neck, "Question."
Nodding at her, he seemed to look beyond her as he formulated his words, "Why wouldn't I be worried about you?"
"Just thought anger would be your primary focus."
Tapping his fingers on the table between them, Tommy sighed, "Of course I was worried, Charlotte. You're my family, my responsibility. It's my fucking job to take care of you, to keep you safe."
He was so earnest that she found it difficult to keep his eye, "Seems like I'm a burden more than anything else."
"A pain in my ass more than not. And you best believe I'm mad as hell. But that doesn't mean I don't care, Charlotte."
"Are you gonna send me away?" The question was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
"If I was 'bout to send you away, why'd I care to get you back to Birmingham in the first place?"
Control.
For once in her life, she was able to keep the word from slipping out of her mouth, instead choosing to shrug at him, "I wasn't sure you'd want me back after a few days of peace and quiet without me."
"If you think things were quiet or peaceful with you having run off, then you're not quite as bright as I thought."
"I'm a lot less trouble when I'm not around."
"You get hit on the head while you were gone?" His question seemed sincere, so she took the time to respond, shaking her head, "No. Why would–"
"You're just as daft as John sometimes, you know that?"
Well, that was just rude.
"You listen to me, and you listen good. I don't want you gone. I don't want to send you away. I want you right where you belong: at home. With me and the rest of our family — what's left of it."
"Tommy, I–"
"I'm speaking, Charlotte."
That shut her right up.
"There's nothing you could do to make me stop loving you, eh? If it were possible, you don't think it would've happened by now? Sometime around sneaking a pet duck into the house… Or stealing a whole week's earnings to buy a violin… Or very nearly setting the damn house on fire playing dragons and knights."
She cracked a grin at that.
"You're my blood, Charlotte Shelby. My little baby sister. And girl, I swear you make my blood boil sometimes. And I'm not gonna lie to you and tell you I haven't thought about selling you off to the nearest family of travelers. But I'd die protecting you from any harm that even looks in your direction." He paused, and she wasn't sure if he was gathering his thoughts or waiting for a response. "Do I make myself clear?" Response, it was.
She nodded silently, and he raised an eyebrow at her response. Apparently, he was looking for a verbal response.
"Yes, Tommy."
"I want so much for you, Charlotte. I want to give you the world, eh? But I need you safe. I need you to be smart and think things through. You need to stop and think before you do something rash. Ask yourself why you're about to do the reckless thing that you've set your mind to, eh?"
She nodded at him, hoping this lecture was finishing up. She wasn't necessarily looking forward to getting home, but the bubbling in her stomach was telling her she didn't want to sit here for much longer, either.
"Half the time, I don't know what you're thinking or where these… these… ridiculous thoughts of yours are coming from, but we need to get one thing clear, eh?" Again, she nodded, eager for him to finish up, growing uncomfortable under his earnest gaze. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I will always be here to keep you from getting killed. You might not like my methods… hell; I know for a fact you'll hate them. But I'm here for you. Always."
"But things change. People change… you change." Why was she arguing? Even when she desperately wanted this exchange to end, she couldn't help herself.
"Not about this." He pointed his cigarette at her as he shook his head, "I'm always going to be here, standing squarely between you and harm's path."
"Standing between me and a good time is more like it." She tried to joke, but Tommy wasn't interested. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Charlotte?"
"Yeah, but Tommy–" Shut up, you damn fool! Shut up and just agree with him! "No but's Charlotte, I mean it."
She was growing frustrated at both herself and him. She wished she would shut her damn mouth and go along with what Tommy was getting at, but she also wanted him to acknowledge sometimes things change, "But whatta'bout when you get married and start your own family."
Flicking his ashes to the ground, he seemed to grow slightly irritated at her persistence, "First, you are my family. You are my own. And second, do you see any woman lousy enough to want to hitch her wagon to my horse?" Not giving her a chance to respond to his rhetorical question, he proceeded with his monologue, "No. That's a long way–"
"Grace." The name came spewing from her mouth before she had a chance to stop it.
Shaking his head, he began stamping out his half-gone cigarette — a clear sign he was ready for this to be over with, "Would you give it a rest–"
"She loves you, Tommy! She does! Why would she write you all those–" This time, Charlotte cut herself off. Her mouth had run off ahead of her mind. Damnit, damnit, damnit. Fucking damnitall.
Tommy's head inclined sharply towards her, "You been spying?" His voice was even, clear, and held a tight sense of danger. She needed to proceed carefully.
"No." She shook her head in effort to convince him she hadn't done anything wrong, "I only saw some letters on your desk. That's it — nothing more, I swear."
"Then how'd you know those letters were from Grace?" Fair point, brother.
Taking a moment to formulate her response, she set aside her gut instinct — which was to scoff at him, point out that she could read after all — but she didn't think that would help her out of this precarious situation. Instead, she offered up the truth, her hand flourishing in the air to emphasise her honesty, "The writing was pretty. Prettier than anyone 'round here can write."
Nodding at her reasoning, Tommy seemed to believe her excuse. But he still wasn't interested in continuing this portion of their conversation, "Grace has nothing to do with you or me anymore. You need to leave it be."
"But if she's writing you all the way from America, she obviously cares!"
"Only saw the handwriting, did you?" Alright, so she'd read the address. But what's an address when she could've read the letter itself? Biting her lip, she shrugged, and Tommy — rolling his eyes at her — thankfully moved on, "Charlotte, Grace is gone–"
Well, she'd already stepped in it, might as well see herself through, "But if she's writing to you so often, then you must be writing to her–"
"You've no idea what–"
"But she loves you!"
Tommy paused, his mouth open ever so slightly — as if he already had his rebuttals ready. Instead, he ran a hand over his face and back through his hair, exhaling heavily as he did so. "Do you have any further questions before we leave here?"
"Yeah–" she was indignant, but he was prepared, "Questions not concerning Grace."
"But, Tommy–"
"Do I need to remind you why we're sitting in this empty restaurant in the first place, Charlotte?"
Well, that was the end of that, "No."
"Right then. Any other pertinent questions?"
Taking a moment to think, she'd been prepared to shake her head and let him lead her home. But at the very last second, the issue that had led her to this very moment came into her mind. Sighing at herself, she really wished she could let the issue be. But it simply wasn't her nature. She'd spent days at Ada and Freddie's home, pondering the matter. And if her sister was correct — she was literally making herself sick with her obsession.
Charlotte didn't quite feel she was prepared enough to share her nightmares with anyone, but maybe she was ready to ask the question that had been bothering her for longer than she cared to acknowledge. She closed her eyes and prayed that if she was brave enough to ask the question, she'd be brave enough to hear the answer — whatever it may be.
She could do this. She could do this. Opening her eyes, she looked at Tommy — ignoring the strange look on his face. She could do this. She could do this. She could– "Why did you leave us — me and Ada? Even when you didn't have to…?"
She'd done it.
But the hard part was yet to come. She'd asked the question, but could she handle his response?
She tried to put on a brave face — even as her hands shook and sweat pooled in her palms. She wouldn't look away. She wouldn't cower at the knowledge she so desperately wanted.
Tommy took a deep breath, his eyes leaving her own to focus on the stick that sat crushed and half-smoked on the table between them. Charlotte wasn't sure if he remembered all her accusations from the night she ran to Ada. But more than anything, this was the question that had plagued her mind these past few days. Why had he left? Did he regret it? After everything he went through in France, would he do it all the same again?
"It wasn't an easy decision." His voice wavered, and he took another studying breath, "There are times that I wish I hadn't. Times were I wish I'd stayed and been here to watch you grow up." Again, he stopped speaking and let his gaze wander to look out the window. Her heart was nearly beating out of her chest. Waiting for him to speak was torture. But now she needed to hear more. She needed answers.
But one second turned to five. And five seconds were quickly turning into an eternity.
"Is there anything I could've done to get you to stay?" He turned to her, brows furrowed, but she continued, "Da left because I was born–"
"Our father didn't leave because you were born. He left because he was a selfish bastard."
"But if I weren't born, then Mama–"
Heading off her reasoning, Tommy's voice was firm, and his hand reached out to raise her chin so to look her full in the face, "Charlotte, you aren't the reason our mother died. You are not the reason our father left. And there's nothing you could've done to stop me from going to France."
Shaking her head, she jerked her chin out of his hand and questioned his reasoning once more, "But why did you leave us? What did I do wrong that made you want to leave me and Ada behind?" There was desperation in her voice. She knew he could hear it, but she didn't care anymore. She only wanted answers. There were so many things in her life that she didn't have answers for. So many things that her family kept from her. She couldn't let this be one more thing that went unanswered.
"Charlotte, listen…" Tommy paused before asking, "Are you listening to me?" She nodded, and thankfully, he continued, "There are so many reasons I left. The list is practically endless but nonetheless infinitesimal. There's no logic — at least nothing compelling enough to give you the answers you deserve."
He paused again, and she took the opportunity to beg him, "Please, just one reason." Shaking his head, he looked away, and she grew furious with him. Letting her temper run away, she yelled at him, "Give me one reason!"
"Pride."
The word was heavy as it sat between them. Tommy sat forward across the table, and she leaned away, her anger shrivelled up, confused and embarrassed at having pushed him so far.
"Charlotte, look at me, please?" She shook her head. Had this been worth it? Was she capable of living with his answer? Why had she pushed him into this? "Can we go home now?" Her voice was small — embarrassingly so. But she couldn't find it in her to care. She'd asked her questions and gotten an answer — as unsatisfying as it were.
But rather than answer her, Charlotte startled when Tommy's hands were cupping her face. While she'd been preoccupied in her own head, he'd risen from his chair and come to kneel beside her own.
"I left for so many reasons, Charlie. Pride not the least of them." Pulling her face closer to his own, he kissed her head and continued, "But here's what you need to know. If I had stayed, it would've been for you and you alone."
Picking at the skin around her fingernails, Charlotte couldn't stop herself from asking, "But Ada–?"
"Was nearly an adult when we left. She didn't need me. I know you did."
"But I wasn't enough?" Tommy's hands left her face and came to still her picking, preventing her from making herself bleed in her anxiety.
"You were more than enough, Charlie. But there were so many men who needed me more than you did. You had Polly and Ada. Uncle Charlie and Curly, too. But the rifles… they needed me. John and Arthur, they needed me more."
"I just don't understand why–"
Cutting her off, Tommy squeezed her hands, "Charlie, listen to me, eh?" When she didn't respond, he pressed her hands just to the point of becoming painful, "Are you listening good?"
When she nodded, he continued, "It's war. War doesn't make any sense. It's not something anyone can understand. It makes people do strange things — uncharacteristic things. I can't tell you why because I don't know why. There's no reasoning with war."
He sighed at her, "Does that make any sense?"
Nodding, she answered him truthfully, "Not really. But a little bit."
Rising to his feet, he pulled her into a hug and again kissed her head like he'd done when she was a child, "You have anything else you need to say before we leave?" She shook her head against his chest, breathing in one last calming sigh before the inevitable happened, "Good. Now, let's get Arthur. You've got your comeuppance to deal with."