Chapter 33
"He's arrived?" Tommy asked the Sergeant.
Moss nodded, grimly, "He's arrived."
Tommy lit a cigarette, staring at Moss, who stared dimly back at him.
"And?" Tommy prompted the man, not letting his ire at his slowness show, "Has he said why he's arrived?"
"To decapitate you."
"To decapitate me personally?" Tommy asked, with a raised eyebrow.
"The Peaky Blinders."
He blew a cloud of smoke in Moss's face and watched as the man looked off to the side, not daring to complain.
"We were mentioned specifically?"
Moss nodded, "Said you are a vicious, merciless gang who blind those that see and cut out the tongues of those who talk – said those of us who take your bribes are worse than you."
"So, he's not a fan of you then."
Moss spat, his face betraying all the injustice he felt having the new Chief Inspector inflicted upon them was, "He doesn't trust any of us, he told us that. Said we could earn his trust, but it would take some earning. Might as well have said we could never expect to earn it. Then had the fucking cheek to bring in his lot from Belfast to 'bolster our ranks' as he called it. Said they were good men, from God-fearin' families."
"And what are you?" Tommy asked, hoping to stoke the man's conniption.
It worked.
"What am I indeed?" Moss growled, "I'm as God fearin' as anyone ought to be – and more than most. But I'm not Irish, am I?"
"They're all Irish then, everyone he's brought?"
Moss nodded, disgust plain on his face.
This was good news. The new Chief Inspector had pissed off his entire existing police force on his first day. Tommy could work with that.
"When do his new Irish force start?"
"They were all sworn on today – they'll be on the streets from tomorrow, he says."
"A whole force, specifically for us," Tommy smirked.
"Not just for you," Moss replied, confirming the suspicions Tommy held.
He raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"There's worse than you according to him - the IRA Fenians, and the Communists – blacker hearts still, that's what he said. But he reckons you're the root of it – said you lot cause the corruption and then they feed on the puss of it, like maggots in a corpse. Said like maggots left to swill they'd eventually swarm like flies and spread their rotten philosophy across the country and across the world."
Tommy smirked to himself. Across the country and across the world. This man's fear of Bolsheviks and the IRA ran deep. That was useful to know. A man of fear could be manipulated. People saw what they expected to see. A man could be made to see his worst fears – more easily than he could be made to see the truth.
"Said you lot and them are our enemies – a three headed beast. Said he'd decapitate each one – and swore by God that he'd do it."
A three headed beast. How appropriate. There they were, the Peaky Blinders, the Bolsheviks and the IRA - Cerberus, guarding the underworld. They'd let him in, but they'd never let him leave.
The dank, dirty underworld of Birmingham.
And he thought they were the least of his worries. That meant he'd come for them first.
Tommy produced some pound notes from his inside coat pocket and slipped them to Moss.
"Earn his trust for me, Moss."
"Yes sir, Mr Shelby," Moss replied, tucking the notes into his own inside pocket.
Tommy turned and headed for home.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
As it was, Moss had no time to report on when they could expect the attack – because it came the next day. The man moved fast, that was sure.
After Tommy had taken Lily off to the tearooms last Saturday, Arthur had decided he was taking this Saturday off, going to the cinema, with two prostitutes he'd picked up on his way home from The Garrison the previous night. Tommy had wondered how bloody lonely his brother had to be to want to take whores on dates, but when Arthur appeared back in the shop, bloody and beaten, any thoughts about why he hadn't just been in the shop as normal that day had left his head.
Rosie and Ada appeared on the stairs at the commotion, they had been getting ready – or at least, Ada had been getting ready, Rosie appeared to be as ready as she ever was – to go to town and get the redhead a dress for their dinner that evening.
"Get Lily out of here, she doesn't need to see this," Tommy barked up at her.
She nodded and went down the stairs, through to the living room where Lily was sitting colouring in. He heard the front door close. He was impressed with how quickly and wordlessly she adapted, he was sure this was the first time she had seen a man quite so bloody being supported through a room – but she didn't seem phased in the slightest, instead doing as she was directed with no fuss. Ada stood staring – looking more shocked than Rosie had.
"Get out the back and get some water," he snapped at his sister.
She started and frowned at him, her eyes glancing to John, but she did as he bid her.
"What happened?" he demanded of his brother as soon they had him sat in the kitchen.
"I met the new Chief Inspector," Arthur hissed through his teeth.
Tommy nodded. He had guessed as much.
"Was Moss there?"
Arthur nodded, looking angrily at him, clearly not understanding his reason for the question. Moss was earning some degree of trust then. Or the man had taken him along to show Moss exactly what lengths he was prepared to go to, to show him that he had the power to act as wild here as he had done in Ireland. Whether it was intimidation, or trust, Moss had been taken along for the ride. That was good news for them.
"Anyone else?"
"Two Irish men, in uniform."
"Right, John – pass me some whisky," he said, glancing to his younger brother.
John started to rifle through the cupboards as Ada appeared back in.
"Get that heated, quickly," he barked at her.
Polly appeared in the doorway, "Rosie's in mine with Lily," she announced, surveying the scene, "I thought I'd better come see what was happening – she said it looked bad."
"His hand Polly," Tom said – gesturing to the thumb sticking out at the odd angle.
Polly went to the big cupboard and pulled out a box of rudimentary first aid things, clicking her tongue as she did so, "We need more bits."
"Then get more bits Polly," he snapped at her, "John, what's taking so long?"
"There's no fucking whisky – no fucking nothing. What the fuck, Tommy?" John replied.
"Get what's in the shop then," he snapped.
He hadn't been to the Garrison all week to pick up any supplies. He'd been – God he hated how ridiculous he sounded admitting it, even to himself – he'd been too nervous about the dinner that night. He'd spent his time thinking about what to say, about how to say it. And he'd been in a foul mood all week, on edge – both because of his nerves and because of his uncertainty about what the new inspector's arrival meant, even if he didn't keep the guns.
He didn't like not being in control, he didn't like waiting for answers. Even since his walk through Small Heath that morning, counting the number of police on the street that he didn't recognise, his nerves had started to subside, he'd started to understand what they were dealing with. And now he understood more about the savage nature of the beast they faced.
"It's Saturday afternoon, there's nothing left in the fucking shop," John snapped back at him.
"Fine, I'll go – get him cleaned up as best you can," Tommy told his brother and sister, striding out the room, out the front door.
The Garrison was busy, and Tommy went into the snug to use his window to demand service. He didn't have time to wait behind half the fucking football team who were there to hydrate themselves on their way to the match.
"Hello!" he shouted, throwing open the frosted glass doors.
He started as he realised it wasn't just Harry behind the bar, as expected, but a woman too. A woman he had never seen before – and it was her who approached him.
"I need a bottle of rum," he told her, not waiting for her to make pleasantries or ask questions.
"Grace – whatever it is, it's on the house," he heard Harry tell her as he counted money out from his pocket.
"A whole bottle?" she asked him.
He kept his eyes down as he said, "Yeah," and placed the coins on the sill.
She had an Irish accent.
"White or dark rum?" she asked.
He looked up, having stilled the flicker of surprise at the accent, "Don't care," he told her – and watched as she turned to fetch it.
His eyes flicked to Harry, who was now serving the football crowd, not paying him or the barmaid any attention. When had she arrived? Had Harry asked for someone or had she appeared looking for work? He'd need to find out.
"Harry says it's on the house," she said as she appeared back at the window, placing a bottle of dark rum down before him.
He peered at her, "Are you a whore?" he asked, watching her to gauge her reaction.
Every barmaid – every native barmaid, that was, every barmaid who was meant to be a barmaid in the places of the world that were like this one – would be used to this question, they'd have an answer for it. Her accent was soft. And, as he suspected, she had no answer – on the contrary her eyes widened, and her mouth opened a little in shock.
"Because if you're not, you're in the wrong place," he said – and turned and walked away before she had to think of an answer.
She was in the wrong place alright. But why was she in the wrong place – that was the real question? But that was for thinking about later. For now he lit a cigarette and hurried back, the bottle in his hand.
"Let me see him," he said, pushing his way back into the kitchen once he was back at number six.
Ada backed out of the way and he passed Arthur the bottle, "Alright, have this."
His brother winced as the alcohol touched where his mouth had been opened by the inspector, but he put the bottle down once Tommy had lifted the cloth out of the water and squeezed, knowing what was coming. They had done this on the battlefield enough times to know.
"You're alright," he told Arthur as his brother hissed whilst Tommy swabbed at the open wounds on his face, disinfecting them.
Arthur grabbed his wrist, "He said Mr Churchill sent him to Birmingham," his brother told him, his eyes looking up, pleading with Tommy to make sense of it for him.
"National interest he said," Arthur continued, "Something about a robbery."
Tommy extracted himself from his brother's hold and stood back, dragging on his cigarette and processing what had been said, feeling Polly's eyes on him and not looking to her.
He had questions - but he couldn't ask Arthur about them. Couldn't let him know that he had known about the robbery before now.
Had Moss been there when this was said? Did Moss know? Had the inspector decided to trust Moss? Or had Moss been lying to him yesterday – did Moss, did fucking Moss of all people, think he was going to double agent Tommy Shelby? He'd pay Moss a fucking visit.
"He said he wants us to help him," Arthur growled out, still breathing heavily through the pain.
"We don't help coppers," John interjected immediately.
Arthur held up a hand over his shoulder to quieten John, but kept his eyes on Tommy, looking up to him, asking what to do.
"He knew all about our war records," Arthur told him, "Said we're patriots, like him. He wants us to be his eyes and ears. I said-"
He broke off and cried out as Polly pulled at the bandages she was wrapping around him.
If there was one thing Tommy would credit Arthur with, it was bravery in the face of physical pain. He had consistently gone back to their father every time he reappeared, had taken the beatings just to be near the man. He had learned to hold it in, it was the only praise their father ever gave him – 'At least you've stopped snivellin' now, eh?' Their father had been cruel, had taunted him when he had cried. And Arthur had learned to stop it, out of desire to impress him. For Arthur to even hiss now, as Polly tended to him – his brother had to be broken pretty bad.
Arthur turned his eyes, hazy, back to Tommy, "I said we'd have a family meeting and take a vote."
Tommy didn't answer. He was still thinking. He had known the man hadn't really been there for them, he had known he was coming for the communists. Truthfully, he hadn't thought much on the IRA being in the man's line of vision – but he had come from Belfast, so regardless of what Churchill had said, the man would look for IRA.
His thoughts went to the woman from the bar.
If she was there, from Ireland, because she was a barmaid by trade – which he'd assessed already that she wasn't – she'd have gone to The Black Lion, or one of the other Irish pubs. If she was Catholic that was. Or if she wanted to infiltrate and find the IRA, she'd have gone there.
But if she wanted an understanding of communists and local thieves? For that, she was better at the Garrison.
And if she had come for that reason – if she had come alongside her countryman – maybe there was a reason for her to avoid the pubs frequented by those loyal to the IRA. Maybe they would have known of her. He'd need to go over there and do some digging too. But he'd need to be smart. Wouldn't do to ask about a barmaid out of nowhere.
But if he was right – the fact she'd situated herself out of the Irish community. It either meant she was hiding from the IRA, for fear of recognition. Or it meant they considered communists more likely to have taken the guns than the IRA.
But back to the man…
He had known they wouldn't be his true priority. But he hadn't suspected this – that the man would attempt to align with them. Attempt to beat them into submission.
Or beat Arthur into submission.
If the man had gone for Arthur, then the man knew only what his papers had told him. Moss hadn't informed him who to go for to get them onside. He hadn't told him to go for him.
"Well why not, hmm?" Arthur demanded, clearly displeased with Tommy's silence, "We've no truck with Fenians or communists."
Why not indeed? Why not let the man think they would play docile to him? Why not operate right in front of his nose, where he wasn't looking because he wanted the communists or the IRA to be behind it? Feed him information he wanted to hear? Why not?
Well, because it was risky. And he'd promised not to risk them.
So, he wouldn't risk them, he'd handle it himself.
He'd asked that woman, that supposed barmaid, if she was a whore. Was that where he wanted Rosie and Lily? Was that where he wanted their future children? In a place where a woman would be used to that kind of a question. True, the feisty little redhead could handle that question, he was sure of that. In fact, she'd probably chew off the ear of the man who asked it until he regretted ever asking it. But just because she could didn't mean she should. He wanted them away from here. And maybe these guns, handled carefully, were the way to do it.
He still hadn't heard from Billy Kimber, after all.
Plus, as he looked to his brother, bloodied and battered, the old protectiveness Tommy had always felt over Arthur kicked in. This was just like when Tommy had battered their father back, in the days when their father had laughed at his older brother. There had always been a softness to Arthur, a longing in him for their father's love and approval. Tommy didn't know or understand why, but he had never felt that for their father. He had been glad when he had gone. Even as a child, Tommy had felt more anger for his father, more resentfulness to him about the way he treated Arthur and their mother than he did any want for his tenderness or care.
He had been pissed off with Arthur recently, pissed off with his drinking and his stupid pride and his determination that he was their leader because he'd been born first, not because he should be. But underneath his irritation, he still wanted to protect his brother. He was angry, that his brother had been targeted. And he wanted revenge for it. He wanted to make sure the stupid cunt realised it had been a mistake to try and fuck with them. A mistake to consider them the least of the three heads.
"What's wrong with you?" Arthur asked, then turned to their aunt for, "What the fuck is wrong with him lately?"
Arthur had been getting used to Tommy being in a better mood since Rosie and Lily had come to stay. To him being more mellow. His mood that week, though it would have been usual once upon a time, had thrown everyone.
Everyone except Rosie, who had simply taken him in her stride and made him steak pie and Victoria sponge and sat next to him, reading her book and not interrupting his thoughts, but being there. Consistently being there. And laying her head on his shoulder to let him know she was there. And bringing Lily up on the sofa with them to show them her drawings and tell them her little stories. She had been his only calm. Though, conversely, every day that she had provided relief for him had served only to make it even more important that he got things right this evening.
And now this had happened, and she wouldn't be able to get the fucking dress.
"If I knew I'd buy the cure from Compton's chemist," Polly said, looking up him as she tied off the bandages and sat back.
"Well according to you we need more bits," he said, gesturing at the tin of bandages and creams, "So get yourself to fucking Compton's chemists and see if they've got any cures for a man trying to manage the most fucking unmanageable family there ever was."
"I'm managing the family Tom," Arthur growled.
"Aye, that's why I'm bringing up the two youngest and generating all the new business leads to expand us while you drink and whore your way through life?" Tommy snapped at his brother.
They glared at each other for a minute, whilst the rest of the room was quiet. They needed to have this out, he knew that. They all knew it.
But this wasn't the time.
"Clean yourself up, I'll get Rosie back – we can have a vote," he told Arthur and headed out onto Watery Lane.
Thank you for reading! I know these chapters that are more plot focussed don't get as much interaction as the character based chapters, but they are necessary - I promise there are a whole lot of character chapters about to come your way!