Chapter 66
Contrary to popular belief, Thomas Shelby was actually a man of good intentions, at least most of the time and the rest of the time things were a means to an end. However, as the days passed between him and Rosie's deal, he had never regretted a good intention more.
For the first few days she was polite, but distant. She put his plate down to him at meals without touching his head or his shoulder as he'd become accustomed to – and he noticed the absence. She sat on the sofa at night with him but read her book and didn't lay down her head on his lap to do so. Sure, she didn't yank her feet back when he pulled them to him, but she made him make the effort to get them and didn't offer them. He felt her tense as he kissed her forehead. He meant to do things right, but he didn't know how much longer he could stand it.
Tuesday brought his meeting with the Irish.
"Give me a bottle of whiskey and three glasses – please," he ordered through the hatch between the snug and the bar.
"Scotch or Irish?" Grace asked.
"Irish."
"I've decided not to go," she told him as she approached with the items, "To the races. Not unless you give me another two pound, ten shilling towards the dress."
She gave him a smile and he wondered if she thought she was being cute.
"I've already given you three," he reminded her.
"How much did you pay for the suit you'll be wearing?"
"Oh, I don't pay for suits. My suits are on the house – or the house burns down."
Just like the tobacco shop had done on Friday night. Rosie hadn't had much to say about it afterwards. It had lifted Jon's spirits for a while though.
"So you want me to go looking like a flower girl?"
He picked up the bottle and glasses. He had Rosie at home. Going along with his fucking insistence on doing things right even though she didn't want to. He had Lily too, trusting him all the time and loving him. Their first real problem had been caused by this arrangement – and he needed it to pay off, for the argument to have been worth something. But still, he was best reminding Grace – this was an arrangement. One she was being paid for.
"What I want," he told her, "Makes no difference."
He turned from the window to put the glasses down and went back, meeting her eye to tell her, "It's not me you're dressing up for," before he pulled the little doors over.
He watched her pout as he did. Actually pout. Good. Do her good to realise she didn't have him all figured out.
Despite the fact he knew two men were about to walk in and try and get him to sell them guns – and despite the fact he was trying to use the opportunity to get her to report back on it, to get the proof that she was who he thought she was – his mind drifted to how he'd react if Rosie pouted at something he said to her like the barmaid had just done. A little smirk, a teasing comment and a couple of smacks to her backside. That would stop her pretty little mouth pouting at him like a spoiled child. Except of course, he couldn't do that now. He'd gone and made a fucking deal. Her arse was off limits – he'd fucking agreed not to even look at her sternly. As if there was anything he could do about his 'pouty face' as Katie had deemed it. His trousers tightened as he thought about how Rosie had admitted that him telling her off made her fluttery. It made him fluttery to think she was fluttery. And now really wasn't the time.
As if on cue, two men appeared at the door of the snug.
He wasn't sure if Danny had got to them or if it had been pure coincidence. They had heard, supposedly from the BSA factory rumours, that the guns had been taken – and taken by the Peaky Blinders. They offered 'good money' and, when he questioned them on who they spoke on behalf of, they told him it was the IRA. He didn't react to that and the quieter man of the two hustled them out as the louder one broke into song. At least one of them had fucking sense – keep their singing to the dark corners of Sparkbrook, that was what they were supposed to do. Of course, it suited him down to the ground for them not to do that at that moment.
"Alright boys, when I know who knows what about what I'll let you know," Tommy shouted after them as they left, before grinning and coming up the bar.
If she was who he thought she was, whether they'd been wasting his time or not with their offers of 'good money' – the loud one's singing had been heard all over the bar – and she'd be able to report back to the inspector that he'd seen off two Irish men singing IRA songs.
He put the remnants of the bottle down and flicked his cigarette.
"I thought you only allowed singing on a Saturday," she commented, running a cloth over the bar.
"Whisky's good proofing water – tells you who's real and who isn't."
"And what did my fellow countrymen want?" she asked, giving him that same smile as she had done earlier.
She did think she was being cute then. This was her attempt at flirting with him to get information.
"Oh they're nobodies," he told her, "They drink in The Black Swan, in Sparkbrook. They're only rebels cause they like the songs."
"You have sympathies with them?" she asked, her voice darkening.
If she was supposed to be keeping her own sympathies under wraps, she was doing a poor job.
"I have no sympathies of any description," he told her.
"Their accents were so thick it's a wonder you could understand them – next time I could translate."
He stared at her for a second. Blatant. That was what she was. He'd thought it the night she'd climbed on the chair and sang. He thought it now. Lacking tact. Obvious.
"You'd work for me?" he pretended to clarify, figuring he'd better let her believe she had him fooled.
"I thought I already was," she replied.
"So you are coming to the races," he stated.
Fine. He had arranged this for a reason. He'd see it through. But still, he'd remind her.
"Two pound, ten shilling," he said, fishing it out his pocket and laying it on the counter for her, "Buy something red. To match his handkerchief."
"Whose handkerchief?" she shouted after him, but he ignored her and headed out the door.
Last time, half the trouble had come about because he hadn't told Rosie himself. He had to get home, had to tell her.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
As it was he practically collided with her as he arrived back at the house.
"Where you off to?"
"To get Lily from school."
He nodded, "I'll walk you."
"You don't need to."
"I know," he replied, frowning a little. She'd said more or less the same thing after he'd gone to get her after her exam, that she didn't need him, that she could have walked alone.
"You're not allowed to frown at me," she reminded him, raising an eyebrow.
He clicked his tongue and gave a curt nod.
"Or do that."
He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his eyes front.
"I wanted to tell you…" he muttered.
"Tell me what?" she asked, shoving her own hands in the pockets of her skirt – it was a brownish red colour, not too dissimilar from her hair and she was wearing it with a muted gold shirt. The June sun was catching her hair and she looked like a flame. He hoped he wasn't about to get burned.
He filled her in on paying the barmaid more money, how he'd told her it wasn't him she was buying the dress for, how he'd made it clear he wasn't taking her for his own pleasure.
"I thought you were taking her so you could get close to her and feed her information?" Rosie asked, her eyes flashing at him.
"I am," he nodded, "Anything I say will be fed back – same as that meeting today will be fed back that the Irish were sniffing around and I didn't sell to them. Fed back if she is who I think she is, of course. And if she isn't, then she's Billy Kimber's type and she'll provide a distraction to get him keen to finish the business so he can make a move on her."
"You'll protect her though, from his moves?" she asked, her voice blank.
He wasn't sure what the right answer was meant to be.
"Do you want me to protect her?"
"It's not right Tommy."
"What?"
"You're furious with Ada because she had sex. You won't touch me. But you'll use her in the way it suits you?"
"I'll use her to knock him off focus. I won't let him use her. Not like that."
"Alright," she nodded.
They walked along in silence for a while before Tommy said, "If he goes to make a move I do need to protect her from – it'll only make her think more that I care for her, you know. Women read into that sort of thing."
She snorted, "Cause you know everything there is to know about women, eh?"
He lit a cigarette and inhaled.
"I'm telling you about this because I want you to know. I want everything open between us. I want to show you you can trust me, that I fucking learned from my mistake. I gave you the magician card, didn't I? You remember what it meant?"
"Unfolding wisdom," she replied, sounding out the syllables, not looking at him.
"Yeah. Learning to have some wisdom and not do things behind your back without telling you. That's more of a commitment than most men would make you know."
"So what? I've to be grateful that you deign to tell me things Thomas?" she flared immediately, "Let's get something straight – I'd rather be on my own than be with a man who keeps things from me, so if you want to be heaped with praise for that commitment you're asking it of the wrong woman."
He stopped walking and so did she, the two of them glaring at one another.
He took a deep breath then said, his voice clipped, "I am fucking trying, Rosie."
"Oh you're trying Thomas, I'll give you that. Trying my last fucking nerve."
"Do you need-" he started to snap, then stopped himself.
She did need a damn good spanking, she hadn't had one since he'd found her with that bloody book, back in March.
She raised an eyebrow, knowing what he'd been about to say.
"Let's go get Lily – and Finn," he muttered, starting to stride along.
She followed in silence.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
They went home via the butcher's and he was standing in the kitchen, watching Lily draw at the table as Rosie made pastry.
"What you making?" he ventured.
"Steak pie," she replied, not looking at him.
"That's Tommy's favourite, isn't it?" Lily said, looking up from her picture to look between them.
He nodded and so did she, saying softly, "I know."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. They couldn't do this – going round in circles of frustration and gestures of apology and then back to frustration again, it wasn't going to work.
A ball smacked off the window and Tommy went to the back door to shout at the kids gathered there – Finn, Isaiah, George and some other boys that he didn't know.
"Can't you just let them play, they're not doing any harm?" Rosie snapped at him when he came back in and closed the door.
"They're not doing any harm until they smash the window," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
"You're always so quick to fly off about things Thomas," she replied, raising her own eyebrows.
"I'm a very even tempered man I'll have you know."
She snorted and went back to the pastry. After dinner, he went to The Garrison.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Despite his belief that they couldn't go on like that, they did. Bickering with one another, then ending up with one of them making some kind of a peace gesture to the other, which settled things for all of five minutes before she'd pick another fight with him. She was absolutely at it, and they both knew it. He didn't know what to do and, with her finished school, it was happening every day – and it was being noticed too. By Polly, John and Arthur, who were all exchanging looks every two minutes. The first few times they'd looked at him whenever she'd said anything then made themselves scarce. But he wasn't able to react and so it didn't stop. She pushed and pushed, pulled faces, snapped at him, undermined him and by Friday – three days and at least five hundred small arguments later – they'd all got to a point where they just sat and looked at him with their eyebrows raised, clearly wondering what the hell was going on and what he'd done that he was letting her away with it.
By Friday night he was on his last bit of patience – he'd met with Moss, who'd had a bone to pick with the new chief inspector and had spilled his guts about how there was some 'female operative' working undercover and supposedly doing better than any of the existing police officers – apparently all 'great lumps of men.' Apparently, she was wasting time reporting on IRA men gathering at The Black Swan – as if it wasn't just a lot of drunken navigators singing songs that the IRA wouldn't touch.
He'd come home, ready to tell Rosie what Moss had told him – to show her he'd been right to suspect the barmaid – only to get a mouthful of abuse about the muck he'd supposedly dragged "All through the fucking house on those filthy fucking boots of yours, like I've nothing else to do but run around keeping house behind you as you gallivant the fuck around!"
"You mind your tongue when you speak to me," he snapped, waving his finger at her.
"You mind and keep your finger pointing to yourself Thomas!"
"Oh! Pointing's on the list too now is it?"
"Yes!"
"Enough! Rosie – enough! I've had it!" he thundered.
There was a flash of what actually looked like excitement on her face for a minute as he strode across the kitchen towards her and grabbed her arm roughly.
"That it Thomas? You've had enough?" she taunted. Taunted.
"Yes, that bloody well is it. Enough of your fucking attitude. You can just stand in that bloody corner in silence until I decide I'm ready to hear from you," he snapped, thrusting her into it and letting her go, making his way to the table where he was going to sit and read his paper and smoke until she'd decided to grow up.
"Or what Thomas?" she asked.
He stopped and turned slowly on his heel, finding she'd already turned herself and followed him – not having stayed in the corner where he'd put her.
"What do you mean – or what?"
She shrugged, "I mean or what. Not sure what's hard about it, Thomas. What you planning to do about it if I don't stay in your fucking corner?"
He grabbed her cheeks between his fingers and squeezed hard, "You're going to fucking behave, do you understand me?"
She grabbed his wrist and struggled to pull him off of her, her annoyance when she couldn't clear on her face. He eventually let go and turned back to the table, deciding he'd ignore her.
"No Thomas."
"No what?"
"No - I'm not. I've no god damn intentions of behaving, just so you know. If I'm getting nothing out of this arrangement, neither are you. I'll submit to you when it pleases me to do so – and right now it doesn't fucking please me in the slightest and there's fuck all you can do about it."
"I'm going to The Garrison!" he shouted, pushing his way past her, making towards the door he'd so freshly come in, so ready to tell her about what Moss had said.
"Fine! Go! Go to your precious fucking Garrison! See if I fucking care!" she shrieked at him, standing by the door and glaring.
"Oh you fucking do care and don't think I don't fucking know it!" he stopped and retorted, "Fucking women!"
She grabbed a teacup from the sideboard and threw it at him. It smashed at his feet where he'd stopped in the front room. There was a silence as he looked at it, then he pulled his gaze slowly up to her.
"Come here," he ordered, crooking his finger at her.
Her face was flushed and he could see her breathing become deeper as she stood where she was, deciding whether or not to obey him.
"Get over here, this fucking minute," he repeated, his voice quiet.
She swallowed, then tilted up her chin and shook her head.
He admired the little hellcat, as loathe as he was to admit it.
"Fine," he said, "Don't come here. But I'm going to The Garrison and when I come back you will have cleaned this mess up so that you, nor Finn, nor Lily, get hurt. Am I clear?"
"Tommy," she whispered, her resolve seeming to weaken slightly, shifting a little where she stood.
"Am I clear?" he repeated.
"Yes s-. Yes, Thomas," she whispered, nodding.
He went – anger and frustration coursing through him. This was how it was going to be then – when it didn't please her to submit to him? He'd damn well teach her that she'd submit to him whether it pleased her to do so or not. But how in holy fuck was he going to do that when she wasn't going to obey him? He felt powerless. The only thing was – he was sure he was right. His going to The Garrison, as he'd done every night since Tuesday now, unable to endure her snarking, was bothering her. She did fucking care.
And when he got home, the mess was cleared up. And there was a slice of cake left for him.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
They needed to talk. They couldn't go on as they were. They needed to readdress the balance. He might have agreed not to spank her, or even to threaten to spank her, though god knew she was asking for it – and they both knew she was asking for it – but he wouldn't be disrespected in his house, in front of his family, as he had been. Not anymore.
She seemed though, to have reached the same conclusion.
"Morning Tommy," she offered when he came into the kitchen, chewing on her lip a little, nervousness all over her.
"Morning."
"I made breakfast."
"You always do," he pointed out, not smiling, not taking the peace offering, not letting her off the hook.
She nodded, then approached him like he was a sleeping bear she was scared of waking, walking very softly as she put a plate of bacon, eggs, toast and sausages down at the table, then glanced up at him, searching for some kind of approval.
He relented a little, laid a hand on the back of her neck and kissed her forehead and she seemed, for the first time since the exam, to melt into him, pressing her body to his, her arms moving around his back to hold on to him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her face pushed into his chest, "I'm sorry Tommy, I'm sorry."
He wrapped his own arms around her tightly, kissing her head again, "I know my love. I know. But you won't do that again, do you hear me?"
"Yes, I hear you," she told him, her face still pushed into him, nodding as she spoke.
"Good," he murmured, stopping himself from adding girl on to the end of it.
"It's hard Tommy," she told him, still clutching at him, looking up at him with baleful eyes, "I don't like it. I hate it actually."
"It's for the best though, eh?"
"Is it?"
"Yes."
She sighed, then repeated, "I hate it Tommy. I really, really hate it."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
She might have hated it but she seemed at least, after that evening, to accept it, on some level. The next few days were almost peaceful. Almost, other than that she had gone from sniping at him to looking at him with such a mix of want and sadness that it quite unnerved him. He continued to disappear off to The Garrison, which he knew wasn't helping with the sadness in her eyes, and he almost wished she was back at the damned school during the day. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.
The peace, or the appearance of it anyway, was sullied on Wednesday.
"Are you armed?" Polly asked when he came into the kitchen.
She was standing there, alone in the darkness, smoking. Waiting for him.
He had just come from Charlie's yard, where he'd left Rosie with Lily and Katie – who had set up a pretend shop with a bunch of oddities they'd found lying around and were fleecing Rosie something awful in pretend money, charging her a hundred pounds for two apples and a horse brush.
"No."
"Then I'll tell you – Ada and Freddie Thorne were married today. They defied your orders, they haven't left the city."
He took his cigarette out his mouth, touched his hair and walked round to lean on the table, his back to the open shop doors. Married. How? She hadn't come to him. She hadn't gotten his permission. She wasn't sixteen yet. She couldn't be married. That wasn't the fucking plan.
"I'll deal with it," Polly said.
He didn't answer her, just focussed on breathing. His baby sister was married. To Freddie fucking Thorne. It wouldn't stand. She didn't have his permission. He was her guardian. The marriage was illegal.
"Thomas," Polly spoke, trying to get his attention, then repeated – "I'll deal with it."
Like she'd dealt with it so far.
"Where are they?"
"Freddie's comrades have safe houses – why d'you want to know?" Polly asked him.
"I want to send them flowers," he replied, too irritated to even get the note of sarcasm into his voice before he snapped, "Why d'you think?"
"Would it be so bad if they stayed?" Polly demanded in return.
"I promised I'd run Freddie out of town," he admitted.
"Promised who?"
He glanced over his shoulder to the open doors behind him and Polly put her things down and went to them, pulling them closed behind him.
"I told the coppers Freddie wouldn't come back," he told her once the doors were shut, "It was part of the deal."
"What bloody deal?" Polly asked, her eyes wide – a mix of concern and annoyance in them as she went on, "What happened to family votes? What happened to meetings?"
What happened to them was that Arthur wasn't fit for them. What happened to them was that John was having his own troubles and if Tommy could handle stuff without burdening him he would. What happened was that Polly seemed almost more on Ada's side of this whole thing than she was on his.
"If you let me deal with Ada and Freddie, it'll end in peace," she said, her voice hard but her eyes seeking his permission – at least there was a token of respect present in her still.
He let out a breath through his nose and closed his eyes, processing it. Should he leave it with her? Ada was obviously avoiding him – obviously had no intentions of coming to him. Well, the marriage wasn't legal without his permission. Maybe if he did get Polly to get rid of them, she'd experience everything he'd tried to keep her from experiencing and come home.
"Christ knows you've had your fill of war," Polly went on.
He knew she was talking about the discord the Ada situation had caused in his home life as much as she was talking about the war. But still.
He jerked his head up and told her, "You get Freddie out of town Pol – or else I'll deal with him myself."
He pushed by her, making his way across the front room and out the door. How in holy hell was he going to tell Rosie Ada had gone and got married? Whatever had gone between the two of them – their indifference at first turning to some sort of friendship he didn't quite fathom, into Ada not telling Rosie she was pregnant for fear she'd tell him and whatever else it was Ada had said to her about her being his lapdog… This would be the end of it. He was sure. Ada getting married without her, with their last words to each other being whatever they had been…
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Married?" she repeated back to him, her eyes wide.
They kids were in bed and they were on the sofa. He'd thought a million times on what to say and how to tell her and still hadn't quite figured it out, so he'd sat her down and spat it out.
He nodded and inhaled on his cigarette, hurting on the inside as he watched her hurt flash across her face.
"Without us? Without any of us?"
He nodded again.
"I thought you – you said she had to get your permission…"
She was looking at him with wide eyes, begging him to say something that would somehow make it better.
"She's fifteen," he replied, "She shouldn't have been able to get married without my permission. They must have lied about her age – which means it's not legal. But I don't want you hearing it from anyone else."
"Arthur and John?"
"Don't know yet. Or at least, I haven't told them. Polly told me."
"Was Polly there?"
"She wasn't dressed for a wedding."
"So she got married with no one there? No family?"
He nodded again.
"Who was there then?"
He shrugged, "Freddie's a wanted man, I don't think they exactly had a big do."
"That's not what Ada would have wanted, surely – it's Ada – she'd have wanted a big party and everyone there to look at her and a dress and…" she trailed off, her hands fluttering about her face, blinking rapidly.
"I agree," he nodded, "But it's happened, and it is what it is."
"Ada's married and pregnant and none of us are with her."
"Polly knows where she is."
"She won't tell you?"
"No."
"Would she tell me?"
"I don't know. I don't reckon so."
"Because I'm your lapdog."
"Rosie, don't…" he trailed off and reached out to run his fingers down her cheek, "Don't go over and over that in your head – Ada was trying to hurt you when she said that, she didn't mean it."
"It's true though, if Polly won't tell me where she is."
"I said I didn't reckon she'd tell you, I didn't say she wouldn't. I didn't ask," he sighed and sucked deeply, holding the smoke in his mouth and exhaling slowly.
She didn't say anything, but she drew her knees up and lay down, her head on his lap. He'd missed her lying on him like this, but as his hand tangled itself in her hair, he didn't reckon this was what he'd wanted to happen to bring her back to this position.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Telling her ruined the peace. Not obviously, but she seemed to once again become determined to make him relinquish on their deal, albeit with a new approach. When he took her to Charlie's yard to practise her shooting she played dumb, drooping her arm so he'd come straighten it, pushing her body against him when he did so. When she was in the kitchen or the shop and he was standing to the side she'd find reasons to bend over tables or desks, arching her back and pushing her arse in his direction. When she came to talk to him she'd settle herself in his lap and wriggle until he shoved her off. In short, she was driving him fucking wild and he was wanking himself off not just in their outhouse, but in the outhouse of the fucking Garrison, where he continued to run to.
He told himself it was partly because of the situation with Ada. He needed to be out and about, to be publicly seen. He told John and roped him in to coming with him most nights – not that John needed much persuasion. The summer holidays were looming and John was already nervous.
"Thank fuck you're here this year Rosie girl," he told her, standing in the front room one night after work, waiting for Tommy to come with him.
"Yeah, won't need to be worrying about what they're all getting up to for two months straight," Tommy said, coming in to the room, pulling his hat on.
"That all I'm good for eh?" she replied sarcastically.
"Well you cook good too," John grinned at her.
"Not good enough to keep any of you home for the night these days," she pointed out, rolling her eyes.
"Don't stay up too late," he told her, patting her shoulder and heading out the door.
She didn't reply.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
A week to the day after she'd been in the kitchen to tell him about Ada getting married, Polly was sitting in his kitchen reading the paper.
"Where's Rosie?" he asked, looking around as if she was going to appear from thin air.
Polly looked piercingly over the top of the page at him, "Gone out."
"Gone out where?"
"Is she supposed to run everything by you Thomas?"
"It's good manners."
Polly snorted and flicked her eyes back to the paper.
"Pol?"
She glanced back up at his frown, sighed, flicked her cigarette into the ashtray and said, "She's gone out Tommy. Same as you've been doing for the last while."
"What?"
"You've been going out a lot – what's to stop her doing the same?"
Doing the same.
"She at The Garrison?" he demanded.
Polly snorted, "Not right now, no."
"Then where is she?"
"Thomas – she's out. What do you need?"
"I don't need anything, just wanted to see her."
"Maybe you should let her know that."
"She knows."
"Does she?"
He huffed and went back to work, refusing to give Polly any more satisfaction. Sat there in his kitchen like an old witch, watching him and acting like she knew more than he did about his relationship with the redhead.
"She's getting her hair done Tommy – you keep yours on," Polly shouted at his back.
Getting her fucking hair done? Since fucking when did she spend her time or money getting her hair done?
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Where is she? She's been gone all day and she never even told me she was going anywhere? Lily'll need her dinner," he snapped, storming back into the kitchen at five o'clock, having spent most of the afternoon watching fruitlessly for her return.
Polly had done the school pick up - alone.
"I'm making Lily's dinner. Her and Finn are staying with me tonight," Polly told him, entirely unconcerned.
"Is that bloody right? No one asked me."
"That's because you weren't here last night when it was discussed," she replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Polly – I'm staying away because I'm trying to do the right fucking thing," he growled, leaning over the table at her, "Or to stop myself doing the wrong fucking thing."
She snorted and he straightened up, lighting a cigarette before saying, "And how come you've suddenly got all this time to be here discussing what's going on? You're supposed to be dealing with Freddie and Ada."
"I am dealing with it," she replied, an edge in her voice.
He didn't answer, just made to walk back into the shop.
"Thomas," she called after him.
He turned his head to look at her.
"I told you she's going to want to explore things and I warned you that you were just going to end up hurting yourself as well as her if she goes exploring them with other people."
"What are you saying Polly?"
"I'm saying if I was you I'd try and learn from my mistakes and remember what happened and how you felt the last time you ran away from that girl. I'm saying if I was you, I'd make sure I was at your fucking Garrison tonight."
"Where is she Pol?"
"She was going out. With some of the boys she went to school with."
He felt anger flash through him – getting her hair done then going out with the boys she went to school with in-fucking-deed.
"Is that fucking right?"
"What's good for the goose is good for the gander as far as we see it."
"Is that right?" he snarled.
"Yeah," she snapped, "You're damn right that's right. And if you want to have any fucking say in it, I'd go where I've told you to go. Before you break both your bloody hearts the way you're carrying on."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The Garrison was quiet. It was only a Wednesday night after all. A few regulars, a few drunks. And him, stood against the bar - waiting.
"I heard your sister got married," Grace told him as she cleaned a few glasses, trying to draw him into conversation as she had been doing since he arrived.
"Where d'you hear that?" he asked, frowning. It was getting around already.
"Freddie Thorne has friends who drink here, they were toasting his marriage," she told him.
"Is that right?"
"I didn't realise I'd be touching a nerve. Usually weddings are good news in a family," she commented.
He downed his whisky and didn't answer.
He'd been here for an hour already – and he'd come alone. Not entirely sure what he was doing or what he was supposed to be doing, worrying about where she was and who she was with and what the fuck she was doing – and what Polly knew about it that he didn't. He'd finished his own cigarette supply and was making steady progress through a packet Grace had passed him from behind the bar.
What's good for the goose is good for the gander. What was that supposed to mean? That she could come spend her nights in a pub so she didn't need to risk losing control with him?
Thoughts of her left him when the doors opened and the already quiet pub went deathly silent. Without looking around he could sense danger - the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. Even Grace had frozen in her position as she stood holding a glass and a cloth.
He turned his head slowly towards the door, reaching for his gun – expecting the Lees. Or Billy Kimber. Or one of Kimber's men. Or maybe even Freddie, standing with a gun pointed in his direction.
What he didn't expect to see was her.
Standing against the doorway, the eyes of everyone in the place on her, silent and still, the troop of boys behind her giving the impression of a goddess whose followers crawled behind her in the street, hoping for her notice or blessing.
His mouth fell open.
She met his eyes dead on and smirked, clearly thoroughly pleased with herself – and his reaction.
As he worked to close his mouth and make his face blank, Thomas Shelby had three thoughts.
One – this had to be that dress she'd gone back to Harrods for. The dress that she'd thought was too much.
Two – the bloody dress was too much. Far too much. Gold, full length, clinging to the curves of her body and cut low – it would have been too much for London. It was fucking ridiculous for a Wednesday night in Small Heath. He was going to fucking murder her for bringing so much fucking attention to herself – here of all fucking places.
And three – when he was done murdering her, he was going to bring her back to bloody life so he could throw her over his knee and turn her bare arse the colour of her hair. Deal be fucking damned.
Urgh we are FINALLY here - I've had the ending scene of this chapter in my head since the minute I conceived this story and I can't blood well believe it's grown so many arms and legs that it took 66 chapters and 350,000+ words to get here (I mean, I did mark it as slow burn, right?) but OMG WE ARE HERE. Thank you for sticking with me as far as this! A few of you did say you were excited to see Rosie get sassy with him during their deal - and I did consider eeking it out a bit further than just over the course of this chapter but honestly, in a self indulgent move I just really want these two to get on the road to where I want them to be.
If you're interested - this is the dress if you type in my findinghisredrighthand url on tumblr then copy and paste for post/620845130437591040/clara-bow-photographed-by-max-munn-autrey-for-call
Also yes the posting schedule of Sundays will be back from next week. But I'm too excited to wait any longer to post this so I'm putting it up a day early.