Chapter 71

"Shelby Brothers Limited," Tommy repeated, his voice low, determined not to let his pride creep into his tone, determined to come across as casual and off-hand about having his own – legal – business as he imagined the men who were born to it were.

"Is this your way of telling me this is your latest expansion? Is this theatre now owned by the Shelby Brothers Limited?" Rosie had asked him when they'd arrived at the theatre in London.

"Limited? Who says we're limited?" He'd replied, vaguely irritated by the word.

"That's what companies are called," she'd told him, "I see it on the delivery paperwork at the tobacco shop."

A replacement tobacco shop probably wasn't a bad business to invest into either, now that he thought on it – thought of how they'd burned Evans' to the ground. Stock it entirely with his own goods, rather than just supplying them in as an option. Give men nothing to buy but what they offered.

Putting the pub in the company name, when he'd registered it as being a bookmaker, probably wasn't the smartest move. But, despite the casual way he'd given the lawyer the name to draw up the papers, it was a thrill to him to be able to offer up his company name for the first time.

Cheltenham was on the horizon and, hopefully, after he proved to Kimber that he was right about the Lee's plans (which he knew he was, Johnny Dogs was loyal to him before he was loyal to the Lees) and after he intercepted and returned Kimber's capital, the road would be laid to his first legal betting license being issued to Shelby Brothers Limited.

For now though, the sale of The Garrison would have to do.

"Harry Fenton," he rumbled out, in response to the lawyer's question about who the seller of the business was.

Harry had had The Garrison in his own name. Sole owner. Hadn't bothered registering a company. Had been quite happy to just own and run the pub. They were keeping him on, that was part of the agreement they'd come to that afternoon – Harry would stay on as barkeep. They needed someone who knew the ins and outs of running the actual business after all.

"I wouldn't know what to do," Arthur had said, when Tommy had taken him to The Garrison that afternoon.

"You spend two thirds of your life in pubs – just pour it, instead of drinking it," Tommy had replied, nonchalantly enough.

But the nonchalance had been a cover for him already planning to cut a deal that included Harry staying on – or, if that failed, hiring someone with experience that Arthur didn't have to run it. He just needed Arthur to feel like he had a purpose, the truth was he still needed Arthur flexible and available to his own plans – so the pub was only supposed to take as much of his elder brother's time as it suited him to take.

It didn't hurt his plans either, that Grace was now technically employed by them. As far as her bar maid job went. Or would be, once the papers were all signed and processed. Had to be done right. Legal business.

Again, he felt a warm wave of pride in his stomach. He would be able to go, see Harry, get his signature and then bring the lawyer these papers back first thing tomorrow morning. He could show them to Rosie tonight. Show her she had named the company. That he had made it real, that he was going to give her the life he'd promised.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It had been late when he'd left for the lawyer's – he'd eaten dinner in a hurry then told Rosie he was going out on some business and would be back later. She had given him a quizzical look but nodded and didn't question him for a further explanation.

For what he was paying the lawyer, he figured the man would just have to cope with working some late hours – working when it suited Tommy – but it was dark by the time he had driven back to Small Heath and left the car outside The Garrison, lights on since he was only planning to be a minute or so – but despite his efficiency it seemed darker still by the time he'd gotten Harry's signature on the papers, tucked them into his jacket and headed back outside.

It had been an exciting day, business wise. He was eager to get home, to tell her about it – that it wasn't just that he'd bought The Garrison, but that he'd done it in the company he had registered. Shelby Brothers Limited. He had forged Arthur and John's signatures when he was registering the company – sped things up after all – but he hadn't wanted to forge Harry's. He wanted the acquisition to be done right.

Still, he sometimes felt there was some kind of divine intervention that occurred in his life every time he tried to do things right – occurred to bite him in the arse and show him exactly why he shouldn't ever do things right.

The fucking tyre had been fucking fine when he'd driven out of Small Heath – and back into it – earlier that evening. In the five fucking minutes it had taken him to go in and get Harry's fucking signature…

"Bloody kids," came a voice from the shadows – and then Moss stepped forward, his full uniform on and his hat in his hands, "Think the other one's punctured as well," he continued, nodding down.

Tommy straightened up from where he'd bent to inspect the tyre and met the Sergeant's gaze straight on, keeping his face blank. The uniform indicated Moss was on duty. But how on duty was he – had anything happened today? Tommy knew as well as anyone else that people who could be bought could never be trusted, for all he'd bribed Moss successfully enough for information, for all he could apply pressure and implant ideas about what Campbell thought about the insecure little Moss into his own head – Tommy knew that Campbell could bribe him the other way too. So, was he still on his side? Was he on the other side? Or was he pretending to be on the other side whilst someone else, unseen, observed the exchange?

"Mr Campbell wants an explanation," Moss said, "Today, some rabble-rousing union man brought the BSA out on strike. Freddie Thorne."

Of course. Of course. Police have just raided a rally at the factory, John had told him earlier. He'd been too distracted with thoughts of Ada – and then with Arthur – to realise what that had meant. That the police had raided the rally and would have, of course, realised who had been leading it.

Tommy busied himself lighting a cigarette, using the action to look down at the business in his hands, sucking on it, concealing any expression behind it.

Freddie Thorne is at the very top of my list.

Cross him off, Tommy had told Campbell confidently, He won't be returning to the city. I'll make him part of our deal.

Back when he had thought telling Freddie to take Ada out of town would result in Ada realising the reality of being with Freddie, would tear her romantic notions down around her and would result in her coming home, tail between her legs, realising that he, Tommy, knew better than she did about these things and listening to him in the future.

Back before there'd been any fucking illegal marriages done without his permission and back before Polly had said she'd deal with it – only for her dealing with it to turn out to mean sending them to fucking America. He'd kept hold of himself earlier when she'd said it in the kitchen, with all the kids around. But he could have slapped her across the face, quite happily. Could have shot her, if he was honest. Ada was his to look after. Always had been. From the minute she was born and their dad hadn't been anywhere and Polly had told him he was the man in her life, he had been the man in her life – gladly. Willingly. The idea of her going to America… It sickened him. But it sickened him less than the idea of her mounting a gibbet or being thrown in jail.

Because if you go down the route of the communists there is more to fear than a fucking strap. They've got surveillance on communists, Ada – lists of names. The government wants them stamped out. They want to find communists guilty of crimes they can hang them for. They want them out of the game before they can contribute to this revolution – and if they can prove anyone's linked to anything, they'll charge them with treason. And if they can't hang you but they can get you in jail, they'll put you in with officers who hate communists, they'll put you in places that aren't fit for rats Ada, they'll let you die and it'll just be a slower and longer process that way.

That was what he had told her, that last hiding he'd given her. When he'd taken her out the back and made her think he was going to whip her with the bloody strap. When he'd tried – and failed – to put the fear of bloody god into her. When he'd tried – and failed – to make her understand.

"Thought you promised he wouldn't come back," Campbell stated. It wasn't a question.

"I know he's in town," Tommy admitted, keeping his voice neutral, "I'm dealing with it."

"Mr Campbell thought that you controlled your territories," Moss replied.

Luckily, Tommy's ego wasn't so fragile as Billy Kimber's, or indeed Moss's own. But he'd let him think this attack was getting to him – in case it was for the benefit of a power show from anyone lurking by.

"Yeah," he agreed, letting a slight note of irritation creep into his tone, "I said I'm dealing with it."

Moss looked off, down the street – at what, or who, Tommy wasn't sure. As if to check that someone had heard. Tommy imaged Campbell in one of the doorways, listening.

"I heard that Freddie married your sister," Moss told him, looking back to him with a smug grin on his face.

It took every inch of willpower Tommy had not to let his reaction show. Word was spreading.

"Some family you've got, eh? Bet you can't wait for Christmas."

Tommy wanted to reach for the gun he had under his jacket, to raise it to Moss's stupid, fat, smug face – bulging over the top of the high necked uniform like a badly wrapped present, the lack of neck and the square shoulders creating a bloated, solid, lumbering impression even as the man stood still. As it was, he left the gun where it was and stared straight ahead, trying to unfocus his eyes so he didn't need to look at the ruddy complexion and the jowels, quivering as they delighted in delivering their final bit of news.

"Deliver Freddie Thorne to us, or we'll take your sister in as an accomplice. She'll get four years for sedition."

Tommy clenched – clenched his jaw, clenched his stomach, clenched his shoulders. Clenched everything he could.

This. This was what he had been trying to avoid all along. He had told her. He had fucking told her, that this was would come of associating with communists. And now it wasn't an abstract threat that he had to calculate, it was real. Spoken aloud. Coming true.

I looked at death every day in that fucking war Ada, to a point I almost got immune to it. But the idea of you mounting the steps of a gibbet? I can't fucking consider that. I love you Ada, I would move heaven and hell for you - believe me I would. If it came to it I'd offer to take your fucking place if I thought it would work, but there are things I can't protect you from. There are places the Peaky fucking Blinders can't reach. If you get caught up in something and your name ends up on a list just because you think you loved someone who believed in their ideals - if they can connect you somehow to anything – and they're looking to connect the people whose names come up… If that happens Ada, that's not something I can buy Moss off over. Do you realise that? If I can't give you a big enough fucking fright here and now to get you back in line Ada, I don't know what I'll do. Because I can't see that become your life, I just can't.

That was what he'd gone on to say to her. God, maybe he should have given her the fucking strap. He had been weak. Too soft. Polly had always said it – that he was soft, too soft, on Ada. But he had thought – he had believed he had gotten through to her that night. He had thought he'd done enough. Well, he hadn't. And this was where it got them. I can't see that become your life, I just can't. He couldn't. He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't. But he was. He was standing watching all his worst nightmares about his baby sister start to come true. He had failed her in every way, failed to protect her, failed to make her obedient enough and now he had failed to make enough of an impression on Freddie to make him leave town and take the two of them out of harm's way.

America. Ada was going to America, that was what Polly had said. Christ, he didn't want her to go. It was unthinkable, in so many ways. But better America than here, than this…

"Or," Moss said, drawing Tommy's attention back to him, out of the spiral of despair he was going into.

Or what? Or what? What were his options? What would take Ada being sent into a jail cell not fit for a rat to die of fever or pneumonia or god only knew what else off the table as being an option?

"You can turn him. And your sister goes free."

Tommy stared blankly at the man, refusing to let him see anything.

He needed Ada safe. Either Ada had to go to America with Freddie – or he had to make sure Freddie got turned over and Ada came home. And god knew, he'd prefer the latter option. Though Ada – Ada would probably hate him forever. And he'd need to watch Freddie's child grow up in his house.

God, what would happen if Ada gave birth in jail? His stomach churned as he thought on their visit to the reform. Thought on Father Hughes. Imagined that priest's hands on his sister's child. God, he wanted to take a gun and shoot them all. War had been hell, that was true. Bullets and death and men and orders. But there was hell here too. In quieter, more slithering, repulsive, hidden forms. Men like Campbell. And Hughes. Men who believed God was on their side as they went through life. At least he had the good fucking sense, and self respect, not to believe in God to start with. And, if ever God turned out to be true, Thomas had no pretence of belief that he was his friend.

"I'll say goodnight then Tom," Moss smiled, then walked off – leaving Tommy standing against the car, his cigarette burning in between his hands, frozen and unable to move as he ran through it in his head. He wanted to fall to his knees, to put his head against the cool of the ground. He wanted the whirring to stop. He didn't deserve it to, though.

He had failed. He had failed, he had failed, he had failed. And now Ada was going to pay for it.

Leaving the car with its two punctured tyres, lights still on, outside The Garrison, he stumbled blindly towards Watery Lane. Towards the only thing he knew could possibly help.

"Thomas?" Rosie asked from the kitchen when she heard the door, coming to stand in it, catching sight of him and immediately becoming concerned, "Thomas what's wrong? What's happened?"

It felt so good – so freeing – so relieving to actually be able to let his face do what it wanted to do as he stumbled through the small front room to her, putting his arms around her and burying his face into the side of her neck.

"Thomas," she repeated, more quietly, one of her hands going to the back of his head, pressing there in that way that felt so grounding, so reassuring, the other sneaking around his back, pulling him to her, "Thomas, what's happened?"

He didn't answer her – just stood in silence, for how long he didn't know, her hand stroking the back of his head. He let himself breathe in the smell of her, breathe her in deeply, tried to let it calm him.

"Have you heard from Pol after she left here today?" he eventually asked after he extracted himself from her and sat down heavily on the sofa, lighting a cigarette, not looking at her.

"No," she replied, a slight bite in her voice, "And I hadn't heard anything about this America plan before today either."

"Neither had I," he replied, his own voice still throaty, hoarse.

"Is that the business you left here to deal with tonight?"

He dragged on his cigarette and shook his head. How stupid the business he'd been excited to deal with tonight – to come back and tell her about – seemed now. Seemed since his conversation with Moss.

"Do you want her to go to America?" she ventured, her voice telling him she was trying to tread softly.

He rubbed his hand over his face, then asked, "What's left for her here?"

"How can you ask that?" she replied, her voice slightly shocked, slightly annoyed, "You're here Thomas – you raised her for god's sake. Her family are here."

"You got along fine with no family," he pointed out.

"Your family and mine were not the same Tommy."

He dragged on the cigarette again and didn't answer.

"You were fine when you left here tonight Thomas – so if you didn't go to deal with this America business, what did you go deal with?"

He drew the papers from his inside pocket and tossed them down on the table, waving a hand to invite her to look at them.

"The Garrison papers?" she asked.

"Made it official," he said emotionlessly, nodding, his cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.

She stood in front of him and took the cigarette, stabbing it out in the ashtray on the side and crouching down in front of him, her hands on his knees, forcing him to see her.

"Thomas – what happened tonight?"

He ran a thumb over her face, tracing her bones and her features. She was truly beautiful – and he had offered to protect her and Lily. And he had failed Ada, so what basis was there for her to continue trusting him to do right by her or the baby?

"I failed, Rosie," he murmured.

"You failed what Thomas?"

"You all."

"Tommy, you're not making any sense."

He sighed, took her face in his hands and kissed her, trembling slightly as he did, wondering if it would be the last time – if she would see sense and go once he told her that he had failed Ada and would likely fail her and Lily too.

Okay so THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU for the absolute outpouring of love I got after my last chapter and the feedback I asked for re the trigger warnings! I wish at times like these I was an expressive American and not a repressed Englishwoman and that I was more well equipped than I am to express how much it meant to me to receive those comments, messages, dms, tumblr dms etc.

I want to emphasise it was more the trigger warnings I was concerned about - far beyond the criticism of my actual work, what really upset me was the idea that I could have inadvertently upset someone by not trigger warning appropriately and I wouldn't have bothered bringing attention to someone straight forwardly just saying they didn't like the story...

BUT I am also oversensitive (to a fault, really need to work on it tbh) and as well being in knots about the idea of upsetting someone else, I did go through a bit of a spiral about whether I should be writing anything if I didn't have the mental competency to understand what I was writing and what the required trigger warnings were and your messages were so helpful, so bolstering and so encouraging that they are honest to god the only reason I've managed to pull it together to get another chapter up this week.

I am so appreciative of every single one of you who has come this far on this journey with me, who has followed/favourited/commented or dm'd me. I think a large part of what really upset me last week initially was that up until those comments appeared, looking at my emails has become such a joyous experience for me since I started posting this and seeing people interact with my work in a positive manner is honestly what has got me through lockdown and I suppose I felt, for the first time, that a sacred space had been invaded - and invaded in a way I didn't feel was particularly fair.

Anyway, I don't want to keep going on and on about it - but I appreciate everything you guys sent last week (and everything prior to that too, obviously) and basically if I had the skills I'd bring your favourite Peaky Blinders characters to physical life, clone them and send you all your choice in the post xxxx