Chapter 73

Tommy pounded the streets all day, his anger in his ears, in his eyes, in his fists, in his feet – smacking the ground with his strides and feeling as though the concrete should do the decent thing and crack beneath the weight of it.

He couldn't go back yet. He couldn't see Rosie when he couldn't calm himself, she didn't deserve that.

But by the time he had mastered himself darkness had fallen and, when he eventually arrived back on Watery Lane, he figured he'd best see Polly first – best tell her she should have let him handle it to start with.

She raised a finger to her lips as he came through the door and he noticed Finn asleep on her, his head on her lap. His heart pounded as he wondered why the kid was there, why he wasn't at number six. But he figured he'd find that out soon enough, when he went home. He wasn't going to ask Pol. Wouldn't give her the satisfaction of getting to answer. The whole thing looked, he imaged, like a strange parallel of the way he must have looked on Rosie's lap the night before.

He took his hat off and shoved it in his pocket, sat down on the seat next to Polly and helped himself to her glass of port wine, tossing it back in one. He had walked all day, hadn't even stopped in at The Garrison – or indeed any pub. He rubbed his hand over his face as it caught up with him, his entire body seeming to realise he was sitting for the first time in hours. He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets, rubbing his lids and willing them to stay open whilst he spoke to her.

He had destroyed the ticket. Burned it to ashes. But he took the wad of notes from his pocket and held them out to Polly, questioning her with his eyes. She had the decency to look a little abashed, but she gave him no vocal reply – no question about why he had the money – the money she obviously recognised.

"Freddie didn't want your money," he told her, his voice gravelly from lack of using it all day.

Leave it with her and it would end in peace, that was what she had said. If she'd asked him he could have told her Freddie wouldn't be bought. Not with cash. Well, she'd had her chance. And she had fucked it.

She'd do well to show some fucking deference and apology, not sit as she was, stone faced and eyebrows raised. He was damn sick of women insisting they knew more about this situation than he did.

"And now the coppers are saying that if we don't turn Freddie in, they'll put Ada on the arrest warrant as well," he told her, exercising all control not to start shouting at her, trying not to wake his youngest brother from his sleep on her lap, "That's where your compassion gets you, Pol."

That was what he'd been saying from the start.

Tread gently, they'd told him. Then it'd end in peace. Let Polly deal with it. All that – and for what? To end up here, with his sister in danger.

And it was his fault, he wasn't denying it, for letting her get there in the first place. But if Polly had just told him where they were when he'd asked, he'd have dragged Ada home and barred her into her bloody bedroom and put an end to the whole fucking circus of it before now.

"From now on," he told his aunt, "We do it my way."

And far from the fucking deference or remorse he was looking for, she returned, "Or what?"

Or what? Or fucking what? What was it with women and that phrase?

"Or Ada goes to jail, Polly, that's or-fucking-what. Or Ada ends up in some rat infested place with diseases and dies in there, on her own."

"Rosie thinks you reckon it's your fault," she replied, looking unconcerned for his own concerns.

He didn't answer her, just glared.

"Thomas – Ada's a Shelby. She's got a mind of her own just like the rest of us and don't you forget it. Besides, she's not on the arrest warrant – you're acting as if she is. They're threatening to put her on it, because they know it'll get to you. Stop fucking playing into their hands and use the bloody brains in your head."

He stood up, snatched the wad of money and shoved it in his pocket. Obviously, Rosie and Polly had been talking – and obviously they shared the same bloody ideas. They knew Ada, they said. Well, he knew Ada as well. He had raised her, hadn't he? And, they seemed to fucking forget, he knew Freddie too.

"I'm the fucking head of this family," he growled at Polly, "You'd all do well to fucking remember it."

Polly gave a quiet, mirthless laugh, "That might be true Thomas. But it's women who'll always run the heart of a family – and it's your heart that's got you losing your head as soon as they've threaten your sister. So don't you forget who it is that protects the bit that's actually vulnerable – whilst you stand at the head of it and order us all about."

He slammed the door behind him as he left, unable to stop himself, and stormed over to number six. If Rosie was about to give him a similar mouthful, he was going to tan her hide. He was not in the fucking mood.

He found the door locked and loudly unlocked it, throwing it open, letting it bang and announce his entrance, wondering what he was about to meet, more than ready for an argument.

But he didn't get one.

Instead, all his anger left him as he heard her call from the kitchen, in hoarse and worried voice, "Tommy?"

Before he could clear his throat to answer, she appeared in the kitchen doorway and, seeing his face let out a strange, guttural noise - almost a bit of a cry - and came across the room to him, throwing her arms around his neck and gabbling into him, her words tripping over themselves, "Oh Tommy! I was so worried! And I thought – I thought something had happened and the last bloody thing I'd said to you was that I didn't think you were trying and-"

"Shh," he murmured, kissing her head and hugging her tightly to him, love for the tiny little thing chasing away all the anger that had been taking over him beforehand.

"You never came back," she said, her arms leaving his neck to come down his front, fisting into his waistcoat, "You left to go see Freddie then never came back and Ada said you were going to kill each other and-"

"What?" he asked, his tone sharper than he'd meant it, "You've seen Ada?"

"No," she said, drawing breath, shaking her head, looking up at him with glassy, wild eyes, "I – I went to The Garrison to see if you were there and Grace was in and I was trying to ask her casually about you and she said – she said Ada had been in and had said she thought you and Freddie were going to kill each other, Ada told Grace Freddie had left with a loaded gun and-"

She broke off and pressed her face into his chest.

Fucking women. Fucking women and their fucking talking and their blowing everything out of proportion and getting themselves all worked up over nothing and clucking over it like bloody hens. And Ada had been at The Garrison. God-fucking-dammit, if he'd just gone there himself, he might have managed to see her. He looked down at the mop of red tangles and realised Rosie was shaking, and there were muffled little noises coming from her.

"You crying?" he asked, slightly amazed.

"No," she insisted, shaking her head and not removing her face.

"Aye y'are," he replied, kissing the top of her hair and reaching down to thread his hands under her arse and pick her up, "C'mere you. Now, what have I told you, eh? You're a fine, smart woman but you're a damn silly girl at times too, aren't ye? Thinking I'd let Freddie Thorne get the bloody better of me in a fight. Never let Freddie beat me in a fight in all my life."

He held her to him and kicked the door closed, managing to do it more quietly than he had opened it, then went through to the kitchen, pulling out a chair and sitting down, her face still pressed determinedly into him.

"You're a daft one, eh, my darling girl?" he coaxed, trying to get a smile from her, trying to get her face out from his chest, but she only clung more tightly to him.

He let her cry for a minute before she pulled her head out to look at him and, in a great, breathless rush, like she was trying to get it all out before her crying took over again, "Tommy, Tommy – I love you and I was so worried and you – you need to fix this with Ada and Freddie Tommy. It – this - it can't go on and I don't want to argue with you about it because it's not my place and I know that - but I don't want her to go to America and you're both so pig headed and stubborn and proud and you're both going to bloody kill yourselves and Freddie along with you for the fucking ride and…"

She broke off and pressed her face back into him, gasping for the breath she hadn't drawn.

He stroked her head and rubbed her back and murmured his names for her – my darling girl, my little loli phabai, my stubborn little wench, my wild Irish rose, my love – in her ear, kissing her hair and squeezing her.

"There now, you calm?" he asked when she eventually sat back and looked at him again, her eyes red.

"Always calm," she muttered, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve.

He snorted, then, meeting her eye, he told her, "Ada isn't going to America."

"She isn't?" she asked, her amber eyes widening, urging him in their enormity to tell her more.

"No. That's what I've been trying to make you all understand all along, I know Freddie – Freddie can't be bought. Freddie turned up today to give me the tickets back and tell me as much."

"Was that all he wanted?" she asked, her voice still slightly hoarse, "Why would Ada have thought he was going to kill you over that?"

He shook his head, kissed her temple and reached into his pocket for a cigarette, which he lit and inhaled, tossing his head back to exhale and threaded his hand through the back of her rough head as he did so, enjoying the feel of her curls under his fingertips.

"He wanted to know about the guns," he told her, his eyes still on the ceiling.

"Wanted to know what?"

"Doesn't matter – I didn't tell him anything."

"How did he take that?"

"Don't know if he noticed – I distracted him rather than answer him."

It was her who snorted this time, "Distracted him?"

"'Minded him of when we were kids," he said, bringing his head back to look at her.

"Got him reminiscing about the good old days?"

He nodded and inhaled again.

"Did you talk about Ada?"

"We didn't talk much at all. He gave me the money and the tickets for the boat back. Asked me about the guns, pointed his at me, I distracted him with childhood memories and got the gun out his hand long enough to draw mine, told him the marriage wouldn't stand and left."

She sighed and shifted on his lap, displeased, even though she was clearly relieved he had come home in one piece, "So you haven't thought on what I said earlier about respecting Ada's decisions then?"

"I've thought on it – I've decided I know best. You and bloody Polly might have got your little heads together and think you know Ada better than me because you're women, but I know Freddie better than you."

She looked off to the side and didn't meet his eye, her voice tightening as she asked, "So what did Freddie say to that?"

"Not much."

"What. Did. He. Say?" he repeated, annunciating her words and still not looking at him.

He sighed, smoke streaming from his nose as he did so, "He said he loves her."

"So - she loves him and he loves her and you still think you know better."

"Freddie loves his cause – I'll not have Ada's life fucked up because of it. That's what I told him. And that's my decision. Ada will come home and Freddie can fuck off to whatever rat hole he wants."

"What about what Ada wants?"

"Ada'll thank me when she doesn't need to have a baby clinging to her as she has a life on the run with a wanted man."

"And Saint Thomas will save the day?"

He snorted, "If you think I see myself as a saint you're less smart than I give you credit for. I know what I am. And I know my decision isn't popular with you lot. But the bottom line, Rosalie, is that my decision has been made and I don't fucking care whether it pleases you all or not when it's Ada's safety that's at risk."

"Alright," she said, sliding off his lap and standing, "I've said my piece and I've said it's not my place and I've said I don't want to fight about it with you."

He could tell fine well that it wasn't alright. The bloody girl would be the death of him, saying one thing and meaning another.

"Is that it done between us then, we can move on?" he asked, slightly sarcastically, eyebrow raised.

"I just want you to think on it, that's all!" she snapped.

He reached out and cracked her hard across her pretty arse, "I said I've thought on it and I've made a decision. I'll not be questioned any bloody further. I'm the head of this family."

"Aye, alright," she said, her voice softening again and walking away from him, into the front room.

He felt her absence acutely and stuck his cigarette in his mouth, standing and following her, "Finn is at Polly's – why?"

"'Cause we had no idea where you were, what had happened, if you'd come back or what state you might be in when you came back, Tommy," she said, her voice still soft, but with a tone to it that made him feel – made him feel slightly ashamed of himself.

He'd been somewhere between amused and touched at her emotion at first, had come in expecting a fight and been caught off guard to be met with her as she had been. He hadn't really thought on his actions or the distress he might have caused her with them – as inadvertent as it had been.

"I didn't want to come back when I was too angry to keep control of my temper."

"Yeah, well, we didn't know. So I told Polly what Grace had told me and she went off to see if she could get a hold of Ada and when she came back she said Freddie hadn't come back yet and she said she'd take Finn and Lily and I could wait on you and that way if you were a mess they didn't need to see it."

"Daft women," he said, trying to make his voice light, "Freddie Thorne won't ever get to make a mess of me."

"Freddie Thorne's made a mess of you," she replied curtly.

"Enough of that," he told her, going to her and putting his arms around her, sliding them down to grope at her arse, "We've got the house to ourselves then, eh?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"You insisted on taking me to bed last night," he reminded her.

She didn't reply.

"I woke up during the night with Lily lying on top of me," he told her, settling his hand on her waist, since she didn't seem to be up for taking him up on his attentions to her arse, "She half woke up and I told her to go back to sleep and I think she called me Dad."

"Yeah, she does that sometimes," Rosie nodded, her mouth softening into - into not quite a smile, but not quite as firm a line as it had been, "Not when she thinks anyone knows, but I hear her when she's playing with her dolls and things. Whenever there's a Dad being mentioned, he's always uncannily like you in manner. Ordering everyone about and buying people horses and taking them to London."

His heart hammered at the idea of it – he wondered if Rosie could hear it as he stood against her.

"How do you feel about that?" he asked her.

She shrugged, "Natural, isn't it? You're the father figure in her life now, eh?" she looked up at his face as if to see his reaction before returning his own question back at him.

"I like it," he admitted, "Makes me feel like someone needs me."

"I need you," she told him, that searching look still in her eyes – though what she was looking for he didn't quite know.

"I need you too. You're my strength, I told you that."

"And you told me the rose on the magician card represented unfolding wisdom. You said you realised you'd handled things badly – wrongly – and that you'd learn from it."

He stiffened, "Are you going to do as you're told and let it go at any point?"

"I don't want to fight you, I just want you to consider it."

"And I told you I had."

"And I don't believe you!" she said, throwing up her hands, exasperated, "You left here in a foul mood to go see Freddie. You saw him, then didn't come home all bloody day because you were so angry you didn't want to come back until you'd got your bloody temper under control and now you've just about managed that – how in any of that time have you had a rational mindset to consider it in?"

He sighed. It wasn't unfair, what she'd said. But he didn't really care for it either.

"Well how about you let me calm us both down, eh?" he said, kissing her neck, lowering his hands back to her arse.

She tilted her neck as if to allow him access and he was pleased – then, just as he was about to give the pale, moon-white flesh a little nip, she put her hands on his chest and pushed them gently apart.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

"Tom – I love you, but I don't think this is a good idea right now. Not after the day you've had, eh? How about you go get a decent night's sleep? God knows you didn't have one last night. You're not thinking straight just now, you need a rest."

He frowned, unsure how to respond. Her words didn't please him, but he could tell she was trying to appease him even in her rejection of him. And he could tell, from the way her neck had automatically moved to accommodate him, that this was her mental judgement that was pushing her, not any lack of physical desire. He imagined she was wet already just from his kisses and groping of her backside.

"Alright," he eventually said with a nod, "You'll be needing a decent night's sleep too though."

"I'll be in bed right behind you," she told him.

"My bed?"

She sighed and avoided the question, saying, "Go on up, eh?"

He nodded, deciding to let it go, and kissed her head before he turned, still trying to process it, to work out the truth of what was going on in her head.

"Thomas," she called after him, making him turn to look at her, "Love you?"

It was a question. It was the same question Lily sometimes threw at him after he'd told her off. An asking for reassurance.

It brought him a little comfort to force a smile and say, "I love you too my darling girl."

He turned to continue walking then stopped and turned back to her, the thought of Lily prompting - "Here."

"What?" she asked, biting her lip.

"I noticed in the kitchen the other day – when you were making those spirit cakes-"

"Fairy cakes."

"Aye, them. Lily's grown taller."

Surprise crossed her face, whatever she'd been expecting him to say it hadn't been that, then she gave him a genuinely amused look, "She is going to do that for at least another six years – hopefully more if she's got any luck on her side. Think I stopped growing when I was about twelve. Fingers crossed she gets a few more inches than me."

"You're a fine height."

"I'm short."

"You're a fine height," he repeated, "I don't like a woman to be too tall."

She snorted, "That's only cause you're short too, as men go."

"Short, am I, eh? You seem to fit over my knee just fine, might I remind you."

"I didn't say it was a bad thing."

"Oh didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," she replied, using that blythe voice of hers she reverted to when she knew she was winding him up, "You're a very nice height for me actually Mr Shelby."

"That's more like it."

She raised an eyebrow and jerked her head in the direction of the stairs behind him, "I thought you were going to bed."

He scoffed, "Who do you think you are – my mother?"

"Maybe I'll take a leaf out of your mother's book – grab a wooden spoon and smack you off to bed with it."

"Just you try it, see where it lands you," he retorted, shaking his head, "I didn't ask you to come here cause I needed another Polly in the family you know."

"You do give me the nicest of compliments Thomas."

"That was not a compliment," he replied, rolling his eyes.

The truth was, for all he'd been ready to get it up if she had been responsive, he was pretty dead on his feet.

"As it is, I'm going to bed – I've had enough of this bloody day. And when I wake up I'd like my nice good girl back instead of this saucy little wench calling me short and thinking she's getting away with threatening to take a wooden spoon to me," he said, his voice playfully stern.

He was glad of the last few lines they'd exchanged, they seemed more like a normality.

"There's times you need a wooden spoon Thomas," was her reply, delivered with a raised eyebrow.

Shaking his head and muttering, for her benefit, about bloody suffragettes and women these days with their emancipation, he climbed the stairs.

Alone in his room, the lightness she had brought him in the end of their exchange left him. He thought of Freddie and Ada. And Lily and Finn and the fact they'd gone to Polly's for the night because Rosie hadn't been sure what state he'd come home in.

He had tried, hard, not to be like his father. To be a role model. To take care of them and protect them. And he'd failed Ada. And he'd fucked up today – staying away so he could keep his temper and not realising what staying away would do to Rosie or the bab or his youngest brother. He'd promised her before that he wouldn't disappear – and he'd thought by coming home at night he was keeping his promise. But it felt like he'd broken it, like he'd let her down, even if she hadn't said anything about it.

He shouldn't have left things in Polly's hands instead of dealing with them himself, that was another of his father's traits – passing off any and all responsibility that he could get away with. He should have been a man, should have put Polly and Rosie in their places when it had started and dealt with it and then they wouldn't be here now.

He was physically exhausted – that was true – but his mind was racing. He reached for the pipe, hoping to blank his mind and escape his own guilt.

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

The pipe didn't work its magic though. Freddie haunted him. Haunted his days, haunted his sister, haunted him in his dreams.

Haunted him, reminded him.

They were in the tunnel, trying to do their bit, to protect their troops. And the shovels, they were coming on the other side. The Germans were tunnelling too. They could hear them. They could always hear them. But whether they were going to tunnel to the same place or tunnel in a parallel line was a different thing. But not this time. This time the shovels were on the wall. The shovels were coming through and Danny and him and Freddie were in the tunnel and the chances of them ever getting out of the fucking tunnel alive were slim…

Danny had gone forward, because he had the light. And then the Germans had burst through and both sides knew it was kill or be killed. The first German soldier pushed through, going for Danny, physically trying to overpower him – but the second, the second drew his gun and pointed it at Tommy. But it was Freddie who shouted, who distracted him, who took the bullet that should have been Tommy's, the bullet that would have been the end of his life. And they killed the Germans. Their bayonets pushing into guts and flesh and the German screams as they did so ringing around the tunnel. And him trying to get Freddie out. And blood. So much blood.

"Tommy," someone was shouting.

Freddie had been shot, he was passing out, it wasn't Freddie who was shouting. It was Danny - Danny was shouting him, but he couldn't stop, Freddie was shot and he had to get him out the tunnel – had to get him to medical.

"Tommy," Danny's voice came again, and a banging.

He woke up, the banging was still happening – and that was nothing new really, because the banging, the shovels on the walls, he heard it all the time. But this – he realised as he came to – wasn't on the walls, it was on the door. It wasn't a dream.

"Tommy," Danny's voice came again.

He shoved the pipe under his pillow, hiding the evidence, and stood, glad he'd fallen asleep with his boots on, feeling at least half dressed in his undershirt, trousers and boots, even though his suspenders flapped around his legs.

He pulled on his waistband then, straightening his head, told the knocker, "It's open."

Danny pushed the door open slowly and stood in the way, the light from the hallway coming in behind him, bouncing off his band head.

The man saluted, "Private Whizz-bang reporting sir."

He figured if there was anyone who would know how to interpret any shouts he might have been making in his sleep, it was Danny. Or Freddie.

He forced a grin.

"At ease," he told his friend, and sat back down on the bed, knowing it was safe.

Danny shut the door and sat on the chair by his chest.

"So," he asked, reaching for the bottle on the chest, pouring a glass of whisky for each of them, "What news from London?"

"I was in pub – s'called The Mother Red Cap, an Irish pub. I got talkin' to some old bloke about Birmingham. He said there's been trouble – an IRA man shot."

Tommy's heart stopped for a second. The man had been real. Fuck. He'd dismissed him – dismissed what the collections from the pubs had meant. He'd thought… Well, he'd been wrong, apparently.

"He said a lot," Danny continued, "But the only bit I heard was that their high command think it's the Peaky Blinders who shot him. I came up on the next boat to warn you."

He'd hated having to pretend to execute Danny. Hated sending him off, leaving Danny's wife – Rosie – alone with their boys. Had imagined his Rosie being left the same. But listening to his warning, for the first time Thomas was glad of the day the Italians had come to the shop to see him.

"Is it true?" Danny asked.

"No," Tommy replied, "But lies travel faster than the truth."

He had to decide what to do – decide how to proceed now. Being at war with the Lee's didn't bother him – they'd cursed Lily's horse and it had hurt his heart when he'd shot it, but that and the bullet aside he'd heard nothing from them. Kimber didn't frighten him either. But the IRA… And frustrated IRA, stuck in the country they wanted to emancipate themselves from… He didn't know how they'd play.

"Get a message to them," he told Danny, reaching a decision on the best way to try and protect Rosie and Lily and Finn from being caught up in something that was never supposed to have happened in the first place, nevermind have happened in a way that might effect them, "Tell them to send someone to parley – tell them there's been a misunderstanding and we don't want any trouble."

He'd hang his pride and grovel with their representative if need be. It was ironic, given he hadn't even fucking shot the damn man. He needed to get that barmaid and that Chief Inspector out and away from his family. Fast. He tipped some of the contents of the glass down him, feeling the familiar burn and heat.

"You've got enough trouble, right Tommy?" Danny asked, "The whisky? And the smoke?"

Tommy glanced at his friend, found he couldn't quite hold his eye contact and looked back down at the amber liquid – so like her eyes – in the glass in his hand.

"I can smell it in the air," Danny told him.

He wondered if that meant Rosie could too – he wondered if she knew, how she felt if she did know? He'd though he hid it well. And it wasn't like he used it all that often… Hardly ever, since she'd come. There'd been nights, when he'd first come back, when he couldn't get a minute's peace without it. He'd worked around the clock, desperate to be busy, focussing on building the business, focussing on anything but remembering the tunnels, working himself till he was too exhausted to do anything other than black out. Waking, every time, in cold sweat, having ended up in the tunnels sooner or later anyway.

"I use it sometimes myself," Danny confessed, "Call it my sweetheart."

Tommy gave a laugh outwardly, whilst inwardly wondering what he was playing at. He had a real fucking sweetheart. And she was sweet. Sour on the outside, sure, sour to people who didn't know her and bold in her a strange, quiet way. But he thought on how she had been earlier, how she had come to him, clutched at him, cried because she'd been worried about him – she was fucking sweet. And she was real.

"They gave us the worst job, Tommy," Danny commiserated.

"Yeah – and we fucking volunteered," Tommy replied.

He ran a hand over his face, same as he had done when he had sat down in Polly's earlier. Sometimes it was like the weight of the world had just landed on him all at once.

Because that was what he was playing at. Yes, he had Rosie. But he had the weight of the world – the weight of functioning in it, of beating it at its own game, on his shoulders. And the weight of the memories of what had happened when he hadn't been in control, hadn't been able to beat it at its own game. He dragged that around with him like that fucking ghost of Marley in that bloody Dickens story, except Marley had made his own fucking chains. The chains he had forged in the last few years - with his cuttings and beatings - those chains didn't bother him half as much as the memory chains.

"Sometimes it lasts all night," he told Danny, "And I lie here – and I listen to the shovels an' the pics against that wall there."

He didn't elaborate. Didn't explain how he lay there because his body seized up and he'd know, somehow, that if he could get up and walk away then it would stop – but that he couldn't get up, that he couldn't control his body the way he wanted to in those moments.

He didn't say how he prayed that the sun would come up at the curtains before they broke through. No. He didn't pray. He hoped. And sometimes it happened – the sun beat them. But, mostly, the shovels beat the sun.

He almost wanted to. Because if anyone would understand, it would be Danny. Or Freddie. But Freddie had betrayed him. And he couldn't forgive Danny, couldn't forgive anyone, for that.

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

Tommy woke the next morning with a heavy heart and a little more clarity. In fact, as he ran through the events of the previous day in his mind, he started to get a lot more clarity.

"Up," he ordered, swinging her door open without any preamble or knocking, still in his trousers and undershirt, his suspenders still flapping. He imagined he looked ridiculous, but he didn't much care.

She groaned and pulled the cover over her head, "No."

"I mean it," he snarled, coming into the room, sitting himself on the bed and pulling it back off her.

"It's too early for you Tommy – go away and come back later," she replied, turning her face to the pillow.

"I'll give you go away and come back later – who came last night, eh?"

"What you on about?" she muttered sleepily.

"I had a visitor."

"Oh, aye, Danny came last night," she replied, yawning and not turning her face.

"Danny came last night," he mimicked her unconcerned tone, "Yes he bloody well did. And how did he get in?"

"What are you going off about now Thomas?"

"How did Danny get in this house?" he asked the question again, his teeth gritted.

She turned to look at him, still lying down, raising an eyebrow, "I let him in, obviously."

"Obviously. And had you ever met Danny before?"

"No."

"Did you know who he was before you opened the door?"

"No."

"Right. So, it was late, it was dark, I was asleep up the stairs and you opened the bloody door to a stranger and let him in the fucking house – glad we got that straight," he said, grabbing the back of her pyjama jacket and hauling her around and over his knee with it.

"Wait! Tommy, what are you doing? No!" she shrieked, suddenly waking up and trying to wriggle off.

In fact, she wriggled pretty much exactly to where he wanted her, having landed her a little too far back in the first place.

"You know very well what I'm doing," he said, patting her arse then raising his hand and bringing it down with force, "I'm teaching you to have some common bloody sense."

"Tommy!" she shrieked, "I asked who he was before I let him in!"

"You didn't know who he was, you had no idea if he was who he said he was or not," he replied angrily, working side to side, determined to make her learn, "From now on you do not answer that door after dark - and you do not answer it if you are home without me or if I'm asleep, you got it?"

"For God's sake!" she snapped, "You know in winter it gets dark in the afternoon Tommy?"

"I don't give a shit," he replied, "Your rule is that you don't open the door after dark."

"Finn and Lily will be playing out in the dark this winter Thomas – you try having some common sense!" she retorted, moving her hips to try and escape him – a pointless exercise.

"Stop fucking fighting me!" he roared, raising his knee to stretch out her sit spots and cracking his hand down, hard and rapid on each of them.

She kicked and shouted out, but he ignored her, continuing to bring his hand down, not even taking the time to take notice of the bounce of her arse, or the roundness of it, or any of the things he usually noticed.

With the IRA thinking what they were thinking, he couldn't have her blindly opening to the door to anyone who knocked. Especially not anyone who knocked at the time Danny had done. And depending on how long this went on for, he'd be stopping Finn or Lily playing out in the winter altogether when it was dark early and even when it wasn't properly dark, when it was grey and dank enough for people to slip around unnoticed – so she'd have no need to worry about that.

When in hell were they all going to fucking behave and listen to him and stop bloody arguing?

"Tommy, Tommy I'll – ouch – what about if I don't open the door after Finn is in for the night?" she squealed out as she shifted on his knee, her feet kicking.

"Rosie, what did I just say your rule was?"

"Not to open the door after dark."

"Is that difficult to remember? Hard to understand?"

"No but it's stupid!"

He moved his attentions to the tops of her thighs, hoping to teach a lesson she'd feel for most of the morning anytime she sat, "Stupid you reckon, eh? Let's get this straight my darling girl - I love you and I have said I will take care of you, look after you and protect you. If you open doors to strange men when I'm not here or when I'm asleep, I can't protect you if they turn out to not be the Danny bloody Whizzbangs of the world, alright?"

"Ooh!" she grunted, kicking hard as his hand descended, "Alright, alright! I understand!"

"Good. So tell me, when you do ignore the door?"

"After dark."

"Good girl," he replied, moving back to her arse, giving her thighs some respite, "When else?"

"When you're not home or – ouch – Tommy it hurts!"

"Good, it's supposed to, supposed to teach you a lesson, eh? Now, finish off showing me what you've learned – when else do you don't answer the door? After dark, when I'm not home and…?"

"And if you're asleep," she supplied, quick to finish his sentence.

"Good girl," he repeated, still smacking at her arse, slowing his pace a little.

"I'll be good, I promise," she babbled, still wriggling around.

He took the time then to take pleasure in her pretty round arse, upturned and vulnerable to his hand.

"You learned your lesson?"

"Yes Tommy! I promise!"

"Such a good girl, aren't you, underneath it, eh?"

She moaned in response – somewhere between pain at his actions and pleasure at his words, he imagined, as he continued to smack away at her.

"Deep underneath it all. Need turned over my knee on the regular though to keep you that way, don't you?"

"Yes sir," she agreed, nodding into the bed cover, kicking as he continued to smack.

"Such a good girl to admit that, aren't you?"

She moaned again.

"I like having your pretty arse turned up for me to tend to sweetheart," he told her, stopping the smacking so he could take his time rubbing it and kneading it as he spoke, "But you will learn this lesson, you understand me? You will not be opening that bloody door to any more strangers in the night, you got it?"

"Yes, I promise, Tommy I promise," she replied, nodding.

"Good girl, let's make sure that lesson sinks in then, eh?" he said, and finished off with a flurry of heavy smacks to her arse and thighs that made her squeal and kick, her fingers fisting into the cover, her hips tipping madly from side to side, like a boat caught in a storm.

"Alright, repeat it back to me once more and I'll see if I think we're done – when do you not open the door?"

"After dark, when you're not home and when you're asleep," she listed off quickly.

"Good girl," he said, patting her backside, "If I catch you at it though, I'll tan your bare arse with the back of a hairbrush, you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good girl."

She lay still over his lap, catching her breath as he rubbed her arse, then she pushed back and got to her feet, rubbing at it herself.

"Tommy," she said, tentatively, taking a few steps out of his reach.

"Uhuh?" he asked, hiding his amusement.

"Just to clarify – when you say I don't answer the door if you're not home, does that mean during the day when you're not home?"

He sighed, "During the day there should always be someone in the shop, so if that's the case then you can open the door. But if the shop is closed and there are no men in the house to protect you, you keep the door locked, you understand?"

"Tommy you know I lived alone with Lily before we came here, yeah? I'm not completely incapable."

"You didn't have the type of men who might come to this door approaching yours then," he replied firmly.

"You reckon my mother's clientele were all first rate, eh?" she asked, flicking her eyebrows and coming to stand over him as he sat on the bed.

He put his hands on her waist and sighed, trying not to imagine the types of men she might have once had to fend off when her mother had first gone, "Look, just do as you're told for once, eh?"

She put her hand on his face and bent to kiss him, putting one knee on the bed beside him as she did so, then, breaking off to smirk at him, she replied, "I always do what I'm told, sir."

"That," he replied, leaning forward to kiss her, running his hands from her waist to her arse to squeeze it, smack it and then pull her properly down on top of him, taking the opening she was obviously giving him, "Is an absolute lie my wild Irish rose, and well you know it."

"Never told a lie in my life," she grinned, digging her nails into the back of his neck.

He snorted, "A good girl, are you?"

"Only for you."

"My good girl, eh?"

"Mhmm," she hummed, kissing him again, then moving her own mouth along his jawline as he had done to her, her fingers running behind his ears.

He was acutely aware too, that now he had pulled her down and she was splayed on him, a knee on either side, that she was grinding down on him.

"Thought you thought this wasn't a good idea," he muttered, trying not to groan as she bit gently into his neck.

"That was last night. This is this morning."

"That right?"

"Mhmm."

He kept one hand wrapped around her and moved the other to the apex of her thighs, finding the seam that joined the pyjama legs and sliding his fingers along it, forcing his palm into the tight space between her and his leg, moving her grinding to his fingers, pushing them up against her and smiling when he felt the heat and damp through the pyjamas, indulged with a moan and more frantic thrusting on her part.

"Eager this morning, aren't you?" he murmured.

She moaned again, her breath as hot and wet on his ear as her cunt would be soon on his fingers.

"Good girl."

He got an even more enthusiastic moan in response to his words.

"So what's changed this morning then, eh?"

"I thought last night that neither of our heads were clear so it didn't seem right. This morning…" she trailed off and groaned as he began rubbing a finger in circles around her entrance, moving the fabric, the seam and his finger all at once.

"This morning?" he prompted,enjoying her groans.

"Well I missed you last night when I went to bed. Thought maybe it would have been better to have done this rather than go separately," she said, her fingers digging into his neck as she clutched at him, moving herself against his ministrations.

"I missed you too," he murmured, "I sleep better with you. Even if you hadn't wanted this - I like holding you."

"I like you holding me," she replied, her voice needy, slightly desperate, "But I like you touching me too."

Whatever conversation - or explanation - he wanted, he was going to have to wait til she'd been sated, that was obvious. Well, he could cope with that.

"You like being touched sweetheart?"

"Only by you."

"Only by me," he growled.

"Tommy," she breathed his name right in his ear and he grunted in response.

"Touch me properly. Touch what's yours to touch."

"Mine," he muttered, splaying his hand over her mound and squeezing it in its entirety before moving up to her waistband and sliding into it and back down, his eyes closing as he felt the soft hair that framed her cunt and, just below it, her clit swollen and standing pleasingly to attention.

He slid his middle finger back down to where it had explored before and began to circle gently over and round her opening, resting his thumb on her clit and beginning to mirror his movements there, rubbing small circles.

She cried out, one hand staying wrapped on the back of his neck, the other sliding up to fist in his hair, tugging at it as she swirled her hips against his movements. He used the arm he had around her, holding her on his lap, to push her further towards him, against him, pressing his fingers in at the same time, speeding his fingers up slightly.

She gasped out his name in his ear and he closed his eyes, feeling the wetness of her on his finger, feeling the heat of her body against his and grateful, so grateful, for the privilege of all of it.

"You like that?" he muttered.

She moaned and nodded in response.

"Feel good?"

"Uhuh," she groaned.

"Tell me how it feels," he demanded, his voice rasping.

"It feels good Tommy - I'm so close already," she gasped out in reply, her words an effort.

"Good feelings for my good girl," he replied, "Good girls deserve to cum, don't they? And you are such a good girl for me, most of the time."

"Yes sir," she replied, her head falling, holding her neck up too much effort for her, she pressed her face into his neck, his shoulder supporting her, "I want to be good for you."

He felt her face screw up against him, the tiny movements of the muscles in her forehead and around her eyes feeling huge against him.

"I want you to cum hard for me, my darling girl, will you do that for me?"

She nodded into his neck, murmuring something that didn't carry.

"I'm going to be so proud of you for cuming hard for me darling," he told her, his voice gentle, kissing her neck, as his fingers moved less and less gently, more rough, giving more friction.

She gave a loud moan in response. She liked knowing she pleased him, she'd said.

"You like knowing I'm proud of you sweetheart?"

She nodded vigorously, her face still pressed firmly into him.

"You like knowing I'm pleased with you?"

She nodded again.

"You want to please me, don't you darling?"

She ground against him, nodding again, but her movement was smaller and her face more screwed up - she was on the edge.

"You're such a good girl, to want to please me. You're going to please me by cuming hard aren't you?"

All at once, her face lifted, her moan filled his ears and her hand yanked his hair hard - so hard he thought she might rip it out.

"That's it, that's my girl, just like that sweetheart," he coaxed, "Nice and hard on my fingers - such a good girl."

He slowed his fingers, still continuing his circles but more gently, grinding to a halt as she rode it out, before turning his face to her to kiss her and ask, "Good for you, my love?"

She nodded, wordless and wide eyed, her face flushed as he gently removed his hand to put it back around her waist.

"Good girl," he murmured, kissing her again.

"Tommy…"

"What?"

"Say you're proud of me, please?" she asked, her tone somewhere between embarrassed and needy - something he didn't think she'd have asked had she not been coming down from the heights of her orgasm.

"I'm proud of you my little loli phabai," he told her, kissing her head gently, trying not to frown as he questioned himself on why she'd needed to ask to hear it, "I'm proud of you every damn day, you know that, right?"

She looked at him with eyes that seemed as wet as they had the night before and such a look of gratitude on her face that it almost unnerved him.

"Thank you, Tommy," she said, pushing her face back into his neck, shifting her legs from kneeling over him to being wrapped around him.

"Hey, no need to thank me for that," he told her, his hand stroking her hair, "I mean it. I'm proud of you - I'm in fucking awe of you half the time. You're a marvel, eh? Taking care of Lily - taking care of us, putting up with me."

"Yeah," she sniffed, "You are an effort."

"Worth it though, am I?" he asked, sensing she was trying to make a joke.

"I'll think about it and report back," she replied, still pressing her face into him and avoiding his eyes.

"I'm going to make sure I'm worth it, eh?" he promised her, "That doesn't mean you're always going to like every decision I make, but I'll try and make sure you like more of them than you dislike, and I'll try and make you as happy as I can, eh?"

She nodded into him, then said, her voice muffled, "You promised you'd consider things from my point of view before you gave me my orders."

He nodded, still stroking her hair, "I will."

"And you said if I disagreed with you I could let you know and you'd think on it."

"I will," he told her, sighing.

"That's all I'm asking, Tommy," she said, sitting back in his lap, her legs still crossed around his waist, meeting his eye.

"I love you, eh? You're mine. My girl, eh?" he asked, the hand that had been in her hair going to her face.

She nodded, "Yes - I'm yours Tommy. And I want to make you happy too, you know."

"You do, my love."

He pulled her close and kissed her, savouring the taste of her, before sitting back and asking again, "But seriously - why did you say no last night then want this this morning?"

She sighed and bit her lip, looking down at her chest for a while before she met his eyes, "I think - before - I thought of sex, of doing this, as a transaction," she said, speaking slowly and choosing her words, "And I thought of it as something men did when they needed to escape, to only think about what was going on in that minute."

He supposed that made perfect sense, given what she'd grown up around.

"Last night," she continued, "I wanted you to think and I figured you hadn't had the headspace to do that in yet and I didn't think doing this would help you find that."

Well, that was wrong. For all he understood too well about using sex to escape, to stop thinking, touching her grounded him in a way that touching Lizzie, or indeed anyone else, never had done. It let him think even more clearly - afterwards, at least. He could feel his head clearing even as he sat there.

"But I hadn't ever thought about doing this type of thing as being anything other than a transaction. I mean, god, it sounds so stupid, but I feel connected to you now because you've made me…"

She trailed off, blushing, the heat of the experience passed and her openness with it.

"Cum?" he supplied.

She nodded, "I feel closer to you because of it - and I missed you last night. I wanted you, wanted to feel you near me physically - it felt like maybe that would have helped with it that I felt mentally so distant from you I suppose. Does that make sense?"

"It does," he confirmed, and kissed her again, "So anytime we disagree, I should make you cum, that's what you're saying?"

She rolled her eyes, "Not what I'm saying and you know it, Thomas Shelby. Besides, when do I get to make you cum?"

He kissed her forehead, "Once we've explored your body we'll deal with mine, eh? Mine is a lot simpler, you know. And most of my pleasure comes from pleasuring you anyway."

She shifted in his lap - whether advertently or inadvertently to offer some friction to his particular body parts, he didn't know.

"It's different with you," she blurted out suddenly, "Not that I was really planning on it with anyone else, obviously. But I'd hear things at home. And it's - it's a lot different."

"Yeah," he nodded, running his thumb along her hairline, "It's different with you too."

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

Though the visit to her bed had satisfied him in an almost spiritual way, he was still physically tired and he spent most of the morning at his desk, delicately suspended somewhere between exhausted and rigorously on edge, a feeling of needing to be alert, needing to be on the lookout in case any Irish came by before Danny had conveyed the message crossed with a need to sleep.

Rosie brought him tea and a bacon sandwich to his office and he patted her arse in thanks, but she was the only one he acknowledged that morning - growling in response to the workers' questions, ignoring John altogether when he came in to ask where he signed up to personal bacon sandwich deliveries and staying behind his closed door to avoid Arthur and Polly.

He was thankful the door was closed though when a crash came through the window. A grenade. A fucking grenade. To his house. Where his children - where Finn and Lily lived - where Rosie lived.. The Irish - or indeed, perhaps the Lees - had found him. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! He flew to it, picking it up, shouting Romani curses and about to throw it right back out the window at the bastards, when he realised it wasn't a fucking grenade at all.

It was a fucking cricket ball.

He looked at it, the adrenaline of what he'd thought it was still running through him, his arm shaking. Then, with two short punches, he emptied the smashed pane of its remaining glass and stuck his head out, glaring out at a sight he was not surprised to see.

"You lot," he growled, turning his eyes between them all - George, Finn, Isaiah, Katie, Alfie and, he realised with a sigh, Lily - he had to presume Jack had run for the hills, along with whoever else had been there, Katie was frozen in position of looking like she'd been about to do the same when he'd stuck his head out - "In the kitchen. Now."

As always, thank you for your reviews and messages - they always motivate me to write more when I know you're enjoying! It's been a little angsty in Tommy's head lately with Ada, so I thought we were nicely timed for a bit of Tommy and Rosie alone time ;)

Anyway - quick question - if this was a 'real' book, this 'chapter' would definitely be split into 2, it's nearly 10,000 words and you just wouldn't get away with calling it a chapter really - but I feel like the last two 'chapter' updates of this, which have been more in line with what a chapter in a book would be word count wise, have felt really short in comparison to other updates I've done. As readers, do you prefer shorter updates that are broken more into proper chapters, or do you just want the longest update that it makes sense to upload?