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Tommy used to be the kindest of the Shelbys. In many ways, he still was. Before the war, it was widespread amongst Small Heath that, if you wanted mercy from the family, you would find Thomas Shelby. He was further out from the Peaky Blinders as a young man, less prone to violence than John, more prone to listening than Arthur. He could usually be found round the yard with horses that weren’t his own -- horses that he got paid in scraps of shillings to look after.
However, after the war, Tommy was different. Every man came back from war different. Detached. Cold. fearful. Tommy Shelby was not free from this effect. Small Heath watches as he claws his way to the top of the Shelby Hierarchy, claims control of the Peaky Blinders and, by proxy, the entirety of this side of Birmingham.
People watch, but they do not complain, because they know the boy Tommy used to be. They remember him stealing bread from the baker and running, shoeless, down the muddy path, they remember the car with which he used to tend the horses in Charlie’s yard, they remember the mournful sorrow and the wateriness of his eyes after his mother’s passing.
So people think -- people know -- there is goodness still inside him. But to appeal to that goodness is a fairly challenging affair indeed.
If you wanted to settle with the Shelbys, there was a very specific way to speak to them. You couldn’t just approach Arthur Shelby on the street and expect not to be gunned down where you stand for daring to brush shoulders with such a dangerous man. It was a meticulous dance, to slide in amongst them and have them listen to your plea without them turning on you in the blink of an eye. If it was mercy you wanted, you had to be very careful indeed.
First, you find Ada. She is possibly the furthest distanced from the family, but that also meant she is the most level-headed. She can be found in outcropping pubs across Small Heath before eleven, nursing sherry or wine. More often than not, she is by herself. No men dare to even breathe in her direction. The last man that did try to cross her was slashed to ribbons and left outside the pub for the constables to scrape off the pavement.
But because she is so distant, she is also very untrusting. You have to approach her carefully. Slide into the leather booth beside her own. She is usually pretty understanding, especially to the plights of young people or women, but you must approach with caution nonetheless. Behind that soft exterior is a woman with a belly full of steel. If you approach her knowing that, knowing the power she holds, she is much more likely to be responsive.
It is a Tuesday night when you approach her. The pub is full of ruckus noise. A band plays in the corner, playing music across the crowd. You weave through the tables crammed together, push your way through the sweaty bodies to find her sitting neatly by herself on a table in the corner, completely untouched. Her eyes have been watching the crowd, and she’s already spotted you coming towards her. Her gaze is delightfully amused.
You fight your way through the crowd to the bar, where you order a glass of whisky on ice. You take a sip, feel the alcohol stew and sour on your tongue. The buzzing helps your nerves. You approach slowly. She’s watching you the entire time, and it feels a little like plunging into the den of a wolf.
You dip your head upon approach, hand dusting over the spine of the chair opposite yours. You introduce yourself in a voice that shakes despite yourself. She waits a moment, then places her glass down from where it was pursed between her pale fingers, and holds out a hand for you to shake. You shake it. You hope your palm isn’t clammy. She gestures for you to sit down, and you do.
You run through hollow introductions that neither of you care about, before she finally inclines her head, a small elegant dip, and invites you to speak. You have practised what you are going to say to her. You speak slowly, carefully, with words that craft and weave a fine little story. She watches the entire time. Her lips are stained red, her eyes seem to glow in the halflight. For having a blood relation to a family in works with the devil, she looks like an angel with her porcelain skin and carefully coiled dark hair.
When you reach the end of your tale, you gulp down the rest of your whisky and feel it burn as it slips down and settles in your gut. She is quiet for a very long time, her expression gives nothing away but a slight appraisal. Eventually, she sits up, hooks a hand beneath the purse sitting by the leg of her chair, and brings out a thick piece of creamy paper. She writes an address on it with a sharp pencil procured from her purse, and then holds it out to you.
“Come before Sunday’s race, in the morning,” she says. “No one can hear a whisper on a day like that. Ask for John Shelby.”
You take what she gives you. You thank her briefly. You stand. Other people in the pub have been watching your request, and they watch again as you slip back into the crowd and leave Ada Shelby sitting by herself again. She will be unbothered for the rest of the night. Small Heath knows better than to play to her sympathies more than once in one night.
Sunday comes with a rolling, oozing slowness. You’ve gotten past the first member, but that is only the beginning of your ploy. You know things only get more difficult from here, and if you walked on eggshells around Ada Shelby, you’re now walking on shards of fine glass.
Sunday is overcast, as are most days in Birmingham, with a thick blanket of overcast cloud shedding over everything. You walk down Watery Lane towards the Shelby Company betting office. You know the place well -- everyone in Small Heath does. Every single resident knows at least one person who has lost themselves to the thrill of the gamble, and has been brought into financial disarray by the silver-tongued serpents: the Shelbys. Like a devil coaxing into sin.
You don’t pray as you walk towards the office, but it’s a near thing. You can hear the sounds of the gambling and betting from outside. You approach the steps and slip inside. It’s like a madhouse. A line of tables act as a barricade between the betters and the Shelbys. A thousand pieces of paper swarm the air. People are laughing, shouting and yelling.
Someone is writing betting odds on the blackboard behind the tables. There are a few men holding down the fort, taking bets and money from people. You stand in the doorway, hesitant for a moment. You’re tempted to leave, but you know you have better luck with the Shelbys than with the Lees or even Kimber. With that in mind, you steel yourself again and move towards them.
The piece of paper Ada Shelby gave you is worn at the crease for the amount of times you’ve fiddled with it, cradled it in your fingers and pinched over the fold in the centre. The paper is flimsy but the writing is still clear -- looping and graceful font. You feel like you stick out like a sore thumb as you weave between the betters towards the front table.
You find the man that looks the friendliest -- dark skinned with close-cropped hair, and you hold out the slip of paper from him. The man takes it, looking with curious eyes, before he nods, handing back the paper and pointing to a young man at the far end of the table.
That’s a Shelby if there ever was one, you think. He’s tall and broad, still wearing his peaked cap inside, but that’s not what caught your attention. It’s the confident broadness of his shoulders and the casual, powerful way he leans against the wall and the watchful expression he wears. John Shelby.
His eye must snag on the movement of the man pointing at him. He kicks off the wall and weaves his way expertly towards you. You swallow against a dry throat and hand him the paper. He takes it and only glances briefly at it. You think he must notice Ada’s handwriting and suppose that he doesn’t need much more than his sister’s confirmation, as he nods to you and gestures to one of the back offices, walled off from the betting stands by walls of opaque glass. He leads, and you follow.
The whole family has the same piercing pale eyes, framed by dark eyelashes. When you’re looking at his face, you catch a glimpse of a silver glint, burrowed within the fabric folds of his cap. “Ada sent you,” says John in lieu of any kind of greeting. He talks quietly, like he knows he commands the room and doesn’t need to shout for attention. You’re only a few metres from the betters. He doesn’t even ask for your name. “What is it you want from the Blinders, eh?”
You take a breath and tell him your story. He doesn’t say anything for the entire time. His eyes are empty, his face impassive and stony. You talk because you have to, because you don’t recon you have any other choice but to talk. You talk and he listens, and when you’re done, your heart is beating so loudly in your chest you know he probably hears the way it pounds, rabbit-quick, between your ribs. Then he takes off his hat and you seize up for a moment, bracing for the worst, but he catches your rigidness and grins at it.
“You’ve got yourself in some deep shit,” he notes, his voice plain, but beneath that there is a layer of amusement. He doesn’t blink as he talks. “And you want us to deal with the pisshead?”
You nod fiercely, emboldened, and he seems to enjoy this.
“Alright. I’ll see what I can do.” He pulls open one of the seamed pockets of his waistcoat and pulls out another piece of paper and a smooth, black fountain pen. “Write down your address and someone’ll call you to discuss further.” You take the stationery and hate the way your hands shake.
“And payment?” You murmur. For a moment you think your voice might’ve been lost amongst the washes of shouts and laughter, but he just raises an eyebrow and tucks his cap back over his head. You’re about the same height. You estimate he’s a little older than you, but as he smiles, you feel even stupider and younger. You note down your address and he takes it and slips it into his pocket.
You don’t hang around much after that. You depart quickly before one of the betting men can coax you into gambling. Your father gambled. He lost his life to the Peaky Blinders when he could not pay his due. You wonder if they know this, if they have made the connection. You wonder if they remember at all.
You are twenty years old and your home is little more than a shoebox on the wrong side of Small Heath. With damp walls and a low ceiling, the heating doesn’t work and you share the establishment with six other bedsitters, but there is running water and it is a roof over your head, nonetheless.
The landlady gets your attention a couple of days after visiting Watery Lane. The apprehension had hung over you like a thick stormcloud, waiting and listening, coiled like a rounded spring and ready for anything. And when it finally cracked, you feel a static thrum in your veins as you walk down the stairs to collect the telephone from the landlady.
“Hello?” You ask into the telephone. The person on the other end of the line does not give their name, but it is not hard to guess that they are in association with the Blinders. They are cordial, sometimes bordering on curt. They tell you to come back to the betting house on Watery Lane, at exactly 2 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. They tell you that you have an appointment with the treasurer. Polly Gray.
When you enter the office at exactly 2 o’clock, being bustled in by whoever was working on the front of house, you halt in the doorframe when you see Polly Gray sitting at the desk, a pipe pinched between her fingers. Behind her, Arthur Shelby looms like a long shadow, splitting over the room. That is to be expected, you muse, your request is a violent one. It makes sense for Arthur to be here.
They both watch you falter in the doorway, and you are quick to draw yourself back up, rolling your shoulders as you nod in greeting with a quiet notation of both of their names. Polly nods back but Arthur doesn’t move. You shuffle into the seat opposite the desk.
Polly is a lean, wiry woman. Tough with age like a callous, all of Birmingham knows her name. She ran their organisation during the war effort, as strict as any regiment, and upon the return of her family, still maintains a firm grip over the entire operation. Polly Gray is not your end goal, but you are still in slight dazedness to think you have managed to get this far up the Shelby clan. Her eyes, unlike the rest of the family, are dark. You cannot see her irises. She puts down her pipe and threads her fingers.
Arthur stands in the corner, in what can only be described as a languid manner, akin to that of a cat. It is odd to see him so laid back, but that also means that you are not a threat to him, and you think you should be grateful because of that. His eyes are wolfish. You try not to look at him. You’re not supposed to.
Polly is far more polite than either of her kin that you had spoken to before her. The greetings and needless small talk feels rehearsed and hollow, but it is comforting to lean back into something familiar like talking about the weather or the strikes or the races. You think this must be so mundane for her -- a woman who is so entrenched in violence.
And violence is what you have come to talk about. You must not phrase your plea as such -- begging is always so uncouth. Instead you set it up like a proposition, a two-way transaction. Polly nods along with the deal as you propose it, occasionally glancing back at Arthur at what you suspect are random points throughout. You have thought out your deal, crafted it, and you think it is effective. It will convince them. It has to.
When you are done, Polly Gray slips out a brass clip from the drawer beneath the desk and opens it. She holds a cigarette in her mouth and offers one to you. The gesture is wordless, so you don’t say anything as you quietly take the fag, offering it back to her to light the end of. You sit there and smoke.
Polly says, “you ought to talk to Thomas about this,” and your stomach rolls with dread. It is what you wanted, but still, coming face to face with the devil of Birmingham is a terrifying thing indeed. You don’t know if your apprehension is visible. Arthur gestures at you to stand and so you do. He’s a thin but tall man, is Arthur Shelby. He smells like rum and blood this close up, and something sterile like cleaning fluid. You whisper thanks to Polly as Arthur leafs you from the office.
You emerge into the hallway but instead of going back towards the exit, he takes you further into the corridor and you arrive in tandem at another office. Arthur doesn’t bother to glance at you as he knocks on the door with his knuckles. They’re all scabbed and bloody.
You don’t look Arthur Shelby in the eye. It is terrifying to see him this close. Children are always warned about Arthur the most, that he is the least stable, the most prone to lashing out, the untethered, mad dog Arthur Shelby, and it is surreal to be nearly brushing shoulders with a man who has killed countless men.
A deep voice calls an enter and you follow Arthur into the room. The air is thick, settling like cotton in your ribs. You can’t quite breathe. Tommy Shelby sits at the other end of the room. It’s a bigger office, is this one, with a sitting area full of leather sofas and a low table full of crystal bottles and skewed paper books. Beyond that, there is a slight upraised section, and that is where Tommy Shelby’s throne sits.
He looks up upon the door opening, and his eyes are on Arthur for a long moment. Some wordless communication passes between them, and, after a handful of pounding, excruciating heartbeats, his catlike gaze slides over. When Arthur pats your shoulder, it is enough to send you staggering forwards a couple of steps. Arthur Shelby laughs, but Thomas dismisses him. You stand in the middle of the office, feeling splayed open like a moth, vulnerable on every side. Tommy closes the leather-bound, thick book he had been reading and gestures for you to take a seat.
You find comfort in the motion, as similar as it is to Polly, and you try not to think about in all the ways that Tommy Shelby and Polly Gray are not similar. You can feel your pulse pounding throughout your body, in your head and fingers and toes and ears, thrumming a heady rhythm. He sits still as you come closer, his head tilted as he examines you. Curiosity, maybe, in his eyes, but tinged with disinterest.
You don’t know if disinterest is good or bad. No one who advised you on contacting the Shelbys has ever actually made it this far.
Tommy is awfully casual as you sit. He asks if you want to smoke, asks you if you want to drink. You put out your fag in the porcelan ashtray beside you, and then keep your hands cupped over your knees to quell any possible fidget. You don’t think he would take well to twitching, even when every muscle in your body is lined with the need to run. Adrenaline coats you from the inside out.
Tommy Shelby leans forward. You force yourself not to lean back in response, like two magnets being repelled. He watches you carefully, like a predator lying in wait. Then he reaches and takes a slow drag of his cigarette. The smell coats your tongue. You don’t blink, don’t twitch, don’t move.
“What do you want?” He asks finally, once the silence is beginning to sputter and die.
You have spoken your tale to four of his kin before him, but you think that’s not what he’s looking for. He does not want a story, he does not want a transaction. He wants to know what you want, at the core of why you came to them. An action? Mercy? Death?
You open your mouth and you speak.
“It’ll be done.” He rumbles eventually, when you have nothing keft to say and your adrenaline has faded to a slow, creeping thrill. “My boys will have him dead by the end of the week.” Relief floods your chest, the coils of tension and anxiety that had built up over the last two weeks steadily unfurling.
You begin to speak, a rattling, raspy sound from a hoarse throat, but he holds up his hand and you quiet again.
“We Shelbys hire whores, we don’t employ them,” he says, something like mirth lining the pinch of his lip. Unsure of what to say, your throat tightening with fear, you let him continue, “When he is dead, you’ll be free to do as you please, without our jurisdiction. So all I want from you in payment is a favour.”
“A favour.” You echo, dully. It’s not quite a question, just like an opening of space for him to elaborate. A time passes and you think he will not say anything at all, and then he speaks again.
“A favour. When the time comes, we may need to do business again. Think of it like a token to exchange. Just a little thing for me to know you have our thanks.”
“You do have my thanks.” You find yourself saying. The words tumble off your tongue like ash and into the pool of water that sits between you, rippling. “What kind of favour?”
Tommy waves you away. “Just a little thing. Do not worry about it,” then he looks at you. “What’s your name?”
You wet your lips. You see no reason to lie. “Lizzie -- Elizabeth Stark.”
He stands. You stand too. “Well, Lizzie,” he says. “We will be in touch.”