Rosella Kimber is the daughter of Billy Kimber, one of the biggest crime bosses in 1919 England. Tommy Shelby is the leader of the peaky blinders, a gang on the rise, threatening Kimber's rule.
When Tommy and Billy put their differences away and dec...
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EMILY DICKSON'S LAST words were, 'I must go in, the fog is rising.' Then she died and became the fog. Jane Austen told her sister 'I want nothing but death' in her final letter before dying in her home in Winchester. Nostradamus, a French astrologer, predicted on his deathbed, 'Tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall no longer be here.'
He was right.
As Tommy sat in the back of the dark van that rattled with each bump, he wondered what his last words would be. He wanted no poetry, no sympathy or any of that philosophical bullshit. After all, this was the end. The final summer, the last crescendo, the great conclusion of his woeful life.
These men weren't really coppers. It was a disguise and Tommy knew it instantly. He had been kidnapped. They were really men hired by Inspector James to kill him after the assassination. That was his last instruction before Polly shot him.
The car stops.
Tommy gets out and the cold bite of the wind instantly greets his face. They had brought him to an abandoned field that seemed to stretch to the edge of England. Even the birds were singing a final hymn as he stepped forward. The sky above was alternating from a bruised blue to a warlock-grey, already grieving for him.
The crops on the field were barren, and they had already dug an open grave for him that Tommy was now stood by.
Blood ran down the side of his face, he didn't care to wipe it or even acknowledge the wound they had inflicted on him. For there was no greater wound than never getting to meet your child and leaving the only woman you've ever loved behind.
Nothing could hurt him anymore.
He looks around at the three men that had captured him, a fog was rising. "Were any of you boys in France?"
Silence.
"Will you allow a man a cigarette?" Tommy asks.
"The Somme." One of them finally answer in their thick Irish accent. "Blackwoods."
Tommy nods slowly, replying. "The Somme. The bulge."
The one thing the war did was give enemies something in common.
"You were a tunneller? Nasty work." The Irish man responds. "Go on, smoke." He had a salt grain of sympathy in his tone for an old comrade.
Tommy gets out his last cigarette, the last thing that would make him feel something. Even though he was putting such a bitter object to his mouth, in that second it felt so sweet, too euphoric. It was like a last supper. He watched the end be lit into a burning flame knowing the warmth would soon hug his black lungs.
