March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 52

I arrive at the house. Handsworth is quiet, sleepy, compared to the Small Heath I know. I'm ready to get out of the car and search for a cheque, but a voice speaks in my head, sounding remarkably like John. It reminds me I have four guns in my pocket, and I'd be smart to load at least one of them.

It takes me a moment to familiarise myself with how the pistol works, but I've seen John and his brothers use them enough I can work it out. I slip bullets into the magazine and push the gun back into my pocket, keeping it separate from the others.

The street is silent, and my shoes on the path to the front door ring out through the air with every tap. There are blackberry bushes in the front terrace, and small, red flowers dotted amongst wild patches of grass.

I bring my hand to the doorknob, a fruitless attempt before I'll need to inevitably break in — but to my surprise, it is unlocked. The handle turns easily in my hand as the door swings inward, revealing a dark hallway with cracked wooden floors.

There's no letters or envelopes on the welcome mat. Maybe the cheque hasn't been delivered. Maybe the man who wants me dead knows the men were captured, or maybe he never intended to pay them the other half at all.

But I cannot leave now, even with every inch of my body screaming at me to get out of here, to return to my senses. I'm no criminal, nor a mastermind. I'm just a baker's daughter who likes to draw.

But I'm also John Shelby's wife. And when I remind myself of that, my shoulders draw together and I stand up a little straighter as I walk slowly through the house.

Past the stairs, wrapping around past a large dining room, and coming to one end of the kitchen. I step forward, and the door at the other kitchen's end is wide open — giving me a view of a less formal dining space. A circular wooden table. Upholstered chairs.

And a man, legs spread, turning a pistol over thoughtfully. His suit is expensive, his hair slicked to one side, and his moustache thin.

I stare at Billy Kimber, and he stares right back.

"It is you," I say quietly.

He smiles nastily. "Boyfriend not here?"

"He's my husband," I say with a clenched jaw. "And no. I presume you're the one who had them arrested?"

"Think you know everything, don't you?" He says.

"No. But I know enough." My hand clenches around the gun in my pocket. "Why do you keep sending people to kill me? I didn't even meet you until the wedding."

He sighs. "I won't waste my breath or my time explaining big-boy business to you."

"I'm not a big boy. So your business hardly seems relevant."

"And it wouldn't be," he acknowledges. "If you hadn't given my Uncle a black eye."

My brow creases. "Your Uncle?"

"My mother's sister never did have the appetite for guns and violence," he continues. "Plus, she was allergic to horses. So she settled down with a nice schoolteacher in Birmingham." His mouth settles into a thin line. "Headmaster of the school now." My blood cools, as I remember the day I punched him in his office. Having no idea I was starting any of this. "No taste for violence, for gangs. Wants to actually do some good in the world. So here he is, trying to steer those fucking rats of Shelby's towards a better life, and you go and deck him one. Not very cooperative, is it? Of course, he came to me after that. Asked me to look into it. He's been sick of the Shelby's for years. And finally he's desperate enough to have me sort it out for him."

My mind is reeling from the news, but I steel myself. "Why did you pretend to be Alfie Solomons?"

"Because I looked into you all," he tells me. "Or at least, my accountant did. You wouldn't believe the things he found out," he says with a nasty grin. "Couldn't help myself. All looked like too much fun for me to resist."

"That's why you sent imbeciles instead of decent hit men," I say quietly. "You were like a cat playing with a mouse before killing it."

I cannot help but glance at the gun in his hand. There's a pounding in my head — I suddenly find myself very, very afraid.

"I'm not going to kill you, sweetheart," he says, making my skin crawl. "Considered it, when I made sure the Shelby's were all arrested. Thought I'd send your remains to them in a cardboard box with a fucking bow on it. Remind them how useless they are. But that would only anger them. Incense them." He drinks dark liquid from a glass on the table. "And I can't have that. Not when I want to fucking destroy them, and I want them to know it."

"So you won't shoot me?" I ask scathingly.

"No," he tells me.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Put the gun down, then."

His eyes are playful, smarmy, as he places his pistol on the floor, and kicks it into the kitchen, too far for him to reach. My fingers are clamped around the metal in my pocket. This is it. This is my chance. I can put a bullet in him. Kill him, and this will all be over. Every part of me begins to tremble.

I pull the pistol free and aim it at him. I try to slow my breathing, and then I stop it, entirely.

"I wouldn't do that," he says.

I shouldn't buy into his bait. But I don't pull the trigger. My hand is frozen, motionless.

"I'm the only one who can get your boyfriend out of prison," he says.

It's enough to pull my focus from aiming the gun. But I swallow. "We have good lawyers. And with you gone, we'll buy the police that answered to you."

But he still has the disgusting smug look all over his face. "I still wouldn't do that."

"Why?" I snarl, at the end of my patience.

He leans back, crossing one of his legs over the other. He exhales softly, almost laughing. "Because I know where your father is."

I grip the gun so hard my knuckles turn white. "You're lying."

"I really ain't," he grins. "Your father's still alive. And I'm the only man in all of England who knows where he is."