Tigress → Thomas Shelby

Bait

Before the last of the lamps sputtered out, the Shelby brothers said goodbye to their youngest on his doorstep.

"Let go of me, you fucking sop," John laughed, trying to wriggle out of the headlock Arthur had put him in. He was only successful when Arthur loosened his grip, releasing him with a smile. "Look what you've done – you've mucked up my hair."

"Wish I was going with you," Arthur grinned. "Have fun in London, lad."

"Not too much," Thomas warned. "Remember why you're there."

"Yeah, yeah. The races; I know."

The string of intelligence that made them bet on Lucky, who did not live up to his namesake, had come from London. Thomas had expected many obstacles as the Peaky Blinders attempted to expand their enterprise, but he never imagined that horse racing was on the agenda of larger fish in the pond. Either that or one of his men had decided to go rogue for a big break at the cost of betraying his gang.

It needed sorting whichever it turned out to be – a rival gang trying to trip them up before they'd even got to London or an ambitious but stupid backstabber. That was why Thomas had sent John. London had too many vices for Arthur, who had enough as it was.

"Get going then – I need to take a fucking nap," Arthur ran a tired hand through his hair. Under the yellow lamplight, Thomas noticed his brother's sunken eyes. He saw the same thing in the mirror. Night had fallen, but it was rare for the Shelby men to fall with it.

"Take those pills Doc gave you," John said, climbing into his car. The headlights flickered on, casting beams of white into the dark. "I'll see you boys soon."

"Usual channels for letters," the smoke from Thomas's cigarette swayed with the grace of a dancer. "Keep us informed, alright?"

John tipped his cap, "Always."

The car's engine gave a few rumbling coughs before running steady. Thomas and Arthur held up their hands as they watched John give a wave. It wasn't long before the car turned the corner and dropped out of sight.

Thomas gently clapped Arthur on the back. "Get some sleep, old man."

"Who are you calling old?" Arthur grumbled good-humoredly. "Night, Tommy."

"Goodnight, Arthur."

Arthur shuffled into his own house. As the door closed, Thomas checked his watch. Midnight. The whorehouse would be full of men – bachelors feeling the blood rush, married men hastening to realise their dreams of infidelity, green boys emboldened by the cover of night. If he went now, he expected others to assume he was just another customer at Chinatown's most infamous business.

What he hadn't expected, however, was not even being allowed into its premises.

Thomas heard the whorehouse before he saw it, loud and busier than ever now that the sun slept. Huang Sun stood at the entrance, glaring at the stream of bustling, bumbling men with hawk's eyes. Some customers chatted and bragged; others turned their hoods up and faces away, worried about being recognised. Huang Sun examined them all, searching for the handle of a knife, the barrel of a gun. The clientele was rough – of course they were – but under no circumstances were they allowed to be lethal. Still, Thomas doubted whether it was possible for anyone to be so in the face of the bodyguard's bulk.

Next to the twin was the translator girl Thomas had seen upon his last visit – Arthur had told him her name was Wendy. She smiled and batted her eyelashes, inviting passerby to fork out their wallets and do more than watch. It worked. Wendy's demureness was magnetic, and Thomas could tell from the licking of lips and the flush of cheeks what the men thought when they caught her eye.