Animal Instinct | Peaky Blinders [Thomas Shelby]

03 - Tommy

A few hours earlier

It was strange to think how much a war can change a man. Just a few years ago, Thomas Shelby would've averted his eyes at the sight of a body, beaten, bruised, and lifeless. But after seeing mothers clutch their weeping children while their fathers were stabbed, strangled, or shot at their kitchen table, he felt like the sight of death no longer phased him. The thought of dying no longer made him shiver. Death. Death. Death. The more you repeat a word, the more it loses its meaning.

It was one of the reasons he didn't completely loose his mind when he returned to the normalcy of a working life. No matter how much alcohol he used to loosen his mangled nerves, his mind would never be completely at ease – especially when he was alone at night with nothing but his thoughts. But, unlike several men from his unit, he didn't constantly look into empty alleyways, looking for German soldiers and he managed to stop sleeping with the lights on.

His aunt seemed to be the only one who worried about him, but then that's what aunts did. Or his aunt, anyway. She fretted that he worked too much and every morning she'd barge into his room and remind him that he needed a day off. "In the least, I hope you take a day off for your funeral after you work yourself to death."

Not that Tommy had any reason to take a day off. He still had more work to do, but his workload was significantly easier to handle than it had been a few short weeks ago. Now that the family business was slowly starting to become an honest one, there was less conflict between coppers and gangs, and they could hire more workers to handle the workload. A month ago, they had twelve honest workers on their side. Now, they had somewhere close to fifty.

"Mister Shelby?" the uniform says because he's just staring down at the woman curled up on the dock, his hands jammed in the pockets of his trousers. He left his gloves in the car and his fingers were numb from the chill wind sneaking off the canal.

"Has she been claimed?" Tommy asked, ignoring the copper's look of questioning, his eyes focused on the body.   

In death, you could tell she was someone who used to be beautiful, even with her skin bloated and wrinkly from being left in the canal overnight. Even though her skin was turning yellow and her eyelids were painted with bruises. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Strangled to death. Naked. Blonde hair. Almost identical to the last four women they'd uncovered in Small Heath in the past two weeks.

The officer shook his head and leaned down to examine the corpse that was lying on her side. "Not yet."

"She fought a good fight," he mumbled, seeing the bruises painting her knuckles.

"No one saw the sick fuck toss her in the water?" John asked, but he's hanging back. He looked like he was about to wretch from the smell.

"No witnesses have stepped forward. I have a doctor who can perform an exam."

Tommy cleared his throat and pulled a cigarette from the tin in his pocket, lighting it to mask the smell. He took a long drag and released it with a quiet sigh. "Take the body. Don't get anyone on the scene," he added as a warning. "We're going to contain this."

"Yes, Mister Shelby." The copper nodded obediently. Although Tommy was being civil now, the very look in his eyes was a constant reminder. It's a bad idea to cross Thomas Shelby.

"It's the night of the final race, Mister Maccabee. Enjoy yourself. Place a bet of two, but keep this between us."

Almost as an afterthought, Tommy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of shillings, which the copper took with a nod and a grin.

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An hour later and a few miles away, Thomas Shelby parted the city crowds with his car. The train station was only a two mile distance from the Shelby House, but rather than opting to walk, he decided to kill two birds with one stone and pick up a shipment of whiskey from the docks on his way to pick up his aunt and brother.

Nowadays, people had the resources to brew whiskey in their bathtubs, but the soaring supply of cheaply made liquor made the prices of fine alcohol triple. In the backseat of his automobile, Tommy had six crates of that year's finest Irish spirit, worth a hundred pounds a bottle. All thanks to his connections to a warehouse in London.

As the sky darkened and the main streets emptied, Tommy sat in the idling car, testing out a bottle of their new shipment. He poured himself another glass and drank it, feeling his sore muscles loosen with each drink. The silence was comforting, and for a few minutes he reveled in it. Alone, he felt he could finally relax.

By the time he parked the car, the train had just arrived and foremen were helping the passengers step down. Because it was the night of the races, there were very few people coming into Birmingham, and he was able to pick out Pol and Arthur almost immediately. The colorful clothes that were deemed as an everyday look in London stood out in the sea of black in Birmingham.

Tommy kept the car running as they climbed in, and the chilly wind escaping through the early knocked his blinder cap off. He adjusted it, before he turned to his aunt, who sat in the passenger seat.

Thomas would never know another woman like his aunt. She was a paradox in itself, radiating a certain elegance that made you want to bow down at her feet, despite the dangerous glimmer of mischief that always glowed in her marble eyes. Perhaps that was an attribute of the façade she created and perfected over the years. After a lifetime of hardships and sorrow, she rebuild herself into a poised, statuesque business woman. But, no matter what she liked to believe, her nephews could read her like an open book.

And when Tommy looked at her, he could tell she was trying her best to remain that emotionless statue, but her lips kept tugging into a distressed frown and she fidgeted with her pink silk gloves against her will. 

"How was London?" Tommy asked, his eyebrows raising in question.

"You haven't heard?" Pol shot him a glare from the corner of her eyes. "We've been done over. Monaghan Boy lost."