VIOLENT DELIGHTS | TOMMY SHELBY

PROLOGUE

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It was a stormy sea of purple, green and white. The waves plunged and screamed, their boom ricocheting into the afternoon air. Birdie Brooks marched headfirst, her young mind expanding with every chant that left her lips. She had never felt so powerful than she did amongst these passionate women, these suffragettes.

Her father would kill her if he realised his only daughter had become a fierce activist. His own child, believing she had the right to live the same life as his gender? The idea was preposterous, even if he chose to break the law every chance he could. Her mother would agree with her husband, but Birdie knew she would struggle to hide a triumphant smile. Birdie's younger brother knew about her rebellious actions, and marched proudly beside her.

"Votes for women!" She screamed with the crowd, grasping her straw hat and holding it to the heavens. Elation filled her lanky frame, tugged at her lips and put a spring in her step.

Noah Brooks laughed as he watched his older sister dance about in glee, shouting for her fellow women to hear. He had been happy to accompany her, especially when she told him that their parents were not to know. A little rebellion never hurt anybody.

The exuberant chants appeared to come to a halt as Birdie ran towards the front of the crowd, away from Noah. The young man found himself pushing forward when he recognised the sounds of violence before she did, desperate to find the straw hat in the masses. It was mere moments later that Birdie realised that the crowd had slowed for a reason.

Birdie had never faced a policeman before. She had run away from them plenty of times, laughing and shoving stolen sweets further into the sleeves of her blouse, but her eyes had never held the steely gaze of a man of the law. The eye contact lasted moments, but felt like an eternity to Birdie before the chaos ensued. 

The group of suffragettes at the front, the ones Birdie now mingled with, were the first targets. How dare these women tread on public ground, screaming for change? They were only marching, not blowing up postboxes. Birdie did that last week.

Standing in the bustling crowd, she watched women being beaten and arrested. Almost by instinct, she threw a punch at the first policeman she could see grappling another. "Get off!"

Birdie, the young fighter she was, had the surprising upper hand for a blissful few moments. Then a second policeman arrived, and she was being punched in the back so hard she toppled to the gravel. But she didn't scream, or cry. Instead she made eye contact with the woman she leaped in front of, and simply nodded as they carted her away. A nod of reassurance, of pride. Birdie was a soldier above all else.

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THREE WEEKS LATER

Birdie sat in her cell with her arms crossed over her stomach, shivering as the cold wind swept through the miserable grey bricks, worn away by years of neglect. Steady tears trickled down her hollowed cheeks, tears of desperation and agony. She had made it through her initial sentence with steely eyes and tight-lipped confidence. Then the guards began to notice she was abandoning her meals, letting them be devoured by rats when backs were turned. They saw her eyes flicker with hunger and her stomach growl in pain, and they realised that no, these women can't be activists. So they shoved a metal tube through her nose and watched Birdie writhe and cry out for some, any help.

They force-fed Birdie four times in two days, devouring any last inch of sanity the fiery woman once possessed. Her throat cried for soothing, for a single glass of part water, part freedom. But she couldn't give in, not for a second.