smoke storm. peaky blinders

𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲

𝙘 𝙝 𝙖 𝙥 𝙩 𝙚 𝙧 𝙩 𝙝 𝙧 𝙚 𝙚

"So they've turned to witchcraft now, have they?"

Robert let out a puff of breath, his large, dark eyebrows raising far into the creases of his forehead. Adelaide smiled, a surprised chuckle leaving her lips.

"Well, that's the general idea I got," she said, shrugging her shoulders before leaning across the table. "You believe in all that?"

She expected him to laugh, but Rob's face was nothing but serious.

"If you saw how serious they are around these things, then you might too. But either way, it's worth taking notice of. You never know what they're up to," he said, shaking his head, running a hand across his grizzle. "Red powder, you said it was?"

She nodded slowly. "Blown onto the horse's snout."

"Strange magic," Robert mumbled. "Though it could all be a ploy, to get the women betting and then telling their men to bet too. All on the horse." He was still shaking his head. "It's clever if you think it out as if you'd do it yourself. The horse wins the first time when bets are lower, and everyone thinks the witchcraft worked. Maybe win again. Then the horse loses and you've got a hoard of people losing on bets."

"Too clever," she murmured.

"Which Shelby would it've been?" Adelaide said quickly, narrowing her eyes. "On the horse, I mean."

"Arthur's the oldest, but it wouldn't've been him. It's Thomas who's the thinker, everyone knows it. He'll be the leader of the Peaky Blinders soon if he isn't already called it."

The conversation had put a dampener on the room. Harry placed his empty glass on the table with a loud clatter. He'd gotten his drink as he'd been promised, though its origin was the old decanter on their coffee table, rather than a whiskey in a pub. He looked tired then, with his eyes swollen and purplish around the corners, too light to be a bruise, but dark enough that he looked dangerous. Adelaide frowned slightly, then looked away.

"So what do we do?" Harry asked loudly.

"What we came to do," she said. "Racehorses and betting shops don't wholly concern us. Not yet, at least. Send a few boys down to the shop. Look into the factory strikes and the Inspector."

Adelaide stood, taking the packet of cigarettes that sat in her pocket and tossing them to the table. With a raised glance, Harry watched her, his expression curious. It was only as she reached for the long coat that hung on a single peg by the front door, that he finally sighed and asked the question that hung in the air.

"Where are you going?"

She smirked, pulling the coat collar tight around her jaw. "I have somewhere I want to be."

It wasn't until the next day, that Adeliade saw Harry again. It was as she was leaving the house again, that he came barreling around the corner of the street, catching the sleeve of her blouse between two fingers, spinning her abruptly to a stop in front of him. He was panting, cheeks a crude shade of red thanks to his sprint and the strange warmth of the day.

"Adelaide. I was afraid I'd missed you," he said, puffing out a heavy breath again.

"What's wrong?" Adelaide asked, fearing the worst with his desperate attempt to speak with her.

"Nothing is wrong," he said, gulping and shaking his head. "They sent Reggie in. Just a betting den. Says they're fixing the face, no doubt about it. Apparently, he knows of the Shelbys well enough to be certain of the fact."

"Why does that worry me?" Adelaide said, lips thinning. "He knows the Shelbys? That can't ever be good."

"Everyone 'round here knows the Shelbys. It's inevitable," Harry said. "But that's not the best part."

He paused, as if for effect, waiting for her to ask. She gave in.

"What is the best part then?"

"Reggie's wife works down for the telephone lines, says she heard something about the inspector. They know about the guns, Adelaide. They're not here for the strikes or the IRA. They have a list, he said, of suspects. The Peaky Blinders are on the very top of it along with one of the communists in the factories."

"Get the name of their friend," Adelaide said, head turning away from him to think. "We know the guns are here. They couldn't have moved them so quick. But the Shelbys will know they're suspects so the guns won't be in Birmingham for long. We'll just have to get to them before the Inspector does."

She smiled and placed a quick, sisterly kiss on her brother's cheek before she stepped out onto the road, flattening her sleeves.

"Well done, Harry," she said, watching him nod in thanks. "Good work."

Adelaide walked down the same roads as she had the previous day, past the bleak lines of terraced houses that were swarmed with playing children and the mud tracks that ran through alleyways. Eventually, she emerged onto the street in which one of the Shelbys had performed their witchcraft. The old woman was nowhere in sight, but it was upon seeing the street, that Adelaide remembered the token she'd placed in her hand.

Reaching deep into her coat pocket, Adelaide pulled out the gifted piece, finding an old, gold coin in the palm of her hand. Its origin was unknown to her, but she felt a pull to it, something that made her close her hands into fists and drop the token into her pocket again before she carried on.

The pathway to the Garrison pub was something she could hardly remember, despite her persistence. It took a total of twenty minutes of looping back on herself before Adelaide found the large building that stood humbly on the corner of a factory road, hidden by the smoke and smog that pummeled from their chimneys. Even from a whole street away, the stench of alcohol seemed evident in the air, a burnt sort of smell that scarped at the back of her nose.

Along the edge of the road, stood only a few people, their faces smudged with soot and dirty hands swiped across their grey vests. At the very end, a man stumbled toward the Garrison's doorway, seeming to already be drunk as he tumbled into Adelaide's pathway and back again, falling into the pub's doors without a sudden shout.

The distress on his face became evident as she grew closer, curiosity beating out her common sense. The flat cap slipped atop his bald head as quickly as the mumbles that fell from his lips. He was pale- a sickly sort of colour that was almost blue as if he struggled to breathe in his panicked stupor.

With a sudden spark of violence, the man threw open the doors of the pub, screaming words that came out in an indiscernible blur. Tables were knocked over and thrown across the room as shouts of protest came from the people who were already in the building. Just before the two front doors swung shut, Adelaide could see two men jump to his aid, hurling themselves on top of him, pinning him to the floor as he writhed and turned.

She hadn't realised she'd stopped walking just before the end of the street. She glanced around once and hurried away from the muffled shouts of anger and the stench of alcohol, knocking herself from the hazed state.

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