Arabella || Peaky Blinders [Michael Gray]

one

Chapter One
"No bloody brain cells"

Arabella banged her fist hard against the door.

When there was no answer, she huffed impatiently, stepping back to peer through the windows, only to be met with the darkness of drawn curtains.

"Bastards," she muttered under her breath, moving away. She glanced behind her briefly, noticing she'd gained a few spectators.

It was not uncommon for the people of Watery Lane to see the youngest Newell sibling banging on the Shelby's front door – morning, afternoon, or evening, if she had a bone to pick with them, she'd be there. And when Arabella was furiously set on making a point, god help anybody who stood in her way.

Ignoring the nosy watchers along the black cobbled streets, Arabella continued to rap her fist loudly against the door, and eventually, after god knows how long, it swung open.

Her closed fist hovered mid air, dangerously close to a startled John Shelby's face.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, glancing over her. "You trying to knock the bloody door down or somethin'?"

"Where's my brother?" Arabella questioned firmly. She was not taking a single ounce of shit today, and that slightly terrified John, especially since he was in the firing line.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably, avoiding her angry eyes. "Look, we had a run in with–"

"Fucking hell," Arabella interjected, running a hand through her already rather dishevelled hair. Her pulse had begun to quicken at the thought of her brother badly injured, yet again, after getting caught up in some of the Shelby's stupid 'business'. "Where is he then?"

John hesitated for a moment. "Bells–"

"Don't you 'Bells' me, John Shelby," she snapped, causing him to shrink back slightly. "Now tell me where my idiot of a brother is or I swear to God–"

"John," a lower, raspier, voice spoke up from the shadows. Arabella glanced up, already recognising the voice that belonged to the eldest Shelby brother, Arthur. "Let the poor girl inside already."

John just about stepped aside as Arabella barged her way through the door, storming down the hall and into the only room that seemed to be bathed in any sort of light. Instantly, she was engulfed by the strong stench of tobacco and whiskey, reminding her that she was all too familiar with this house.

Arabella halted by the doorframe, eyes falling on her older brother slumped in a chair, face bloodied and bruised. He was wearing his typical attire - a waistcoat, jacket and trousers to match, white shirt (now stained with spots of blood), and a black tie. It was only his peaked cap that was missing.

Polly Gray stood by him, a wet, bloodstained cloth in her hand, and Tommy remained hidden in the corner of the room, a cigarette in his mouth, as always.

"What the bloody hell happened?" Arabella demanded, catching the attention of everyone in the room. Her question was directed mostly at Tommy, though, he barely even flinched at her sharp tone. Whether he'd become used to the younger girl's seemingly constant hostility towards him, or whether he was just numb to most feelings completely by this point, Arabella would never know, but his lack of reaction only aggravated her even further.

"He's okay," Polly interjected quickly, attempting to reassure the girl, but Arabella was already crossing the room, finger pointed accusingly at Tommy.

"How many more hits is he going to have to take for you?" She snapped. Tommy lowered his gaze to her green eyes, taking a puff of his cigarette. In a flash, Arabella had snatched it out of his hand and thrown it to the ground, stomping on it with her black boots. "Seriously, Tommy, how many more times do I have to come and collect him from here, from the hospital, from the fucking streets, before he ends up in the bloody morgue?!"