𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘 & 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 | 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴ

I've never been a big believer of the man upstairs. I remember going to a church as a kid, but I was a kid. The adults make the decision for you, tell you what to believe, and so forth. It's not a rebellion against faith, it never was. For I'd love to let Jesus Christ, into my life, to have faith. But the way I see it, if God existed, the world wouldn't be full of black smoke. I'm sure there's some beautiful parts of the world, I'm almost certain there is. However no matter where you go, the same people start to materialise. The damned. The people that cause you to spit on the ground and yell with the air in your lungs that life isn't fair. Maybe I'm one of those people. If you want to survive this world, it's kill or be killed. The war taught men that. You'd think after a war, that people would find peace with the world, with themselves. But hell, it's like a warzone out there, machine guns or not. I was told by a professor at my old school, that I wouldn't get anywhere in life with a tongue like that. If I went around speaking what was in my head, I'd get a bullet in the forehead. That hasn't happened yet. It's kill or be killed. I don't know what's fucking worse.

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It was raining the night she stepped out of the car into the unfamiliar cobbled street. She wasn't in Ireland anymore. There were no trees, and no grass growing for miles. It was dark, and foreign, and the girl couldn't help but fear the unknown surroundings. If she'd known the people within Small Heath in Birmingham, she'd have gotten back into that carriage, and not batted an eyelid. A green emerald coat billowed down to her ankles covering a blouse and hard material trousers. Another thing she was going to hell for, according to her mother. A coral pink hat sat upon her mousy shoulder length hair. All and all she was pretty. Beautiful, with a less so attitude. In Ireland the streets were quiet and the pubs were loud. In Birmingham, the streets were loud, the pubs were loud. Everything was noise. Just noise. If she was in Ireland, the sound coming from her heeled boots would echo off the pavement, but her footsteps were drowned by the hustle and bustle of factories and drunken men. The girl didn't have much to go on, with only the name of a pub, to find who she was looking for. Sure enough, turning a corner, and on a corner itself, was a pub, as fine a pub as back home. The Garrison. She'd never been apprehensive to walk into a pub before, she was an Irish girl after all, her family literally lived in a snug. But, as her gloved hands, pushed open the heavy, half glass door, the aroma of whiskey and ale filling her nostrils, she did not feel so comfortable. It was a beautiful pub, the girl did so admit, as pubs go anyways. It was busy too. People talking in a low buzz, laughing, spilling drink. There was no familiarity to it, that she hoped there to be, standing behind the bar. Had she got the wrong pub? A quick look at the letter, and she was reassured. It was the right place. Wrong time. She'd wait it out, if she wasn't drunk by then. Taking a deep breath, the girl moved through the hoards of people walking to the front of the bar, sliding onto a row of empty cushioned stools. The bar man, looked at her, studying her, but there was a kindness to his eyes. She was new blood, of course people would want to know who she was.

"Whiskey, please. Irish." She mumbled with a small nod of acknowledgment, a finger pushing a strand of hair from her face. The money she'd sat on the table, left untouched. Her eyes rose to question the barman.

"On the house, m'am" And with that he wandered off putting a drying towel to a glass. If she hadn't been so caught up in getting money from her purse, she would have noticed a man sliding into the seat beside her, raising a hand to the barman. Her chocolate brown irises, slowly turned to meet a man sitting, both his elbows landing on the table, a glass of whiskey in his hand, identical to the one in front of her. He didn't look at her initially, but his cold blue eyes met hers eventually.

"Thank you...I can buy my own drinks" She spoke in her strong Irish lilt.

"Dublin?" He spoke in a low gravelly voice ignoring her slight bit of stubbornness. The last thing she needed was strangers buying her drinks.

"Galway" The man nodded slowly, taking a swig of the orange-brown liquid.

"By the water." He stated, a statement that sounded if he was lost in his head.

"Yes, sir" A vivid image of her hometown flashed within her mind, and a pang of homesickness filled her stomach. But there was nothing for her there.

"Do you want a fuck or-" The girl who had heard a lot of bluntness in her life, had never heard of anything of the sort. With a sharp turn she was facing the man intensely.

"Don't flatter yourself" His cold eyes became bluer returning from his mind , staring her up and down. They landed on her trousers.

"You only come in here alone if your a whore. But-whores don't wear those. Not a single woman in Small Heath, wears those" His hand outstretched, tapping her on the knee, gesturing to her black trousers from beneath her coat. She too took a drink, digesting the mans words.

"Why would I hide legs like mine under a skirt?" She questioned, her mouth turning up amused, suggesting she was not vain but joking.

"Then why are you in a place like this?" He questioned, interest in his eyes, taking another drink, the liquid draining from the glass.

"My sister. She told me she works here. I don't suppose you know her?" She raised an eyebrow as his eyes softened slightly from their hard position. His eyes then moved to behind her where a familiar voice rose.

"Thomas Shelby stop chastising-" The strong Irish voice stopped abruptly as she took in the girl that had now turned to face her. So that was the mans name "Cliona?"

"Hello sister."

"Of all the people in this bloody pub-" Grace sighed as she pulled her sister through the back of the bar front, out into the darkened alley. "You'd better have a good reason for being here" Cliona's face fell. This was not the welcome she'd hoped for. If she was anybody else with a different heart, she'd have gotten upset.

"Can't I come see my bloody sister?" She hissed turning her face away from Grace, causing her face to become shadowed with the night light. A few quiet movements, and Grace wrapped her sister in a hug, heaving out a weary laugh.

"I'm glad to see you." Her eyes softened but her gesture still remained unsatisfactory. Cliona picked up on this immediately.

"Grace, why are you in Birmingham?" She questioned raising an eyebrow. Cliona wasn't stuck up, even though she had grown up with money, but even if it were the poorest to choose, it probably wouldn't be Birmingham.

"Change of pace, sister. Change of pace" Was all the young girl got in response. Cliona had no idea what that meant, but in that moment it didn't really matter. She thought nothing of it. "Cliona, you've got to listen to me-this place-these people, I don't want you mixed with it. Go home, for your own sake" Grace's hands landed softly on her shoulders, looking her sister deeply in the eyes, a wave of seriousness coming over her features.

"What are you talking about?" The girl was smart, she knew the reputation of the place but could not comprehend how drastic the infamous Birmingham, and its inhabitant were.

"Do you know who the Peaky Blinders are? They're dangerous people, Cli-

"I know who the fucking Peaky Blinders are Grace" She didn't. Not really. "What makes you think your exempt to their trouble?" Her arms crossed slowly, mostly because it was freezing, but partly because she knew she'd crossed a dangerous line. No man's land. Grace went silent, her shoulders raising into a small shrug. Unexpectedly Cliona's mouth upturned, amused.

"It's him isn't it. Grace for goodness sake! Didn't mam teach you anything? Me chasing a bloody gangster, aye maybe, but you? That's not a Grace kind of move." Grace stood her head down, holding a spittoon bucket, remaining silent. Cliona heaved out a dry sigh, spat in the bucket, and pulled out a cigarette from her pocket. "I'm not leaving, not now" She spoke before disappearing through the bar door, Grace close on her heel, putting on a fake smile. Upon returning to the warmth of the pub, Thomas Shelby sat in the same place on the bar stool. He stood up as he seen the two woman, placing a grey flat cap upon his head, and if Cliona wasn't mistaken, he'd sewn a razor blade within its front. She didn't know whether to run a mile or respect the man.

"Grace" He nodded in his same monotone drawl, with his thick brummy accent. "Invite your sister to the races" And with that he disappeared through the people and presumably out the door. The invitation to the races, changed everything. It was already too late.