Tommy Shelby finally recognises the extent of his mental damage. An Illness that is eating away at his conscious being, devouring every last morsel of sanity in his head.
An illness that finally forces him to seek counsel from a professional.
To fi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For the steadily progressing week, all Tommy had done was wonder whether Verity would actually turn up. His presentation when he had last seen her was perhaps too bolshy too soon – he thought, after he'd mulled it over. Perhaps she didn't take kindly to him telling her what to do – and he maybe thought he might have been a bit too demanding.
But in typical Thomas Shelby fashion – he reminded himself that if she wanted the money, she would come. And so, his chaotic brain calmed for a while.
Friday eventually fell into the clutches of reality, as Tommy stayed shut away in his office like some kind of nocturnal creature, the curtains drawn and his eyes darting from paper to paper – all related to the various businesses he owned and ran. Outside of his office, he could hear his son laughing playfully – and Francis, his housemaid, entertaining the young boy.
Shortly after 11am, the sound of tyres crunching over gravel could be heard. Like a lion alerted to it's prey, Tommy lifted his head to the sound. That had to be Verity.
Leaving the warm seat of his leather chair, he stood by the window and examined the view of a Chevrolet 1924 Superior cruising steadily up his driveway. The car stopped outside of the main door, and not to his surprise – Verity climbed out.
Standing on the stony driveway, the psychologist stared up in awe at the beauty of the house. It had only taken her several more minutes to find the bloody place – driving around town and asking people for directions. But she had finally made it.
The cold wind of the November day whisked through her dark brunette hair, which was left loose in softer curls for today. She stood there, tall and graceful in her black stilettos, with her long red skirt and black ruched blouse – all tucked up in her long camel coloured coat, with it's soft faux fur trim.
Treading carefully in the uneven gravel, Verity wobbled the short distance to the steps of the large, intimidating front door and lifted the oversized brass knocker a few times, waiting patiently with her handbag clutched securely in her black gloved grasp.
In moments, Francis had the door open and offered a gentle smile to Verity.
"Dr Grant?" Francis asked, to which Verity nodded in response.
"Good morning, I take it you're aware I'm here to see Mr Shelby?" Verity asked, her red painted lips set into her usual kind smile.
Taking a step back, Francis furthered opened the door and gestured for the psychologist to come in, lowering her gaze in a polite and respectful manner.
As Verity stepped inside, it was safe to saw her awed feeling from the exterior of the house had followed her in. The only sound that could be heard on the hard floor was the sound of her huge heels clicking, the sound reverberating off the high walls and the ceiling.
She paced like a child, gawping around rather shamelessly at the beauty of the house. It made her London home and office feel like a slum.
