Smoke [Tommy Shelby]

IX

After a lack of deal was struck, and the men proudly revealed themselves as IRA members, the conversation seemed to head off track. Perhaps too much whiskey, or perhaps the adrenaline of the situation going straight to his head, one of the men began singing an IRA song obnoxiously, hollering it out for the whole of Small Heath to hear it. Elizabeth's skin was crawling and the nausea began creeping up on her. Her fear of the IRA ran deep but her hatred ran deeper.

As they exited the pub, Tommy approached the bar, his face neutral and steady like always. Elizabeth hoped her face didn't look as flushed as it felt and tried to busy herself with wiping down the bar top. It seemed silly to play as if she'd been oblivious to their obnoxious performance – she'd have to be deaf to not have heard the hollering and out of tune singing, and blind not to have seen the grand gestures and drunken stumbling. "What did they want?" she asked, masking her curiosity.

Tommy observed her, picking up his glass of whiskey. It seemed he hadn't drunk very much in the presence of the Irishmen, his glass still full. "They're nobodies. They drink in the Black Swan in Sparkbrook, they're only rebels because they like the songs." Elizabeth chanted Black Swan mentally, praying she wouldn't forget the name of the pub in the midst of the conversation. She wanted to scope out the venue herself.

"So, Cheltenham is tomorrow." Elizabeth mentioned, changing the topic before her interest with the IRA men became too apparent. "Where will you be picking me up from?"

Tommy gave a rare, small smile at the mention of the races. The smile was so small and so brief, Elizabeth wondered whether if she had blinked she would have missed it completely. "I'll pick you up from outside here at noon. Have you picked out a dress yet?"

"I've got a couple in mind, I'm very indecisive." Elizabeth answered truthfully. "You've got to look your best at the races. There's all kinds of suitable men." She teased, laughing slightly. She watched as he drained the remaining liquid from his glass, observed how sharp his jawline was. How well carved out his face was; stunning bone structure, high cheekbones, bright eyes, a jawline shaved to perfection. If you weren't aware of his heinous crimes or the blades in his cap, you'd easily mistake him for an angel. She tried to picture the vulnerable face she'd been privy to, the rare occasion his stoic mask slipped, but she couldn't place it. It seemed so out of place at the time, but as she stood looking at his blank face it seemed like the vulnerability had belonged to somebody else entirely.

"Wear red." Tommy commanded. He looked over her slowly, imagining her body delicately wrapped in soft, red material. His head started to feel fuzzy and he blamed it on the concoction of the morning's opium and multiple glasses of whiskey. "Until tomorrow." He nodded at her, walking swiftly out of the pub, refusing to look back.

†

Elizabeth cursed her small heels, gritting her teeth in angst with every sound they made on the cobbled ground. Barking dogs shouted at her, warning her to leave, her sight was obstructed by streams of washing lines and clothes hanging out to dry in the smoky yard. Piles of rubble and bricks lay strewn around the lane, netting covering every window as if to hide the inhabitants from the war zone outside. She was following the drunken Irishman that had sung his terrorist song so loudly inside of the Garrison; she'd waited patiently outside of the Black Swan, and then followed him back home, wanting to see exactly where this man lived. Despite the IRA no longer thought as being responsible for the guns, Elizabeth was still determined to get Inspector Campbell to turn over their houses and arrest them; any reason would do. She knew first hand his savageness towards IRA members, and -more specifically- what he did to people he just suspected were IRA sympathisers. At least this time it would be a dangerous IRA savage at the inspector's mercy, instead of an innocent family man.