A Mind to Tear a Soul in Two

Chapter Seventeen

Oh, Christ.

Jesus Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Jesus — dying on a fucking cross — Christ.

Jesus — son of Mary, dying on the fucking cross — Christ.

Jesus — son of Mary, dying on the fucking cross to save us from our sins — Christ.

Christ, what in the bloody hell had she been thinking?

She hadn't been — that's what Tommy'll say. He'll pace back and forth, shaking his head and smoking his stick and he'll say, "If you'd just stopped to think for one bloody second we wouldn't be in this mess, would we Charlotte?"

She'd look away, refusing to answer. And then he'd get angry. He'd reach forward, taking hold of her shoulders, tightening his grip until she was wincing under the pressure. Then making sure she was looking at him, his voice would grow cold and he'd repeat the question, "Would we?"

And then she'd have to say, "No, Tommy." Like a mumping cow.

And if she didn't say it loud enough he'd make her repeat herself and the whole fucking situation would be too much for her to take.

And she'd been doing so well too.

These past six months had been grand. She'd finished the school year with acceptable marks — nothing spectacular, but they'd been passing. She'd been working well with Curly at the yard. And since the summer holiday had begun, Tommy had been giving her ledgers to look over — and when he wasn't looking John would sneak her the books for the shipments coming and going out of the yard late at night — shipments that she wasn't supposed to know of.

She wasn't exactly sure if Tommy was aware that she was working on these undisclosed ledgers, but otherwise he'd been perfectly happy with her performance in the shop.

And now... And now herself was about to be crucified.

Jesus Christ, seated at the right hand of god, please take her now.

It really was no use asking for help from the son of god himself — after all it was her people who'd made the nails used to crucify him — and for that they'd not receive help from the holy ones in any circumstance.

She wasn't likely to survive the next few days anyhow.

Tommy was going to kill her.

He was going to lecture her until she was begging for it, and then he'd kill her.

That'd be only if Polly didn't get her hands on her first.

How many times had Polly warned her about keeping her nose clean and record clear? More times than Charlotte could possibly remember.

"Never spit in front of the copper, always when his back is turned."

"Always say 'yesir', then call him a squealing pig once he's gone."

"Keep your head down till he's passed, then you walk proud like a true Shelby."

Growing up, Polly had been terrified that if Charlotte were to have even the slightest run in with the law, she'd be taken away and given to the church, just like her own children.

"Be like your brothers in any way you wish, but you stay away from that jail or you'll wish the devil to take you when I get my hands on your skinny ass."

And Charlotte listened to her aunt — for the most part. There'd been one instance — she'd been ten or so — when a fight had broken out in the street.