── 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲 ──
The sullied streets of Birmingham were, and always would be, soaked in death. Cobblestone caked thick with the lost lives of the innocent and guilty alike, spilt crimson blood dripping feverishly through the scum and slim cracks to forever stain the pebbles that would house their spirits. Not even the glass-like rain could wash away the ghosts, still lost, still roaming the city confused and alone, calling out their goodbyes to families who'd never know. Footsteps rendered silent by the whispering veil that kept them from the land of the living, Josephine and Benjamin Murphy cried out for their daughter who'd been orphaned by two well-aimed bullets and one filthy bastard.
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The stream of customers had slowly dwindled till the bar was empty and only the stink of spilled liquor and vomit lingered close by, it always seemed to be the same on a sunday evening. The religious rested as god commanded on the sabbath day and the others were one of two things; getting into some kind of trouble or preparing to fend for their families the next day. A whiskey on the rocks with few acquaintances from the local bar was often brushed aside in that certain establishment. If the people of Small Heath wanted a rowdy evening where they could forget every responsibility they had, the Garrison was the place to be, not a family run tavern where prostitutes weren't even allowed.
Sharply whistling an unrecognisable melody, Benjamin's steady hands took a somewhat clean rag from the pocket of stained apron that rested over his dress pants and fiddled with it. For a moment he simply took in the state of his business, the edges of his mouth curling downwards into a frown with his soft tawny curls seeming to deflate in disappointment. It was more trouble than it was worth.
Sighing, he gave the rag a quick tug between his fingers and started on the countertop closest to him. Whiskey glasses had left blemishes across the bar, thick and hard to remove with the limited strength that Benjamin had to offer. He ran his calloused fingertips around the edge of the wood and they caught in every dip and cranny there was, he gave a hoarse huff, it had been all he could afford and it still wasn't enough.
The flooring was audibly sticky beneath his feet and every time he took a step and that treacly sound hit his ears, he winced as though someone had the barrel of a gun by his temple. The front windows had been caught in a pair of patrons' fight and all credibility the alehouse held was splintered, smashed into more pieces than Benjamin could count and he felt a lump form in the back of his throat.
With a final drained moan of discontent, the russet eyed man decided to leave the mess of his business until the morning, the night had already settled and with it the dangers of the city. As Benjamin locked up the establishment he thought of his wife at home, cosied up to their daughter as they each waited for him to arrive safe and sound.
Benjamin's journey was a cautious one, breathing lowly, slow like that of an animal undesired to be seen lest it be devoured by bigger, more ravenous prey. With a blunted butter knife clutched tightly to his chest he sped up his step, toe heel, toe heel, he repeated the mantra in his head, praying for sturdy cobblestone and a deserted street.
He turned a corner sharply, holding out his butter knife with shuddering fingers that were slowly turning white from pressure. A relieved exhale was pushed from his pursed lips when he saw the dim glow of his porchlight partially obscured by the hanging stems of Josephine's potted daisies.
Speeding up his calculated steps, Benjamin arrived home only for fear to clog up his body from head to toe, his thick eyebrows furrowed and for the second time that night, his lips curled downwards. The door was ajar, light spilling into the garden from the hallway lamps and a suspicious coloured splatter marked the concrete path.
Bile rose in Benjamin's throat and he rolled his useless knife between his fingers as he hesitantly pushed the door wider open and swallowed back his vomit. Nothing seemed to be amiss within the house itself, an empty cup of tea was perched on the corner table with an open book lay next to it, an unlit cigarette acting as a bookmark. Beside it was a thin flute of cheap champenge, the bubbles long gone and hardly any of the liquor seemed to have been drunk.
It was unusually quiet, the air still and Benjamin couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong, he couldn't hear the childish giggling that erupted from both his wife and daughter when they hid from him, the air was too still. Gulping, and exchanging his butter knife for a larger ( although still blunted ) knife from the kitchen, he started a slow and cautious ascent up the stairs, flinching at every groan and creak.
The further up the stairs he climbed, the stronger the metallic odor in the air would grow and strengthen causing his eyes to water. He stopped dead.
The pink wooden door of his darling daughter's room had been ripped from its hinges, her name that had been written across it in a messy, cursive font had been scratched away and lying in the doorway was Josephine.
Her eyes, once the colour of scotch sat in the sunlight, were bloodshot and stared blankly into nothingness, her final look of terror frozen on her pretty face. Between her eyes was a small but messy wound, clearly the result of a bullet tearing mercilessly through her flesh.
With a loud, broken sob, Benjamin collapsed to his knees and dragged his body to his wife, fearing the cold touch of her dead skin, his hands fretted above her only daring to brush her bloody, golden locks. Tears tumbled over the waterline of his eyes and before he knew it, he had pulled Josephine onto his lap and had her head cradled in his hands as he begged her to wake up. He thumbed at her cheek, spearing the blood further in his foolish attempt to wipe it away, his tears splashed onto her chest where her necklace lay between her breasts and he took it.
He clutched the pendant of the crimson rose and pressed his lips to it before the thought of his daughter pressed his mind. Further cries pushed past his chewed lips and with his dirty sleeve, he wiped his running nose, vision blurred with sadness.
"Oh god," he mumbled, voice thick with emotion, "oh god, oh god," Benjamin wept.
"Daddy?" A voice called out, young, afraid and just like Benjamin's, broken with continuous sobs.
For a moment, hope soared within his chest and he forced his sobs to quiet down, reducing them to simple sniffles.
The voice came again, the same word repeated as she asked for some kind of comfort, after every syllable, her voice became more unstable.
"Fauna?" Benjamin questioned, already weakly stumbling to the small wardrobe and ripping the doors open, one of the doorknobs clattering onto the hardwood.
There was Benjamin's little girl, a plain nightgown covered her up and she sat scrunched into a protective ball, her quivering fingers playing with the hem of her clothes whilst sobs spilled out of her. Upon her right cheek was a large mark, slowly turning purple with a minor open wound in the centre of the bruise, blood dripping down her chin and onto her nightgown.
Jumping from her hidden spot within the wardrobe, Fauna wrapped her arms around Benjamin's neck and her body shook with throaty sobs, the collar of his shirt dampening. Her breath was hitching so hard, her father feared she'd collapse and so he pulled her close and pressed a quick kiss on her hairline.
"Shh," he cooed into her ear, turning her around so she wouldn't have to face the body of her mother, "everything's going to be okay darling." With trembling fingers he took the pendant and silver chain and placed it around her neck securely.
Fauna peered down through wet eyelashes, "is mummy dead?" she asked.
Benjamin wasn't sure how to answer.
"She screamed and then she fell over," explained Fauna as she sucked her thumb into her mouth and more tears trickled down her chin. "I think she's hurt."
"Mummy's just fine," he forced himself to reply, picking her up and bracing himself with shuddering legs, keeping Fauna's head pressed into his shirt, eyes covered. "Mummy's just fine," Benjamin repeated, he was sure it was only to convince himself because Josephine, his wife, was dead and if there was anything he knew for sure it was that she wouldn't be coming back.
They left the house, Benjamin having lowered Fauna to the floor despite her bare feet because he simply couldn't hold the two of them up anymore. He could feel his heart physically breaking in two, he felt every string snap and rather than fear, anger was beginning to weigh his body down.
"Where are we doing?" Fauna asked, one hand clutching her fathers and the other toying with her new necklace. "Why isn't mummy with us?" She peppered him with questions, hardly pausing for breath despite the multiple times he'd told her to be quiet in his frail voice.
Her questions remained unanswered until they came across a familiar structure, a pub with an unruly crowd and a sign that read The Garrison.
Benjamin hoped with every fibre of his being that Polly Gray was in the god-forsaken bar that constantly stole his customers away because apart from her, the only other person he trusted was planted in a pool of her own blood. The thought alone made him gag and renewed tears fell from his eyes.
Pushing the door open, the two were met with an eruption of cheers and right away Benjamin plucked Fauna from the ale stained flooring with the last of his strength.
"Fauna!" Came a childish yell, closely followed by a rowdy John Shelby dressed in an oversized version of his family's trademark suits and newsboy cap. With every bounce across the sticky floor, his cap slipped lower over his eyes, crystal blue disappearing so quickly he stumbled right into Benjamin, who's knees almost buckled.
Ignoring his closest friend's father, he tugged on the bottom of Fauna's nightgown, excitement filling his being at the unexpected visit. Despite tears having dried on her face and more filling up her big eyes, she wriggled in Benjamin's arms to be put down.
"Is your aunt Pol here?" Quired Benjamin.
"In the back," nodded John, not making eye-contact with anyone but Fauna, concern written across his face at her wet face.
"Take us to her," he said, following John who had already begun scampering towards the back room where few of the family had congregated.
The young boy flung the doors open with an excitable, "Aunt Pol look who it is!"
The woman in question lifted her head, lips pursed at her nephew's volume, a whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, "John, be quiet."
"But look," he whined.
"Ben?" Polly asked, ushering her family away, "what're you doing here, where's Jo?"
The worrisome tone to Polly's usually steady voice sent Benjamin over the edge, he fell to his knees and Fauna jumped out of his arms and was immediately pulled into a tight embrace from John.
Benjamin let out loud, shoulder-shaking sobs as he struggled to find words and with his head in his bloody hands he called out Polly's name who settled into a crouch in front of him, hand on his shoulder.
"She's dead, oh god she's dead."
The glass in Polly's hand smashed against the floor, the amber liquid forming a puddle around her heeled shoes.
Fauna's head snapped around to stare at her father's quivering from, "you're lying," she wept, "you said she was okay!!" Fauna howled before promptly bursting into loud wails, "you said mummy was okay."
With the commotion that followed, nobody seemed to notice as Benjamin rose from the ground with a seemingly renewed vigour and exited the Garrison, no one but Polly.
Young Arthur had found his way back into the room, nosy nature taking over before he could stop himself and he saw eight year old John struggling to stop a girl two years his junior from throwing him off her. The eldest Shelby had of course met his brother's friend a multitude of times but he still had to wrack his liquor soaked brain for her name.
"Fauna," he called and even at the age of sixteen, his voice held an older gravel.
She paid no mind but soon had no choice as Arthur picked her up and awkwardly tried his hand at soothing her, stroking her hair and bobbing her up and down like he'd seen Polly do to Finn when he fussed.
"It's alright sweetheart," he muttered, spinning on the spot for something to entertain her with but even he knew a gun was out of the question and that was really the only option. Instead, he gently placed her back onto the carpet where John grabbed her hand within his grubby one and squeezed it tight.
It was a few moments later that Arthur called for Tommy, who he knew was waiting by the door, ear pressed lightly against the wood in the hopes to hear something of value. He entered, dark hair tucked under the same newsboy cap that his brothers also wore and his lips were set in a straight line, "what?" He asked, unbothered.
"I need you to keep an eye on those two while I look for Pol," Arthur explained, already out of the door before Tommy could express his obvious distaste.
John peered at Fauna who found the floor interesting and Tommy's eyes were on the children, a cumbersome silence between them. The young girl's shrieks had become whimpers and snivels as her fingers traced the smooth dips of her necklace. A crimson rose with a silver stem that had a small circle on the end for the chain to loop through, it was beautiful. Josephine had cleaned it every day, her excuse being that she wanted at least one pretty thing in her life.
Taking notice of the shimmering rose between Fauna's fingers, Tommy strode to the glass vase of flowers that sat neatly on the windowsill. Polly's flowers.
He paid no mind and searched the bouquet for a certain flower, the same type of rose as the one in Fauna's hand. Once he'd found it, he awkwardly ambled to her and knelt on one knee by her side. Moving her hair away from her face, Tommy took the flower by its stem ( having quickly flicked off the thorns ) and tucked it behind her ear gently, ensuring it stayed neatly.
Fauna said nothing, thumb still in her mouth and John's warm hand encasing hers but around her thumb, she gave him somewhat of a smile.
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It was the clicking of sharp heels echoing through the now empty alehouse that caught the attention of the three still inhabiting the back room. They instantly knew that their aunt Pol had returned, Arthur beside her with his hat bunched up in his hands ─ a sign of regret and condolences.
Finger by finger Polly pulled off her gloves, her expression blank all for the frown upon her pink lips and she downed a shot of whiskey that had been left unoccupied in one go, wincing at the burn.
Hot tears breaking over the waterline of her eyes, Polly knelt in front of Fauna and took her chin gently between her fingers. She took notice of Josephine's pendant around her neck as well as the flower that had been tucked behind her ear. "I'm so sorry little flower," she stifled a sob, "your daddy's not coming home."
aimee speaks
❝ i just want to give a massive thankyou to chloe for helping with along with this project, just like she does all my others and for the way she encourages me constantly as well as tara who proof read this chapter for me like the absolute queen she is. not only that but thankyou to kizzy and cheryl putting up with my endless ramblings, i love you all ❞
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