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CLARA SHELBY HAD WALKED THE GRAVELLY ROAD of Watery Lane many times in her life. She'd walked it late at night, early in the morning, every day since she was little. She'd walked the streets proudly, proud of her steady gait and her family name, yet not once had she staggered down the path, completely soaked in another person's blood, covered in bruises and littered with cuts. Every breath seemed to drag more and more nausea from the pit of her stomach.
She hadn't slept, (as if she ever could after the night she'd experienced), instead she had opted to stay curled up and to continue staring at the canal ahead of her, hoping and praying that barges would not come crawling down the canal.
The pain was persistently shooting up her body like a fire burning through her veins. She cringed as it exploded in her head with blinding whiteness. It made her dizzy, it made her reel.
As the sun rose and the cloud cover rolled in over the city of Birmingham, Clara forced herself to her feet, her shaky limbs dragging herself along the canal to get to Watery Lane.
She was limping, the gait that was smooth only last night was faltering and uneven. Her hair was ragged and unkempt, loose strands of her brown locks fell over her features, which were contorted with effort. The stones dug into her feet through her socks, her boots long discarded with the man's body. It felt torturous for her to move, but she aimed to keep her movements small and steady, unwilling to give up this time.
The scarce people that walked the streets stared and watched as she gritted her teeth and pulled herself along the road. The crusted blood from the night left her as a sight to see and a budding topic of gossip. Clara tiredly slumped against the door of six Watery Lane, her hand fumbling with the handle before she fell inside. She sluggishly caught herself on the wallpapered wall, her head spinning and her vision spotting black.
"Hello?" She whispered, her throat raw. "Pol? Tommy?" She croaked, calling out for anyone. Her tears welled up again at the thought of being alone in the house. "Finn? Arthur?...John? Please?"
She could hear footsteps above and she held back a cry of pure relief. She wasn't alone. The man was halfway down the stairs before he froze at the sight of the girl. Tommy dropped his hands to his side and with only a fraction of a second hesitation, he ran over to her, careful not to tread on her feet with his heavy boots. Silently she tumbled, giving him barely enough time to shoot out his callused hands. Even then her dead weight was almost too much to prevent the momentum from taking her to the ground.
Tommy hurriedly rushed her towards the couch, carrying her in his arms as if she were a small child. Blood stained through the fabric of his white shirt, but he didn't care as he held her. She allowed him to place her on the couch, his eyebrows scrunching together in worry as he sat her down.
"Clara?" His voice was frantic, gnawing into the mind. His hand was waving in front of her glazed eyes. "Clara girl, can you hear me? Hey, hey, hey, look at me, what happened?"
"I...I'm sorry...I-I'm so sorry—" A tremor ran through her body as her face screwed up. Her throat tightened as her tears raced down her cheek.
"It's okay, c'mon, you're okay," Tommy reassured, his eyes scanning over all of the blood and dirt. His mind was racing from all the possibilities. "Clara, you need to tell me what happened, yeah?"
She opened her mouth and closed it repeatedly as if she struggled to remember how to talk. Clara shook her head, refusing to look at her brother. She let out another onslaught of silent sobs, letting it wrack through her body. The man leaned back on his heels, staring at his sister as she wept. He hadn't seen her cry since she was younger, and now to see her weeping her eyes out sent waves of shock throughout his system. His eyes scanned the girl, taking notice of the slashes across her face, along with the black bruises around her neck. God knows where else she was injured.
"Okay, okay," Tommy began, his mind trying to piece together a way to deal with this situation. For once, he was utterly clueless. He didn't know what to do— or say for that matter, all he knew was that his sister was injured and injured badly and that he needed to help. "We need to get you cleaned off so I can take a look at your injuries, can you walk?"
Just as Clara opened her mouth to answer, the doors leading to the betting shop opened and in strolled John, a toothpick between his teeth. His casual grin faltered at the sight of the bloody figure on his couch along with his panicked, older brother.
"Holy shit," he swore, "What the fuck happened here?!"
"John, get Pol," Tommy firmly ordered, raising his voice. "GO!" The girl flinched, pushing herself further against the couch. Two hands wrapped around her arms, earning an ear-shattering scream from the girl. John watched in horror before promptly running out the door in search of their aunt.
"NO, GET OFF, LET GO OF ME," she yelled, squirming to break free, sending another uncontrollable wave of sobs to overcome her. Tommy's face went slack, his arms immediately falling to his sides as he watched the younger girl shake.
"Okay, okay, I won't touch you," he spoke slowly, trying his best to sound reassuring. "But we need to get you upstairs, so I can try to get some of this dirt off of you before Pol comes, alright?" The girl didn't respond, "Can you walk?"
Clara looked away, her tears eyes refusing to meet her brothers as she nodded slowly. She pushed herself up from the couch letting a small whimper escape her throat. She looked like an idiot. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clutched onto her brother's arm, using him as a balance. He carefully guided her towards the stairs, his eyes never leaving her small, trembling figure.
The girl bit back her cries of pain as she climbed. Each step felt like a mile and it wasn't long before her legs gave out. Tommy caught her with ease, immediately lifting her up despite her protests. He swiftly carried her into her bedroom, sitting her down on the chair that usually sat in the corner to collect clothes. The man grabbed a blanket from the bottom of her bed, draping the warmth of the wool over her shoulders.
Clara Shelby was in a daze. It felt as if she was living in a dream...or a dream of a dream. She couldn't register what her brother was saying, nor was she so sure she wanted to. She'd disappointed them. She'd killed a man, but she'd let him attack her. She knew better.
Clara pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying to push back her gags from the metallic stench lingering on her clothes and face. She hid her heaving chest, hoping to conceal it from her brother's eyes. The aches and injuries throughout her body became faded and lost amongst the numbness she felt. Her eyes stared at the wall as if hoping for a vortex to open and suck her away from the room. She could taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Tommy was still talking as he placed a bowl of water on a small table beside her. She watched his lips move, her eyes never straying to meet his. He seemed to instruct for her to wash off her hands as he left the room once more.
She wanted to call after him, tell him to stay. Tell him that she didn't want to be alone or tell him everything...but she didn't, she couldn't. The girl just sat and stared at the bowl, watching the water twirl and wisp. Clara tentatively let go of the blanket, dipping her hands into the water, her eyes shut tight as she submerged them, as if when she reached down she would feel the man's dead body against her fingertips.
The dark crimson on her hands shone brightly under the water, its daunting colour sending waves of nausea through the girl. She began to scrub her hands, her heart rate picking up as the red refused to fade. She was panicking. Her breath caught in her throat, as she scrubbed harder, yet the scarlet refused to budge. The girl let out a frustrated cry, her nails rapidly trying to scratch away the blood to no avail.
Tommy re-entered the room upon hearing the noise, watching as his sister heaved and cried over the bowl, her hands frantically rubbing together in haste.
"Clara! Clara, stop!" He rushed to her side, grabbing her wrists in an attempt to stop her vigorous scrubbing.
"It won't come off!" She panted, her glazed eyes focused on the redness of her palms. "It won't come off, Tommy, it won't come off. It's not coming off."
Tommy watched as she got more and more worked up. Her once crimson covered hands were pale, her skin tinged pink from the intensity of her washing.
"Clara, it's off," he breathed out, his hands cupping either side of her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "It's off...it's all off, I promise."
The girl shook her head, her face screwing up at Tommy's words. She felt like she was drowning. "It's still there I can see it!" She persisted, fighting against her brother's grip on her face. Her eyes were wide and frantic, reminding Tommy of a wild dog trying to escape being sent to the pound.
"Clara, c'mon, listen...listen to me, yeah?" He spoke, "No lies, yeah? There's nothing on your hands, c'mon, you'll only hurt yourself more."
"I couldn't stop it," she murmured, her head dropping. "I...I couldn't."
He didn't question her words, instead choosing to carry the girl towards the bathroom where the metal tub had been set up and filled with water.
"You can get in with your clothes on, little weasel." He spoke, his voice soft, softer than Clara had heard it in a while. "You just need to get the majority of the dirt out..."
"It's...it's mainly blood, Tom."
"Dirt and blood then."
Clara dropped her head, her thoughts swirling. Her brother moved to go to the door but was stopped as a trembling but firm hand latched around his arm.
"Please don't leave."
Her cracked and broken voice finally spoke her thoughts as she coughed violently, holding a hand to her chest. Tommy nodded, his lips pulling into a frown as the girl trembled.
"I won't, I'll stay right here." He promised.
Clara didn't dare speak again. She gripped the side of the metal tub, her blood-covered reflection gleaming up at her from the water. Her body didn't know how to react, it just shut down. She felt herself freeze to a point where she was hardly breathing. She felt idiotic. She was acting stupid. She took an unsteady breath before cautiously climbing into the tub, her pants being submerged, soon followed by the rest of her body.
It was weird sitting in the bath with clothes on. The stained material stuck to her skin as the man grabbed a chair from outside of the door, placing it beside the tub. Clara brought her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping around her legs, trying to offer herself any bit of comfort. Her brother grabbed a cloth from the sink, dipping it into the water before beginning to wipe away the blood and dirt caked over her face.
He gently scrubbed her face, revealing the littered small cuts and even more bruises. Tommy gulped down his overbearing worry, focusing on the task at hand. He carefully moved her head, tackling the dirtiest side, where she'd previously been shoved onto the floor.
Clara didn't meet his gaze, as he cleaned the blood from her face and neck. She ignored the twinges of pain shooting throughout her body. She was silent, her mind tumbling into the depths of it all. Each time she blinked, she swore she saw the man's face in front of hers, his teeth bared and his knife in hand.
The girl swallowed her terror, as Tommy dunked the cloth once more. The tub was already turning a muddy brown, its water becoming more and more like the water she saw within the canal.
Tommy cautiously lifted up the girl's hair, his anger levels rising as he took in the hand-shaped bruises running along her oesophagus. He was confused in regards to the situation but he buried it under his worry. From the looks of it, she was cut up by a knife rather than a casual fall. He'd never seen her like this. He'd never seen her be so quiet or so out of it.
"Alright, Clara girl," he sighed, placing down the hair. "I'm going to try to get the stuff out of your hair, alright?"
Clara solemnly nodded, watching blankly as Tommy moved his chair to the back of the tub. The girl curled into a tighter ball, resting her head between her knees. Her brother picked up the cloth once more, picking out bits of dirt, rock and glass from her hair, placing them into the sink.
"I didn't mean to..." she whispered, her small voice echoing throughout the small bathroom. Tommy didn't answer in fear she wouldn't continue, he just combed through and rinsed her hair. "He wouldn't stop...I thought he was going to kill me."
Clara's chest rose and fell heavily, her eyes glazed over. Tommy's blood ran cold at her words, his heart beginning to pound at the unlimited options.
"After the graveyard, I came back here...like an idiot. The coppers came and I snuck out the window." She sniffed, her eyes closing in fear, all of the memories swirling. Her words were sharp and distinct, yet they seemed so quiet and timid. "I didn't know where to go...I should've gone somewhere else, done something else, why didn't I go somewhere else?"
Upon hearing her stretched and worked up tone, Tommy knelt at the side of the tub, his hand cupping her face. "Hey, hey, hey, you're okay, breathe, you're okay, you're home." He soothed, trying to calm the panicked girl. "You're not an idiot, okay?...but I need you to finish your story, I need to know who did this."
Clara pulled away from her brother's warmth, tucking herself further into her little ball, her head hanging between her legs.
"I..."
"Atta girl, you can tell me,"
"I...I killed him, and I-I didn't mean to. I thought I'd just cut him, and he just...and I..."
Tommy watched as the girl struggled to speak. His heart dropped. She'd killed a man. His little sister had killed a man. Throughout his lifetime, he'd slaughtered a lot of people, during the war especially. He learned to not let it phase him...but the prospect of his sister— his youngest sister killing a man, shocked him.
"Clara," he began slowly, "Where is he now?"
"I d-didn't know what to do...and there was....there was nowhere to hide him except there." She rambled, her voice straining as she choked on a sob.
"Hey, hey, hey, hey, look at me."
Clara moved her gaze to meet Tommy's and the man swore his heart broke then and there. She looked panicked and utterly broken, her eyes holding a certain disposition that caused him to withhold a wave of anger for whoever did this.
"I pushed him into the canal." She stated, her eyes hollow as she spoke. "The blood was still there when I left but I...I pushed him into the canal."
Tommy faltered, taking a large breath in and out. "I'll sort this out, okay? Look at me...I'll fix this. No lies." He spoke. The girl refused to answer, her head dropping to her chest once more. "I've done the best I can, you'll have to wait until Pol gets here to clean off the rest...unless you want to do it yourself?"
Clara viciously shook her head, as the man grabbed a large towel, holding it out for her as she unsteadily climbed out of the tub.
"You're going to need to get out of those clothes." He told her, "I'll turn around and you just throw the clothes on the floor, yeah? I'll get them later." He turned his back to the girl as she stiffly shimmied out of the wet clothes.
Her once grey shirt had been tinged a dirty brown while her brown pants were a shade darker than usual. She tossed the shirt and pants onto the floor along with her undergarments. Clara engulfed herself in the large towel, her cold body shivering and shaking.
Tommy allowed her to grip onto his arm to steady herself as he guided her towards her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, her brother draping the blanket back over her shoulders. Clara watched her brother closely as he rooted through her wardrobe, draping bits of clothing over his arm. Her head throbbed mercilessly, as Tommy flicked through various clothes.
"Here," he started, as the man placed the clothes on the bed beside her. "Pol will be here soon, you have a few nasty cuts, they'll need cleaning."
Clara glanced down at a beige dress, while her brother shut the curtains. He walked towards the door, sending a flare of panic throughout her body.
"No!"
He stopped at the sound of her plea.
"I'm just going to stand outside the door,"
"No."
"Fine," Tommy faced the door, giving into her. She slowly stood up, shrugging off the blanket. She changed as quickly as possible, wincing as she moved too fast or as the material brushed against her wounds. Clara grabbed the blanket once more, wrapping it around her, its soft material engulfing her, offering some form of comfort.
Tommy turned back around, his eyes landing on the girl who'd tucked herself back into her ball of comfort. She looked small and he'd said it so many times, yet it was the truth. She looked more like the ten year old he'd left rather than the fourteen year old he'd returned to. He crouched in front of her, his eyes flitting around her bruised face, her weary eyes drooping.
"Maybe you should try to have a rest, yeah?" he spoke, "I'll wake up when Pol comes so that we can get the rest of the dirt off and clean you up, okay?" Clara tried to resist but as soon as her head hit her pillow, her exhaustion caved in.
"You'll stay?" Her tiny voice rang out around the room.
"I'll be right here." Tommy nodded, sitting down on the chair by her door, which had been propped open so he could spot people coming up the stairs.
Clara watched as her brother sat down, her foggy brain urging her to crawl into the depths of slumber. Although her body was throbbing and pulsating from the night she'd experienced, she found herself dozing off, embracing the familiarity of her own bed.
Tommy scanned the girl's sleeping figure, his mind swirling as he tried to figure out the extent of the situation. Clara had killed a man and unfortunately, she'd have to live with the consequences. He pressed his fingers to his temples, he'd have to try to get the body before it washed up somewhere, and he'd have to try to get the blood by the canal mopped up. He sat and looked over the girl as she slept, her body curled up. From the looks of it, none of her cuts would need stitches, however, they'd have to be disinfected, but he'd have to wait for Pol to come and take over while he grabbed the whiskey from downstairs.
There was a loud slam from downstairs and the sound of rapid footsteps clattered against the stairs. Tommy stood to his feet, making his way to the door, stepping out into the hallway as Pol rushed up the steps.
"Where is she?!" The woman questioned, her voice strained as she tried to push past Tommy.
"She's sleeping," he grunted, trying to keep the woman from entering the room. "Pol—"
"Thomas Shelby, you let me pass right now," She ordered, pushing at him once more. "Or so help me god!"
"Polly, Polly!" Tommy persisted before the woman shoved him aside. The door to the bedroom flung open to reveal a panicked Clara sitting up, clutching to the blankets with a deadly grip. Pol looked taken aback by the state of the girl before she rushed to her niece's side.
"You left," The girl croaked, her wide, terrified eyes trained on her brother. "You said you wouldn't leave."
Tommy was swiftly at her side, "I had to get Aunt Pol, but I'm back now, aren't I?" He asked, furrowing his brows.
"Go fill up the bath, Thomas," Polly instructed, rolling up her sleeves and immediately jumping into action. "And grab a bottle of whiskey while you're down there."
Tommy hesitated, his eyes lingering on the younger girl who was trembling beneath her blankets. Clara flitted her eyes between her brother's retreating figure and her aunt.
"Oh, my darling girl," Pol frowned, brushing some of Clara's loose hair behind her shoulder. The girl froze at the nickname, her mind flashing back to the man pushing her to the floor. She could feel his breath on her face, his knife on her neck. The girl rapidly shook her head, her hands covering her ears. It's as if the man was in the room, she could feel him gripping her neck, she could hear his muffled voice. Pol placed a hand on her arm, trying to coax her out of her own mind.
Clara's face screwed up, as her hands were gently lowered by her aunt. "Don't..." She mumbled, "Please, don't say that."
"I won't," Pol promised, her hand resting on the girl's arm. The two lingered, Pol was whispering words of comfort to the girl, but Clara blocked them out, her words merely combining with the fuzziness in her ears.
Her brother entered the room. She could hear his voice echoing, yet his words were lost. She could feel his lingering eyes on her as he spoke. Tommy stood by the door as Pol ushered the girl to her feet.
"No," she mumbled, trying to stay on the bed, wriggling to get out of the grip, yet her aunt's steady grasp clutched onto her.
"We have to clean you up," the woman reassured, trying to soothe the worked up girl. "I'll clean you up and you can go back to bed, I promise."
Clara struggled against her aunt, her head shaking as Tommy stood aside. Her pleading eyes bore into her brother, and it took all of his might not to rush forward and rip Pol away from her as she begged to be left alone. He watched as she was led towards the bathroom, her protests growing louder until the door was promptly shut.
Tommy sighed as he pinched his nose, listening to the voices from the bathroom. He shook his head, waltzing down the stairs, grabbing his hat and coat to go to Charlie's Yard. The man left the house, leaving his sister and his aunt behind as he sought out a solution to their problem.
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IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME TOMMY arrived back at Watery Lane. He'd spent the rest of the day on a barge with Curly and Charlie as they searched for the body in the canal, with a giant hook off the side of the boat. They'd found the spot Clara had been attacked, the dried blood now resembling pools of copper. The ground was covered in glass, the broken bottle top covered in blood sat there as clear as day. Tommy had merely picked it up and thrown it onto the barge, as Curly slopped buckets of water over the blood, washing it away into the canal.
They'd searched up and down the canal, the hook banging against rocks and debris. The shallow waters were clear enough, allowing for them to gaze under the water in search. They eventually found the man's body, pulling it onto the barge before coming to a halt underneath a tunnel.
Charlie held up a lantern as the three men examined the corpse. The slashes and stabs across his neck were brutally laid out, to the point where the white of bone shone through. Charlie grimaced, averting his eyes after a while.
"And you wanted us to dredge this body...why?" He asked gruffly in distaste.
"Because, Charlie...our Clara did this," Tommy answered bluntly, taking a drag of his cigarette. The older man's face dropped.
"Clara—?"
"He attacked her, so she killed him."
There was silence as Tommy covered the body in sacks of burlap to hide it from public view. He remained silent as they pulled out of the tunnel, all the way until they were back at Charlie's Yard.
"I'll have two men come 'round here later to take the body," Tommy spoke, stubbing out his cigarette before stalking off.
The sun had set, leaving the darkness to linger amongst the streets of Small Heath. He lit another cigarette, strutting past the Garrison as he tracked his way back to six Watery Lane.
He opened the door slowly, immediately taking off his hat and coat. It was quiet in the house with the shop closed for the night and the biggest troublemaker bedridden with injuries. Tommy climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing as he puffed away at his cigarette. He carefully walked along the hallway stopping outside Clara's bedroom. As he pushed open the door, Pol immediately lifted a finger to her lips.
"She's asleep," she whispered, as he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "And stub that out before coming any closer."
Tommy sighed, placing the cigarette into an empty mug. "How is she?" He asked, pulling up a chair next to the bed. His eyes scanned over the girl's body, her chest rising and falling, white bandages peeking out from under her shirt collar.
"What happened to her?" Pol questioned, "She didn't tell me, but I presume she told you?" The man dropped his head with a nod, as his aunt gazed at him.
"She was attacked...down by the canal last night." He began, his eyes lingering on the small girl. "She killed the man."
"And did he..?" The woman asked, her blood running cold at the mere thought.
"I don't know...all I know, is that the body is taken care of." Tommy interrupted, "How is she?"
"She got away with a few bruised ribs. The cut on the neck was the worst one, I bandaged it up." Pol frowned, "The bruising on her neck should be gone within a few days, the one on her eye should fade throughout the next week or two ."
The man merely nodded, his eyes still focused on the girl. "You should've seen her," he huffed, "Came in covered in blood, I've never seen her look so...lost."
"That girl has no idea what the real world is like." Pol softly spoke, her hand caressing the girl's hair.
"She does."
"She does not." Polly interjected, "You may have told her over and over again, but until now she's been perfectly fine using her last name as protection. Last night, she was finally exposed to the horrors we've countlessly warned her against, and yes she'll have to learn to live with it, just like every woman in this bloody city."
"She's just a girl."
"In case you missed it, Tommy, she's fourteen. Girls her age are already out of school, some already married off, engaged."
"But she's not, nor will she be in the near future," Tommy stated defensively, hiding his shudder at the thought.
"Let me handle this," his aunt said, and although it may have come across as a passing remark, it sounded more like a subtle order. "If I handle this, she'll learn and she'll accept and just like everyone else...she'll learn to move on."
Tommy wished that she was right. He wished that her words would come true because today had been nightmare quality material. Tommy was a brave man, he'd faced many men, fought many fights, Christ, he'd been through a war, but seeing his sister crumple by the front door sent an overwhelming wave of terror through him.
"Arthur came back earlier, by the way, bruises 'round his neck, all down and sad." Polly spoke up, "From the look of him, his Flanders blues have him gripped tight...Talk to him will you?"
Tommy nodded, lighting another cigarette as he stood to his feet. Clara looked peaceful as if nothing had happened yet the bruises and bright red slashes shone brightly in stark contrast. He looked down at the sleeping girl once more with a sigh, before closing the door of the bedroom, his mind still trying to unravel the night before.
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HELLO!
As you can see Clara is #not having a good time. This event is a catalyst for a lot of her development as a character and I'm excited to write it.
I'm so sorry this chapter is late, I was out with friends, but HOW IS EVERYONE?!
I really hoped you liked this chapter and I hope to see you next week 😩
LOVE YA LOTS <3