Marguerite decided she must keep in touch with her Father to avoid him getting too curious and keep him at bay from what was going on, so she headed back toward his clerk's office, at a steady pace, taking in the smoky streets once more, the explosion of life that had started to grow on her.
She reached the shop, and pushed the door, causing the bell above the doorframe to ring. The wooden oak surrounding of desks, cabinets and the low ceiling absorbed the bell's ring. It was quiet; all that could be heard was the grandfather clock opposite her Father's desk. On the desk there was a typewriter, and an unfinished letter. The young woman picked it up and read the beginning;
"Dear Inspector Campbell,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been a few years since we last corresponded, but I've no doubt in my mind that you'd vividly remember an old friend.
I've heard from the local police that you've been doing quite well, rising above many ranks amongst the Inspectors in the country. You must surely be the pride of the country.
I am contacting you at such short notice to ask a favour. Word on the street is that you and your men have recently arrived in Birmingham, which is where I happen to be working at the moment. Your reasons for travelling to this city are not the same as mine, of course. I'm almost certain that you are being called in to deal with the gypsy hooligans ravaging the city. The "Peaky Blinders" as they are called.
Whilst I know you will be busy, I would still like to ask of you a small favour. My daughter recently arrived in the city herself, and I have concerns that may be relevant to you-"
A few soft steps from the back of the shop were heard, and Marguerite swiftly folded and placed the paper back onto the desk as she had found it, replacing her intrigued look with one of innocence. Her Father appeared, clutching a few books, and solemn and serious demeanour, but smiling slightly as he caught the sight of his flustered daughter, her drowsy grin and feathery hair.
"My dear, what brings you here? Shouldn't you be at the library with Mr Parsons?" he questioned, lifting an eyebrow, as he sank into his chair.
"I merely wanted to see you, Father. Just to say hello," she crooned, still eyeing the folded letter.
"That's sweet, but there is very little to do here, my child. I suggest you run along now, and don't stray. You know what the city is like."
His tone was emotionless and disinterested; his brow was wrinkled as he focused on examining some documents in hand, paying hardly any attention to his daughter, who was swaying awkwardly on her feet.
"Speaking of which," he said, his tone peaking, "You should always be accompanied. Where is Parsons?" He turned to her disapprovingly.
"He's in the library, I told him to go on ahead without me," responded the young woman, a nervousness in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want her Father to dislike Frank Parsons simply because he respected her wishes and let her wander the city as she pleased.
Matthew Collins grunted in response and returned to his work, signalling to Marguerite that it was her cue to leave. She did so promptly.
She exited the shop with her Father's letter in mind.
Who was Inspector Campbell?
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It was dangerous, the shattered pieces of bricks above him, dropping dangerously close to his head. The bullets whizzed above as he crouched behind a wall, panting like a dog. He'd lost his gun, and was frantically searching for his pocket blade. It was all that could protect him now.
The coat he had, his holster and his cap were all gone, stolen. Almost all his possessions were stripped from him when he'd been interrogated. He'd managed to make his escape without the help of a firearm; he left a pretty picture of crushed skulls and broken limbs but it was soon his turn to be turned to dog food as some reinforcements were now tracking him. Billy Kimber's men were relentless, sweating and grunting like raging pigs fuelled by the promise of money, but under the façade of a proud soldier, each man was merely low-class scum who'd sold their mortal souls to the highest bidder.
Not that Thomas cared anyhow. He needed his knife, and was beginning to lose his cool as he still hadn't found it. It was no use now, they were closing in, so he needed to think of something, and fast. He crawled along the wall, and found himself in a tight alleyway. It was muddy and putrid, but made for good cover. He was in fact in a small passage behind a row of houses. If he kept crawling, he'd make it to the back of his house, but he'd have to be smart and fast, for it wouldn't take long for Kimber's men to catch up.
He knew what to do, he'd hide in a garden up ahead, and when Kimber's men would split up, he'd take one of the men out silently, with a brick. At least he'd be armed. And then he'd sprint like a madman back home.
He waited for five minutes and then heard a shout;
"Shit, we've lost him boys. Spread out and find the bastard. Billy wants him dead or alive, so don't waste your time. Now go!"
The raucous voice rang out through the small alleyway as several heavy steps rushed in different direction, one headed straight for Tommy.
Three...
Two...
He slid out of his hiding place behind a garden gate and slammed the brick with all the strength he had against the man's head. He heard a grotesque thud. The man lay with a bloody nose and an obliterated forehead and Tommy grabbed the gun and dashed down the path to his house.
The rest of the bastards would face the wrath of the full Shelby family if they dared show up to the house.
He burst in through the backdoor with so much force that he almost shattered the glass. The rest of the family leaped to their feet, guns in hand, ready to shoot the intruder, but seeing it was Tommy, they rushed to him.
"Tommy, what the fuck happened?" yelled John, sending Finn up to his room.
With one swift look, Polly understood that Kimber's men would soon have the house surrounded.
"They're all out there," she stated, lifting her brow at the furious brother, "Get ready for a fight."
"They want conflict, we'll give it to 'em," roared Arthur, who'd clearly been drinking.
They grabbed as many ammunitions as they could from the stash, hand grenades and the lot.
Tommy began shouting orders about the house.
"I want Ada and Finn to stay upstairs with someone! Pol you should-"
"Don't tell me what to bloody do, Tommy. If they're about to shoot up this house, I'm giving 'em hell back," answered Polly in a rough tone, more at Kimber's men than Tommy.
John rushed upstairs to guard Ada Shelby, his sister and Finn, his little brother, the youngest. Finn was just a kid, he had much to live for, and John wasn't about to let a feud between The Blinders and Kimber take that away from him.
From the upstairs bedroom, he had a perfect view of Billy Kimber's men arriving in two monstrous carriages, of a glossy black.
"We'll send them back to Kimber in those carriages in a sorry state," he mumbled angrily.
Ada was holding Finn in her arms, crouched under the bed, under Tommy instruction.
They all waited;
Polly, Tommy and Arthur were crouched, backs against the wall under the windows facing the main street.
John was at the window upstairs in the bedroom with his sister and youngest brother.
It was dead silent, all that could be heard was the clock, and the hooves of the carriages, growing closer and closer.
"Get ready."
Tommy lifted his head, cold gaze darting around the greyish exterior. From a distance, in the fog, he saw the carriages approaching. He closed his eyes, a memory of the war resurfacing;
The war, he was in France, a French soldier told him...
"Du sang froid, il vous faut du sang froid."
What did that mean again...?
Something along the lines of "you need to have cold blood", which ultimately translated to: "you need to be brave, very brave."
He felt a freezing sensation pass through his body...
He opened his eyes slowly.
"There they are, those bastards," hissed Arthur, cocking his gun.
Here we go.
Tommy bellowed, an angry, enraged howl;
"Start shooting John! Now!"
It had started. More glass shattered, more bullets whizzing overhead.
Downstairs, the three crawled around, switching places, shooting at the men who were behind the carriages, but there were horses about. Kimber knew that they wouldn't dare shoot closer if there were horses, because there was a chance that they might get hurt.
"It's inhumane to use the horses," growled Polly.
Tommy nodded, and the matriarch could notice the rage in his eyes, as if his thoughts were seeping through his pores. Those frightening and intoxicating eyes were fixed on the horses. He loved horses.
"I've got a plan." He rubbed his chin, and turned his gaze to Arthur.
"The hand grenades, pass them to me."
"Tommy, the horses," protested his brother.
Almost in a whisper, his brother answered:
"Just give me the goddamn grenades."
Reluctantly, he carefully rolled them over to him.
Polly trusted him, but she wasn't sure what he was thinking.
He broke the window, pulled the pin of the first grenade, and threw it towards the horses, and did the same for the second carriage.
"Tommy!" shouted Arthur, thinking that his brother had hurt the horses. But in the smoke, the family saw that the horses, shaken but untouched, galloped away at full speed towards the centre of town, away from the conflict.
He'd sent the grenades a few meters from them, simply to scare them enough so that they would tear away from the carriage, agitated enough to free themselves of the reigns.
John, from the top window, saw Kimber's men curse, and in his amusement, he began shooting at them, taking down about four or five.
There were still about 15 of them left, though.
Polly stood, ignoring the bullets whizzing dangerously close to her, grabbed about five grenades, and began walking to the front door.
Arthur looked at her confused.
"Pol, what the hell are you doing?"
"Cover me, boys."
And they did, they shot at the bastards left, right and centre as Polly Gray sent them flying, one grenade after the other.
Upstairs, Ada, John and Finn stood and began laughing. John, who'd been slightly grazed by one of the bullets sent his way, opened the window and began shouting insults boisterously at the cowardly Kimber boys.
"Thanks for the workout boys!" sneered Polly.
And with that, the Shelby family returned to their business. Polly still had a whiskey to finish, but to her dismay, her glass had been shattered by a bullet.
"Can't even drink in peace," she sighed, taking a seat and pouring herself another drink in Arthur's glass. "Sit down, Tommy. Arthur and John will clear that mess up. "
Silently, he sat in front of her, drinking straight from the bottle. Big gulps.
He was still contemplating the image of the horses dashing off into the fog, frightening by the grenades. He'd saved them, but also felt guilty about scaring them. It reminded him of the war, the tens of thousands of not only men, but horses, laying about on the battlefield. The worst is that he'd not had a chance to even save them, because he'd been underground, busy digging tunnels. He was part of the clay kickers of the army who dug tunnels beneath enemy lines.
It was the most dangerous job during the War. Many lost their lives. Those who didn't, lost their minds... some more than others, of course.
Tommy knew that he wasn't one of those people who fully lost their minds, but he lost a piece of himself, which is why he'd become-
"Tommy."
Polly Gray's voice pulled him back to reality.
"That girl, Marguerite Collins..."
"What about her?" His voice was raspy and weak.
"You met her, but didn't bring her to us. Why?"
"I wanted to figure out her intentions."
"Her intentions," repeated Polly in an annoyed tone," are good intentions. Bring her to us and stop playing games."
Thomas Shelby changed the subject.
"Speaking of which, where's her sister?"
"Olivia had business to attend to," said Polly sharply.
"What business?"
"None of your business."
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