5 years later,
1926.
Marguerite coughed, licking her lips and rolling the cigarette over them before lighting it. A mannerism that she had picked up over time from her husband. It had now been five years since Marguerite shot her Father and married Tommy. The pair lived an exhilarating life, moving into a Manor just outside of Birmingham. Clearly, Shelby Company Limited was such a booming business that everyone within the organisation was rolling in enough money to enjoy day-to-day luxuries. The rest of the family remained in Small Heath in Birmingham, but only because they wanted to, and Ada was still in London. Michael Gray had established himself as a somewhat respected member of the Peaky Blinders by now, he was much more thick-skinned than any of them would have thought, apart from Tommy. Tommy knew after Michael's first arrest that he would turn out to be stronger. Much like Marguerite, he toughened up and became a resourceful, business-driven individual, drawing strength from love and family. Finn had grown into a hardworking and eccentric young man, too. He was a crazy mix of Arthur and John.
The woman's watery, empty gaze scanned the misty and muddy grounds of the Manor. A few trees stood, bare. It was still very beautiful, but somewhat melancholic. It was a melancholic day. A crow sat on the wall surrounding the pebbled area around the house. She then looked down into her limp hands. A sort of flimsy cardboard in an envelope, with a black hand on it. The whole Shelby family had been served a Black Hand by the Changretta family, an Italian mob. The Black Hand was revenge for the death of Vincente Changretta. His son, Luca Changretta' s mob had shot John the day before this and the whole Shelby family was mourning. There was no telling where Tommy was, but he was not at home.
Olivia and Marguerite stood alone in Marguerite and Tommy's manor. The rest of the family were on high alert, enraged. Finn was with them too, which Olivia didn't think was a good idea, but it was the love of a brother that pushed him to join in all the dangerous activities of the gang.
The two women felt like there was a void inside of them, a strain on their heart. It could not be that John was gone. Marguerite remembered now how John had held her hand reassuringly, offered his warmth to her, around six years ago when she had decided to betray her Father to join them. He drove her to her new home, and they grew close. He was eccentric, seemingly immortal, laughing in the face of all wounds and close calls. John had cheered like a toddler at Marguerite and Tommy's wedding. He was selfless, loyal, loveable. John wasn't someone that would just die out of the blue from a pathetic ambush. A stupid little ambush. Esme was also with the sisters, but she was sat in a pool of tears in one of the many vast rooms in the estate. Her husband had been suddenly taken away from her during Christmas. A celebration turned nightmare.
"In the bleak midwinter," whispered Marguerite to herself, closing her eyes slowly, thinking back at Tommy's face when he received the call from Esme, who was panting and bellowing in sobs.
"I think it's best not to bother Esme. She needs rest," exhaled Olivia, grabbing a whiskey glass and pouring it up to the top. Olivia looked different, her hair had grown three times as long, which she tied into a long braid. She looked much like a duchess, a symbol of elegance, young beauty. Marguerite on the other hand, she embodied dark femininity, bold and dangerous, which a very short crop. She looked almost like Lizzie Stark, only with lighter hair and more colour in her cheeks, but not in her heart.
Olivia grew up with the Shelby boys, being taken care of by Polly. Tommy she didn't talk to often, although when they shared moments together, they had always been good memories. Arthur, since youth, had always been her soulmate: they were meant to be. And then there was John, her eccentric best friend, who had always gotten into trouble, whom she covered for, although she didn't know why. He provided her with a burst of energy every time he was around. It was complicated. It was a complicated process, trying to move on.
Marguerite was sat on the sofa, her arms spread out, gazing aimlessly at the carved ceiling, at the high walls and wooden bay windows with velvety curtains. They all owed John so much. They all owed John their lives. He had always worked so hard, without a second thought.
Her eyes drifted to Olivia, leaning against the table, and then to her hands, as she was holding a toothpick. John always used to have a toothpick in his mouth, chewing uselessly.
She felt a knot in her stomach, a lump in her throat. She felt it boiling up inside of her, the pain.
Then Esme appeared, her eyes red, her dress crumpled.
"Your fucking husband," she growled, pointing a shaky finger at Marguerite, "he did this. He involved John and John did everything he was told. And where did that get him? In a fucking body bag, you hear me? A body bag."
"Esme.." Olivia ran to her, to try and comfort her, but was pushed away violently.
Esme continued shouting at Marguerite.
"Your godforsaken Tommy needs to be stopped. He needs to be stopped, he's a menace and he needs to be fucking stopped."
Marguerite said nothing, only pursed her lips and put out her cigarette on the flimsy cardboard with a black hand on it. She then clasped her hands in a fist on her laps, looking down in shame. Looking down, in his new home, feeling a wave of sickness pass over her. Esme stormed off in desperation, back to her room.
The two sisters stayed still, thinking of their memories with John, cursing his death.
"Shit."
Olivia exhaled angrily, letting out a lowly frustrated yell.
It was so long, the fight.
It lasted months after that.
Civilians were killed, despite Tommy and Luca Changretta' s pact not to involve anyone aside from their two families.
In the end, Luca Changretta lost. His gang turned on him, thanks to certain alliances Tommy made.
But who really loses?
In a life of violence, be it a war, on a worldwide scale or a gang war. No one ever truly wins, no one ever truly loses.
People just survive. Or they die.
But is it better to survive or to die?
To win would be to turn survival into living.
Marguerite lived. Being with Tommy made her feel happy. And him being with her made him feel happy. If it weren't for Tommy, Polly or Olivia, her happiness would have died along with Frank Parsons, her first love.
She still thought of Frank, just as Tommy sometimes thought of Grace.
Suffering brought them together, and being together brought them joy.