☆
One, two three, one two three, one, two, three.
CLARA'S FINGERS MINDLESSLY TAPPED its pattern repeatedly against the wood of the kitchen table. She'd been up for hours, the sun only just dawning over the endless fields. The morning birds incessant singing echoed around the Shelby-Lee kitchen, echoing off of the copper pans that lined the walls. The kitchen was cosy, one that radiated warmth across the young woman's secluded soul. Plants and wildflowers were strung amongst the decorations, the morning light streaming in through the colourful clothed drapes.
Three, Sting, Repent, Silence, June...Nothing.
Clara shut her eyes with a sharp inhale as her bare fingers tightened around the mug in front of her. The heat from her cup of coffee had long dwindled, its steam fading into the comforting smell of last night's dinner. She took shallow breaths in and out as her mind suppressed the flurry of memories that threatened to tilt her world reality. She wasn't there. She wasn't there. She was at John's house, she was at home.
She wasn't there.
One, two three, one two three, one, two, three.
Clara's fingers repeated its pattern, its relentless tapping preventing her from slipping into the haze. It was comforting. It offered her a morsel of stability to cling to as her mind traipsed along the abyss, the never-ending abyss that constantly taunted and teased her. It called her name every once and a while. It urged her to explore the crevasse that spewed turmoil and doubt all across her soul, capturing it in a bony grip, tighter than death but just loose enough to provide the hope of unattainable escape.
A creak from the stairs in the hall resounded.
She squeezed her eyes closed tight as her finger sped up against other wood, the faint noise now growing into a violent thrum. The sound from the stairs was a perverted intrusion, one that fed the fear in her mind. Her mind went hazy, all thought benign figments as the horrors welcomed her.
She heard the creak of the floor from down the hall. The girl gulped, her tightly pulled back hair now too tight as she kept her head on the wooden floor beneath her. It was a phantom creak, she wanted to believe. The building was old, floors creaked everywhere. The girl could feel her heart plummet as a pair of sharp footsteps began to echo across the hall. She didn't dare look up from what she was doing.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Her quivering hands picked up the pace as she cleaned the wood beneath, attempting to scrub any stains from the flooring. Her heart was now pounding as the footsteps grew closer. She could feel the other girl across the hall tense. Her head had fallen too. Neither had said a word. Each sticking to their own. Her moving chest was now rapid as she failed to control the overbearing fear that enraptured her at the sound. She was thankful her heavy and modest dress hid the sight from view.
The footsteps were unbearably close now, the sound like a funeral drum.
She kept her head down, her mind whispering silent pleads that the figure would keep walking and not stop. She dipped her soft brush into the bucket beside her and began to hastily continue the repetitive pattern. If she kept scrubbing perhaps the terror would simply bypass her being. If she kept going back and forth and back and forth, perhaps she could escape unscathed by the hauntings that shrouded her life.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The footsteps came to a halt. The black shadow cast itself on the wood's reflection. She held a breath as she faltered in her scrubbing. She was stupid, so stupid. Her body froze each capillary bursting and prohibiting her to move. She mentally scolded her fearsome body. Why couldn't she just have kept scrubbing?
"Why have you stopped working?'" The older woman questioned, her harsh, venomous voice causing the girl to flinch. She heard the name–her name, being thrown into the conversation as she failed to look up. "A sluggard's appetite is never filled, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied."
The bucket beside the younger girl was suddenly tipped over, its heavy metal crashing against her thin fingers, the sharp edge slicing across the knuckles on her left hand. She stifled a pained gasp as blood spilt from the wound onto the thin cushion of flesh. From the corner of her eye, she could spot a foot retreating beneath a set of black robes. The water from the bucket spread across the floor, soaking into the material of her dress. Still, she refused to lift her head, her eyes watching as the crimson curled in the clear water that streamed between her hands.
The blood was hypnotising, a perfect distraction from the older woman glaring down at her. The blood swirled into the suds, the bitter sting from the wound on her hand allowing for her mind to refocus her fear. The bloody cut sent pangs of heat through her entire fist. She'd been used to that pang of pain; it was one that had often been the aftermath of a left hook.
What a peculiar feeling, she recalled.
The woman in front of her had not moved. The girl could feel everything in her body all at once; all the fear; all the dread; all the pain. She did not lift her eyes. The soap, the suds, the dark reflection, she studied the beneath. The only indication of time passing being the sprinting of her heart within its cage.
"You'd do well to learn that blood stains," the older woman said finally before her damned feet carried her down the hall, past the two girls working on their hands and knees.
The girl kept her head down, her eyes locked on the warped reflection of her hunched figure, the blood seeping across. She heard the footsteps fade, the pain in her hand not ceasing as the blood spilt.
"Clara,"
The young woman moved her head slightly as she turned to face John who stood away from her, giving her the space she needed. Clara quietly sniffed as she shifted in the chair, her mind settling while her brother moved toward the iron kettle on the stovetop. John was sluggish in his movements but yet his eyes gave everything away. His cautious eyes scanned the back garden through the small window, his eye twitching at any movement. His under eyes were painted purple, his lack of restful sleep an undeterred feature.
Mornings like these were not uncommon. The two had adapted to early rising and Clara presumed that current circumstances did little to help the sparse sleep her brother usually got. The two sustained the silence, each wrapped up in their own affairs, at least until John would sit down with his drink. He never liked coffee, in fact, he'd much prefer a whiskey, but he'd grown more fond of it due to the number of times he'd been up and sitting with Clara in the early mornings.
It wasn't long until the iron kettle sang its sharp pitch, one John was quick to quash in order to avoid waking his pack of wildlings, as Esme so fondly called them. Clara watched as he poured and stirred his drink. Three stirs, one to the left, two to the right. She didn't even know if he was aware of this pattern or if it was simply just habit. John glanced towards her, sensing her lingering gaze. He placed his spoon down on the kitchen counter before sitting in the seat across from the young woman.
"Happy Christmas," he mumbled tiredly as he sipped the piping hot drink. A small hush fell over them once more as John bathed in the bliss of his drink. She could see his careful eyes looking towards her bare hands, the hand that still clutched her mug and the one that has faltered in its tapping. "How did you sleep?"
Clara stared blankly at her brother to which John merely let a small smile grace his serious face. He already knew the answer. He always knew the answer. One look at her pale face, her spaced-out expression and the tremor in her fingers was enough evidence.
"Nightmare?" He asked as he took another gulp of his drink.
"Mhmm..." Clara hummed, her head lifting in a small nod. "You?" The man merely gave her a knowing look and took another sip. John had nightmares too, you see. He didn't like to speak of it, nor did Clara, and that's what made the silence bearable. Neither pushed for answers or reasoning. Each couldn't often find solace in sleep, not as easily as others could.
One another's company soothed the ails eventually.
"Anything groundbreaking?" John broke the silence once more as he placed his mug on the wooden table. His tone was almost bitter, he was making light of the situation, and he was doing the best he could.
"Just the usual," Clara slowly answered through a grimace, her words spaced out and carefully selected. "You?"
"The usual,"
His tone was mocking which caused both parties' lips to lift ever so slightly. She welcomed anything but piteous looks and frowns from him, which included his childish mimicking. Clara looked down, her hands splayed on the table in front of her. The two basked in the quiet morning that would be soon interrupted by the chaos of the Lee-Shelby clan. Quite like always, the silence was comfortable, allowing both to simply enjoy serenity in its purest form. They remained in their peace until John seemed to have gathered enough courage to speak again.
"Are you still up to seeing everyone on the New Year?" He spoke slowly whilst his eyes scanned her appearance for any tells of her hesitance.
"Will he be there?"
John looked down at his hands before looking back towards his little sister. In a soft moment, he reached forward tentatively, his hand slowly covering the back of Clara's left hand as it lay splayed. The girl tensed on her spot, her eyes widening by a fraction as they stared right back at John's comforting gaze.
A touch like such was unheard of, at least when she wasn't wearing her beloved gloves. Her hands were bare now. The scarred and bumped flesh of her hand was being pressed against John's palm as he hid it from the world, protecting it. Bile rose in her throat as the hand remained on top of hers. His thumb brushed over the scars as of trying to erase each horrid memory behind them — most of which he had been told.
Clara knew she was completely and utterly safe in his hold but one side of her mind screamed at the touch and began the itch to rip her hand away. The side tore at her brain, pulling all the bad from the depths, threatening to reveal it all to the world. Yet the other side of her mind cried. It cried at the love and tenderness held within the embrace. It cried for what was lost and what had yet to be found.
Clara didn't move her hand.
And John let out a small breath of relief at the reaction.
"I don't think he will be there," her brother answered honestly, "I didn't extend the invitation to him, but Lizzie knows, and if she knows, he does too." Clara didn't have the strength to respond as John carefully chose his words. "The only people coming are Arthur and Linda, Michael and Pol, Ada and Karl, Lizzie, Finn and Will."
"Linda's coming?" Clara's nose shrivelled up at the mention of the religious woman.
"With Arthur," John nodded as he rolled his eyes with a sniff. "Look, I don't want you to be worried about it and if you are, fuck them, this is your home, not theirs." He shot the girl a reassuring look. "If you feel uncomfortable, they can all go to hell."
"I don't think Linda would like that," Clara said after a beat of silence. A wide boyish grin spread across John's face as he squeezed her hand. He let out a laugh as he shook his head.
"I don't think the devil would like that either," he retorted. This time, Clara laughed. It was a short but golden sound. An unusual one. A diamond amid an endless pile of coal. It was one that had gotten lost well beneath the swell of the tide. "Fuck knows he wouldn't be able to stand her bible-thumpin' for longer than a minute."
The two laughed quietly amongst one another, their chuckles alleviating the heavy air that seemed to fall upon their shoulders. They sat like that as the clock ticked more quickly now, its ticks soothing the silence. They no longer seemed to be vexatious, they're low-beat cherished.
And so, the clock continued to tick, John drank his drink and Clara kept tapping, the two merely relishing the serenity of the morning.
☆
CLARA MOVED AROUND THE KITCHEN AS IF IT WAS second nature. The sun had risen above the fields and shone its light across the land. The young woman carefully carried two bowls of cereal in her arms as she placed them in front of the two bigger kids at the table, Katie and John Jr, both the spitting image of their late mother, Martha. Esme had awoken not long ago with the youngest of the Shelby-Lee family and found herself sitting beside the baby's high chair her finger lazily twirling over the babe's head as he giggled and clapped his hands.
"Katie," Clara gently smiled, as she passed out the breakfast. "Where's the rest of your brothers and sisters?" The eldest Shelby girl, the girl who looked the image of Martha but with the startling Shelby blue eyes, shrugged her shoulders as a bowl was placed in front of her.
"Asleep, still...I think," the girl chimed as she began to eat her breakfast but before the cereal reached her mouth, she paused her movements. "Thank you, Aunty Clara!"
The young woman smiled as John Jr. hastily spat the same words, his eyes eagerly looking at the food still in Clara's hand. She ruffled his hair slightly before she placed the bowl in front of the younger boy. She moved back around the table and towards Esme, who remained playing with the baby.
"Esme, tea?" Clara asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the woman. It wasn't often the baby didn't cry in the morning, those times had to be cherished.
"Yeah, please" Esme hummed lowly as she glanced up at the young woman. "Might need to pop out to the shed and get more wood for the stove, I had to steal some from there for the fire in the room last night."
"That's fine," Clara reassured as she looked outside at the brightening morning sky. "I'll only be a few minutes." She walked towards the front door, not bothered to grab her jacket as she haphazardly slipped her boots over her sock-clad feet. She held her skirt up as she stepped outside, her boots clacking against the cobbled ground.
"G'way, go on, out!"
Clara peaked her head into the stone shed where John stood over one of the dogs, his arm pointed towards the door as he commanded the young dog. She watched in amusement as the dog ran in a circle before sitting down with a wagging tail. John scoffed and shifted the gun in his grip.
"Hatter, heel!" Clara stepped out from behind the doorway, her hands tucked into her side. The young, brown English springer spaniel bounded towards the young woman excitedly. "Good girl," she fondly patted the dog between his ears.
"Fuckin' mutt," John scowled as he looked at the dog with betrayal seeping from his glare. "Should've given the pup away when she was born."
"She's only a pup, John, she listens to me because I respect her," Clara removed her hand from the dog's vicinity as she moved across the shed towards the mountain of chopped wood stacked against the far wall. "Besides, I named her and trained her to sit, she trusts me."
"Bloody Hatter," John huffed, folding his arms whilst the young woman let a small smile drift across her face. She remembered being given the job of naming the dog, it had been a month after she'd first arrived. John had expected a name like 'Daisy' or some frivolous girl pup name to be bestowed on the energetic dog.
Clara had chosen Hatter.
Not frivolous, but instead named after the Mad Hatter, the famed character from the book that had offered her reprieve in her younger years. She had hoped the young pup would live in a puppy wonderland of energy and liveliness forever, annoying John and continuing to go mental every time the postman dropped by. The dog wasn't hers but she loved it all the same. John had tried to get her to take the 'mutt', as he called her, but Clara had refused. She wasn't able to look after herself let alone a lively puppy.
Clara cleared her throat as she gathered wood in her arms to carry back to the kitchen. The dog remained sitting, her tail wagging ferociously as John remained scornful at the sight. She held the wood carefully whilst she balanced it.
"I'm making tea," Clara supplied as John's eyes traced the wood. "I'll make you a cup also if you'd like."
"'m fine," John sighed, his hand running over his face as he glanced out the shed window in caution. "Esme and the kids up?"
"Mhm..." Clara hummed. She turned to face her brother as he remained still by the window. "Esme's up with the baby, Katie and John are up too. The others are yet to be seen."
"Typical," John let a faint smile deep in between the seriousness. "Couldn't drag them up with an explosion." Clara smiled in agreement as she paused by the shed door.
"About this morning–"
"Clara, you're my sister, my littlest sister," John sighed, as he moved away from the window. "You don't have to explain yourself."
"No...I mean, I had another..." she paused, waving her hand as she tried to sum up what she'd experienced. "...one of those things."
"A memory?" John shifted as his eyebrows scrunched together.
"Yeah...sort of...it was like one minute I was in the kitchen and the next I was..." Clara cleared her throat as a breath got caught. "I was back there."
"You're not back there, you won't be going back there," John harshly spat so fast that the young woman almost flinched at his anger. "You're safe, you're here, and...I'm sorry."
Clara didn't respond. She wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, that her memories and fucked up mind were her own problems in need of solving but she knew it would be useless. John was too stubborn to listen to her rebukes. She glanced toward the window as the hum of a car engine vibrated the air. Her throat tightened, her hands dropping the wood as she rushed passed John to the window. A black car was pulled into the driveway, one similar to Ada's Shelby Company one from yesterday. John was swift to join her side as the two gazed in caution.
"Fuck," He cursed as his back straightened up and his hands moved on his gun. They exchanged a worried glance before he patted her shoulder and quickly walked towards the side door. "Do you have your gun?" John quickly asked as his hand wrapped around the rifle.
"It's...it's inside...in my room," Clara stammered her words out. Her hands wrung themselves together as her heart rate increased.
"Fuck, alright," John sighed as he turned back toward the door. He raised his gun as footsteps could be heard crunching against the gravelly stone of the driveway.
"Hello?" A voice called out which caused John to swing open the door. Clara caught a glimpse of a man in a suit as John cocked the gun with Hattie on his heels. He pointed the weapon at the man before quickly lowering it once more.
"Oh, fuck, it's you," John swore. Clara wasn't quite certain if he was relieved or annoyed. She stepped closer to the entrance of the stone shed, her head tilting as she aimed to catch a glimpse of the visitor. "Got nothing better to do on Christmas morning?"
"Tommy wants everybody at Charlie's Yard now, come on."
Clara took a shaky breath in as Michael's voice finally registered in her mind. Of course, he was here and of course, he was still working on behalf of Thomas fucking Shelby. She stepped into the doorway beside John, her eyes scanning Michael's put-together appearance. She was ever so happy to see that he still found pleasure in leeching off of a business and name that had ruined many.
"Clara, that goes for you too," Michael added. The young woman straightened and looked to John who tensed and glanced behind her.
"Get in! Get in!" John quickly shooed Hatter back into the shed before he stepped aside to allow Clara to pass. She didn't say a word as she descended the steps, her eyes fixed on Michael, who shifted under her watchful gaze. John followed soon behind her, shutting the shed door as he rested the rifle back against his shoulder.
"What's gonna happen, mate?" John dismissively tutted as they began their walk back towards the main house. Clara kept a slow pace behind her cousin, her ungloved hands fidgeting and wringing. "It's fucking Christmas."
"Look, John, we don't have time for this," Michael huffed as he followed behind John. "All right? Just come to the meeting."
"Just come in the house," John interrupted, as he reached forward to open the front door to the home. "Have some food." Clara's brother was cut off as Esme rushed out of the house, her pale robe flowing behind her as she lunged at Michael.
"Tell Tommy Shelby, we can look after ourselves," The woman spat, both her eyes and words, shooting daggers at the man.
"Tommy says that they could come for us today," Michael rebutted,
"Tommy says, Tommy says. Are you his fucking parrot?!" Esme yelled. Clara widened her eyes and stepped away from the pair, her body inching closer to the welcoming home and her brother.
"Look, it's the Mafia, all right?" Michael was now sharply spewing his words which were sheathed in exasperation. "This is the New York Mafia we're talking about."
"And we're the Peaky fuckin' Blinders," John sniffed. Clara felt ghostly bumps run their way down her spine as she shivered at the name.
"No, we're not, John, we're not the Peaky fucking Blinders unless we're together!"
"You were together in the gallows with one man missing," Esme snarled
"John...John, come to the meeting. All right?" Michael tried to persuade, his anger dissipating. "Think about the kids. Come to the meeting and if you want to leave, then fine."
"No, It's Christmas day, we're the family now, we're staying at home!" Esme refused the man. Clara glanced behind her as a breeze swept past her, her eyes landed on the slowing horse-drawn cart just outside the gates of the home. It seemed as if John had also spotted the anomaly, his eyebrows pinched.
And in that moment, it was as if time slowed. Clara Shelby watched as a man in black shoved a hay bale out of the way and jumped down to the ground with his gun drawn. She heard panicked yells erupt from behind her as John cocked his rifle and began shooting towards the unfamiliar man.
No, no, no.
This was all wrong.
The young woman was frozen in her spot whilst more men jumped up from behind the cart and let hellfire rain down. Her mind cemented her to her spot, even as bullets majestically danced and twirled their way towards her. She felt a sharp jolt as her body twisted, yet she couldn't move. She was screaming and crying inside her head, begging to move out of the way but she remained still and on the border of unresponsiveness as more gunfire exploded through the Christmas air.
Suddenly, Clara felt herself falling, her head thumping hard against the stone ground. Her vision instantly blackened for a few seconds before she blinked through bleary eyes just in time to see John's outstretched arm retreating to his gun. The haze around her grew as her vision swam, the pulsing pain in her head and arm coursing through her body. She moaned in pain as she slowly shifted her body against the ground, her ungloved fingers digging into the stone. She bit her lip as a cry of pain escaped her.
This was all wrong.
She moved her head to the side and blinked heavily as more gunfire echoed. John was falling now, his body flailing uselessly as one bullet hit him...then another, and another. The young woman cried out at the sight and tried to crawl towards her brother as he fell, but her weakening body granted her little leeway. She watched in horror as blood spilt from John's wounds and onto the ground below him. She heard another heavy thump as Michael fell just beyond John.
Mustering any strength she had, Clara found herself trying to crawl to her brother as the gunfire began to fade and roars of victory engulfed the distance. She gritted her teeth, her arm weeping in distress as she used all her muscles to manoeuvre herself towards her unmoving brother.
"John," Clara called out, her voice trembling while her eyes overflowed with tears. Her nails dug deep into the stone now as she continued to pull herself towards John. She could hear faint crying and screaming from inside the house but she pushed it all out of her mind as her eyes remained on her brother. None of it mattered, only he did. "John, get up!"
Clara was only a few centimetres away when her body finally gave in, collapsing in on itself, her arms falling limp from sudden exhaustion. Her body betrayed her. She felt as if the pain had made her its slave, as if pain had crushed her in and claimed her body for itself. Each uncontrollable heartbeat sent rapid ripples of torment across her flesh, gnawing at each nerve ending.
With a startling cry, her pulsing and agonisingly heavy arm reached out as far as possible to brush her bare hand against John's cold fingers. Clara sobbed from her position, her hand half-heartedly tugging at his limp fingers in the hope it would jerk John out of his unconsciousness. Her head unceremoniously dropped to the ground, her neck unable to support it any longer. She felt the tears drip down her cheeks to join a thicker wetness that had begun to run its course towards her face.
Utilising any might she had left, she lifted her other arm, the stronger of the two towards the wetness. Her scarred fingers dipped into the growing puddle, only to find that when they withdrew, they were coated in a red, hot substance. Clara's lip trembled as another sob wracked through her body. She couldn't tell if the blood belonged to her or if it had trickled from John's bleeding body but the sight itself made her scream out in anguish.
Blood stained.
She had come to learn that now and she realised that these stains would mark her soul forever, leaving no innocence in its wake as it seared into her very being.
John's blood was on her hands.
And on her hands, the blood would stay with the guilt for as long as she'd breathe.
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[unedited]
so...
HELLO MY BEAUTIFUL READERS, how are you?? [don't hate me please:')]
I'm sorry it took so long to update, I was on holiday and then when I got home, bad things just kept getting flung at me so I apologise!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter and let me just tell you that this is only a fraction of what is to come in the next few chapters!
ANYWAYS, I LOVE YOU ALL AND I'LL SEE YOU SOON, (and here's your memes of the week!)
(p.s. do not spoil Barbie for me please!!!)