Rainfall pelted down onto the glistening grey streets of Hampstead in London. The force of the droplets was that akin to bullets, falling hard and heavy - a sheer curtain of plummeting precipitation that was hard to navigate through on this miserable November afternoon.
Thomas Shelby felt this weather was probably most appropriate for his current mood. The man was at a crossroads for what must have been the millionth time in his life. Just when he thought he could no longer hear the picks and the shovels against his wall at night - they started again, along with ominous voices of figures he had come across in his life; whispering to him with overpowering control that the Birmingham bred man often wondered whether he had a conscience anymore alongside these whispering calls.
Enough was enough, hearing voices was one thing but seeing his deceased wife ghosting in the backseat of his Bentley was another. That had to be the final straw. Thomas Shelby has finally given in to the advice of his sister Ada, and gone to see a specialist.
But of course he wasn't going to let her know she had won.
His smart black leather shoes were gleaming wetly in the all but shrouded dim light of the clouded sun as the gangster-come-businessman marched with an purpose in his stride through the relentless downpour. He'd specifically picked to come to London to see this specialist - he didn't want anyone in Birmingham knowing and having the slightest doubt the Peaky Blinder wasn't sane. Mental health was such a stigma and Tommy knew he could not afford to have his reputation shaken anymore than it had done, because by god- did he know how his reputation had been shaken violently like a child's doll over the past number of years.
Number 2, Tenley Street.
Thomas Shelby gazed up the grand white terrace of town houses that he was now faced with. He'd been so determined to battle his way through the weather's temperamental outburst of rain that he hadn't realised how quickly he had come to find the address.
The building had this sort of austere appearance to it, a ring of formal eloquence and well-to-do air in it's large paned windows and clean white brickwork. It spelled everything that a psychologist's office should be.
A nervous uncertainty fathomed immediately in Mr Shelby's stomach as his feet met the sandstone white steps leading up to the smart black front door. There was a brass buzzer plate, on which was clearly and neatly engraved:
Dr V. Grant, Clinical Psychologist
This was definitely the place, and there was no way Tommy could worm out of this now. He'd purposefully parked his posh car a few streets back and walked, simply because his overworked and paranoid mind was cautious of the fact someone he knew may have somehow seen his car outside the building and put two and two together.
"Fucks sake." Tommy cursed under his breath at his situation, as he rang the bell, hanging his head, flat cap drenched with rain whilst he waited - hearing the muffled melodic chime of the doorbell from within the hallway on the other side of the door.
It took no more than 30 seconds before the sound of heels clicking was heard in the hallway - however they weren't composed steps, it was tottering, like a woman in a terrible fluster or a rush.
Just as the door was opening, Tommy heard the unmistakable elated and carefree giggles of a young child - and was surprised to reveal the imagine of a young blonde woman wearing a casual baby blue shirt dress, her hair rolled into tight curls and a baby boy of no older than 2 settled on her hip.
"Can I help...?" She asked, cocking her head to the side gently with a polite smile. The gangster stood there all but miffed, his icy blue eyes naturally did a double take to the brass engraved plate beside the doorbell to ensure he had not made an error.
"I'm sorry, love," his brummie accented tones rang, "I was looking for Dr Grant...?"
Immediately the woman's face lit up in acknowledgement, and her arm drew the door back further so it was opened in a more welcoming fashion.
"Mr Shelby, is it?" She confirmed, to which Tommy simply nodded and stepped into the wide and airy hallway - drawing in the wet with him as it clung to his black longline coat and fancy black shoes.
"Come with me," she started, leading the way through the spacious hallway.
The young blonde woman lead the way up the stairs, chattering rather mindlessly to Mr Shelby as he rather tuned out - acutely aware of the fact he was now within the lions den and was about to face his fears.
Coming to terms with all the shite he'd bottled up over countless years.
His striking blues eyes noted the various artworks on the walls as he ascended the staircase behind the woman who seemed to be running the 'front of house'. The artworks themselves were neat, singularly focused - mostly devoid of any colour and instead simply sketches - beautifully rough but very anatomically correct. Their soft colour palette settled nicely against the french grey of the high walls they sat on, which wrapped around as the staircase that curled up like a cat's tail and met the summit of the steps adjoining to the landing.
There were countless doors along the spacious open plan landing, with a little communal area containing a threaded rug to decorate the otherwise one toned parquet wood flooring, a few chairs and a small bookcase.
The door directly across from the top of the stairs was clearly the office door - for the crisp white fixture had a clear brass engraved name plate settled stoically in place.
Going ahead, the young blonde woman twisted the brass knob and opened the door to the office. The room was otherwise empty at the moment, empty of people of course - however it was packed with all sorts of furniture and interesting looking art and books for any soul to ponder over for a while.
Upon invitation, Tommy wandered inside with a slightly hesitant and politeness to his gait - something that was rarely seen on the man.
"My name is Nina," the woman called with a smile, "If you need anything - just shout. Dr Grant will be with you soon."
With a nod of thankful acknowledgement, Tommy Shelby watched the figure of the woman disappear and the door click shut. He instantly gazed around this room, and wished he rather had an office like this. The ceilings in the room were beautifully high, painted a very classic magnolia. The room itself was a simple long layout - with the grand oak desk and chairs sat proudly in front of the large arch shaped window that Tommy imagined would allow such copious amounts of wonderful sunlight to flood into the room on better days than this one.
Clearing his throat, he made his way down to sit in one of the two leather chairs in front of the desk, passing a vast towering bookcase and a crackling marble hearth on the way. As he settled in the smart leather seat, he reminded himself further it wasn't often these days that he sat on the other side of the desk.
The blinder quickly removed his sopping wet cap and rested it in his lap. He wrung his hands, unable to deny these feelings of utter nervousness. He wasn't even sure if he was ready to open up - to discuss everything.... France, the troubles at home, the wars he'd gotten into with people on his way up to the top... he just wanted someone to try and help him understand why these voices whispered and taunted him to do all manner of negative things in the most painful hours of the day.
Amongst the gusty crackling of the roaring fireplace, Thomas almost missed the sound of the door clicking open. He turned back in his chair to finally come to see the man who might be able to help him get control of his demons.
"Sorry I'm slightly late." They said.
Tommy was surprised as to what he saw.
"It's lovely to meet you Mr Shelby."