"Now, tell us what you know!" Arthur demanded with his foot on the man's chest.
"I already said I don't know anything!"
"You lie!"
Arthur pounced on the poor bastard again and hit him three times in the mud. Tommy heard the jaw being broken.
"I don't know anything ... please," the man sobbed and covered his face with the hands. "I don't know... any Olivia..." He said as best as he could.
Tommy let out all the cigarette smoke from his lungs and closing his eyes, he prayed for patience. If it were up to him, he would put a bullet in that bastard's forehead right there, but unfortunately he couldn't kill him: he was the only witness for Olivia's death.
Tommy approached the man, who still had Arthur on top of him, and squatted. From his watch pocket, he took a small photograph of Olivia that he had stolen from her purse when she was still alive, and placed it in front of the man's eyes.
"Take a good look at her," Tommy said calmly. "You really don't know her?"
"No..."
"We happened to meet there casually." Tommy pointed to the brick house across from them, the same house where Olivia had been murdered a month ago. "You were coming back home drunk when you heard a shot inside that building. Did you see someone go out?"
"I ... I already said no ..." The damn bastard spat blood and a premolar.
"Are you sure?" Tommy insisted.
"Yes. I was very drunk and ... when I heard the shot ... I ran"
"Okay"
Pushing Arthur back, Tommy unsheathed the revolver with impressive speed and without thinking twice, shot the bastard's head off. His brother jumped up immediately. A trail of blood mixed with the mud ran between the cobblestones.
"God, Tom, why the fuck do you never tell me when you're about to shoot?" Arthur was greatly disturbed.
"If they find out I'm going to kill them, they'll get nervous," he said.
"Wait, what do we do with the corpse?"
"Leave it there, someone will find it."
The Shelby brothers got into the car and before taking the wheel, Tommy took off his gloves. It was cold and the overcast sky predicted a storm. He opened the glove compartment and took Olivia's diary from it.
"What's that?" Arthur asked.
"One of Olivia's diaries."
"What?"
"Ada brought them to me a couple of weeks after her death," Tommy explained, looking through the pages. "Do you remember the gala dinner for Ada's magazine?"
"The night we killed a Lord?" Arthur asked sarcastically. "Of course I do remember it." His brother warmed his hands with his breath. His knuckles were still covered in blood.
"It was the night I met Olivia and at the same time, the night the fascists swore to destroy me." The reminiscence made him feel a huge self-rejection. Polly was right: the fascists had pulled the trigger, but it was him who had killed Olivia.
"We shouldn't have killed that old man." Arthur said "I told you it was a mistake".
"Lord Pennington had to die." Tommy stiffened and crumpled the sheets of the diary unconsciously. "Without him, Mosley lost a lot of supporters". He tried to convince himself that what he had done had not been a huge stupidity.
"Ada spent days without speaking to us because we screwed her bloody magazine" Arthur shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat "and because she discovered that you never really supported her with her project, but you pretended to do it to bring Lord Pennington closer to us".
"If we didn't kill him in my house, we could never have disappeared the body."
"And Olivia gave us the perfect opportunity," Arthur added. "If the old man had not been a scumbag with her, I would never have punched him and, therefore, we would never have accompanied him to his car with the excuse that he had to go home. Did Olivia ever know about all this? Did she know that she was an indirect participant in a murder?" His brother wanted to know.
"No," Tommy said. He felt a pressure in the chest when he knew that he had dragged her into that shitty situation.
"Let's go, Tom." Arthur was very nervous about how calm he looked, but, ignoring his brother's anxiety, Tommy looked for the next entry in the diary. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I read".
"Now?"
Tommy did not reply. From the sky, fine drops began to fall, which soon became a downpour. A couple of meters from the car, the corpse of the man whose words had been useless to him, was soaked, and the rainwater swept the rivers of blood that flowed from the bullet hole.
Striving to ignore his brother's heavy breathing, Tommy began to read.
╭⋟───────────────────╮
April 7, 1931.
It's almost midnight and I just got back to my room. Concerned about how silent Ada was during dinner, I waited for the children to go to sleep and began to investigate the reason for her strange attitude. Finally, and after much insistence, she broke down in tears and confessed to me that the magazine had been canceled since all those who had initially promised her their support, had left the project as a result of the strange disappearance of Lord Pennington.
Lord Pennington and his chauffeur were last seen after leaving Thomas Shelby's mansion. Apparently, and according to the hypotheses handled by the police, they were intercepted halfway by a group of communists, since the support that Lord Pennington provided to the fascists was well known.
It breaks my heart that Ada's project was frustrated by something that has nothing to do with her. It is true that the rest of the guests did not like the fact that Arthur, her brother, beat the old man up, but why did they have to abandon her like that?
Ada apologized to me in a thousand ways, believing that it would affect me not to see my poem published, when in fact, she doesn't know how much it relieves me. Obviously, I told her not to worry and I did not express my true feelings to her, nor did I tell her that I went to Small Heath today and I was with Thomas.
This morning Ada was in a hurry since little Beth had an appointment with the doctor, so she said she didn't think she could drive Karl to school. I offered to drive him to school and Ada thanked me, saying I could borrow her car since Polly would pick her up.
I dropped Karl off at school and headed to Small Heath with my heart pounding. I brought my notebook of poems with me, but it was not the fear of being judged again that had me almost paralyzed, but to meet Thomas Shelby once again.
I felt the adrenaline rush through my body as I entered damp, gray streets. Since the gala dinner, I hadn't stopped thinking about him. Thomas Shelby aroused in me an accumulation of mixed emotions: he caused me curiosity but at the same time fascination. He caused me a certain fear and at the same time he seemed extremely attractive.
I stopped the car as I identified Shelby Company Limited offices. Upon entering the building, I had to climb several stairs and upon reaching Thomas' office reception, I noticed that it was empty. In front of me, a double wooden door remained hermetically closed. Dubiously, I knocked a few times and it was upon hearing footsteps on the other side that I began to regret whatever I was doing. Although it was clear to me that I was going there only to deliver some poems, the guilt hit me when I surprised myself wanting a married man.
The door opened and I could finally see Thomas's face.
"Miss Westerling," he greeted me. He looked out of place "I wasn't expecting you".
Hearing him say that, I sensed that shame washed over me. He may have already forgotten that he had invited me there.
"You told me..."
"I remember what I told you", interrupted Thomas, "but I didn't think you would come. Come in", and he stepped aside so I could go into his office.
That place described him perfectly. The dark tones predominated and not even the faint sunlight that filtered through the half-raised blind could attenuate the shadows. Everything in that office smelled of him: his cologne, tobacco, and Irish whiskey. I was immediately overwhelmed by his presence as it was in every corner, and when I felt his hand on my back, I trembled.
"Have a seat", he said.
I sat down and he did the same on the other side of the desk. I was too tense and I was aware of it when moving in the chair I noticed a small cramp in my calf.
"I've come to bring you my poems", I explained and placed my poor notebook on the polished wood. "I hope they are to your liking", I added.
"I'd be happy to read them. A drink?" Thomas pointed to a small table where he had several bottles of alcoholic beverages.
"Mr. Shelby, it's nine in the morning ..." I tried to sound as polite as possible.
"A person reproached me the same thing a few years ago", he said, and the memory made him seem quite amused. "I admit that my hours are not very normal. A cigarette?" Now he was offering me a cigarette, but before I could say anything, he added, "Is this one of the situations where you need a cigarette?".
"What do you mean?" I narrowed my eyes.
"You're stiffer than a statue", he observed, and that made me more nervous. "I would ask, but I think I know why".
"And why is that?" I took a cigarette. After all, he was right. He lit my tobacco as he did that night on the balcony.
"My sister doesn't know you are here, does she?"
Apparently my surprise was so obvious that it caused him to smile a little. I tried to hide it by puffing on the cigarette, thinking about what to say. Then I cursed myself. I did not have to give explanations of any kind.
"No, she doesn't know", I said.
"Ada is a good woman, Miss Westerling, but you already know that", he said. "Wouldn't you suspect if a good woman like Ada is trying to get you away from me?".
"She's not trying to get me away from you", I lied. "Would she have reasons to?"
"Oh, there are many reasons", Thomas said and took his glass of whiskey. "For example, Ben Younger died because of me".
At the time, I didn't bother to contain my surprise. I opened my eyes wide as I tried to process Thomas' words. Ben Younger had been Ada's lover for a time and was the father of little Beth. He had died in an IRA bombing in late 1929, or at least, that's what Ada had told me.
His death had hurt her much more than she had dared admit, because that night, after learning about poor Ben's tragic death, Ada called me on the phone and we talked for an hour and a half. I know what hurt her the most was the fact that the child in her womb would never know their father.
"Ben Younger was killed by the IRA", I said, as if my words were going to change reality.
"Do you know where the attack that ended Younger's life was?" He ignored what I had said and asked me that question. Seeing me shake my head, he continued. "Here, on the sidewalk of my offices". Thomas stood up and went to the window to look outside. "If only that man hadn't come here..."
"Is that why you blame yourself? Because Ben's car exploded in front of your window?", I interrupted, pretending to be an idiot. Somehow, I needed him to stop talking.
Thomas turned around and looked at me. I was aware that in his story there was much more than what he was telling me and what Ada told me at the time. I didn't want to know anything else. The sudden enrichment, the political career and the contacts were proof enough to understand that in front of me I had a man with more secrets than truths and a friend who, being part of that reality, tried to protect me from him.
I wanted to get out of that office. I needed to get out of there, not because I was afraid of Thomas Shelby but because I was afraid of falling in love with him.
"Ada once told me that I break everything I touch", Thomas snapped after a long and rugged silence in which we did nothing but look at each other. "What do you think about that?"
"I don't know you well enough to have an opinion, Mr. Shelby", I said, and he snorted, a gesture that ranged from mockery to sadness.
"If you knew me, I am sure you would have a very well-formed opinion". He returned to his seat and sighed with a wave of his hand. "Well, are you going to recite one of your poems to me?"
"What?" The question and the abrupt change of attitude disturbed me.
"Since you came all the way here, you could recite me one of your poems", he explained. "Or are you thinking of leaving?"
"I don't want to make you waste any more time..."
"Don't worry, I don't have much work", Thomas shrugged.
I sighed in defeat and put the cigarette in the ashtray. I figured out the sooner I fulfilled that man's wishes, the sooner I could get out of there, so I took my notebook and opened it. I searched among my works for a poem short enough so that my torture did not extend too long but at the same time, long enough to prolong his attention on me.
If you have a secret,
I'd rather you tell me in bed.
Because there is no more discreet comrade
than with whom the pillow is shared.
If you fear someone,
I'd rather we plot in bed.
Because there is no better crime executed
than the one planned between the sheets.
If you hate
I'd rather you release your hatred in bed.
Because there is no greater rancor
than loving someone who doesn't love you.
"I liked this better than the one you recited during the gala dinner" he confessed. "Why don't you publish this one instead?"
"This one is much more unashamed..." Suddenly, I felt naked. Every time I let someone know my art, I perceived as if my most vulnerable side was in sight.
"So? What's the problem?" Thomas asked nonchalantly. It was obvious that in the face of his privileged and masculine vision of the world, publishing such a poem did not pose any risk.
"I'm trying to make a living out of this, Mr. Shelby", I wanted to make him understand. "If the first time I publish in a magazine I do it with one of my most unashamed poems, there will be no publisher that wants to work with me. And I don't plan to live on Ada for the rest of my life".
I saw him scrutinize me with unconvinced eyes and took the glass of whiskey once more. At that moment, he stopped looking at me to stare at the amber drink.
"I don't want to be the one to say it, but do you really think that you will be able to make a living out of poetry?"
It was as if a cold water bucket was thrown at me, but I already knew that feeling. Countless times in my life, many different people had told me that there was no possibility of make a living out of poems, that it was a nice way to channel my emotions, but I could not pretend to pay all my bills with a couple of verses.
"No, I don't think so", I confessed, as I had confessed thousands of times before, "but most of the time, I like to imagine that I do", I said. "If I were constantly reminding myself that poetry will be useless to me and I'm destined to be a simple salaried woman, I wouldn't be able to write a thing".
He raised an eyebrow almost in fascination.
"Miss Westerling, have you ever been told that you are very brave?"
As I have bothered to emphasize, I know very little about Thomas Shelby and, of all the words that could come out of his mouth at that time, I never imagined that he would call me "brave".
"No. In fact, this is the first time", I admitted. The cramp in my calf returned. The muscles in my body were succumbing due to anxiety.
"I'm going to propose something to you". Thomas leaned both elbows on the desk and was therefore closer. "Work for me".
"Excuse me?"
"You must have noticed that I have no secretary. The one I had, quited the day of the IRA bombing and since then, no other woman has dared to work here". I said nothing, so he continued. "You know to read and write, and although I have only seen you writing in your own handwriting so far, it won't be difficult for you to learn to use a typewriter..."
"I know how to use a typewriter", I interrupted. His proposal was making me uncomfortable "I used one at the factory".
"Even better. You can use the typewriter to write poems in your spare time, it won't bother me", he assured me "Do you know how to prepare coffee? Tea?
"Mr. Shelby", I tried to get his attention, "I don't think you're aware of the commitment you're putting me into".
"Why do you say that?"
"Ada..."
"I thought Ada wasn't trying to get you away from me", he didn't allow me to make an excuse, which we both knew was going to be a lie.
I took a big breath of air and he looked at me. Beyond Ada, beyond his dark side, there was only a reason why I didn't want to work for Thomas Shelby: the way he had heard me recite the poem, the attention he paid at me and the genuine pleasure he showed when I finished reciting, made my world tremble under his feet much more than it had already trembled during the gala dinner. After Ada, he was the first person who I perceived sincere about my art and considered the fact of loving my poetry, an act of bravery and not a childish dream of a stupid girl unaware of reality.
"He is married, you've already seen. And he's also a jerk. I tell you this because he's my brother and I know him", Ada had said to me a couple of days ago, knowing that Thomas would somehow manage to get into my heart.
How willing was I, Olivia Westerling, to spend hours with a man who met all the necessary requirements to make me believe in love again? As chaotic as it was. As turbulent as it was.
Was I ready to sacrifice everything once more?
"I'll take the job".
╰───────────────────⋞╯
"Tom, someone's coming." Arthur's voice made him stop reading.
Tommy looked out the window and in the rain he saw a woman running. With old heels splashing in puddles of dirty water, he saw her approach the corpse and stare at it for a couple of seconds. Immediately, she looked around for the culprits of such an act and found the car in which Tommy and Arthur were.
Arthur babbled confused when he saw the woman walked away peacefully as if nothing had happened.
"What the fuck just happened?"
"Do you know who the man I killed was, Arthur?" Tommy was convinced that cocaine was rotting his brother's brain. "He was the drunkard of Mr. Connors. Do you remember his wife, the bird freak? She appeared a couple of years ago at the Garrison with some dead birds, which had been killed by him".
"Fuck..."
"Yes, you beat him up back then and that's why he was so terrified when we found him this morning". Tommy stroked his temples. "I suppose he must have imagined that we found out that he killed his wife's birds again, which she named after us".
"Mr. Connors happened to be the witness to Olivia's death?"
"He wasn't, you already saw. He didn't know anything", Tommy explained. "And upon finding the body and seeing my car, Mrs. Connors assumed that I actually shot her drunken and violent husband to rid her of him"
"And why did you kill him, then?" Arthur questioned, still stunned by the coincidence. Small Heath was smaller than he thought "The son of a bitch didn't know anything about Olivia and you're not very fond of birds, Tom".
"I don't know", Tommy said after a couple of seconds of silence.
He had killed him out of anger because the only person able to give him the information he needed was such a useless piece of shit. He had killed him because, being the coward Mr. Connors was, he had chosen to run.
"Do you think Olivia wrote in her diaries who she met the night she died?"
"I don't know", Tommy repeated. "I'm just reading her first diary".
"Wouldn't it be easier to read the last one first to see if there are any clues?"
"I need to read them in order"
"Why?"
"Because I need to know how far I was able to lie to her and put her in danger". Tommy felt that his patience was running out. "I already told you, the main culprit behind her death is me. Just as it happened with Grace".
"They knew who they were falling in love with, brother" Arthur said, carefully.
"For now, Olivia has only a suspicion", Tommy closed the diary. "Do you remember Mrs. Orwen?"
"The secretary you had before Olivia?" Arthur looked alarmed. "Did you kill her too?"
"No, I fired her", Tommy said quickly. His brother's stupid conclusion angered him. "I fired her the day after the gala dinner because I planned to hire Olivia if she came by my office. I took advantage of her need for a job to keep her close to me. I told Olivia that it had been a long time since I'd been able to get a secretary. I lied to her".
"Anyone in your place would have done the same".
"Anyone in my place would have tried to push her away because it was safest". Tommy left the diary in the glove compartment as he struggled to contain the anger that was boiling inside him. He started the car's engine. "We're leaving".
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A/N: I know my poems suck, sorry 👊😔