Tommy

"You on your own?"

"Seems so."

Tommy straightened his jacket as the two men let go of him. Alfie Solomons stopped in front of him, his work-worn hands stretching to run through his beard. He looked him up and down once, probably noticing his considerably short stature, and then nodded, eyebrows raising as if surprised.

"Well, you're a brave lad, aren't you?" He said as he turned, walking forward, expecting him to follow. "You want to take a look at my bakery? We bake all sorts here mate, yeah. Did you know we bake over 10,000 loaves a week? Can you believe it? We bake the white bread, we bake the brown bread. We bake all sorts. Would you like to try some?"

They walked through his factory, obscured by dim, murky lights, the colour of bog water. Everything was fitting, down to the prison-like stone that paved their way. It was lowkey, inexpensive, the breeding ground for a gangster's wealth. Their footsteps echoed around them, not a worker in sight as Solomons showed him to the next large room, a small table of run laid out waiting.

Alfie nudged his head to the drink. "Bread?"

"Alright."

"Brown or white?"

"I'll try the brown," He said, and Solomons handed him a pre-poured drink. Tommy tipped it back, letting the grimy liquid coat his tongue, and considered it for a moment. "Not bad."

"Not bad, eh?" Alfie barked out a laugh. "It's fucking awful that stuff. The fucking brown stuff is awful. It's for the workers."

"Well, I've heard very bad, bad things about you Birmingham people," Alfie said as he sat down at his desk, leaning flatly against the back of the chair. His face was pulled thin, an amused expression decorating his dark eyes and lips. "You're Gypsies, right? So what, do you live in a fucking tent or caravan?"

Tommy was quiet for a moment, unimpressed. "I came here to discuss business with you, Mr Solomons."

"Well, rum is for fun and fucking, isn't it. So, whiskey, now that is for business," he said loudly, reaching a hand for his desk again.

"Let's talk first, eh?"

"Suit yourself." Solomon took a moment to look him up and down, his gaze lingering particularly on the blood burst eye and blue-tinted skin. "They say you had your life saved by a policeman."

"I have policemen on my payroll."

"I don't like policemen, they can't be trusted."

"Mr Sabini uses policemen all the time. That's why he's winning the war in London and you are losing it."

"A war ain't over till it's over, mate," Alfie shouted, slamming a hand down on the table, restraint in his movements. "You were in the war?" Again, Tommy remained quiet, keeping his watchful stare. "I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I shoved his face up against the trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking nose. and I hammered it home with a duckboard. It was fucking biblical, mate."

Alfie's breath was ragged. "So don't come here and sit there and tell me that I am losing my war to a fucking wop."

"That war was a long time ago," Tommy said, though to him the events felt like only a yesterday. The dreams and the nightmares kept them fresh on the surface of his memory. "You need to be more realistic."

"Realistic yeah?"

"Well if you weren't losing the war, then you wouldn't have sent me the telegram."

"Really? You forget your fucking telegram. The telegram just said, 'hello'," Solomons said, wide-eyed. "Face it, you want to sell me something. What?"

Tommy paused. Everything had been leading to this: his official way in. He was doing this for all of them, for his family, for Lucille, for his daughter, for his brothers. London was the future.

"We join forces."

"Fuck off," Solomons exclaimed, not missing a beat. "No."

"Mr Solomons, your distillery provides one-tenth of your income. Protection is another 10% and the rest you make from the race tracks. I know you keep a gun in the drawer, beside the whiskey. I know you offer a deal or death," Tommy said, watching as Alfie stilled momentarily, only to come back more heated. "I know what I'm saying makes you angry, but I'm offering you a solution. You see, Mr Sabini is running all your bookies off your courses. And he is closing down the premises that take your rum. And people don't trust your protection anymore."

"You're the bloke who shot Billy Kimber, right?" Alfie broke out into a sadistic smile. "You did, you fucking shot him. You fucking betrayed him, mate. So it would be entirely appropriate to do what I'm thinking in my head to you right now."

"I can offer you 100 good men, all with weapons. And a new relationship with the police."

"Intelligence. Intelligence is a very valuable thing, ain't it, my friend?" Alfie said. "And usually it comes far too fucking late."

He pulled out the gun, holding it to Tommy's head. He didn't move, he barely breathed. Solomons wouldn't shoot. But still, Tommy thought of Lucille and of his promise to her, to come back. He would go back to her, he would go back to her with another promise. A promise of a prosperous future.

"Let's say I shot you already, right, in the fucking face. And the bullet goes bone, mush, one cabinet over there. Which is a shame isn't it. That cabinet is fucked and I got to get rid of it. So, what I do is this. It's fucking simple mate. I cut that cabinet in half, don't I? I do, I just cut the cabinet. I cut."

He dropped the gun, smiling as if they were old friends playing a joke.

"I take one half of the cabinet and put it into a barrel. I take the other half and put it in another barrel. And I send this barrel off to Mandalay and the other barrel off to somewhere like... Timbuktu. Have you ever been?"

Tommy did not miss the threat. "No."

"Would you like to go?"

"No."

"You know I always thought you'd have a great, big fucking gold ring in your nose," Solomon said, barking out another laugh. And like that, Tommy was in. "I'm sorry. Go on. Tell us your plan."

Lucille

The cuts and bruises on Dawson's face had not yet begun to heel, and by the looks of it, Lucille knew it was due to his irritation, causing him to scratch and itch out of agitation many times a minute. His eyes were dark and puffy, a sure sign of lack of sleep, and even a busy Polly had commented on how distressed he was looking. All it had taken for him to let it all out like a bursting dam, was a simple question.

"It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't have been here," Dawson said quietly, tilting his pale face away. He nursed a small cup of tea between his hands, but it was a half an hour too cold.

"He would have gotten himself in it even if you weren't here," Lucille said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault." When she realised he was barely listening, she repeated herself. "It's not your fault, Dawson."

"Then why do I feel so guilty?"

"Because you're a good person. You care about your friends- your family," she said, a sad smile spreading across her lips. Dawson recognised the sentiment and mirrored it, though meekly. "It's not your fault."

"I know," he said.

Lucille was soon drawn away from the kitchen by the ringing of the phone in the betting den, which was empty. Adds hurried in first, her tight, blonde curls in trails behind her. She ripped the phone from the stand, giggling as a voice spoke on the other end.

"It's Aunty Ada!"

Adds handed over the phone to her mother.

"Thank you, my darling. Could you go get Dawson for me please?"

Lucille held the phone to her ear as Dawson appeared by the doorway, having been pulled by the arm by Adds.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Ada?" Lucille asked into the phone.

A beam quickly appeared on Dawson's face. "Ada!"

"God, we've been trying to contact you for days! Are you alright?" Lucille asked.

"Yes, I'm fine now. Bruises can heal," Ada said, the loudness of her voice coming and going. "How's Dawson? I heard he took a beating too."

"Dawson?" Lucille was purposefully loud, watching as his eyes widened at the mention of his name. "He's getting better. He could use some company if you ask me."

Ada laughed knowingly. "Listen, I just saw Tommy. This morning."

"He misses you, Ada," she said with a sigh.

"I know... I just can't be a part of that life anymore," she said. "But he gave me a key. To a new house."

"You should take a look, at least."

"I will, I am. Tell him thank you. Subtly, though," Ada said.

"I will."

Somehow, Tommy's office was pristine with not an inch of paper out of place. It looked empty without him in it, and as Lucille stepped out from the doorway, closing it behind her, she imagined it was him guiding her to the right place.

She fumbled with the top drawer, the one Tommy had said to check before he'd left for London. It wouldn't budge. Sliding her hand beneath the base, she found a key. Inside the drawer was more papers, the top most held in a file, her name scribbled in the top corner. Lucille opened it.

"Fucking hell, Tommy."

Michael Gray.

Born 18th September 1903

Son of Mr Hamish Gray and Mrs Polly Gray.

♡︎

Not loving this chapter but at least we have it!
Also, I didn't read this over enough times so if there's anything wrong please do say x