𝑯𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒖𝒏

The Animals

2:41 ────♡─── 4:31

"𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚞𝚗."

The church was quiet, the faint flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows on the worn pews. Polly and Maeve sat side by side, praying with their rosary beads in hand. Tommy had joined them, sitting directly behind, his presence unmistakable even in the solemn atmosphere.

"I have ten minutes," Tommy said, his voice low and clipped. "What do you want?"

Neither Polly nor Maeve responded immediately, their focus still on their prayers. Their beads clicked softly in their hands, their murmurs blending into the stillness. Tommy sighed, leaning back, frustration evident in the slight tension of his shoulders.

Polly finished her prayer, crossing herself before turning slightly to speak. "An explanation. Always been able to tell when you're hiding something."

Maeve added smoothly, not breaking her rhythm, "People round here talk, Thomas. Some of them work at the BSA."

Tommy didn't respond, but his jaw tightened.

"We've been talking to the wives of factory hands," Maeve continued, her tone sharp but not raised. "Detectives have been asking questions in the proofing shops. Nothing happens in that factory without you knowing about it."

She turned slightly, locking eyes with Tommy. "Speak. God and us women are listening."

Tommy exhaled heavily, leaning forward and resting his arms on the back of their pew. "It was meant to be routine," he began, his voice quieter. "I had a buyer in London for some motorcycles. I asked my men to steal me four bikes with petrol engines."

He paused, his face darkening. "I'm guessing my men were drunk. They picked up the wrong fucking crate. The bays dropped it at Charlie Strong's yard, as agreed. Must've taken it from the proofing bay instead of the export bay."

Polly muttered, crossing herself again. "Holy sweet baby of Mary."

Tommy pressed on, his voice steady. "Inside we found Lewis machine guns, rounds of ammunition, semi-automatic rifles, pistols with shells."

Maeve groaned, her hand lifting to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Urgh, Tommy."

"All bound for Libya," Tommy added, his voice grim. "Sitting right there in Charlie Strong's yard."

Maeve shook her head, her green eyes narrowing. "Tell me you threw them in the cut."

Tommy hesitated before answering. "We put them in the stables out of the rain. The guns hadn't been greased yet."

The room fell into an uneasy silence. Without warning, Polly reached back and repeatedly smacked Tommy's arm. "So that's why they sent a cop from Belfast?"

"Maybe," Tommy replied, his tone flat. "Maybe not."

Maeve leaned closer, her tone sharper now. "Thomas, you're a bookmaker, a robber, a fighting man. You're not a fool. You sell those guns to anyone who has use for them, and you will hang."

A faint creak of the door interrupted them. All three froze, listening as the faint sound of footsteps retreated outside. They waited, their breaths held, until the silence returned. Polly glanced at Maeve, who simply rolled her eyes before turning back to Tommy.

"Dump them somewhere the police can find them," Polly said firmly. "Maybe if they know they haven't fallen into the wrong hands, this might blow over."

"Tell Charlie to dump them tonight," she added.

Tommy shook his head. "No. He won't move contraband under a full moon. Three days until it wanes."

Polly leaned back, her voice softening just slightly. "Then you'll do the right thing?"

She fixed Tommy with a look that only Polly could muster. "You have your mother's common sense. But your father's devilment. I see them fighting. Let your mother win."

Tommy nodded faintly, standing and straightening his coat. He didn't say anything as he turned and began walking down the aisle.

Maeve stood and moved toward the altar. She stepped forward, her movements deliberate, and made the sign of the cross, murmuring softly, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." She kissed her fingers briefly and lowered them.

Without looking back at Polly or Tommy, she followed him out, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor.

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Maeve shoved the door to The Garrison open with her shoulder, the familiar warmth and clatter of the pub greeting her like an old friend. The regulars were already tucked into their usual spots, their voices carrying over the wooden beams.

"Morning, lads," Maeve called, hanging her coat on a peg near the bar.

"Maeve!" one of the men hollered, raising his pint. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence."

"Fuck off, Mikey," Maeve shot back, smirking. "You'd be lost without me. Who else keeps you bastards upright after your sixth pint?"

The table erupted into laughter as Maeve strode to the bar, her shoes clicking against the floor. Harry was there, wiping down the counter like it owed him money. He glanced up as she approached.

"You're late," he grumbled, though there was a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

Maeve leaned on the counter. "Ah, you'd miss me if I wasn't."

"I wouldn't miss the trouble you bring, that's for sure," Harry retorted, pointing a cloth at her. "And speaking of trouble, there's someone new you should meet."

Maeve raised an eyebrow. "You finally got sick of doing everything yourself, eh?"

Before Harry could reply, a soft voice cut in. "That'd be me."

Maeve turned her head to see a blonde woman behind the bar. She stood straight, her hair neatly pinned back, and her hands were wiping down a bottle like her life depended on it. Despite her calm demeanor, there was a tension in her shoulders, like she wasn't sure how to breathe in this place.

Maeve stepped closer, narrowing her green eyes slightly. "And you are?"

The woman hesitated, glancing at Harry before responding. "Grace Burgess."

Maeve extended a hand, her movements confident but not overly friendly. "Maeve Harding. If you're smart, you'll keep a stick handy. The lot in here'll try anything if you're not looking."

Grace shook her hand firmly, though her grip was just shy of steady. "I'll keep that in mind."

Harry chuckled from behind them, leaning against the bar. "You two'll get on fine. Maeve's got enough bite to keep the rest in line."

Maeve snorted, turning to Harry. "That's rich coming from a man who yells at customers for asking for a clean glass."

"They don't need a clean glass!" Harry shot back, his voice rising. "They need to drink quicker, so the shite don't settle!"

Maeve rolled her eyes, grabbing a rag and stepping behind the counter. "Christ, this place would fall apart without me."

As she passed Grace, Maeve noticed the woman's quick glance away, like she was trying to avoid being caught staring. Maeve didn't think much of it, already pulling a pint for one of the regulars who waved her over.

"So," Maeve said casually, glancing at Grace. "What brings you here? Don't sound like you're from Birmingham."

Grace hesitated, the pause just long enough for Maeve to notice. "Ireland," Grace finally said. "Wanted a fresh start. Found work here."

Maeve nodded, her expression neutral but her tone sharp. "Well, Harry's not the worst boss, long as you don't mind his yelling."

"Oi!" Harry barked from the other end of the bar. "I don't bloody yell!"

Maeve raised an eyebrow at Grace, smirking. "You'll get used to it."

Grace's lips twitched into a faint smile, though the tension in her shoulders didn't quite relax. "Seems like you run the place more than Harry does."

Maeve snorted. "Aye, but don't tell him that. His head's big enough as it is."

As the morning settled into its usual rhythm, Maeve and Grace worked side by side. Grace kept her head down, quietly taking stock of the room, while Maeve moved with practiced ease. Grace kept her distance, but Maeve couldn't shake the feeling that the new barmaid was holding back more than just her nerves. Whether it was her accent or the way her eyes darted around the room like she was keeping score, something about Grace didn't sit right.

But Maeve let it go-for now.

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Arthur sat slumped in a chair, his face swollen and bruised from the beating he'd taken at the hands of Campbell's men. His lip was split, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. Polly knelt in front of him, wrapping his hands with slow, deliberate care, her lips pressed into a thin line.

At the stove, Ada was boiling water in an old kettle, muttering under her breath as she worked. Maeve stood near the doorway, ushering John's kids out of the room with a firm but gentle tone.

"Out you go, loves," she said, herding them like a mother hen. "Don't want you seein' your Uncle Arthur like this."

The children filed out reluctantly, one of them glancing back at Arthur before Maeve closed the door behind them. She leaned against the frame for a moment, taking a breath before turning back to the chaos.

"John," Ada snapped from across the room. "Wipe the blood out of his eye."

John, who had been leaning lazily against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you give orders?"

Ada didn't dignify him with a response, walking briskly across the room to fetch a clean cloth. "I'm a trained nurse," she declared, her tone sharp.

Arthur let out a pained laugh, wincing immediately as he clutched his ribs. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts me face."

"I bloody am," Ada insisted, glaring at him.

John smirked. "You went to one first aid class in the church hall and got thrown out for giggling."

Ada turned to him, her hands on her hips. "Not before I learned how to stop somebody from choking."

Arthur groaned, his voice muffled. "I'm not bloody choking, am I?"

"You will be," Ada retorted, picking up a cloth, "when I wrap this round your neck."

Before Arthur could respond, the door opened, and Tommy walked in, holding a bottle of wine in his hand. His sharp eyes immediately scanned the room, landing on Arthur's battered face.

"Let me see him," Tommy said, his voice calm but firm. He handed the bottle to Arthur, who took it gratefully and drank without hesitation.

Maeve stepped forward, brushing past Tommy as she grabbed the cloth from his hands. "Give me that," she muttered, her tone sharp but steady. She knelt in front of Arthur, gently dabbing at the blood on his face. Despite the harshness of her earlier words, her touch was surprisingly tender.

"You're all right," Tommy said to Arthur, though his tone suggested otherwise.

Arthur took another swig of the wine before looking up at Tommy. "He said Mr. Churchill sent him to Birmingham. National interest, he said. Something about a robbery."

At this, both Polly and Maeve paused, their eyes snapping to Tommy. Maeve froze mid-motion, the cloth still pressed against Arthur's cheek.

Arthur winced as Polly moved to his thumb, preparing to wrap it. "He said he wants us to help him. We don't help coppers. He knew all about our war records. Said we're patriots, like him. Wants us to be his eyes and ears."

Arthur grunted in pain as Polly tugged on his hand to set his broken thumb properly. "I said... I said we'd have a family meeting, take a vote."

Arthur looked up at Tommy, his voice rising in frustration. "Well, why not? We've no truck with Fenians or communists. What's wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with him lately?"

Polly glanced at Tommy, her lips pursed, before looking back at Arthur. "If I knew," she said dryly, wrapping the last bit of the bandage, "I'd buy the cure from Compton's chemists."

Maeve finally pulled back, tossing the bloodied cloth into a basin. She stood, crossing her arms as her sharp green eyes flicked between Tommy and Polly.

"Well," Maeve said, her voice low, "it sounds like he's bringing trouble straight to our door."