𝑨𝒕𝒍𝒂𝒔: 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉

Sleeping At Last

0:57 ──♡───── 4:07

"𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛-𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚑é𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚜? 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚊 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍."

The Garrison was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to its usual bustling atmosphere. The tables were polished, the chairs neatly tucked in, and the air smelled faintly of freshly scrubbed wood. Arthur Shelby leaned against the bar, the silence pressing against him. Maeve had gone upstairs moments ago, saying she had something to take care of. He nodded absently, his mind elsewhere.

After a moment, Arthur glanced toward the stairs to ensure she wasn't coming down, then turned to the bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he took a long swig, savoring the burn. He exhaled, setting the glass down, when the creak of the door startled him.

A woman stepped inside, her posture tense and her face pale. Arthur didn't pay her much attention at first. He leaned back against the bar, his demeanor casual. "The cleaning job's gone," he said flatly. "Vacancy's filled."

"I'm not a cleaner," the woman said, her voice trembling but resolute. "But I have come to clean away some dirt."

Arthur finally turned to look at her, his gaze sharpening when he saw the gun in her shaking hand. His eyes narrowed, but his tone remained steady. "Why don't you put that away before it goes off?"

The woman's hands trembled, but her grip on the gun was firm. Her voice cracked as she spoke, raw with grief and fury. "You killed my son! You Peaky bastard! You beat him and beat him and beat him."

Arthur's expression hardened, and he turned back to his glass, lifting it to his lips. "Your son was a boxer."

"No!" the woman cried, her voice rising in anguish. "He was a boy...who got into a ring with an animal."

Arthur's lips quirked into a humorless smirk. "Yeah, ain't that the truth."

The woman's breathing grew ragged as her rage bubbled over. "I've come to stop you because the coppers and nobody else will."

Arthur turned to face her fully now, his movements slow and deliberate. He stepped closer, his voice low and commanding. "If you're going to use it, point that thing at my head. That's where the trouble is. Gut-shot soldiers take half a day to die. I've seen 'em, walking around with their guts in their arms like dirty washing."

The woman's hands shook violently, her knuckles white around the gun. Arthur took another step closer. "Hold that gun up and do it! F*cking do it! Do it!" His voice thundered in the empty room as he slammed his hand on the bar, making the woman jump.

The gun fired, the sound deafening in the quiet pub. The bullet missed, embedding itself in the wood near Arthur's shoulder. The woman gasped, the reality of what she'd just done sinking in. Arthur moved quickly, his arm snapping out like he was going to hit her. She flinched violently, falling back onto a chair, the gun slipping from her grasp.

"Arthur!" Maeve's voice rang out as she descended the stairs, her sharp eyes taking in the scene in an instant. Without hesitation, she strode forward and slapped Arthur across the face, the sound echoing in the room. He stumbled back, stunned, as she pushed him further away.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Maeve snapped, her voice fierce and unwavering. She turned her attention to the woman, who was trembling and on the verge of breaking down. Maeve crouched beside her, her hands gentle as she helped her to her feet.

"Come on," Maeve said softly. "Let's get you outside."

Maeve held the trembling woman outside, her arm firmly around her shoulder, as if trying to transfer some semblance of strength into her frail, grief-stricken frame. The woman's sobs were ragged, her breaths shallow and erratic. Maeve kept her steady, her eyes scanning the street to ensure no prying eyes would amplify the moment's rawness.

"I know nothing I say will bring your son back," Maeve began, her voice calm but resolute. "I know money can't replace him, can't heal the hole he's left. But it can help you keep the life you still have together."

The woman's tears briefly slowed as she looked at Maeve, her expression caught between anger and exhaustion. "You think money fixes this?" she spat. "Do you think coins fill an empty chair at the dinner table? Do they laugh, or grow, or argue back when you call them?"

Maeve nodded, letting the venom pass through her without resistance. "No. They don't. And I would never insult you by pretending otherwise."

The woman's lip trembled, her hand clutching Maeve's sleeve tightly. "He wasn't just a boy in a ring, Mrs. Shelby. He was my boy. He didn't deserve what happened. Your husband-he's not a man, he's a beast."

Maeve inhaled deeply, her face softening but not breaking. "You're a mother. I'm a mother. I can't pretend to understand the depth of your pain, but I know what it means to protect, to love so deeply it terrifies you. And that's why I want to help."

The woman pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face twisting into something more feral, more broken. "Help? You think I want your help? You think I want your charity? All I wanted was my son to walk back through my door, to tell me about his day, to hug me when I'd had enough of this world. And now, because of him-" she jabbed her finger toward the Garrison "-I'll never have that again."

Maeve swallowed, her own throat tight, though she kept her emotions in check. "I can't undo what's been done. But you have other children, don't you? They need you now, even if it doesn't feel like enough."

The woman's body shook with fresh sobs, and she fell to her knees. Maeve crouched down, holding her as the woman let out the pain she'd been carrying, her sobs echoing in the quiet street. Maeve's voice softened as she cradled her. "I'll make sure your other sons have work, steady work, so they're safe and provided for. And you-you won't have to worry about food, about anything. I'll make it right the only way I can."

The woman shook her head furiously, her voice cracking. "You can't make this right. Nothing will. I see your face, your kind words. But when I close my eyes, all I see is my boy lying in that ring. I see his blood. I see your husband's hands."

Maeve closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so, so sorry."

The woman stilled for a moment, but her next words cut through the quiet like a blade. "You say you're a mother. Then you understand."

Maeve nodded solemnly, her grip tightening around the woman's shoulders. "I do."

"Then you'll understand this too." The woman pulled away, her face hardening as she straightened her spine, standing taller. "A son for a son."

Maeve's heart stilled, her breath catching. The words were not screamed but delivered with a chilling finality. Maeve didn't flinch, didn't react beyond the tightening of her jaw.

"You've said your piece," Maeve said, her voice steady but steely. "Now go home. Be with the sons you still have. They need you."

The woman didn't respond, just held Maeve's gaze for a long, agonizing moment before turning and walking away, her figure dissolving into the shadows. Maeve stayed in place, her composure unshaken but her mind racing. Finally, she turned and reentered the Garrison, her back straight, her face a mask of calm.

Arthur stood in the dim light, watching her as she passed him without a word. For now, her focus wasn't on him but on the children she'd just sent the woman home to. Whatever came next, she would be ready. She always was.

----------------------------------------

The betting shop was buzzing with its usual chaotic energy. Papers cluttered the desk, whiskey glasses half-filled were scattered about, and the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke clung to the air. Maeve stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her sharp green eyes observing the room. She didn't need to say much; her presence alone could cut through the tension. Polly had just stormed in, her holiday interrupted, her sharp tongue already slicing through the noise.

"This had better be good to interrupt my holiday," Polly snapped as she entered, her coat still draped over her shoulders.

"Where's the boy?" Tommy asked without looking up from the table.

"In the back room," Polly said, her tone curt. "I only brought him because afterwards we're going to the museum."

John chuckled, his toothpick rolling between his teeth. "He wanted to come in and say hello-"

"Shut up, John," Maeve interjected without turning, her voice sharp enough to silence him.

Polly, ignoring the exchange, continued, "There is nothing of interest to Michael in this room. Tommy, get on with it."

Tommy finally raised his head, his expression grave. "Last night, one of our men had his throat cut in Winson Green. This morning, I had a telegram saying it was Sabini who ordered it."

Arthur leaned forward, pointing to the paper in front of him. "And it says here that Thomas Shelby's next."

The weight of the words hung heavy in the air. Maeve's gaze shifted to Tommy, reading his calm exterior for the turmoil she knew was buried beneath.

Tommy continued, his voice steady but cold, "If our men think we can't look after them in prison, they'll not work for us. Sabini knows that. So we need to get the Green sorted out. Scudboat, you and one of the boys break a couple of windows, get yourselves arrested. I'll have our coppers get you into the Green, and you can find the bastards who did it."

Scudboat, ever eager, grinned. "Instead of breaking a window, can we pinch a car? What? Everybody else is getting a bloody car. I'm still on a donkey."

Tommy's jaw tightened. "All right, just get yourselves fucking arrested, it doesn't matter how. And before you all laugh, a boy is dead. He was just a kid. We'll start a fund for his family, Pol, Mae."

"Agreed," Polly said quickly.

"Of course," Maeve added, her voice measured, though her mind churned.

Polly crossed her arms. "So is that it? Can I go now?"

Tommy didn't answer directly. "Well, as company treasurer, I need your permission to spend 1,000 guineas."

Polly arched her brow. "On what?"

Tommy met her gaze. "On a horse."

"A thousand guineas on a horse?" Maeve repeated, incredulous.

"That's right," Tommy confirmed, unflinching.

Polly threw her hands up. "When was this decided?"

"You've been busy with Michael," Tommy replied flatly.

"My God," Polly muttered, exasperated. "So, in the absence of common sense, you boys have had an idea."

Tommy pressed on, unfazed. "Polly, there's a thoroughbred, quarter-Arab filly up for auction at the Doncaster Bloodstock."

Maeve's skepticism cut through the air. "What do we want with a 1,000-guinea horse?"

Tommy leaned forward slightly. "When we make our move on Sabini's racing pitches, any men we get into the betting enclosure will be lifted by Sabini's police. A good racehorse is a passport to the owner's enclosure."

Arthur grinned, nodding. "We'll be in there with all the toffs. Coppers won't know where to look."

"Yeah, the Epsom Derby," John added, his tone light. "We'll be drinking with the bloody king."

Maeve's voice was sharp and unimpressed. "The Derby? Did he say the Derby?"

"That's right," Tommy confirmed. "For the last 10 years, Sabini's made it his race. If we're going to take him down, might as well make it there, as a symbol."

Polly's lips tightened. "Did you come up with this idea in a pub by any chance?"

"Mae," Tommy said, leaning back, "a good racehorse is an investment, like property. We need to diversify the portfolio."

Polly crossed her arms. "So when is this sale?"

"Tomorrow."

Arthur added quickly, "Tommy's had a death threat, so we'll have to go with him for protection."

Maeve shook her head, her patience thinning. "So you're going to close up the shop, go out on a piss-up, and blow 1,000 guineas on a horse that's not even whole Arab."

Curly, from the corner, piped up, "Quarter-Arab is better! Quarter-Arab, it means-"

"Curly, shut up," Maeve and Polly said in unison.

Before the conversation could spiral further, Michael entered, his presence interrupting the dynamic in the room.

Polly's irritation flared. "I thought I told you to lock that door," she snapped at John.

Maeve exhaled slowly, her frustration finally reaching its peak. Without a word, she turned and walked out, the men and Polly watching her retreating form in silence.