"A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape." —Proverbs 19:5
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At nineteen, Beatrice Price was the type of girl to tremble at Polly's order to go down to the police station and hand the officers the cash they were due. She had never stepped into a constabulary office—and she certainly did not expect to enter one with the intent of committing a serious offense right under the officers' noses.
"Can you do this?" Polly had asked. "Or should I have Martha take care of things?"
She had been young, and eager to please, so Trixie had swallowed down her reservations and marched into the building with the confidence of someone who owned the place—and she supposed that she did—or they did, at least.
Over the years, Trixie grew to learn that morality was a privilege, and not one she could afford often anymore. Church on Sunday, confession on Saturday, chastity always—but she was quick to realize that righteousness was hardly enough to fill an empty stomach. An empty cupboard meant a late night, and a late night meant delivering a longer list of names to the men who collected debts on the Peaky Blinders' behalf. What happened after, she tried not to think about, but deflection only worked for so long, and eventually, Trixie had to stomach it.
At nineteen, Beatrice Price was the type of girl to stutter over bribes, gin, and brothels.
At twenty-two, she found herself loading bullets into her gun outside a sleeping woman's door, readying herself for the worst that could happen. Are you a killer? She'd never thought of herself as one. Criminal, surely; liar, indubitably; but she had not taken a life before, and the knife she'd armed herself with against Kimber was nothing to the revolver in her hand.
She was playing with fire—no, worse: she was playing God, but it was too late to back out now, with Tommy lifting his leg at the knee and slamming his foot hard enough into Grace's door that the frame splintered open.
Several things happened at once: Trixie raised her gun, as Tommy had instructed her to earlier. Grace scrambled out of bed and drew the cord on the lamp, bathing the three of them in yellow light. She reached for the gun on her nightstand, but Tommy was quick to interject with a dismayed click of his tongue. "No," he ordered simply.
