✔️ | 𝐛𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞; peaky blinders

･ ｡ﾟ°• ♔ •°───𝒙𝒙𝒗𝒊𝒊. 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆

soundtrack: sptfy.com/bbf27

this chapter features sexual content!

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟕
𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞
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"It is not good for man to be alone." —Genesis 2:18

"I'm surprised you decided to meet me again."

Campbell eyed Martin Price's grave with narrowed eyes, as if he wasn't sure whether or not to trust the headstone. Trixie hadn't come to the cemetery since the funeral and the grieving rituals—it hurt too badly—but she had business to do. "I want to make a deal." In her pocket, she gripped the wedding ring from Tommy so tightly that the gemstone threatened to slice her palm open. "I have recently come into some information you might find helpful. Regarding the whereabouts of the guns."

Beside her, the Inspector scoffed. "You have hardly proven a reliable source, Mrs. Shelby."

"I know," Trixie conceded. "But we're all playing the same game, aren't we? I'm just trying to call a truce now."

After a long moment assessing her, Campbell shrugged and said, "Name your price."

Trixie smiled. "I want a job."

Neither said anything for a long stretch of time, and then Campbell burst out laughing. Trixie tried not to bristle at the reaction, but she couldn't help the scowl that pulled on the corners of her lips. "You can't be serious."

"I can. And I am."

"You have no qualifications."

"I do," she objected. "I watch things, Inspector. I play stupid very well. What was it that you called me? A bit dumb?"

At that, he pursed his lips. "You will never be an Agent of the Crown."

"Oh, God. I have no interest in that," Trixie said. "But I could be an informant, if you compensated me for my work."

He chuckled. "You almost had me fooled, you know. I thought you loved your husband."

"I wasn't lying about the things I knew of my husband's business," Trixie said, hoping the strain of her fib was not apparent. "But he uses me as bait. He thinks I don't notice the game I'm playing a pawn in, but like I said, Inspector—I'm not stupid. I know more about the Black Country and Birmingham gangs than anybody else, because nobody expects me to be paying attention. Including you."

Campbell raised an eyebrow. "I hope you don't just expect me to take your word for it."

"If you did, you'd be even dumber than I thought you were," Trixie replied cheekily. "I'll give you a few of the guns. Call me at this number when you find them, and we can make a deal for the rest." She passed him a folded slip of paper. "If not, well—I guess I'll just have to tell my secrets to someone else, hm? Us women and our loose lips, you know."

"Fine," he gritted out. "Give me the first spot. Go home. I'll call if your intelligence is good."

Trixie smiled, pleased. "The dead keep secrets, you know? Especially the boys who went to war. I guess you wouldn't know about that." Even in the silence, even without looking at him, she could sense his contempt. "They're haunted by guns. You ever heard of a man named Danny Whizz-bang?"

"Can't say that I have."

"He sees Germans in the backs of milk carts. And he shoots them with his broomstick." Trixie patted Campbell on the shoulder jovially, just to see how it felt to have the upper hand—just once. "Imagine what he could do with a real gun."