Peaky Blinders One Shots

6. Bar Part 1

I was writing in my journal in the pub. It was peaceful after closing here and the contrast between the open hours and now really fascinated me.

I had told Harry I would close the place and that he could go on home. This had become somewhat of a norm. I did not have anything to look forward to in my suffocating room whereas Harry had a wife and kids to get back to. By now pretty much everyone knew me so I did not get that much of a hard time being here.

I was turning over the day's events in my head when there was an urgent banging on the main door. I jumped up from my seat and yelled out that we were closed. But the banging continued and I finally had to open.

To my surprise, Thomas Shelby stood in front of me, covered in sweat, his hair dishevelled and his eyes wild. He walked past me into the bar.

"We're closed, Mr Shelby," I called after him in vain.

"Just get me a drink," he said placing his cap and coat on a table and seating himself.

Per the strict instructions from Harry to never deny service to a Shelby I got behind the counter and picked up a bottle of Irish whisky which I placed on his table along with a glass.

"Shall I leave you alone?" I asked.

He probably wanted to drink in peace and leaving without a word seemed rude. 

"I came here for company. Where's Harry?" he asked pouring himself a drink.

"Harry took the night off. He went to the pictures with his wife." I informed him and took a seat near him.

I don't understand what compelled me to but he seemed troubled. His usual demeanour was that of serenity, reticence and danger; now he just looked unsettled.

Intending to make conversation I inquired,"How is your beautiful horse?"

He took a deep breath and looked at me, "I just put a bullet in his head."

I was taken aback, to say the least, it had seemed fine just a couple of days ago. Was that what was troubling him?

"Was he lame?" I asked.

"He looked at me the wrong way. It's not a good idea to look at Tommy Shelby the wrong way." he shook his head.

I believed him.

He poured himself another drink and gulped it down in seconds.

"What a waste," was all I could mutter.

"Yes, a waste is what it is." he raised his eyebrows.

Thomas Shelby would not or could not meet my eye, I took the opportunity to take in his features.

His hair was wet from the rain under the usual newsboy cap he wore every time I had seen him, his arched eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his eyes, despite the bright aqua colour, seemed to be full of darkness and yet they were beautiful. Coupled with his high cheekbones and full lips Thomas Shelby was a beautiful yet sad man.

A minute of silence passed, neither of us said a word. He broke it.

"You know in France, I got used to seeing men die. Never got used to seeing horses die. They die badly." His eyes seemed to darken further as he talked about France. It must be difficult for him to talk about the war.

War seems to steal from humans in different ways. Here this man sat in front of me, feared by so many and yet it was the same expression on his features as I had seen on many faces that had experienced great loss in the horrors of war. It made him seem human. Suffering, the great equalizer.

The silence dragged on as he imagined his share of suffering that the war had brought about and I imagined mine.