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CHAPTER FOUR: WASTELAND
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HELEN WAS BEGINNING TO believe that she was fresh out of luck. First it was her interaction — more like interrogation — with the new inspector snooping around Small Heath. And now, that same inspector had given the go-ahead for her house to be raided by the bloody coppers. Helen wasn't sure what God she'd pissed off, but she had a few choice words she wanted to give them.
At the very least, she wasn't the only one. When Helen marched out into Watery Lane in the early hours of the morning, unable to bear the infuriating sight of her home being searched — for what, she didn't know, but she had a very bad feeling nonetheless — she found a dozen other families in the exact same position as her; caught off guard in their bed clothes, clearly unprepared for the company of others, and utterly fuming. Most were fighting back. Helen spied a few children cowering in the alleys between houses. It didn't take a genius to see that only one home on the block remained untouched.
The Shelby's.
Of course it was the fucking Peaky Blinders.
And on the one day everyone knew the men were out of town. Even Helen, who had done her best to avoid Tommy — and, by extension, anyone even remotely related to him — since the night she confronted him. She supposed this was as good a time as any to face the music. Polly or Ada or even young Finn would surely be home so early in the day, and they would have to be enough.
"I'll be right back," she called (more like growled) into her living room, not that the copper flipping her couch seemed to notice — and if he did, he wasn't the least bit concerned. He didn't even spare her a glance, the rude prick. "Sure. Just make yourself at home. See if I care."
By the time she reached Number 6, she was ready to throttle someone.
But of course, when she knocked, no one answered to declare themselves her latest victim.
Helen Mavis could've knocked on Heaven's door itself and she had a feeling God would have ignored her. He'd really thrown her to the wolves. Sink or swim, she'd always be damned.
Huffing, she whirled around and marched back down the road, averting her eyes from a woman who was bashing her fists against a smug copper's chest. The officer from before was yet to move on from invading her living room. Helen went right past him and into the kitchen, only hesitating for a second before she picked through the mess of discarded drawers until she found what she was looking for.
"Alright, I've had it," she declared, and promptly aimed the gun at the officer's chest when he turned to spare her a condescending glance. Her finger hovered over the safety clip, toeing the fine line between life and death, and he looked amused. Amused! Funny that. "I want you out of my house, now."
Then he had the audacity to laugh at her — laugh! — and he smiled like he was addressing a mere child. Right, then. No safety, it was. Even then, he didn't seem phased. "Sweetheart, I'd put that away if I were you. Wouldn't want to hurt yourself now, would you?"
