In Small Heath | Peaky Blinders

sixteen; blind faith leads to nothing

Ada was constantly in a tricky situation, Finn kept asking her questions about their brothers and she didn't know what to say. There was a voice in the back of her head telling her to lie, to make stuff up, but the voice of reason argued back - telling her they would be coming home.

It was hard, talking to Finn, at the best of times. He was just a child, innocent and bright with no fears in the world.

No one wanted to ruin that.

Not after the amount of doors that had been knocked on by someone in the army, informing whoever answered that their loved one was never going to return. People the boys had all gone to school with, played kick around with, robbed the chemist with! Their screams carried like a whisper in the wind, everyone heard them and everyone had the gut feeling that they'd be next.

What made things worse, was how close the street had gotten with all the men away.

While they weren't necessarily tightly knit, not by any means, they shared their stories about their boys, they laughed and cried, and at a moments notice, they'd all be there for one another with extra rashons if anyone needed an extra square of butter or a slice of bread.

Especially on birthdays, everyone pitched in whatever they could to make sure no one's day was overshadowed by the looming thoughts of death and destruction.

Finn sat impatiently on the settee, staring into the unlit fire, the women could all tell he was itching to ask the questions he'd been asking for weeks.

With a raise of the brow from Polly as if to say 'go on', the floodgate opened.

"Can't you just tell me about them?" Finn asked, this time his voice sounding a little more exhausted and sad than before.

Ada was about to say no and to drop the conversation when Polly pulled out a hefty, and rather dusty, photograph collection. Images from the past, of their parents, their brothers - hell, even Pollys husband, too.

"Now you go through those, and tell us who you think is who."

Finn nodded his head with a new burst of energy and enthusiasm, carefully dumping all of the photographs onto the rug in the middle of the living room floor.

At first he started separating pictures into piles, he started off with five and then by the time Ada had cast another glance his way, there was at least ten. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the piles but she was sure Finn would tell them both all about it.

With the street so close, they, Polly especially, had learnt the different sounds of doors being knocked upon.

Theirs rattled, the heavy brass knocker almost chipping away at the mahogany was like listening to the death rattle. Luckily, they'd only ever had telegraphs from Sebastian, and never about him - or any of the others.

"Who's—" Finns voice was cut off by an almost ungodly sound.

A screech, a blood curdling scream that could've woken the dead. Desperate pleas followed, begging for whatever was said to not be true, Ada knew what that meant.

Someone was killed, someone on their street — someone they could've all known and been close with.

Ada should've heard the knocks, or rather booms against the rickety old door of number seven, but she hadn't. Too focused on the redhead on the floor in front of her, Polly hadn't noticed either. It was bound to happen again soon, their last was months ago — Ada just wished it had been someone else's door.

Pearl Cutler; from number 7, was now someone Ada would've considered a really close friend. Her husband was sent away at the beginning of the year before, they'd only been married a few months but when the men were called upon, they all left.