Kimber's Dilemma - Tommy Shelby x Reader Fan Fic

Chapter 15

I press my ear against the gleaming walnut door. It's the fifth meeting this week Alfie Solomons has been invited to, and I'm determined to find out as much as I can. I've got an alibi between my fingers — a novel. If anyone exits suddenly, I can pretend to be immersed in a book, simply walking past. My father might roll his eyes, but he wouldn't bat an eyelid at that.

"The situations growin' tense, alright," I can hear Alfie saying quietly. "Now look, there's a couple ways you can go about it when it comes to the Italians. The first—"

"Now, now, Alfie." That's Roberts, my father's accountant. "We've heard from other sources, the Italians aren't worried about us. As far as we know, you're the one dropping our names in it, trying to deflect heat from your own skin."

"Don't get it twisted, mate, alright? This Changretta's a real piece of work..."

I haven't heard mention of the Peaky Blinders in weeks. From the sounds of it, whatever's transpiring with the Italians far overshadows the conflict with Thomas Shelby. I exhale a small sigh of relief. Surely that in itself is proof my father's not behind the gun robbery.

Quick footsteps approach the door, breaking through my musings. I only just manage to flinch away in time, snapping my book open and trying not to look guilty. I risk a glance into the room — my father's cronies, sat around a large table that takes up most of the space. Alfie Solomons in his suit, thick beard glinting in the light. He leans back in his seat and winks at me in greeting.

My father, on the other hand, looks furious.

"The fuck you doing?" He asks.

I hold up my book by way of explanation.

Before he can respond in anger, Alfie speaks. "Why don't you fetch the drinks for us? Believe it was a rum and coke, rum and coke," he rattles off, pointing at each man in the room in turn, "straight rum, straight gin, and for me..." he shrugs. "Whatever takes your fancy."

I close my book, the sharp sound audible in the silence. Ordinarily I'd rather drop dead than take orders from my father's business associates and be treated like a waitress. But this way I get to eavesdrop on more of their dealings.

And I'm going to need Alfie Solomons in my good books.

I hurry quickly to the bar at the other end of the house, but in all my excitement, cannot remember who had ordered what. Was it gin, or whiskey, or something else entirely?

Half-empty liquor bottles line the shelf of my father's bar room, only twenty or so of them, but they might as well be a hundred. I glance frantically between them all, before clenching my jaw in determination.

The room falls silent as I enter. My cheeks threaten to burn as I set the tray on the table with a clink, taking a moment to gather myself — I've just stormed from one end of the house to the other carrying a tray laden with liquor bottles.

I'd grabbed them all. Or at least, all the usual suspects, along with a dozen glasses. This is a self-serve kind of deal. Some of the men look incredulous. Others confused.

Alfie lets out a roaring laugh. "You watch this one, Billy," he says to my father, pouring a rum and passing it to the man beside him. "I'd hate to be on the other side of negotiations with her, that's for fuckin' sure."

"She's a fucking nightmare," Father says, looking most disgruntled at having to pour his own drink.

I manage to linger while everyone pours and clinks and drinks, then spend almost half an hour  invisible in the corner before Father barks at me to leave.

Nobody said anything useful. But I could feel Alfie's discerning gaze as I left, and I quickly realise I managed to capture both his attention and his intrigue. With a little hope, my boldness might pay off when I question him about the robbery.

***

The city streets are always busy, bustling with cars and horses and stalls and shops. And I hate everything about it.

The thick coal fumes, the hagglers, the never-ending horse shit and the unrelenting noise. But it's been almost a week now, and if I have to stay cooped up in the Islington house much longer, I might just lose my mind.

It takes me almost an hour of walking before reaching my destination. Drizzles of rain fall from the sky and reflect my gloomy mood. My nerves.

Every mile or so, I check over my shoulder, as though expecting to see someone. At first, I tell myself I'm only checking I've not been tailed by one of my father's men. But when I keep doing it beyond reasonable doubt, I have to admit the truth to myself. I've been expecting — almost hoping — that Tommy Shelby might appear in that irritating way he does. He made so many threats about what would happen if I leave Birmingham, I've been anticipating his appearance from the moment I arrived in London.

But he's nowhere to be seen. And anyway, the thought of him being anywhere near Camden Town of all places is almost laughable. As if he'd ever come here.

The name Peaky Blinders doesn't mean much here, not like it does in Birmingham. The title wouldn't protect him from the danger that lingers in the air. People here don't bother to conceal their knives, or the alcohol they drink from paper bags. More than once, drunk men call out to me, ranging from vile obscenities to outright threats. But still I push onward. My father has an alliance with the mob that runs these streets, and I pray that will be enough to protect me if any trouble occurs.

Not that I want my father to know I came within any reasonable distance of this place.

But I clutch the written address in my hand as I arrive, and suck in a deep breath before knocking on the door. This has taken all my courage. Only my determination to prove Tommy Shelby wrong could have fuelled me this far. Only my smug attitude that this is finally an advantage I have over him. Alfie Solomons is mine. I finally hold the power.

Such illusions shatter as Alfie opens the door, smirking, and says, "Thomas Shelby warned me you'd come by."