Read this book if you want to f-k Tommy Shelby.
You're Billy Kimber's daughter.
You've been accused of stealing the Peaky Blinders' shipment of guns.
And now you're forced to work with Tommy Shelby to solve the mystery of who's framing your father...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Tommy
In the dimly lit office, I pour a finger of whiskey. Various strategies race through my mind. They haven't stopped all night. And now, as the sky outside lightens to a musky grey, and the first chirping of birdsong comes from the trees, I need to make a fucking decision.
Variables. So many fucking variables. To tell Polly, to not tell Polly. To confront Michael, to operate in secrecy. To hang him out to dry in front of the Peaky Blinders, and risk the reputation we've worked so hard to build, or to continue framing Billy Kimber and deal with Michael privately.
The there's Kimber to think about. I don't see any way this can end without her caught in the cross-fire.
A heaved sigh falls from my lips. I'll have to involve John and Arthur before all else. I can already picture their reactions — John's eyebrows raised in disbelief, a flicker of satisfaction through his eyes — he never liked Michael. He always foresaw something like this happening. And Arthur, the way he'll send his chair clattering across the room as he stands to his feet, bristling and ready to begin unloading bullets.
And Polly. How the fuck is Polly going to react? Disbelief at first. She'll go through the classic stages of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. By the time she reaches acceptance, Michael could have made any one of a plethora of moves. It could be too late.
I close my eyes, reaching for a cigarette as I do. The first inhale fills my head with smoke. The exhale clears it.
I play every scenario out in my mind. Account for every possible reaction and outcome. Account for Kimber. For how far I'm possibly willing to drag her into all this. A part of me, deep in my chest, aches as I consider those possibilities. Like she's anchored there, tethered, the only thing keeping my feet on this earth. I'll find a way to keep her in all this. I have to.
By midday, however, Polly has other ideas.
She enters the Garrison, her face drawn in curiosity. The very air around her seems to shiver in anticipation. Not that John or Arthur are helping the bloody situation at all — both sip their drinks solemnly, looking as though someone's died.
By the end of this, they'll be right.
"Afternoon, Pol," I sigh. "Take a seat. Will it be a gin?"
"The pub's bloody empty Tom. Why are we sitting in the private room?"
"Some things you don't want eavesdroppers for," Arthur mutters.
Polly takes a seat at the table. She lights a cigarette before we can even join her — clearly, her foresight serving her well. She'll need more than that to get through this. Best I can offer is a stiff drink.
"Ta," she says, eyes flickering to my own as she accepts the glass of gin.
For just a brief glimpse of a moment, I'm twelve years old once more — and Polly's the only adult I can trust and depend on. For just a brief moment, I'm a young boy huddled over after losing his mother, and Polly's the firm grip on my shoulder in consolation.
