The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 24 ~

Small Heath, Birmingham 1919.

Florence's return to the club felt inevitable, like a step she had no choice but to take. Three nights a week, she went back to the dim, smoke-filled room with its heavy curtains and low lights, performing for strangers just to survive. The rest of her days were spent drifting through the cold streets of Birmingham, searching for any glimmer of hope, but finding none.

The first time she'd returned, she'd stood outside the door of the club for what felt like an eternity, her stomach in knots, her breath shallow. She hated the place—the way it reeked of cheap liquor, the leering eyes of the men who came to watch, the way it made her feel like less than a person. But what other option did she have? With no money and no home to return to, the club was the only thing keeping her from being out on the streets.

Now, the routine was familiar. Three nights a week, she put on the skimpy, sequined costume they gave her, powdered her face, and stepped onto the stage. The lights were bright and blinding, making it easier to block out the faces of the men below, to pretend they weren't staring at her like she was a piece of meat. The music was loud and fast, and she moved to it without thinking, her mind detached from the motions of her body.

Each night felt longer than the last, and when she was done, she would go to the back room to collect her pay. The other girls there had grown used to her quiet, distant presence, and they left her mostly alone. They were all there for the same reason—survival—and no one judged each other for the choices they had made.

After her shifts, Florence would walk back to her cramped, rundown lodging. The cold night air bit at her skin, but she welcomed it. It made her feel awake, made her feel something.

The New Year had crept in fast, she found herself thinking less and less about the life she had left behind. Camden felt like a distant memory, a place that no longer existed for her. She couldn't imagine returning there, walking through the familiar streets, seeing the faces of people she once knew. She wasn't the same person anymore. The war had taken that girl—broken her down, reshaped her into someone unrecognizable.

Now, Florence was just trying to survive, day by day, night by night. There were no grand plans, no dreams of the future. Just the cold reality of the present, and the harsh necessity of doing whatever it took to get by. And so she danced. Three times a week, she stepped onto that stage, hiding behind the bright lights and the heavy music, her dignity long since sacrificed for the sake of survival. It wasn't a life she wanted, but it was the only one she had. This night she hastily rushed out the club like usual grabbing her coat and pay and left through the small back alleyway the way she'd always left to avoid any gazes, she quickly continued to walk until she heard it.

"Fucking Peaky scum!" The sharp shouts of men pierced the night air, echoing off the brick walls as Florence pressed herself against the cold stones of the alley. She peeked around the corner, her heart racing at the sight before her. Three rough-looking men kicked and punched a single figure on the ground, a man whose face was a bloody mess, crimson streaks seeping through his torn white shirt near his arm. He looked vulnerable, lying there, a stark contrast to the brutality being inflicted upon him.

For a moment, Florence felt frozen, her instincts battling against her fear. What could she do? She was no fighter, not like those men. Then she looked down at her purse, the cool metal of her keychain grazing her fingers. A desperate thought flickered through her mind. Maybe she could save him. Perhaps she could make a difference, even if it meant putting herself at risk. They wouldn't miss her in the chaos.

"Hey! They're round here, officer!" she shouted, her voice ringing out with feigned urgency. She slammed her purse against the large black gate beside her, making it echo like a bat. "Run! The peelers are coming!" The three thugs exchanged startled glances before sprinting off into the shadows. Florence waited, her breath held tight until the clamor of their boots faded into the night. Then, adrenaline surged through her veins as she dashed to the fallen man, whose body lay almost lifeless against the cobblestones, blood pooling around him.