Quicksand | A Peaky Blinders Fanfiction

Chapter 3

Michael

Alright.

This little word was tying Michael to his chair at Polly's kitchen table. Alright was the word he was repeating inwardly as he practiced patience for a week. Elaine wasn't coming over to dinner since they talked, but he felt like this was a good thing. It meant she was busy. It meant they were getting closer.

His mother had tried to get some information out of him about the relationship between him and Elaine. Michael couldn't exactly tell her the truth but tried to brush off his behaviour the other day as gentlemanly. He hadn't wanted for Elaine to be wandering the streets alone, he had said, it had been mere politeness. Polly had responded that a girl like Elaine didn't need to be looked after, but she was appreciating how well-mannered her son was. She also didn't believe him at all – not that Polly would admit that, but Michael could read her pretty well by now. He was still trying to decide if her impression about the situation bothered him or not.

Michael was currently sat in one of the bulgy armchairs in the living room. The standard lamp was the only thing lighting the pages of the book he was reading. A dramatic story about a soldier fighting in World War. He had thought there was enough of the war still present in his immediate surroundings, but the romanticized telling of heroic battles and tragic fates captivated him.

There was a knock on the door.

Looking up, he realized how dark it had become by now and remembered suddenly that Polly went to bed at some point. She never went to bed particularly early so it must have been the middle of the night already. Which made the knocking even more surprising. For a short moment, Michael thought he might have imagined it. But then the knocking started again, louder this time. He wasn't an idiot. Slowly, he rose from the armchair and stood in the dim room, listening for any other noise. Did Polly hear? Was there talking outside?

But there was nothing. His next thought was to wake Polly. Maybe she knew what this was about, maybe something about the business she had refused to tell him. It wouldn't surprise him if she was used to stuff like that and had a ten-step plan on what to do in this case. Waking Polly was probably not the worst thing he could do, but he couldn't get past the thought that it would mean to literally wake his mom because there were weird noises in the house at night.

Most certainly not.

Instead, Michael switched the lamp off and made his way over to the door, his bare feet padding over the wood softly. There was a row of windows next to the door, covered by heavy curtains. He tried to will away the wild pounding of his heart. Instead of calming his breathing it seemed like every exhale echoed through the hallway. A moment later it was overshadowed by the stranger at the door, who had now turned to fully bang on the door, clearly angry. Before he could question himself, he poked his head through the curtains in front of the window, now that the darkness of the room hid him. As he saw who the angry stranger was, his breath hitched in his throat and he ran to the door, pretty much ripping it open.

"Took you long enough," Elaine hissed and shoved him backwards into the house. Michael had been right: she was angry now. Angry and restless. She walked into the kitchen, her gaze brushing over every single item, as if she had never seen them before.

"Hello to you too," Michael said dryly but was met with silence. He followed her around, waiting for her to explain herself. She didn't.

"Would you tell me what you want here? What are you looking for?" he tried again. This time, she turned to him and only now did he notice the bundle of dirty rags she was carrying.

"What the fuck is that," he inquired.

By now a mixture of impatience, annoyance and something he identified as worry was knotting together in his chest and he just wanted to know what was going on.