Ex-soldier Birmingham-gangster bets his life on luck and illegalities, adroit wit and burning passion streaking his blood-stained fingertips as a dire quarrel commence between himself and the disturbed Dane who purloined his lover.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
FULL PLATE
IN THE EARLY MORNING on the day marking his birth, Thomas woke to the peaceful yet haunting sound of absolutely nothing. His wife Grace was gone, for the time being so was his son, visiting his cousin in London and his daughter accompanied her mother who likely visited that funny 'café' she had discovered and frequented down in Sparkhill. His brother, like Grace, had been shot dead and on his own property of that. The workers were away, too, seeing as he had fired half the staff just the day before and let the other bunch have the week off. "Compulsory holiday", had he said. The windows were closed, keeping in the warmth and intense feel of everything gloomy and related to the melancholic pit he had dug himself. And oddly enough his worries had left him be as well. Or perhaps it was merely his weary mind not yet accepting this was his life now, sorrow coursing the same bloodstream as the liquor of which he must have drunk gallons of the night before for his head was in a pain equivalating to the headache he suffered subsequent to his meeting with Father Hughes some time back. However, the picking sounds had returned. Those axes tingling his cells, pressing those exposed nerves and putting him at discomfort, short of breath and gasping for air.
Still, waking that very morning, Thomas Shelby found it in him to allow himself the full experience of an anxiety attack. He cried, bawled his already red eyes out, and drank a tad bit more, and then he felt the peaceful relaxation in the soothing rays of the scintillating morning sun. It was only just rising from the northeast horizon, but as Thomas stood behind the clear glass and felt the light on his bare chest, he could almost sense its natural, comforting heat. Inhaling deeply, he was abruptly interrupted by the ragged cough stuck in his throat and he went to empty the glass before it slipped from his hand. Humming his eyes went to where the glass was still intact by his feet and his head fell back, breathing out as the familiar pain in his chest increased with every deep breath.
Obdurate, persistent, and galloping like a horse at high velocity.
He could feel his heart beating in his fingertips, he felt the pounding in his head, his tongue—hell his fucking teeth felt like they pulsated and he shook his body with the thrill that shivered up his spine.
It took him a while but, at long last, Thomas managed to dress and utilize his confined cooking skills when preparing breakfast on his own for the first time in only God knows how long. It was awfully quiet in the estate and how the idea of being alone had seemed so great the day before, the aim of a change, and yet now as he had his way, he could not fathom what had made him be so fairly mistaken.
Howbeit, Thomas found the surplus to go for a walk by the staples. He would smoke and he would speak to them, much like how he would in his younger days; in those where he could only surmise the bulk of the word misery. Then he would cry some more, listening to the neighs of his stunning stallion. Brushing it down the head, he removed the cigarette from his lips and took a step closer. The gaze in his eyes was blank, mysterious as the indomitable seas. Heaving a finger, he pointed it at the black stallion and scrunched up his nose in disgust—with himself mostly, but then he told the horse to "get its fucking shit together".
