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.
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JANUARY
FOR INES, THE RIDE was long and dreadfully insufferable. Filled with worrisome speculations of many wonders which she will not see the answer to before she too sees Thomas Shelby. Questions such as if she truly was forever welcome "in his heart" as his letter a rough month back had stated. If she could expect hospitality and open arms or just no one to get in her way. What tint of welcome "in his heart" - if the years have left him one - was she left with?
Yonder was seated a woman prime in her life with a baby at her side. Its cries urged another baby further down the cart to cry, too. It set off a night-like howl, one much like that of a pack of spread wolves in the mountains on a moonlit night.
It was funny how so much life could be congregated in one place, while elsewhere a single miserable man was likely bleeding out into his death. No! It only was a shot in the stomach! she reminded herself. He will survive that, as if no one had ever died from a shot in the abdomen. Then she had the terrible thinking that perhaps it was not so good that he lived. That meant he lived to tell the story, and what story he will wind up telling, only the mad-man himself and God knows.
Ines made a plan for what she was to do. With herself, with her business, with Nikolaj.
She had second thoughts along the way—of course, she did, and it was one of her poor qualities. She often and very much doubted herself, easily so for a businesswoman. What most would never come to think of - when there were so many to choose from - was that she was her own worst enemy, but that was the truest fact of all.
Regardless of the dubiousness, many cigarettes later she crossed his graveled courtyard. Draped in a black trench coat to fit the cold weather, she sported an emerald green pantsuit that had yet to appear in Parisian boutique-display. Her hair cascaded clumsily down her shoulders, a natural wave to it and though it was fashion nowhere in the world now, Ines made it work. In the car, back when she had arrived at the train station (when she was just about to leave her husband for good) Ines had done a quick wardrobe change. Out of her bloodied clothes and into something nice, lest she might attract unwanted attention. A bag of little clothes and money and other necessities regarding Lenz Leather Ltd. in one hand, leash to human's best friend and the letter written by Thomas some weeks back in the other.
Ines oscillated for a moment, standing there before she sturdily put down her suitcase to reach for the knocker. She was instantly veiled by a fleeting sense of regret.
A maid opened the door and inquired about her visit, as she had not been made aware of any guests.
Ines nervously told the woman she was not expected to be there, but she was an old friend of Thomas'. She had the handwritten letter to prove so and showed her the signature. The maid hesitated to open the door to the stranger, but thought how Mr. Shelby would react when she said she had turned away an "old friend".
The maid eyed the dog that was patiently sat beside Ines, and finally nodded her head, moving aside so the guest could enter the warm abode.
In the parlor, Ines puts herself to rest on a green-patterned chaise longue and motions for her majestic hound to lie at her feet.
"Mr. Shelby is currently not home, but I have no doubt he will be very soon. Would you maybe like a cup of tea while you wait?"
She would have liked something stronger, something that would untie the knot in her stomach, something that would make her forget Nikolaj and the horrible events that had led her to shoot him. Something that would peacefully numb her and put her mind to ease. But she figured she would have to settle for tea.
Ines smiled up at the maid, neatly folding her hands in her lap. "If it's not too much to ask, thank you."
As the petite lady exited the parlor, Ines finally exhaled and slouched against the backrest. With wide unknowing eyes, Motley glared up at her without lifting her head. Ines sighed and leaned down to stroke her.
"It's just you and me now."
Through the hall, she spied what appeared to be the gallery, and she noticed a grand piano just sitting there waiting to be played. Without even noticing, she sauntered toward it, admiring the decorated home meanwhile. Just as the melancholy tune of Moonlight Sonata blessed the house's many rooms, a faint tread approached the gallery, however, Ines was far too invested in the piece, which her husband had taught her some years back, to notice the little boy.
Then a small voice broke, "are you sad?"
Ines looked up, her fingers now only hovering the keys and it got quiet for a second. Recognizing the boy on the other side of the room as Thomas' Charles, howbeit he was not so little anymore. He had grown immensely since last and as Ines could only recognize the piercing eyes of a Shelby boy, she could not but wonder what his mother looked like.
She smiled heartily at him and said, "do you think the melody is sad?"
He nodded, slowly stepping closer, although in a sheepish manner.
"Hm," mused Ines, putting her finger to her chin. "I always thought it was quite beautiful."
"I play the violin."
"Do you now?" marveled Ines, standing up to greet him properly. He nodded proudly. "I would love to hear you play sometime. I am sure you are a magnificent violinist."
"I am," grinned he cheekily. "Who are you?"
"We met some time back. I don't blame you for not remembering. I'm your aunt Ada's friend, I know your daddy, too. I'm—"
"Ines."
That voice can only belong to a single man—
Ines waits with bated breath and slack arms waiting for Thomas' next move – but then his expression drops. The surprise fades quick as it came and his tongue darts out for a split-second, wetting his pink lips. Then a sigh and gosh! does a man sound defeated. Along with innumerable pleasant ones, one particular dilemma dating many years back bursts his thought bubble to smithereens and all it took was the ever beguiling facade of Ines Lenz.
"Thomas," tasted Ines, not sure what to do with herself. She felt embarrassed; gullible to have fared all this way on nothing but high hopes; she felt stupid to be waiting around Tommy's house, unexpected and probably unwanted, and she felt ashamed to have played the grand piano and made herself feel the slightest bit comfortable in his home—
"Father!" Charles bailed the woman to seek affirmation from his parent, running clumsily to stand proud before him, chest bulging out to exude dominance. But the truth was he was a six-year-old with barely acceptable manners, negligent parents, and a sticky mixture resembling snot and-or drool dripping down his undoubtedly exorbitant clothes.
Thomas, said remiss parent, did not for one second move his eyes from Ines, however. It was not until the maid returned with Ines' tea that voice broke out and Thomas cleared his throat, fishing out a cigarette from his pocket.
