Tommy Shelby finally recognises the extent of his mental damage. An Illness that is eating away at his conscious being, devouring every last morsel of sanity in his head.
An illness that finally forces him to seek counsel from a professional.
To fi...
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Rainfall pelted down onto the glistening grey streets of Hampstead in London. The force of the droplets was that akin to bullets, falling hard and heavy - a sheer curtain of plummeting precipitation that was hard to navigate through on this miserable November afternoon.
Thomas Shelby felt this weather was probably most appropriate for his current mood. The man was at a crossroads for what must have been the millionth time in his life. Just when he thought he could no longer hear the picks and the shovels against his wall at night - they started again, along with ominous voices of figures he had come across in his life; whispering to him with overpowering control that the Birmingham bred man often wondered whether he had a conscience anymore alongside these whispering calls.
Enough was enough, hearing voices was one thing but seeing his deceased wife ghosting in the backseat of his Bentley was another. That had to be the final straw. Thomas Shelby has finally given in to the advice of his sister Ada, and gone to see a specialist.
But of course he wasn't going to let her know she had won.
His smart black leather shoes were gleaming wetly in the all but shrouded dim light of the clouded sun as the gangster-come-businessman marched with an purpose in his stride through the relentless downpour. He'd specifically picked to come to London to see this specialist - he didn't want anyone in Birmingham knowing and having the slightest doubt the Peaky Blinder wasn't sane. Mental health was such a stigma and Tommy knew he could not afford to have his reputation shaken anymore than it had done, because by god- did he know how his reputation had been shaken violently like a child's doll over the past number of years.
Number 2, Tenley Street.
Thomas Shelby gazed up the grand white terrace of town houses that he was now faced with. He'd been so determined to battle his way through the weather's temperamental outburst of rain that he hadn't realised how quickly he had come to find the address.
The building had this sort of austere appearance to it, a ring of formal eloquence and well-to-do air in it's large paned windows and clean white brickwork. It spelled everything that a psychologist's office should be.
A nervous uncertainty fathomed immediately in Mr Shelby's stomach as his feet met the sandstone white steps leading up to the smart black front door. There was a brass buzzer plate, on which was clearly and neatly engraved:
Dr V. Grant, Clinical Psychologist
This was definitely the place, and there was no way Tommy could worm out of this now. He'd purposefully parked his posh car a few streets back and walked, simply because his overworked and paranoid mind was cautious of the fact someone he knew may have somehow seen his car outside the building and put two and two together.
"Fucks sake." Tommy cursed under his breath at his situation, as he rang the bell, hanging his head, flat cap drenched with rain whilst he waited - hearing the muffled melodic chime of the doorbell from within the hallway on the other side of the door.
