Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Lucille
The family meeting had left a bitter taste in Lucille's mouth. She hated the conflict. It was bound to tear them apart one day, with Esme pulling John apart at the idea of London, and Tommy and Polly's insistence that their plan was indestructible. It didn't help that Tommy didn't seem to want to acknowledge a word she said.
"Esme said-"
Tommy cut her off before she could say another word, his laugh bordering hysterical. "You're listening to Esme now?"
"It's not just Esme. Dawson said too, that London isn't like here. They run differently," she shouted, following him around the dining room, smacking him lightly with a towel when he shook his head. "I'm not siding with Esme. I know you have to do this. We're doing this partly for Dawson."
She caught him by the arm, taking his face between her two hands. The gentle gesture always softened him.
"All I'm asking is that you think of us before you do something that could get you killed," she said, shaking him slightly. "Think of us, Tommy."
Her head leaned into the crook of his neck, hands still on the side of his face. Her lips brushed against his ear, hot air fanning across the side of his cheek. Lucille felt him crumple beneath her touch.
"Think of all you'll miss out on," she whispered, drawing back so their eyes could connect, her hand now reaching for his, so she could pull him backwards toward the stairs.
"You're getting bold," he murmured, voice breathy and strangled, eyes never leaving her lowered gaze, the fluttering of her lashes sending him wild.
She reached for his jacket, pulling him up the stairs. "Not bold enough," she said.
Tommy knew where this was headed. And he loved, craved, every moment of it.
The sound of Dawson's shoes scuffing against the mottled floor as he kicked the pebbles brought Lucille back to the present again. Her friend looked dishevelled, with his tie hanging loosely around his neck, the top button undone. Though it was no more tousled than normal, the sight made Lucille laugh with a shake of her head.
His eyebrows rose, lips pulling smoothly into his natural grin. "I swear, Tommy wants to watch out. That piano man was giving bigger heart eyes than any I've seen."
Lucille shot him a playful glare. "Your imagination never ceases to amaze me."
With Tommy and the rest of the boys off to London, with Dawson unable to go with the underground price on his head, they'd been left bored and restless. He'd taken her to a club, or at least to the closest thing they had that was near Small Heath, where live music was playing all night long.
The songs rang in her mind, playing through the seconds of silence and Dawson's endless chatter in between. He talked when he was nervous- Lucille had known that from the moment they'd first met, when he'd talked for hours as she bound his wounds and treated his cuts, Tommy still passed out on the settee a floor below. But he talked during every other emotion too, though with an animation that was unmatched and passionate and somewhat beautiful.
And as he talked away, of the times he'd danced for so long in his club, that he'd worn the very soles of his shoes down to his sock, Lucille thought of the music. It was nothing more than mediocre, the notes sometimes sounding rushed at times they were supposed to be soft and rhythmic.
But she couldn't help but feel as if the song had been plucked from her memories, describing those guiltily good times they'd had during the war when all three of them had been unburdened for moments at a time; when the bombs and soldiers fighting had been forgotten. It was as if the music had been written just as a backdrop for those precious times, strung out from the words that pooled at the edge of her mind. Lucille knew how absurd it sounded, how fanciful and fantastical. But perhaps it was just her ears that wished to hear it, as when she concentrated back on Dawson and his cheerful smile, the music sounded far off, unfamiliar, little like the memories that sang in her head.
She let out a sigh, twisting around her ankles as she weaved around him. "I for one, am just happy to be leaving the house," she said, spinning on her heels, the alcohol fluttering with her head. "As much as I'm nervous about the London business, a trip to town would have been ideal right about now."
Dawson barked out a laugh, elbow nudging into hers. "And the Midlands Club wasn't good enough for you?"
She scoffed. "Not by a mile."
Dawson's laugh stopped short, the sound of near footsteps cutting through the quietness that remained between them. His hand reached for her, holding her shoulder between his fingers as he hurried her to the side, cutting through the side street that would lead to the back of Watery Lane.
"What's wrong?" Lucille hissed, knowing better than to be loud when he looked so worried.
"Sabini's men." His head shook in sudden anger, spiked with annoyance. "We won't get back in time. Even if we did, they'd ransack where ever we showed them too."
"Adds-"
Dawson nodded solemnly in confirmation. They scurried down the street, eyes skipping past the betting den, their home. It had never felt so close and yet so untouchable.
"Here," Dawson said. Lucille felt him pushing something into her hands. "Take the keys and get the car. I'll lead them away from the house."
"No," she snapped, her following words leaving her pursed lips bluntly. "They'll kill you."
"Have you got a better idea?"
She felt the cool metal of the heavy keys in her hands. She'd used a car as a weapon once before, and then it too was to save an ally. He wouldn't understand that, she thought, the knowledge churning regretfully as she shook her head, eyes casting to the car that lay two doors down from her own home, not far in the distance.
"Be careful."
Dawson nodded. Lucille couldn't bring herself to say anything else. They parted, some sort of silence hanging in the air between them. They will not beat us. She stumbled to flick through the keys, hurrying for the one that was marked a Bugatti.
Lucille could hear the shouts behind her, the screams and groans that the Sabinis had found Dawson and wasted no time in doing their job. She was quick to start the ignition, sitting behind the driver's wheel and pressing her foot down to gain the bite, not needing to hold her breath or clench down her teeth as she once would have.
For a second the darkness of the Birmingham streets was replaced by cobalt blue, bleeding down into swathes of beige and browns, rubbled buildings protruding awkwardly from the ground. For that one sharp moment, it was not the gang members she was driving toward, it was the enemy soldier, his gun raised, a crashing jazz song pushing the memory along. This time too, though, it was her friend that she was saving.
The shadows latched to the edge of the sleek car as she sped forward, accelerating down the street, her eyes shaded from the singular lamps that lit the empty streets. The grumble of the engine alerted them to her presence. They jumped slightly, one fist still swinging to connect with Dawson's jaw, his face already bloodied. It wasn't until she neared, thrusting her foot to the floor, that they scattered, leaving Dawson slumped against the brick wall. Lucille swerved, following them manically as they sprinted away around the corner.
It wasn't until she knew they'd truly ran, that Lucille threw herself from the car the moment it pulled to a stop, running to Dawson's side as he stood. His face was beaten but he could stand and breath without sounding ragged.
"How do you like the new look?" he asked, nudging his head slightly.
She chuckled sadly, taking his arm. "It's awful."
"Great." He managed to pull on his signature smile- that was when she relaxed. He was alright. "Now I know not to do that again."
