ᴀꜱʏʟᴜᴍ :: ᴛ.ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ

ii: better visions

Fuck.

Of course. Of course another one of the lunatics in this pen had to listen into every word he said, certain to echo it to anybody who listened. Nobody—nobody could know of the role he had played in this. He was as good as done if it got out, if the wrong nurse listened, if that thieving prick at the doors decided to sell the information to the Billy Boys or Mosley's fascists for a few extra pounds.

For a moment, Thomas Shelby only stood still under the dim yellow lights, staring at the metal door and flexing his fingers. His eyes ached, his cyanide tooth cold and coppery beneath his probing tongue.

Then he turned and strode towards the cell—without a sideways glance towards Barney, who had lifted his exultant grin towards the concealed sky, whispering one word to himself which might well have been bang.

Fingers flew back from the bars right before Tommy slowed to a halt in front of them, jaw tight, expression schooled into cold impassivity. The cell was quiet, but already his mind fired through solutions, one after the other, discarding each as soon as they came. A quick shot, a wad of paper money—none of it would work. Even he would find it difficult to manoeuvre his way out of the death of an asylum patient, for one. For another, he could give them all the money Michael hadn't lost on Wall Street and they still wouldn't have any way to spend it. His fingers closed around another vial of opium, cold despite its residence in his breast pocket.

And then Tommy paused, momentary surprise flitting across his expression. It was gone in another blink.

A part of him had expected another man like Barney—shell-shocked and sweat-soaked and terrified of ghosts, of memories rather than present moments. Every man Tommy knew was a little like Barney. God only knew he was these days, his hands trembling against his control, the fragments of his broken heart glimpsed around every corner.

Instead, he saw a girl. Small, frail, all sharp edges and gaunt hollows, pale as milk. Dark hair fell in a curtain around a fine face, a mess of thick waves long ago tangled into knots. Wide dark eyes stared at him through the strands, fringed by equally dark lashes. Oversized rags hung from the angles of her shoulders, the same dirtied white as Barney's. She must have had East Asian heritage—maybe she came with Brilliant Chang's mob of Chinese.

Given the seven tons of pure opiates in his backyard, the tension with the Scots and the Chinese triads and the Titanics and the politicians and everything else besides, Tommy was in no mood for trust or kindness. But this girl had something of Barney in her, too.

Without a word, she dragged herself to the back corner, pressed herself against the safety of her cushioned wall. Trembling fingers circled around brittle wrists. Tommy watched the movement for a moment, unable to prevent his slight frown.

"You listened, huh?" he said eventually, his voice flat and quiet. Not a question. The girl stared for a few moments longer, then nodded once, never tearing her eyes from him. Tommy lowered himself into a crouch, the vial of opium still caught between his closed fist. "How much did you hear?"