you are haunted like every other holy thing.
what tried to destroy you didn't have the strength.
still you stand,
sturdy and smelling of smoke.
- little bird, clementine von radics
༒
in which tommy shelby finds his asylum
in the ver...
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"It didn't work, Albie," Winnow called as she opened the door to the apartment, pausing to kneel and lift the pile of envelopes which had once again accrued beneath it. "I s—"
A crash interrupted her words, followed by a high scream, both so loud and unexpected Winnow couldn't help a sharp gasp. Her head snapped up, heart pounding, in time for her to see her older brother crouch on the ground before the unlit fireplace, lowering his head into his hands. Their mother stood a few paces behind him, hands clasped over her mouth.
The mirror above the mantle had shattered, cracks splintering out from the one central point where it smashed. As Winnow stepped carefully closer, trying to rein in her own panic, she saw blood beading on Albie's knuckles, broken glass scattered on the floor before him.
"They got our guy, Win," he managed, after a moment of terrible silence which felt like it would never end. The words came out in a strangled groan. "They got him."
If an emotion could be tangible, grief did strange things to the world. It seemed to make the air thicker overhead, heavier, as though a weight truly did press down upon you, as though the entire sky had fallen down around your shoulders and still depended on you to keep it upright. Everything felt tight, constricted, cold and hot and dry and damp, an inevitable tangle of regret and anguish which could be fixed by nothing. Winnow had entered into it before, and she recognised it again now. She stepped forward, past her mother's shock, to kneel by Albie's side and place a hand on his shoulder.
"He wasn't a bad guy, you know," Albie continued, never lifting his head from his hands. Winnow glanced over her shoulder to nod towards her mother, silently imploring Ru-Shi to grab something which could aid his bloody bruises. "He was where we needed him, that's all, but he was a good bloke. Always friendly. Always down for a drink and a laugh—so optimistic, you know. Even when he was scared . . . oh, fuck, man."
"I'm sorry," Winnow whispered, though she knew the words could do nothing to turn back time. Her apologies always came instinctually, as if she felt guilt for everything in the world which went wrong, regardless of whether or not it was under her control. Most things weren't, but she was sorry anyway. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. Tentatively, she added, "What . . . what happened?"
At that, her brother turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. His hair was a mess, dark waves falling before his forehead, and there was a layer of sweat on his brow which gleamed in the half-light, his skin ashen without the warm flicker of the fire. It was different from his usual complexion: he looked sickly.
"Don't know what happened to him," Albie answered, gaze drifting away from Winnow to fix on empty nothingness. "We haven't found him yet. But they pulled Paddy from the canal only yesterday—tied in there by the ankles, left to the fucking fish. Fuck." He buried his face in his hands again, smearing blood unknowingly across his forehead. "How the hell did they figure it out?"
