It's the roaring twenties in Birmingham, the Peaky Blinders exist alongside God but they were much, much closer at hand than Him. Mercedes de Silva, thornless withered rose, petals filled with sorrow. Thomas Shelby, ruthlessly ambitious, conflicted...
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THAT WAS THE LONGEST SLEEP THOMAS HAD after coming back as an empty shell from the great war. It wasn't the sun who beat the shovels but the raven-haired woman. God knows what he would give to get rid of the hallucinations of him tunneling the never-ending trenches and the paranoia of being trapped underground, pondering whether you'd die from lack of water or air, or at the hands of the enemy. Thomas was certain that the men either came back not the same or with fury inside them.
Thomas woke up all alone at her house, the firewood's already been turned to ashes, the heavy rain stopped. As he removed the blanket covering his body, he noticed the letter that was left on the table near him.
"No breakfast, whiskey on the cupboards," he read, a crooked smile forming on his lips. Strange, strange woman. But Polly's words echoed through his mind, they'll break your heart.
As usual, the betting shop was cramped by men who love to spend their money and gamble on their chances. "Mornin, Tommy," Scudboat, a henchman of Peaky Blinders greeted Thomas, he tapped his back in response.
"That's yer starters, gentlemen. No more bets!" the henchman announced to the crowd as Thomas made his way to his own private office. There, his aunt Polly was waiting, sitting comfortably on his chair.
"Where have you been all night, Thomas?" the woman asked as she rests her chin on her crossed hands. He didn't answer but instead lit a cigarette and leaned on the side table, staring at his aunt.
