If I Can't Have you

(11) Not Good Enough

"Jemima? Jem?" Johns voice calls out through the house, as he, Max and Levin step over the shards of splintered wood from her doorframe in the hallway.

"In the kitchen." Jemima replies.

The three men walk into the kitchen, and are met with the sight of Jemima sat at the table pouring herself a drink.

"What the fuck happened here?" Max asks, looking at her, noting her split lip, and swollen cheek, "what the fuck happened to you?"

"That inspector is quite a spectacle," she scoffs, finishing the drink she'd poured seconds before.

"He did this?" Levin says, and Jemima nods, watching as he got a cloth, swiping the bottle from in front of her, and soaking it, before pulling up a chair beside her.

"Don't block your face from me, Jemima." Levin states, in that fatherly tone she was all too familiar with.

He may have been Maximilians father. But he was the closest she had to a Dad.

When her mum died in 1907, Jemima was only 12. Her dad never had been a pleasant man, but his mood only seemed to decline since her passing, until one day, Spring of 1909, he just wasn't there.

Jemima didn't know where he'd gone. But he wasn't there. Not that he ever really had been, not for at least anyways.

Levin always made sure she had clean clothes, fresh food to eat, someone to talk to. He was a person for her to rely on, and no words could ever tell him how much she appreciated that.

"What did he want?" John asks, as Levin starts to clean her cheek.

"Co-operation." Jemima says, "he wants me to spy on Thomas and let him know of any behaviour I perceive as odd. All Thomas' behaviour is fucking strange."

"He wants you to spy on us?" John repeats.

"Not you. Just Tommy, says he's been made aware that we have complications and that I should be glad someone is ending his reign of tyranny." Jemima tells them.

"Did they do anything else?" Levin asks, registering the fingerprint marks on her wrist, placing the rag down and taking ahold of her arm, and softly raising her sleeve.

"No," Jemima answers.

"Jemima?" Max says, folding his arms over his chest and cocking an eyebrow at her.

"He may have touched my leg briefly. But it's fine." Jemima replies.

"Did it make you uncomfortable?" Levin queries, and she nods slowly, "then it's not fine."

"I'm going to kill him," John states.

"You can't kill the chief of police, John." Jemima declares, "especially if he's here under direct orders from Winston Churchill."

"Fuck Winston Churchill," John exclaims.

"As much as I hate to admit it, she's got a point, John." Max interjects.

"I found something out about the robbery," Jemima states, capturing their attention, "yeah?"

"It's from the BSA factory, which means it's weapons. Someone has stolen weapons." Jemima tells them.

"What scale?" Max asks.

"A large enough scale if they've sent him over from Ireland with the pure intention of finding them." Jemima replies.

"Like guns and ammunition?" John questions.

"Possibly," Jemima says.

"Well fuck," Max sighs.