The Hanging Noose

Thirty-Seven

Grace was dead.

And Dottie was lucky to be alive, escaping a near fatal bullet wound.

The bullet had hit Dottie's chest, ripping through her skin and nudging itself beside her collar bone. She was lucky to be alive. She was lucky to be saved.

Dottie had spent a week and a half in the hospital. She was guarded by two peaky boys at the door who allowed certain people in. Polly didn't leave her side, much like when Dottie gave birth. Micheal was looking after Eliza for her, with the help of the family, however he couldn't keep refusing for her to see her mum when her large eyes watered and her bottom lip puckered. He had brought Eliza in every day from when Dottie could sit up, telling Eliza she couldn't jump about nor could she throw herself at Dottie. Eliza nodded, as if she understood what her uncle was saying.

The first time Eliza saw Dottie she had cried, wailing in her mums lap about how much she had missed her. It took a lot out of the pair. They had gone from spending every minute in each others pockets to being refused to seeing each other.

As much as Dottie appreciated her mums company, she couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible. Grace was dead. She had been told by Polly as soon as she woke up in the hospital. They were holding off the funeral until Dottie was well, so she could say goodbye.

Those days seem to stretch madly whilst she was in the hospital. She read every book Polly had brought her, and wrote every thought down on to her notepads. She hated being in the white and bare room, although she was thankful she had a private room thanks to Tommy.

When Dottie was discharged, she had struggled to walk at first, needing Polly's help to stabilise her. The scab on her chest was causing her breath to fall several times, she was panting, struggling to keep up with Polly, who had slowed down and walked slowly arm in arm with Dottie.

The day after Dottie had arrived home, Tommy held Grace's funeral. It was held by a river not far from Arrow House. The land belonged to Tommy, so Polly had said when she had helped Dottie to get dress, Dottie being too afraid to lift up her arm incase she was ripping the stitches open.

The car ride was silent over to Tommy's. Even Eliza was quiet. It was as if the toddler knew this wasn't a good day. Even when she saw Charlie, who was in Tommy's arms, she didn't make a noise, holding on to her mums hand in a fight like grip as the family stare at a wagon.

Ada and Polly stood side by side, looking at the painted wagon. It was Tommy's favourite wagon. Like a tribute to his wife.

Dottie was quiet during the funeral. She had this immense pain in her chest, she wasn't sure whether it was from the bullet hole or the gaping wound Grace's death left.

Tommy didn't say much during the funeral. In fact he hardly said anything. He stared at the wagon. He had opened his mouth to speak, but no words followed.

The only word that followed was his cousins name. "Dottie."

It was like a plea. A prayer. As if he was begging her to talk. So Dottie did.

"I didn't know Grace for long, but she became one of the closest people to me. She was an amazing person who went through so much in a short space of time. She was strong, and independent, and she left behind a devoted husband and son..." she blinks back the tears as the silence hugs her. Eliza squeezes her hand.
"She helped me to grieve. She was the only person to know what I was going through, how I've been feeling. She made me feel normal, and for that I'll always be in her favour.
I grew up hating goodbyes, instead I use to say I'll see you later. So its until we meet again, Grace. Thank you for making me feel human."

The wagon was lit on fire when Tommy nodded his head. The blaze going up in to the sky. During the fire, Tommy approached Dottie, handing her over Charlie, who nestled in to her chest. Dottie was hesitant to take her cousin, yet when she saw his face she melted, ignoring the burning pain in her chest.
Tommy then stalked away, further in to the land surrounding Arrow Manor.

—

Dottie stares at Tommy. She had found him in his bedroom, sitting on his bed and staring silently at the photograph of Grace. Her heart ached for the man, he was finally happy, and yet that happiness was ripped away. She knocked on the door, pushing it further open.

"I've settled Charlie down," Dottie says, stepping in to the large bedroom and closing the door. "He's been asking for his mum a lot. I haven't told him anything."

"Will you tell him?" Tommy croaks out, his voice lacking all warmth. "Will you tell my boy what's happened, Dottie?"

Dottie nods, "if that's what you want. Oh, and Arthur wanted to know if you want him to step in your place, so you can have some time off. To grieve."

Tommy doesn't answer, instead he begins to throw a question at her, throwing her off guard.
"Did you feel regret?"

"What?" Dottie asks, frowning. "What?"

Tommy turns round, looking Dottie dead in the eyes. His weary and tired eyes.
"When you killed Reggie, did you regret it? Did you care?"

"It's a different situation," Dottie murmurs, trying to process what Tommy's asking. Or why he's asking. "It was self defence—"

"You still killed someone. You still took a gun and shot him. Did you regret it, Dottie? When you did it, was there a split moment in you when you wish you hadn't pulled the trigger? Did you think he didn't deserve it? Because my Grace never. My Grace didn't deserve to be killed."

Dottie doesn't answer.

"If you was anyone else on this earth, you would have been punished for his death, you know," Tommy comments, "but you're a Shelby. You're a Gray."

"You think I wasn't punished?" Dottie responds, raising an eyebrow. "I'm always in that house. I'm always in his arms. I'm always in that room, Tommy. I can't escape it. I can't escape him."

Tommy stares at her, as if he's resisting the urge to scoff.

"Mum says it's because I'm gypsy, she says we have another way of life. But I say it's a punishment. He haunts me, Tommy. Isn't that a punishment enough?"

Tommy doesn't respond.

"I know Grace has died, but you're not the only one who's gone through shit, you know. Look at Arthur, or John. John lost his childhood sweetheart! But he moved on, he didn't mope or blame others!"

"How the fuck would you know, eh? You weren't here."

"No, I fucking wasn't because I was taken away from my mum when I was six. But yeah, go ahead. Mope around when others depend on you. Yeah, because that's what Grace would fucking want, wouldn't she?"