❝ PICKET FENCE! ❞ → GRAY ✓

→ i.i

Act One, Scene One

→ ❝ i'm looking for henry johnson! ❞

             There was a hum of conversation being emitted from the shop as she approached it, drifting through the walls and the tiniest crack in the window as easily as smoke through an open room. She shuddered, though there was no wind to ruffle her yellow frock, and inhaled the dirty air slowly, psyching herself up for what was possibly the simplest task she ever had the displeasure of conducting.

             She knocked on the front door, tapping the wood three times with her gloved knuckle in the politest gesture she could think of. To her surprise, the door swung open, which she eagerly took as an invitation to enter, only to be met with the broad chest of an already drunken man stumbling out of the shop. She fought the urge to roll her eyes; it was barely ten o'clock (definitely not the hour to be drinking) but she wasn't sure that she wanted to get beaten up just yet.

             "Oh, I'm sorry!" she apologised as her cheeks flushed violently, only to receive a vacant grunt in reply. She attempted to enter once again after regaining her composure (and straightening her hat) and found herself successfully standing in the middle of a betting den; numbers were being scribbled up onto a chalk board, telephones were ringing, men were shouting, and money was exchanging hands rapidly. It was rather overwhelming, and she was undoubtedly drawn in by such an intense scene before regaining her senses and becoming rather repulsed by a life full of regret and debt.

             She found herself unsure of where to look after her gaze landed on a man in the corner of the den, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and staring at her in an unamused fashion. Noticing that he was seemingly the only person unoccupied in the entire room (and noticing his head was partially shaved – something that her cousin, James, had told her to watch out for in Small Heath, though she couldn't remember why) she decided it would be a good idea to approach him with her queries, and drifted over to him. Besides, he seemed vaguely familiar; wherever she had seen his face, he had definitely been far out of place. Her heels clicked against the wooden flooring as she gracefully dodged the raucous men that currently inhabited the establishment, desperate for a chance to win big.

             "Hello, sir," as she advanced towards him, she gradually felt herself becoming less sure of herself. His gaze didn't leave her once, and his stoic yet unamused expression remained. Feeling rather like a lamb purposely approaching a lion, she was suddenly overwhelmed and unsure of how to speak to this man. "I wondered if you could point me in the direction of a Mr Thomas Shelby? I believe he can help me."

             He stood up straight, no longer needing the wall for support. "What is it that you want?" he quizzed. His voice was deeper than she was expecting, yet smoothly and easily carried the authority that his stature signified.

             Tommy took in her appearance and inability to recognise him, and promptly concluded that she was a stranger to the absolute squalor that was Small Heath. Her heels were pristine, her mesh gloves were the whitest he had ever seen, and her eyes held a sense of innocence that could only be owned by an outsider. Besides, her decision to wear a pale yellow dress made her stand out like a sore thumb against the grayscale backdrop of the city. Each individual auburn strand of hair upon her head seemed to be perfectly brushed into place, her waves flowing softly about her complexion.

             "I was hoping he could help me find Henry Johnson." She quietly cleared her throat; it had been a while since she had let his name let a wash of emotion engulf her, as she wasn't about the break that streak in front of a man who she didn't even know the name of.

             Ushering her into his office just to the left of where the two were standing, Tommy's eyes hardened as he locked the door and told her to sit down. "What do you want?" he repeated himself, this time his words undertaking a more sinister, demanding tone.

             "Please, sir, I'm looking for Henry Johnson. I'm from his village in Sheffield, and he left almost two years ago. I haven't heard a single thing from him, and his mother won't tell me anything. I'm worried sick that something has happened to him, and my cousin only just got word that he might be here." She gushed, tangling her fingers around each other nervously – a habit she picked up from her mother.

             "And what gives you a right to know?"

             "I'm his fiancée," she showed Tommy her dainty ring that sat atop her gloves, "Miss Carol Goodwin."

             "Fuck sake," Tommy swore under his breath and motioned for her to sit on the leather chair in front of his desk, "Wait here."