𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 ; tommy shelby

03 - 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲

03.

               Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of Emma's black T-bar shoes hitting the cobbled streets rang through the echoey streets. It was late, and the narrow alleyway the woman walked down was dim from the light of the street lamps that cast an amber glow onto her exquisite face.

A day and a night and another day had passed since she had seen Tommy at the Grand Hotel bar. After leaving that napkin with 'The Garrison, Small Heath —T.M.S', Tommy had made his move in the game. Either way, Emma was itching with curiosity as to what he'd do next. If he wasn't going to let her call him, she'd have to go and find him, but there was one personal errand she needed to take care of first.

It was late at night, maybe midnight, when she arrived at a house with the red painted door and a gold horse-head knocker. Emma reached out a green leather gloved hand and nervously knocked the letter C in morse code: '— • — •' just as she had been instructed to do.

She waited for a good minute or so before the door was answered by a short, red faced gentleman in a Cavalry jacket. He gave her a good look up and down and furrowed his brows.

"I think you've got the wrong house Ma'am," he said patronisingly. He began to shut the door, only for it to be blocked by her shoe.

"Patrick Burgess is expecting me," she said.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Come on in," He said, leading her through into what seemed to be a lavishly decorated gentleman's club for Cavalry men.

Women danced promiscuously on both a stage and leering soldiers, young and old, and the air was thick with cigar smoke. The stumpy little man pointed her in the direction of a booth in the corner. Emma walked over, trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares of Cavalry men around her.

She stepped into the booth, which was closed off by plush burgundy leather seats. A blonde girl, no older than eighteen, was sat on Patrick Burgess' lap when Emma walked in. She grimaced. This was a new low, even for him.

"Uncle Patrick," Emma said with a false smile, shooing off the girl. She felt like screaming 'run for your life!' at the poor young thing, but kept her mouth shut.

Patrick pursed his lips, displeased to see her as ever. "Don't call me that," he sneered, brushing down his shirt.

"This is an interesting setting to chose," Emma remarked with sarcasm. "Your shamelessness is something to be admired."

"I don't have time for this, Emma," Patrick stated. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a brown envelope onto the table that separated them, and sliding it across towards her.

Emma opened it with the nail of her pinky finger, surveying and counting the lump of cash inside. She looked back up at Patrick. "You're short," She said.

"No I'm not," Patrick snapped defensively. "A hundred pounds, it's all there."

"You owe me an extra fifty for bringing me to this hellhole," Emma said with a sickly sweet smile.

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think Ellen would be pleased to hear about your little child bride over there," Emma gestured to the young girl who she'd found on his lap.

Patrick grumbled, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, which he promptly emptied onto the table. "It's not fifty, but it's all I have on me."

Emma smirked, scooping up the hefty wad of cash from the table and stuffing it into her envelope.

"Right then," she said, standing up. "I'll leave you to it."

Patrick grabbed her arm firmly, yanking her back to her seat. "Not so fast," he said. "I know what you're doing here, and I know you've been seeing that Tommy Shelby devil. I swear, if you let anything slip to him, you're done. And I don't just mean the money stops."

"Why would I say anything to him?" Emma challenged, ignoring what may well have been a death threat.

"Your sister came here to avenge her father's murder," Patrick said bitterly, stressing the last word with poison. "But that man made her weak. And he'll do the same to you."

"Not if I can help it."