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Dawson
Smoke billowed through the streets of London, dancing above the cobbled stones and below the dark night sky. It's origin was one of many: the bustling cars that swerved around the drunks that only seemed to emerge at night, the factories that littered the outskirts of the city or the sparkling of the cigarettes that lit up sporadically against a dark backdrop, like stars. The smoke had a permanent existence, clouding around groups of young people as they pranced from club to club.
Ever since the war, the new generation had emerged from hibernation- they would appear in the night, singing and stumbling through the streets as if they were walking on a boat at sea or a rope high in the air before they came crashing to the floor. A taxi screamed out as the driver slid around a group who congregated as they crossed the road just outside of the club. The blond man in the front pulled them forward, laughing out as a much older woman slapped him angrily on the arm, hoisting her feathered coat back onto her shoulders.
"Sorry darling!" The man called out as they reached the next club.
He greeted the security with a wide smile, clapping him on the back as he slipped easily to the front of the line. The large man smiled as he noticed the blonde, shaking his hand.
"Mr Dawson." The guard greeted, his large eyebrows shooting up toward his bald head as he tried to hold in a laugh. "You brought your mother?"
Jack Dawson glared at the man playfully as he pointed a finger at him in mock warning. They shook hands one last time as he dragged his group into the club, rushing into the grandness of the decadent gold and elegant silver of both the guests and the decor.
His club was his pride and joy. Since the war, Dawson had felt like it was him who had helped to bring London closer to the new decade, a one with shining lights and lots of alcohol. Though it might not have been in his taste- he preferred food and pastries- he was just happy to be apart of it.
"Ah, Dawson, just the man I need!"
He turned quickly, beaming widely as his eyes met the face of Peter Davis, his dark skin shining glamorously under the dim lights of the bar.
"If it isn't Peter Davis!" Dawson shook the man's hand firmly.
"That man I said I'd get you the contact for." Peter began, his American accent filling his ears.
"What about him?"
"Well, he's here." He nudged his head toward the bar.
He pointed toward the man who sat at the very end, close to the wall so that the shadow of the bar fell on the only side that light could reach. He had a drink held loosely in his hand as he sat silently, ignoring the laughing and dancing that took place all around him.
Dawson nodded in confirmation, putting him on the shoulder in excitement. "Thank you lad, drink on me."
He looked over to the bartender, nodding his head toward Peter. "Johnny!"
Dawson made his way toward the bar and down beside the man. The sharp scent of whiskey drifted to his nose as soon as he touched the seat. He cringed, watching as the man turned to stare at him under heavy lids.
"You want to know about someone?" The man said and Dawson nodded, watching him through narrowed eyes.
"Tommy Shelby. Birmingham. You know him?" He asked and the man laughed.
"Know him? Everyone in bloody Birmingham has heard of him." After that statement, Dawson could hear the brummie accent, much like Tommy's had been. "I'd watch what you're saying about him in this pub."
"It's my fucking club." Dawson exclaimed, sitting up straight as he had been offended.
"There's a couple of his friends that drink here." The man said, ignoring his annoyed outburst.
Dawson settles back down on his bar stool. He had been surprised with his reception with the man. Never did he think that Tommy Shelby wouldn't want to be found. But there had to be a reason, and Dawson wanted more than anything to know what it was.
"Well, all good things. We served in France together." He said, watching as the man turned back to his drink. It was clear that he would say no more.
"Mr Dawson, Lady Ethel is asking for you." He was startled by Johnny, the bartender, shouting him a message.
"She is?"
Dawson fought the urge to roll his eyes. The older woman had been hanging from his arm ever since she had learned of his club. Before that, she had spent months ignoring him, in fear that her husband would find out.
"Where?"
"Outside, sir."
Dawson sighed as he stood from the bar, giving the name-less man one last sceptical glance before he left toward the entrance.
As he stepped outside and glanced around, Ethel was no where in sight. The line had gotten longer by the door and the security guard was occupied by the couple bustling and pushing by the front. Dawson walked around the corner toward the small alley way that hid and snakes around the large building, expecting to see her leaning seductively by the wall.
But as he rounded the corner, he was thrown against the wall, a strong arm reaching to place itself harshly against his neck. Dawson chocked out in surprise, his eyes widening as they landed on two large men, both glaring daggers at him. They were silent and he managed to squeak out an exclamation.
"Look, if Ethel's husband sent you, you can tell him I'll give her back!"
"Who the fuck is Ethel?" The man spat and Dawson stared up in confusion, still struggling against his hold.
"Well what's this about then?"
"What'd you ask about Tommy for?" The man asked.
"You're Tommy Shelby's friend?"
Dawson was surprised. What did Tommy Shelby do that warranted this?
"I'm his friend. We were in France together." He tried to persuade, feeling the hold on his throat loosen. "Just tell him Jack Dawson is asking about his old friend. Tell him my address."
"Everything's fine. No need for the scuffle!"
The two men let him go, pushing him further into the wall. They took one last look at him before leaving further into the side street.
