A Birmingham Story (ft. Thomas Shelby)

Chapter Six

I turn away, because I just don't feel like having a conversation with him right now.

"Seems like you had quite a night, my lady" he babbles on.
I turn at the sudden display of politeness. I find him swaying on his feet, a empty bottle of whiskey already behind him.
"How observant of you. But do tell me, are you drunk Thomas?" I say with the shadow of a smile visible.
He snorts and makes a few shaky steps.
"Well how observant of you too."

He continues his way towards god knows where, but I decide to take the other street and go home. He senses me not following him and turns abruptly and I'm surprised he managed to keep his footing straight.

"Where do you think you're going?"
"Home" I snap.
"And leaving me alone on this cursed night on the streets of Birmingham and also quite drunk?" he says with a whiny voice I didn't expect him to have.
"Are you asking me to babysit your drunk ass?"
"Oh dear, not babysit. More like accompany me by the wonderful waters and there's something in for you too.."
He struggles a bit with his coat but then pridely raises another bottle of whiskey.

It's really been a shitty night so what could a little more alcohol do? Probably a lot worse, but I don't even care at this point. I follow him warily and I see his grin before he takes my hand and places it in the crook of his arm. I take a long sip from the bottle and then keep it under my own coat.

We roam the streets quietly for a while and, in the end, we finally beheld the shining waters of the canal. Thomas led me where the canal bends and an old willow marks a spot for a rare place with grass. We sit down, leaning on the bark for support and I take out the already half drunken bottle of whiskey.

"This used to be one of my favourite places as a kid. No one thought to look for me anyway."
I give him a long stare then turn my eyes towards the view. It's actually a pretty place for Small Heath standards.
"So why is it that your wandering through the night drunk Thomas?" I ask quietly.
He frowns as if he isn't sure either and then says "Old memories who keep coming back."

I expect him to elaborate some more but he just motions for me to pass him the bottle of whiskey. I hand it reluctantly and try to read his face. Most of it is shadowed by the peaked hat, but I can make out the dark circles under his eyes and the thin lines that start to form on his forehead. He is worried about something and he can't find the solution. The war then. He dreams it, he goes back on that battlefields every time he closes his eyes.

"So nightmares, huh?" I say trying to avoid his stare.
He turns slowly so he can face me fully. I think he is about to deny it, but then he just nods.
"I get it. I-"
"No you don't." he cuts me off. "Everyone loves to pretend sympathy, but even if you wanted to, you couldn't get it. Not unless you were there beside me, kicking the mud around, sleeping with the sound of picks getting closer and closer and you're trapped, you have nowhere to go. You're burried alive and could be dead any moment."
By the end of his speech he's breathless, his hands are shaking a little and his eyes can't seem to focus on anything.

"Take a good one. You need it" I say handing him the bottle.
After I think he has cooled off I dare to say "You're right Thomas. I can't get it. The war."
A deep breath.
"But I get the nightmares with things that you had no control over. I get the fear that your life could end in a blink, with a bullet piercing your brain." Now I am breathing in shakily and I clench my fists inside of my coat's jacket.

Thomas turns his head, a suspicios look on his face. He nods, as if in recognition of another person's trauma, but them he goes back to his whiskey.

"Stop calling me Thomas." he says out of nowhere.
"What should I call you then?"
"Just Tommy."
"Alright, but why not Thomas?"
"Only my father called me that. And he is a coward bastard who didn't even care enough about his sons to raise them properly." he adds and I'm sure I see the barest shadow of grief on his face.
"Well you did grow up to be some nice pricks, that's fair" I say smirking.
"We were raised by the streets. At least we aren't beggers now"
I approve, but that doesn't make them good people either.

Tommy turns suddenly towards me, like he is trying so hard to remember something.
"Why aren't you home at this hour. Or at least with a man?"
I snort and say in a whiny voice "Well I was having a lovely drink at the Garrison, but then my date fell face first onto the table". I wipe away an imaginary tear and then continue in my own voice "But as you could see, I can take care of myself"

He huffs a laugh but then adds "Why would a fine lady like you know how to fight. Or use a gun for that matter. Weren't you raised in plush blankets and with porcelain tea cups?"
"Yes I was. But that doesn't mean a woman can't learn how to beat the shit out of drunk bastards. My mother wasn't a soft one either" . I don't know why I brought that up. I rarely talk about my parents as I started considering my aunt and uncle as the ones who truly raised me. But my parents decide to pop up some times. Or maybe is just the whiskey.

But I am sure it's no longer my imagination when the shooting starts. God, it's just like my nightmare all over again, but now I have a drunk ass with me too.

"Come on Tommy we have to move."
He just stares at me.
"Say it again"
"Move"
"The other thing"
"I don't have time for games". He doesn't move. "Tommy-"
"Yeah, that's it. I like it when you say it" he says with a dumb smile plastered on his face. He gets up slowly and leans on the tree so hard that I think he will collapse if he tries to let it go.

"Can you walk at least?" I ask already tired. I can hear men shouting angryly closer now.
"I can try. But you'll have to take my hand dear" he jokes like it's the funniest thing that could have happened.
Suddenly all the booze and tiredness comes crashing into me and I don't know if I can even carry myself.