𝔹𝕠𝕣𝕟 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕠𝕤𝕖 | Tommy Shelby

𝕀𝕀𝕀. ᴀ ᴘᴏᴇᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏ ʀʜʏᴍᴇ

𝕃izzie slipped to the side, exhausted, and the mattress bounced under her weight. In the dark, Tommy reached for the cigarette case he had left on the nightstand.

"Do you know when we last fucked?" Lizzie snuggled into his chest for affection. "Seven months ago. Seven fucking months".

Tommy didn't say a word. He had no desire to speak, nor anything to say. He lit a cigarette and the room was imbued with the scent of tobacco. It had been a long time since he smoked in bed. It had been a long time since he had slept in that bed.

"I'm sure you decided to stop fucking with me after Olivia Westerling told you to stop". The grudge in his wife's voice contrasted with how loving she wanted to be in her caresses. "Or am I wrong?"

"Do you really want to know?" Tommy was tired. As soon as he finished smoking, he was going to try to sleep for a couple of hours even if that meant having to submit to the torture of his usual nightmares.

"I already know, Tom." Lizzie turned away from him, offended, and he heard her roll over in bed. Now her back was to him. "What I don't understand is why even after she was killed you refused to return to me. She died a month ago, and just today you have the dignity to kiss me again." He couldn't see her, but he knew she was crying.

"I still love her," he told Lizzie, after a couple of seconds of absolute silence where he took a long puff that set his lungs on fire. "I still love her and she won't forgive me if I can't find the one who killed her."

"She's dead!" Lizzie exclaimed in a fit of anger and sat down on the bed. Tommy felt her grip him tightly by the shoulders. "Forget her and come back to me, Tom!"

Lizzie burst into tears. An agonized and pain-filled cry which could not stir up any kind of feeling in him. He was empty inside. He was a shell, an inert being devoid of soul. He reached out a hand and stroked his wife's cheek, wiping away a few tears. She responded to the touch and interlaced her fingers tenderly. Lizzie was a good woman and she didn't deserve all that.

"Okay," her wife said suddenly, somewhat more resolutely. "I will give you the time you need to forget about her and avenge her death. Then promise me you'll be the man you were before the gala dinner again".

"I can't promise you that."

"Why?" She was crying again. "Why, Tom?"

"Because even if I avenge her death, I will never forget about her. Sorry, Liz"

He heard Lizzie get up, victim of a violent paroxysm, and almost run out of the room, barefoot.

Tommy got up and switched on the night lamp. The light allowed him to appreciate the rumpled bed and the clothing on the floor. He had intercepted Lizzie just as she was going to sleep, and she had been so shocked to see him outside his study that when he kissed her, she made a groan of amazement. When he tossed her onto the bed, he switched off the lamp, and even though Lizzie thought this was a strange attitude, she refrained from asking questions. Tommy supposed she was afraid of ruining the moment if she questioned him.

He had tried to forget Olivia at least that night and had failed. He had tried to make his wife happy at least that night and had only managed to increase her misery.

Naked, he went to the jacket that lay on the floor near his trousers, and looked for the diary in the inside pocket. Before opening it, he traced the edges of the cheap binding with his fingertips and brought it to his nose: it smelled like her, the fresh and floral perfume that not even the best perfumery in Paris could imitate.

He opened the diary and lingered for a couple of minutes, staring at the calligraphy. It was not the most beautiful and neat handwriting in the world, but it had been her handwriting, unique and unrepeatable.