Chapter Text
Thomas Shelby knew what kind of man he was; frightening; without a conscience; the righthand man to the Devil himself. If work needed to be done, he’d make sure it was executed in the most efficient way possible. If another man was shot dead in front of him, he would simply look the other way. If any woman entered his life that wasn’t just a whore, he would cease to try and make small talk.
You had no idea what kind of woman you were. All you knew was that you needed something to change. That’s what lead you to Birmingham, of all places. It was grimy, it was dangerous. Full to the brim with drunkards that wouldn’t second guess holding a woman against a wall on the street in broad daylight; stuffed to breaking point with gangs, drug-lords, money launderers and murderers.
But it was cheap enough for you to grab a one room flat above The Garrison and be employed downstairs as a barmaid. It was dingy enough for no one to bat an eye at you going about your business at night, in the darkness, lit only by the shine of your paints, reflected on another wall. After the war, some turned to government work; illegal betting shops; killing for money.
You, however, chose art.
A blank canvas was your favourite thing in the world, and luckily for you, Birmingham had enough blank brick walls for you to stamp yourself all over. It didn’t start out that way, though—
In 1914, you took up art sessions at your local church in rural Berkshire. Your mother ran a bakery, your father and your two brothers ran the farm. Life was as pleasant as you’d always known. It was sweet, but predictable.
Then, your father and brothers were drafted in the war. They were stationed in France, at the Somme. You spent the next few years waiting for them to arrive home and tending the bakery with your mother. Some days were good. Your mother was fine at first, but the longer her children and husband were away from home, the more her mind deteriorated.
When you received the telegram that they’d died in action, that’s when your mother stopped talking completely. She was gone, replaced by an empty, exploded shell. The bakery went bust, and you were both forced to move in with your grandparents.
Your grandmother spent her days fussing with your mother. You were a blip on their radar, told to get a job and run errands, sell anything you could to make a stable living. It wasn’t living, you were simply existing. At night, under the dim candlelight, you’d draw in the privacy of your room. You weren’t naïve. You knew there was no place for women artists in this world, you knew you wouldn’t make a shilling for anything you drew—
But it was all you knew, all you loved.
Your home was suffocating you. Your mother was no more. Your grandparents had no care for you; an unmarried twenty-year old woman, scrounging off them for all they had and trying to get by.
When you saw the advertisement for a barmaid job at The Garrison in Small Heath, Birmingham, it was a split-second decision that you’d never been more certain about in your entire life. You packed quietly and quickly, taking only what you knew you’d need; clothes; paints; the small revolver your father had given you the day before him and your brothers were shipped to France. You gathered together the measly savings you’d chosen to hide from your family and got on the next train to Birmingham.
You didn’t look back. You didn’t leave a note. You were smoke. You weren’t made to stay confined.
You met Thomas Shelby your first day in Birmingham. His family owned The Garrison, and until that day you’d never heard of them. After, you soon realised they were the only thing that anyone talked about.
Harry, manager at The Garrison, eyed you sceptically, looking you up and down. “Where’d’you come from?” He had a thick Brummy accent. That was something you’d have to get used to.
“Down South, Berkshire, a small village called Goring.” You stood still, your only suitcase on the floor by your side. You held your hands in front of you, trying to relax. If you didn’t get this job, you had no idea where you’d live. The barmaid position included the flat upstairs.
"You’re very far from home, y’know.” He smiled, showing you a few greyed teeth. He didn’t come across malicious, however.
“I couldn’t stay there any longer.” You didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t push you. He did a once over of your papers again, sighing.
“Look, I can’t say if you can work here. All applicants go through Mr. Shelby. He’s already turned down five other girls.” He folded your papers and handed them back to you, heading around to stand behind the bar and finish up polishing glasses.
“When can I speak with Mr. Shelby, then?” You spoke up, turning to the bar. Harry flashed you a concerned look before going back to polishing.
“He’ll be in around noon. Wait here, if you like.” Harry finished up polishing a glass and placed it on the bar in front of you. “Drink?” He asked.
You contemplated your options. These were the kind of people to drink before eleven in the morning. These were not the people you were accustomed to at all, but you needed this position. You needed this.
“Gin, please.”
-
You finished your gin as the clock struck noon. On the final chime, the doors to the Garrison were bombarded open. You stared silently as three men entered—
They all had striking blue eyes and wore their caps low, but walked proudly, as if they owned the entire world. The tallest and thinnest strolled with a bravado that you’d never seen before. He took in short breaths and sniffed, bringing a hand up to his moustache. The shorter, and youngest looking of the bunch, stared huskily at his surroundings, heading straight behind the bar to grab a bottle of scotch. The middle man—
He took a final drag of his cigarette and put the butt out in one of the ashtrays on the closest table. His sunken eyes were dark and blistering, obscured slightly by the smoke encasing his face. Your heart skipped as the three of them gathered in front of the bar, not daring to move except to tap your fingers on your now empty glass, patiently.
You knew these men were the Shelby’s, but the Mr. Shelby in question was still unknown.
“Harry.” The middle man stuck his hand out to Harry, who accepted his shake firmly.
“Mr. Shelby.” He nodded in approval.
“Still clearing up after last night?” Mr. Shelby pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and dangled one from his mouth.
“Business was busy, and I’m just one man.” Harry chuckled slightly, picking up another glass to polish. Mr. Shelby shuffled his hands from pocket to pocket, no doubt looking for his matches.
Without thinking, you plucked a small matchbox from your pocket and slid it across the bar to him. Mr. Shelby stopped his searching and finally looked towards you. His eyes struck you like a punch to the throat. The blood rushed to your cheeks, but you chose to ignore it. The immediate aura that you got off all three men was that they were not to be messed with. The room was suddenly eerily silent.
The two other Shelby’s gave you a once over, before silently agreeing to something. They headed to a corner room, their shoes banging on the wooden floor, and slammed the door shut. Harry turned his back, intent on straightening out liquor bottles.
Mr. Shelby kept his gaze on you a few seconds more before picking up the matchbox and holding it in his fingers. He plucked the cigarette from his lips, fiddling with it in his fingers.
“What’s someone like you doing in this here establishment?” His voice was rough and low. His words didn’t come across as a question, but as a demand.
“I wish to be the barmaid here, and live upstairs.” You took his silence as an indication to continue. As steadily as you could, you grabbed your papers and handed them to him. He paused, before snatching them from your hands. His eyes skimmed the pages for no more than ten seconds before he folded them back up and smacked them on the bar.
“I suggest you look for work someplace else.” He said with a finality that you weren’t expecting, and your heart almost leapt into your throat. You stood up abruptly, adrenaline coursing through your veins.
“You need help here, I can see that. Like Harry said, he’s just one man.” Mr. Shelby placed the unlit cigarette between his lips once more. Did he always have to do everything with an aura of mysteriousness? It was already becoming old.
“And you think you have the expertise to be that person, coming from a place such as--,” He unfolded the papers quickly on the bar and tapped his finger over the words. “Goring.” You were speechless, but stood your ground, trying your best to raise your chin strongly. “You’re in the wrong place, Miss [L/N]. Go home.” With that, he dropped the matches onto the bar and went to make his leave.
Your mind raced. This was your only chance, you’d travelled miles from home intent on this position, just to live, to survive, to have something new; to escape. And one look at your papers by Mr. Thomas Shelby had been enough to ruin everything.
“It’s not my home anymore, Mr. Shelby.” You spoke as loud as your voice dared, the smallest sliver of anger beginning to invade your logical nature. He stopped, his back turned to you. “This may not be the promised land, and I may not have done bar work before, but I assure you I am capable of pouring beer into glasses.”
“If this isn’t the promised land, why would you come here?” He spoke. You laid your eyes on the back of his head.
“No one ever went to the promised land to be a barmaid, Mr. Shelby.” You swallowed, breathing deeply. Thomas turned back to you, strolling closer to the bar.
“Then why did you come here?” The cigarette still hung from his lips.
“Why did you turn down another five women before me?” The question had risen from somewhere within you, and before you’d realised it the words had already left your mouth. If he was in anyway astounded, Thomas didn’t show it. Strolling closer to you, he plucked the cigarette from his mouth once more, his eyes boring into you with no hesitation. You refused to leave his gaze.
“Wasn’t certain I could trust them.” He spoke finally, and shot his stare to the matches, still unused, on the bar top. “How do I know I can trust you?”
To your amazement, you allowed yourself a small smile. The cogs in your brain had worked out exactly what to say.
“I get the sense anything I reply to that won’t be adequate enough, Mr. Shelby. How are you to trust me when I have an inkling that I may not be able to trust you in return?” The clang of a bottle from Harry brought you back to your senses. Suddenly, Thomas’s stare was too much to bear. You looked down to your hands, trying to control your breathing.
You thought of the miniscule savings in your suitcase. You thought of the horror of living on the streets in this place. You thought of how you’d even begin to survive in the world like this, utterly alone—
But you didn’t think of home. It wasn’t there for you anymore, and you didn’t want it.
The sound of a match striking filled your ears. When you looked up, Thomas finally lit his cigarette, taking a long drag and filling the space around you both with smoke. You inhaled, finding you didn’t hate the musty smell. Thomas took a step forward and held the matches out. You took the box from his grasp without a sound.
Thomas looked to the ground towards your suitcase. “Is that all you brought?” He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling.
“It’s all I have.”
He paused before grabbing the cigarettes from his breast pocket and pulling a stick from the packet. He handed it to you gently. Your fingers wrapped around it slowly, you’d never actually smoked before. Without hesitating, you put the cigarette between your lips and lit a match, bringing the flame to the end. It burned a golden orange as you inhaled. The smoke coiled down your throat, burning ever so slightly, but you didn’t— wouldn’t— choke. You held the smoke in your lungs for a few seconds before breathing out. The smoke trailed from your mouth like breaths in the cold.
Thomas finished his cigarette quickly, stabbing the butt out on the bar. Quickly, he scooped up your papers and stuffed them in his inside pocket. “Go upstairs, but don’t unpack. Be down here at 6pm for the evening shift. Harry will show you how things work. Tomorrow, I decide whether you stay or go.” As suddenly as he’d arrived, Thomas Shelby was out the front door of the Garrison, the door slamming shut behind him.
The squeak of a doorknob startled you, and you let out a long and shaky breath. The other Shelby’s walked out of the corner room and leant on the bar beside you. “Harry, three glasses.” The youngest said, and you went back to sitting on your bar stool, taking another moment to calm down your rapid heart.
Thomas Shelby was terrifying.
Harry placed three glasses down, and the youngest poured whiskey into each. Slowly, he slid one across the bar to you. You looked up at him, confused.
“We were waiting for when he’d finally fucking hire someone. You did good.” They’d been eavesdropping. The youngest stuck his hand out. “I’m John Shelby.” You took his hand in your own, still trying to compute what was happening.
“[Y/N] [L/N]. And I’m not hired yet.”
“Well you fucking should be after that,” The other Shelby said, downing his whiskey in two large gulps. “Name’s Arthur Shelby.” He nodded in your direction, before his moustache curled into a small smile. “Never seen someone leave our Tommy that lost for words in a while.” You let out a huff.
“He didn’t seem lost for words to me.”
“Nah, believe me, the other girls that came in here trying to get the job all left without a fight. ‘Least you lasted longer than five bloody minutes.” John let out a chuckle, taking a gulp of whiskey and finishing his glass. He smacked Arthur on the shoulder. “Come on, bets aren’t gonna take themselves.” John gave me a once over again. “Drink up. You’re gonna need it for tonight.”
“Just remember, if any man tries to give it to ya, give them a firm knee in the balls.” Arthur mimed a knee kick. With that, the other Shelby brothers left the Garrison, door slamming once more and silence creeping in.
It was as if they’d never been here.
Harry polished the final glass and stacked it with the others. He left out a huff. “Right, come on. I’ll show you the flat upstairs.” You nodded, rising from the stool and going to grab your suitcase. You stopped abruptly, looking at the untouched whiskey you’d been poured.
In one swipe, the glass was to your lips.
You downed it in one.