Chapter 5
Small Heath, Birmingham — The Garrison Pub, 1919
---
The whiskey tasted sharper in Small Heath.
James sat slouched at a battered wooden table near the back of the Garrison, back to the wall by instinct, glass in hand, the room spinning in a slow, easy circle around him.
It had started small.
A pint bought by an old neighbor, raising a shaky glass:
"To James Shelby — the man who cheated the grave."
Then another drink. And another.
Strangers. Old friends. Fellow soldiers with sleeves rolled up to show the scars they wore like badges.
Every man in the pub, it seemed, wanted to toast him.
At first, James tried to keep pace politely, downing shots with nods and tight smiles.
But Arthur and John had other plans.
They flanked him like devil and devil, each with a pint in one hand and a wicked grin splitting their faces.
"Can't have a fookin' hero drinkin' alone!" Arthur bellowed, thumping James hard enough on the back to jolt the air out of him.
John snatched the whiskey from James's hand and refilled it to the brim.
"No refusin', brother. First night back — you drink like a Shelby!"
Across the pub, Tommy sat at the corner booth, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the lamplight.
He watched with a small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, arms folded, saying nothing.
James could feel his brother's gaze—quiet, calculating. But there was pride there too, tucked away behind the ice.
It was strange.
Strange how much they all looked like the flickering memories of a TV show he barely remembered from another life.
Only realer. Heavier. Flesh and blood and broken smiles.
---
The Drinking
The night rolled on, smoke thick as fog, laughter banging off the walls.
Arthur and John dragged every willing woman in the Garrison to their table.
"This one's called Rosie!" Arthur roared, slapping a buxom brunette on the back so hard she nearly toppled.
"And this one's Marlene — loves a man in uniform!" John added with a wink.
The women cooed and giggled, draping themselves over James's shoulders, sliding hands up his arms.
He tried to wave them off, half-laughing, half-panicking, but John just shoved another pint into his hand and roared, "Drink, you fookin' ghost! Live a little!"
Some of the women were pretty.
Most weren't.
But the drinks blurred the lines, softened the faces.
James lost count after the seventh pint.
The fire in his belly mixed with the haze in his mind until everything tilted pleasantly sideways.
Arthur clinked his glass against James's with a sloshing cheer:
"To my mad bastard brother — too stubborn to die!"
James laughed. Or maybe he just fell forward and Arthur caught him.
Everything was warm. Loud. Endless.
The last thing he remembered clearly was John dragging him up a flight of stairs, clapping him on the back and shouting something about "proper welcome home."
---
Morning — The Garrison Upstairs Rooms
James woke with his mouth dry as sand and his skull pounding like someone had replaced his brain with a hammer and anvil.
Light stabbed through the cracked curtains, searing his eyes.
He groaned, rolling onto his back—and froze.
A woman was lying sprawled across his chest, naked, snoring softly.
He blinked, brain foggy, gut twisting.
The woman stirred. Blinking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a lazy smile.
Her face was... not horrible.
Messy brown hair, a few faded acne scars across her cheeks, big uneven front teeth with a few gaps when she grinned. Her body was thin, skin pale, freckles dusted across her collarbone.
Plain.
Not ugly.
But not beautiful either.
Definitely not someone he'd have chosen sober.
She stretched languidly, pressing a kiss to his chest, murmuring in broken English.
"You... strong man," she said, smiling.
James blinked again, feeling the hard reality of the situation settle in.
Before he could say a word, she shifted—moving lower.
Last night was... incredible," she murmured, her hand sliding down his chest to cup his growing erection. "You were... how you say... a beast in bed."
James chuckled, the sound coming out as more of a groan. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said, his voice thick with desire.
She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I did. Very much."
She started to move down his body, her lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. James closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensation of her mouth on his skin. She took her time, exploring every inch of him with her lips and tongue, until he was gasping for breath and aching for release.
When she finally took him in her mouth, it was all James could do not to come right then and there. She sucked him deep, her tongue swirling around his shaft, and he knew he wouldn't last long. He reached down, tangling his fingers in her hair, and let out a guttural moan as he came hard, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
She pulled back, grinning up at him, her mouth still full of his cum. She made a show of swallowing it, her throat working as she gulped it down. Then she climbed up to lay beside him, her body slick with sweat and her eyes bright with satisfaction.
---
When it was over, James lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, a pit yawning open in his gut.
The woman climbed up, smirking, and tilted her head.
James groaned and dragged a hand over his face.
She giggled, pulling on a threadbare dress from the chair nearby.
Before she left, she turned at the door, grinning crookedly.
"No pay," she said brightly in thickly accented English. "Your brothers... they pay already. Big money. Good brother, yes?"
And with that, she slipped out the door, bare feet slapping softly against the wooden floorboards.
James lay there.
Hungover.
Sober.
Ashamed.
He threw an arm over his face and cursed softly into the empty room.
"Arthur... you dead bastard."
---
Later — Downstairs at the Garrison
James stumbled down the stairs late that morning, face pale, hair a mess, moving like a man walking through gunfire.
Arthur was already at the bar, raising a pint to him with a grin that split his battered face in two.
"Oi, there he is!" Arthur shouted. "James the bloody conqueror!"
John leaned back in his chair, howling with laughter.
James shot them a murderous look, but it only made them laugh harder.
Tommy sat nearby, nursing a glass of dark whiskey, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
He didn't laugh.
He just smirked around the rim of his glass and shook his head.
James dragged himself to the bar, slumped onto a stool, and ordered the strongest black coffee they had.
It was going to be a very long day.