Chapter 6
Small Heath, Birmingham – Late 1919
Morning at the Garrison
The Garrison smelled of yesterday's beer, tobacco, and blood that had long since soaked into the wood.
James Shelby sat at the bar, a steaming mug of black tea in his hands. His head throbbed with the weight of the previous night—too much whiskey, too much celebration, too many faces he hadn't seen in years acting like he'd never left.
His knuckles were scraped. He didn't remember how.
"You look like shite," Arthur said, sliding in beside him with his usual blunt grace.
James gave a dry grunt. "Feel worse."
Arthur snorted, clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly spill his tea. "Welcome home, then."
Polly was already behind the bar counting cash, snapping at the new barmaid to keep the glasses lined and the shelves clean. The girl—Grace—moved with practiced ease, Irish accent soft but not shy. She kept stealing glances at Tommy, who was seated in the corner, cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching everything and nothing.
James followed his gaze. Tommy didn't miss a thing.
He remembered flashes of this from his old life. Images. Quotes. Suits. Hats. The Peaky fookin' Blinders. But now, living in it? Every breath was heavier.
Tommy stood up suddenly. "James. Walk with me."
No hesitation. James stood, downed the last of his tea, and followed him out into the cold morning air.
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The Streets of Small Heath
Small Heath was alive in the way old wolves were—scarred, hungry, and unpredictable. The streets were crowded with coalmen, housewives, factory hands. Horses pulling carts. Steam rising off the cobbles.
Everywhere they went, people stepped aside. The Shelbys didn't ask. They didn't have to.
A boy barely out of short pants ran past them, calling out, "Mr. Shelby! Mr. Tommy Shelby's fixin' the race today!"
Tommy didn't even glance at him. "Let the rumors run faster than the horse," he muttered.
They turned down a back lane and approached the stables. James already knew this part from what Polly had hinted at the night before—Tommy had a plan. Always a plan. A horse race, rigged not with money or violence, but magic.
They entered the stable. It was quiet inside. The air smelled of hay, sweat, and expensive desperation.
The horse stood still and proud in its stall, already saddled.
A Chinese woman in layered silks moved around it, murmuring words in a language James didn't understand, holding a bundle of powder and smoke in her palms.
James stepped back slightly, watching Tommy.
"You believe in this?" he asked.
"I believe in people," Tommy said simply. "People believe in this. That's all I need."
James nodded, lips twitching slightly. "You were always the clever one."
Tommy gave him a sidelong look. "And you were the one who walked into a trench full of Germans with a knife and no backup."
"Didn't say I was smart," James muttered.
The woman finished her ritual, dusting the horse's mane with powder and whispering a final word.
Tommy handed her cash. She disappeared like smoke.
The Garrison was full by evening.
Smoke clung to the ceiling in lazy drifts, curling like ghosts above the chatter. The bar was loud. Men laughed too loud, drank too hard, and made bets they couldn't afford to lose. The buzz around Tommy's horse was electric—everyone claimed to have heard it first.
James sat in the booth closest to the wall, a pint in front of him untouched. His head was clearer now, but his gut twisted with something he hadn't felt since the war.
The feeling that something big was coming.
Grace moved behind the bar, eyes scanning, hands quick and practiced. She was all grace and calculation—never flustered, always smiling. But James had been a soldier long enough to spot the ones who watched everything without being seen.
She was one of them.
Tommy sat across the pub, quiet as always, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other resting near his pocket watch. He watched the room like he was playing a game only he understood.
Arthur and John were in full celebration mode, drinking and shouting and pulling men into arm-wrestling matches for rounds. Finn hung by the bar, eyes wide, absorbing everything like it was a dream.
James was mid-sip when someone slid into the booth across from him.
"Ada," he said, setting his glass down.
His sister offered a half-smile. "Didn't think I'd get a moment alone with you, Mr. Bloody War Hero."
James smirked. "Didn't think you'd want one."
Ada glanced around, then leaned in. "Freddie's in trouble."
The smirk vanished.
"What kind?"
"Coppers. They've got his name. They're watching the factory gates."
James exhaled slowly. "And you want me to talk to Tommy?"
"No," she said quickly. "I want you to not talk to Tommy. Freddie's not like them. You know that."
"He's also a Communist," James said evenly. "Tommy doesn't tolerate risks he can't control."
Ada's eyes narrowed. "And what about you? You come back from the dead and fall in line, is that it?"
He leaned forward. "I fall in line because I remember what happens when we don't."
She didn't answer. Just stood and walked away, her back stiff with defiance.
James rubbed his temples. This family was fire and fuse all tied together.
"Family's never simple," came a voice beside him.
Polly Gray slid into the seat Ada had just vacated. She didn't ask. She just appeared, as she always did, like smoke and instinct.
"No," James muttered. "It never is."
Polly studied him for a long moment, eyes like cut glass.
"Tommy's building something. You feel it?"
James nodded.
"He's not just fixing horse races, love," she said softly. "He's planning a war."
James looked over at Tommy.
Tommy looked up.
Their eyes met.
"Good," James said quietly. "Because I came back with nothing but fight in me."
Polly smiled, sad and sharp. "Then he'll use every bit of it."
Later, outside the Garrison, the cold hit James like a hammer.
Tommy waited in the shadows, coat collar turned up, cigarette a burning coal between his fingers.
"Walk with me," he said.
They moved together through the wet streets, boots striking the cobblestones like a slow drumbeat.
"You heard the rumors," Tommy said quietly.
James nodded.
"You know why they're nervous?"
James waited.
Tommy stopped under a flickering streetlamp.
"We've got something we weren't supposed to take," Tommy said.
James raised an eyebrow.
"Crates," Tommy said. "Full of military-grade guns. Enough to start a bloody revolution."
James exhaled slowly. The air steamed from his mouth.
"Accident?" he asked.
Tommy's smile was thin and humorless. "Maybe."
James chuckled dryly. "Doesn't sound like you to leave things to chance."
Tommy lit another cigarette, shielding the flame from the rain.
"People will come," he said. "The army. The police. Spies. Everyone."
"And you want me to do what?"
"Watch. Protect. Kill if needed," Tommy said flatly. "No mistakes."
James looked up at the sky. The stars were hidden by the mist.
"Always figured if I made it back from France, I'd live quiet," he said.
Tommy clapped him on the shoulder.
"You're a Shelby," he said. "You don't get quiet. You get war."
James smiled, slow and dangerous.
"Then let's win it."