Chapter Text
“ I am poison / and you will drink me / And you should be so lucky.” —Mohja Kahf
Wang Dai Lu had learned from the older girls in the brothel three rules. The first was that you always had to pee after servicing a client, the second was that you always charged extra for drunks, and the third was that white men were trouble. When she first laid eyes on Arthur Shelby, pissed and stumbling, in the Lotus Lounge’s lobby, she felt the last rule ring true.
“I’d like a woman to come back to my hotel with me,” he slurred, slapping two fists against the cherry oak surface of the front desk. “No! Two women.”
Dai Lu bowed and smiled pleasantly, hoping her deference would soften the blow. “Our girls don’t leave the lounge for new clients. We have rooms here though, sir.”
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded. His mouth split into a grin, and Dai Lu furrowed her brow at the chipped tooth at the front of his mouth. The wound looked fresh, smeared over by spit and blood.
“I’m sorry, sir. Have we met?”
“I’m a fucking Shelby.”
Dai Lu had lived in London most of her life, and her English was good—when she first came to work for Madame Li, she even asked her to affect an accent whenever she talked to the non-Chinese customers. Despite spending more of her life here than in Shanghai, though, she could not figure out what this man was trying to say. Shelby? She’ll be? Shell bee? “Your tooth is split,” she noticed. “Would you like to come back with me? I can give you something for the pain. And perhaps something for pleasure, too?”
“It’s filthy here,” Arthur said.
“It’s very clean,” Dai Lu said. “Come,” she insisted. “I’ll show you.” She extended her pale hand in the man’s direction, and he accepted it, hazy eyes raking over the brief length of her qipao. Behind the sheer curtain dividing the lobby from the lounge, dozens of Chinese girls paraded in various states of nudity around the booths of the clubs, serving drinks and pipes of opium to the British and Chinese men gathered around tables.
Dai Lu knew that to be a woman here gave her the ability to pass between worlds, her body the object of desire that transcended the hard line in the club between where the British sat and where the Chinese sat. She led the drunk man past these booths, past the stage where Hua pranced around topless, to a private room draped in Cantonese silk. With the door shut behind them, she escorted the man towards the bed before turning to the drink cart. “Can I get you something, sir?” she asked.
“Whiskey,” he demanded. “I’m celebrating.”
“Hmm,” said Dai Lu. She began to pour. “What are you celebrating?”
“The Peaky Blinders are coming to town,” he announced. “And everybody better stay out of our fucking way. The days of the Sabinis are over.”
Dai Lu’s hand stilled as she unscrewed the lid of the bottle. The Peaky Blinders—the gang from up north. His earlier introduction began to make sense now: I’m a fucking Shelby. He was one of their leaders. Dai Lu considered Madame Li, the money she cleaned during daylight hours, when the club masqueraded as a laundry. She considered the protection fees they paid to Alfie Solomon and the Jews, who kept the police from shutting them down. What would they think of this? “Congratulations, sir,” she said, as her mind drifted to her younger sister, only thirteen, and running out of options that weren’t the club. “Do you mind if I have a drink to celebrate with you?”
At that, he laughed. “Have as many drinks as you like. It’s a good night.”
“I’m happy you’re so pleased,” Dai Lu said. She brought both glasses to the drunk man and placed one gently in his hand. “What comes next for you?”
“The world,” he said, throwing the entire drink back at once. Dai Lu took a small, careful sip that she spit back out into the glass with a smile.
“The world,” she repeated, smiling as if the concept was foreign to her. “And where will you start?”
After John and Arthur split off in search of a pub— what was the point of a holiday, Trixie wondered, that you spent doing the exact same thing as you would at home? —Tommy pointed south in the direction of his hotel. They walked in silence. Instead of steering her to the bar in the lobby of Brown’s Hotel, Tommy retrieved his key from the attendant at the front desk and headed for the elevator. “Where’s the honeymoon, again?” he asked, once they were inside.
Trixie glared daggers back, nodding her head at the motionless elevator operator. When they arrived at his floor, she shoved a tip towards the operator’s chest and started for Tommy’s room. He took his sweet time following her, strolling leisurely as if through a spring day. “I have important news for you, and you’re going on about my honeymoon?” she snapped.
“Well,” said Tommy. “I care about my employees.”
At that, she barked out a sharp, “Ha!” as he took his time to unlock the door. Inside, the bed was neatly made, his suitcase resting on the desk. “Oh,” Trixie said, as she took stock of the room’s contents. She had intended to stay with Tommy, but there was only one bed.
“Something wrong?” Tommy asked, hanging up his coat on the rack.
“You’ve only got one bed.”
“So?”
“So I was going to stay here, wasn’t I?”
Tommy came to stand beside her, hands in his pockets, and surveyed the room. “I suppose you’re right. Only one bed.” Before she could cut him off, he managed, “It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before.”
Her face burned at the thought, and she hurried to change the subject. “This isn’t important. I have something to tell you.”
“So you mentioned.”
“Grace Burgess is back,” said Trixie. She paused, waiting for some sort of reaction on his face, but it remained blank. Surely he was joking. He might pretend to have forgotten caring about her, but he had to remember the circumstances of the affection he so ardently denied. “ Grace , as in, that barkeep you hired a few years ago?” she tried.
“I know who she is,” said Tommy, seeming more insulted at the insinuation that he would forget details than surprised by the news.
“Right,” Trixie said, pursing her lips. “Well, she’s in London now trying to clean up the police. Says things are a mess. She wants to offer us a deal, says you’ll need it if you plan to stay alive.”
“Doubt that,” Tommy said. He began to work on rolling his sleeves up, exposing the hard muscle of his forearms. Trixie stood and watched him, almost mesmerized by his nonchalance. He did plan on staying alive, right? She’d be damned if anyone killed him before she got the chance. “Why do you think she came to you?”
Trixie remembered the stories her false tongue had told Grace back in Birmingham. They had been—not friends, no, but not enemies either. Something less intimate but closer all the same. “She probably thinks I could persuade you better than your brothers. And she probably thinks I’m more pragmatic than you.”
“Not a word I would use to describe you,” Tommy muttered. He sat gently at the foot of the bed and began to wring his hands out. His knuckles were purple with bruises that never seemed to heal.
“What word would you use?” Trixie inquired.
Tommy said nothing, only smiling. “Sit, Beatrice. It’s been a long day.”
Her legs were sore, it was true. She wasn’t eating well recently, and it was taking its toll.
The mattress gave way to the curve of her as she sat. Its plush softness was so stunningly unfamiliar that Trixie found herself leaning all the way back, hands above her head, eyeing the spots on the ceiling. Tommy followed after a minute, hands still clasped in his lap. “So Grace is back,” he repeated, sounding as if he was registering it for the first time.
“Yes,” Trixie said. “Grace is back.” It was hard to think of her and remember anything but her crown of blond hair turning away and leaving; the certainty with which Trixie had thought of her future back then. She’d been young–only twenty–and so deep in water she didn’t understand. Sometimes, she wished she could go back. Especially now, looking at Tommy sitting sleepily next to her. A part of her still wanted to crawl into his lap just to see what would happen.
“What do you suppose we do about that?”
Trixie blew out a breath and stretched her arms towards the ceiling before letting them fall to her sides. “I don’t think breaking a deal counts when you make that deal with the coppers. We could give her our word for as long as it makes sense.”
“She’ll anticipate that,” said Tommy. “She’s not a fool.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“We push back and you get shot down and buried in the Thames?” Trixie offered.
“Tempting,” said Tommy. She felt sick at the thought. “You could pretend to betray me again.”
“I think we’ve run that play through enough times.”
“Well, yes. But if you trade your legal immunity for cooperation, she might believe it. You’ve got a fiancé now—a real fiancé.” He gave her a pointed look. Trixie turned her gaze toward the ceiling, where the elaborate moulding spiraled out into stars.
It was a fair enough plan—believable, even. Trixie could leave her life of crime behind, scrub her record clean with Grace’s help. Nothing short of a miracle would have prompted her to betray Tommy—and wasn’t Luca’s resurrection just that? A miracle? Who was she to refuse an act of God?
Trixie used her arms to push herself up on the bed. When she looked down at Tommy, she found his eyes closed, his face relaxed in a way that she had seen only a handful of times, all of them after they’d fucked. Who was she to refuse an act of God? If anything could convince her, it would be this. “Tommy.”
“Mm?”
“Why does it sound like a contingency plan, and not a cover?” Trixie furrowed her brow. “You’re not seriously thinking I would make that trade?”
“What I think,” said Tommy, “is that you’d have a better time in a prison of a marriage than an actual prison.”
“A prison of a marriage?”
“Well.” Tommy opened his eyes, looked at her. Trixie felt as if she were laid bare. “If you love him, why do you seem to keep finding yourself in bed with me?”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Trixie hissed, pushing herself upright. She braced her hands on her hips, feeling the weight of her body and her exhaustion in her sore heels, and waited for Tommy to acknowledge her. Something in her trembled and she was trying desperately not to let it show. “We are hardly in bed.”
He arched an eyebrow and sat up, before glancing very meaningfully between the two of them and at the duvet.
“Right. Well, I’m going to the lobby to call Ada,” Trixie dismissed. She shrugged her coat back on and curled her fingers into fists. “I’ll see you in Birmingham, Tommy.”
She swung the door open to leave, but before she made it into the hallway, Tommy offered, “ Vexing .”
Trixie paused. “What?”
Tommy smiled at her in a sad sort of way. “If I had to pick a word for you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, Tommy.”
He shut the door quietly behind her.
Once the rain had cleared, bathing London in a cool mist, Trixie stepped out of the Brown’s Hotel lobby and onto the cobblestoned pavement and set off for Ada’s house. Whatever had been shaking in her continued to tremble, but she managed to quiet it as she walked. Somewhere out here in this city were swaths of people who wanted her dead, but it was late enough now that they were drunk unconscious or tucked away, asleep. London felt quiet, somehow in a way that Birmingham never did.
When she reached the great oak door of Ada’s house, Trixie eyed the mansion quizzically. Either communism was paying well, or she wasn’t as distant from her brothers as she acted like she was. She raised her arm to ring the doorbell. Inside, she heard heels on wooden floors, and Ada’s lilting voice shout, “Coming!”
The door flew open. Suddenly, Ada’s round body flew out the door and into Trixie’s arms, squeezing her tightly and landing with such force that she pulled Trixie over the threshold.
“Oh, god, you’re here! I’ve been going mad.”
Trixie returned the hug, carefully navigating them through the door before kicking it shut. “How are you, darling?” she asked, before she registered the other sound in the background: Karl, wailing.
Ada pulled away, braced her hands on Trixie’s shoulders, and then dropped to the floor of the entryway, collapsing onto her back. Trixie watched her for a moment before she did the same, kicking off her boots and pulling off her blazer. Above them, Ada’s crystal chandelier swung ever-so-slightly, rattling with Karl’s sobs. “It’s been really hard,” Ada admitted. “Since Freddie died, it’s been really hard.”
“I’m sorry,” said Trixie, reaching down for Ada’s warm hand. “I’m really sorry, Ada.”
“Karl cries all night, and nothing I do makes him stop. He doesn’t want me. He wants his father.” Ada threw her free hand over her eyes and wiped away her tears.
Trixie squeezed her hand. “I’ve never been a mother, Ada, you know that. And I know I’m in my own–situation–but, you know I was a widow for a long time. Long enough to get used to it.”
“Freddie’s not coming back, though,” Ada said. She let out a sob, and Trixie wiggled over on the floor towards her, wrapping her arms around Ada and letting her cry into her chest. Trixie’s heart ached for her, poor girl–Ada was tough, yes, but had been so sheltered for so long. Now, far from her brothers, far from Trixie, Freddie gone, she was alone with her baby.
Ada began to shiver, and Trixie rubbed small circles on her back, assuming that she was convulsing from tears. But then she gasped, and pushed away, and Trixie realized that she was laughing. “Ada?”
“What am I doing?” Ada choked out. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, smearing the charcoal she used as liner everywhere. “You’re in town. I can cry about my dead husband any other time. Let’s have a drink, Trix.” She pushed herself onto all fours, took Trixie’s hand, and yanked the both of them upwards and standing. Trixie allowed herself to be led into the parlor, where Ada had a small bottle of Bordeaux open on the coffee table. Somewhere upstairs, Karl continued to cry.
“Do you need me to get him?” Trixie offered.
“No!” Ada insisted. She passed Trixie the open bottle of wine. “You sit. I’ll bring him down.”
She left, her dress a flurry behind her, and Trixie sat in the silence of the room. An ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticked like it was taunting her. With great shame, she found herself wondering what Tommy was doing now. Not sleeping, certainly. Maybe with someone. Perhaps one of the working girls nearby. She tried not to ache.
It was easy enough when Ada swept back into the room, placing a toddler into Trixie’s arms. Karl quieted almost immediately, and Ada snorted. “Happy now, Karl? Your Auntie Trixie’s here.”
“He loves you, Ada,” Trixie insisted. She looked pointedly at Karl. “Isn’t that right, my dear? You love your mum, don’t you?”
Karl, who was sucking his thumb, nodded dumbly. “Mama,” he said. “Dada?” he asked. Trixie tensed up.
“Love, your dad’s not here anymore. But your mum’s here, and she’ll take care of you.” Trixie patted him on the back. “Do you want to go to sleep now?” she asked. “It’s so late, I don’t want you to be cranky for your mum tomorrow.”
“Uh-uh,” Karl said. “Wanna play.”
“How about,” Trixie proposed, “you go to sleep now, and in the morning, your mum will take you to the chocolate shop down the street. Would you like that?” Over his shoulder, Ada’s eyes were bugging out of her head. Karl turned to look at her, and she immediately relaxed into a pleasant smile.
“How about that, bug?” Ada asked. “Chocolate shop?”
Karl, Shelby that he was, took a long moment to consider the offer, his sandy hair ruffling up as he waited. Eventually, he took his thumb out of his mouth and said, “Yeah. Chock–let.”
“Good boy,” Ada said. “Let’s get you back up to bed.”
As Trixie watched Ada leave, again, she felt something sick twist up in her stomach. Had Luca stayed dead, she might be a mother by now. She might have a diamond on her finger. She imagined sitting with Tommy and deciding names for their baby, asking Polly if she could tell if it was a little boy or a little girl. What would Tommy do, if he was a father? Work himself to death still, probably. But maybe she could convince him to come home every once in a while, arrange for a carriage to take them to the countryside, hold their child up to the light and make them laugh.
Oh, god, this was a horrible train of thought. Since when did she even want children? She needed to disembark, quickly. Trixie grabbed the neck of the wine bottle and took a rather large swig of it, too much to effectively swallow, and began to cough. By the time Ada returned to the room, Trixie had regained her composure, but only barely.
“So,” said Ada, sitting down on the couch next to Trixie and gently taking the wine for herself. “When’s your wedding?”
Trixie glared at her. “ That,” she said, “is a question that bears a lot of weight.”
“I’m serious,” Ada insisted. She looked appalled that it had been delayed yet again. “Trixie, I don’t want to overstep, but it feels a bit like you might not….want to.” Her face split into a grimace, a sort of pitying look that Trixie withered beneath.
“I…” Trixie started. She what? “I feel as though…I feel like it might be a waste of a miracle if I don’t.”
“Oh, you have to want a miracle for it to be a miracle,” Ada insisted, waving her hand. She crossed her legs and took a sip from the bottle. “What do you want, Bea?”
Trixie stilled. What was she supposed to say to that? Your brother. She felt like she might begin to squirm. “I don’t know what I want. I want to figure out the London expansion.”
“Oh, please. No work tonight.”
“That’s easy, though,” said Trixie. “I could take a city over in my sleep, I think. Tommy wants to send me to New York, with Luca. Or, Luca wants to go–bought tickets and everything–and Tommy doesn’t care.”
“Who can be arsed to care about what Tommy thinks?” Ada asked. Trixie laughed, and then realized that she was being serious. Ada fixed her with another look of pity. “Oh, dear.”
“I’m engaged,” said Trixie. “I need to start treating that seriously. But I can’t help the feeling that–if I leave England, and take up a job waiting tables, I would just be so bored.”
“You would be bored to tears,” Ada agreed. “And, I mean, I’m sure you know this–but the workers in the States are treated awfully. Maybe not as bad as here, but your life–and I mean, your entire life –would be spent working for someone who doesn’t care about you at all, going to sleep, and doing it all again the next day.”
Trixie knew that–she knew that she’d be bored and miserable and that she and Luca would be destitute, with only their love and his family to keep them warm and fed. She didn’t want that. And she knew that Luca would want children. Trixie couldn’t imagine being stacked on top of each other already, and then introducing a baby into the mix.
“How is it for you,” Trixie asked, “being independent?”
Ada exhaled and slouched back on the couch. “It’s everything it’s made out to be. Lonelier and harder. But I get to do as I please. Freddie always wanted me to spend a little more time taking care of things at home, but now it doesn’t matter as much. It’s not as though Karl’s going to complain of the mess.”
“You have too little furniture to have any real mess,” Trixie agreed.
“ Oi,” Ada protested. “I’m a grieving widow.”
“I remember when I was a grieving widow,” said Trixie. She took the wine and had a drink. The room was starting to press down against the tops of her eyes. “Things were easier back then.”
“Look,” said Ada. “If you’re happy with Luca, it might be worth it.” Though she nodded, as if she was considering it, Trixie’s stomach was twisting itself into knots. She was worried that Ada could somehow tell that she was betraying her engagement, and she wanted to cover her face with her hands and hide. “But if you’re not, Bea. You’ve been alone before.”
“How can I say that, though?” Trixie asked. “How can I feel that? It’s as though I wish he had stayed dead.”
Ada shrugged. “I don’t care much to weigh men against each other. You know my feelings about Tommy. I don’t know Luca much at all. I love you, Bea, and I want you to be happy. Whatever that takes, I think you should do it.”
“I want London,” said Trixie. “I know I’m not supposed to talk to you about work, but I did arrive with a message.”
Rolling her eyes, Ada waved her on. “Go on, then. Get it over with.”
Trixie hesitated, and then reached for her purse. A small pistol was inside, the handle carved delicately for a woman’s hand. She passed it to Ada. “Keep this away from Karl. Tommy’s made quite a mess of things in London. You ought to have something to keep you safe.”
Ada glowered at the gun. “I don’t want it.”
“I want you and your son alive,” said Trixie. “Alright? Take it, Ada. Please.”
She swallowed, but accepted the gun. “You know, for whatever it’s worth, I don’t want you to go to New York. Fuck Tommy, and fuck Luca. You can always stay here.”
Trixie smiled. She loved Ada dearly, but even that, she knew, wouldn’t be enough for her. Still, she wrapped her arms around the Shelby girl, squeezing her frame, paranoid that she wouldn’t get another chance.