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Alfie Solomons doesn't snore.
That fact comes as a complete surprise to Tommy Shelby, who would have bet good money he did.
Alfie, Tommy has decided, is just an inherently noisy person, the way other people are tall, or short, or left-handed, or cross-eyed. He talks, a lot -- good Christ does he talk a lot, to Tommy, to Cyril, to Ollie, to Esme. Even to poor Arthur, whom Alfie seems to view as a sort of human whetstone on which to sharpen his barbed wit.
Tommy finds all the talk difficult to tune out. The problem is that Alfie is a very intelligent and well-read man, and is also completely barking mad. So even when Tommy is deliberately not listening, there's always some small nugget amongst the rambling that is either so interesting or so completely off-the-wall that it catches his ear anyway, and he ends up listening despite himself.
That's usually the point at which he gets a little bit twitchy, and abruptly finds a reason to leave the room, sometimes dragging Arthur along with him for his own benefit. (Later on, he discovers it's also possible to shut Alfie up by plopping into his lap and snogging him until he loses his train of thought. It's remarkably effective, and Tommy gets something out of it too. Win-win.)
Even when Alfie isn't talking, he's still not quiet. Period of silence are nearly always punctuated with a variety of odd sounds: wordless grumbles, huffs, grunts, hums, knuckle cracks and noisy throat-clearing.
It stands to reason, Tommy assumes, that he's probably equally noisy at night. Probably saws logs loudly enough to rattle the windows.
____
Tommy doesn't have the opportunity to test that assumption until after Alfie has semi-permanently retired, and taken up residence in Margate. Until then, they've only shared a bed a handful of times, none of which involved any actual sleeping.
So it isn't until Tommy becomes a regular visitor to Lethe House, frequently spending several days at a time there and sharing Alfie's bed, that he actually witnesses the big man sleeping. And finds out that he does not snore.
Not only does he not snore, he is absolutely, unnaturally silent and still, a seemingly-inanimate lump under the bedlinens. And often sleeps on his stomach, sprawled out in a way that is disturbingly reminiscent of murder victims and chalk outlines.
It's a little unnerving at first. During his first few stays at Lethe House, on more than one occasion, Tommy wakes up during the wee hours to find Alfie next to him, face-down and completely motionless, and the bedroom filled with a dense, uncanny silence. And has a very brief, very vivid not-quite-awake-yet panic attack, momentarily convinced that Alfie has passed away in his sleep.
After a few weeks he's become used to the still and the quiet, sort of. Mostly. But he still occasionally finds himself anxiously studying Alfie in the dark, watching for the slight rise and fall of his barrel chest, just to be sure. Or holding an open palm a few inches above Alfie's nose, checking for a soft rush of warm breath.
Several times, it's woken Alfie up. "Treacle," the apparently-dead Alfie had said abruptly one night, eyes snapping open in the dark. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Tommy -- caught hovering over Alfie with a hand in front of his mouth -- had nearly leapt out of his skin. And then had blathered his way through a fairly transparent excuse about reaching for something on the night-table on the opposite site of the bed. A glass of water, maybe. Or a cigarette. Whatever it was, he'd made it up on the spot. It must have sounded at least somewhat plausible; Alfie had replied with a small, ambiguous hmph, and had gone back to sleep without further comment.
****
A few more weeks and two or three more accidental awakenings pass before Tommy finally, reluctantly admits what he's up to. When he does, Alfie chuckles, low and warm, voice still thick with sleep. "Worried I might kick off during the night, yeah?" he asks, amused.
"A little," Tommy confesses. "You are getting old, after all," he adds, with the tiniest hint of a teasing smile, just an uptick of the corner of his mouth. "These things do happen."
"Fuck off," Alfie says fondly. "Silly boy. No fucking chance of that happening here." He pulls Tommy into his arms, little-spoon style, tucked into the curve of his own broad, warm body -- one brawny arm wrapped around his slender waist, whiskers tickling his ear. "And you know why."
"I do...?" Tommy's brow wrinkles and he frowns. "No, I -- " And then it dawns on him, and his face clears. He smiles to himself in the dark. "Because only good people die in their beds."
"Exactly," Alfie rasps. "So stop fuckin' fretting and go back to sleep. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
It takes Tommy a minute to think of an appropriate retort. And by the time he does, the arm around his waist has grown slack and heavy; Alfie's already gone back to sleep. With a sigh, Tommy settles back onto his pillow. Before long he drifts off too, reassured by the rhythmic wash of Alfie's warm breath against the back of his neck -- proof that his wandering Jew is still among the living.