Chapter 18

Tommy

"You're no fucking fun at the moment," John complains.

I ignore my younger brother as I slap down my playing cards, creating a checkered fan across the table and scraping the coins neatly into my pile. Arthur shut the Garrison to finish a stocktake, and John insisted the rest of us keep drinking at home. Polly mutters something about dodgy cards, her speech slurring from all the wine, while Michael's jaw tightens in frustration at his own hand. I'd agreed to the drinking and the card games in an effort to occupy my mind — if I weren't here, I'd be lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if sleep will ever come for me.

If I'm honest, I have to agree with John's assessment.

And the reason for my melancholy, infuriatingly, seems to stem from Kimber's absence. How Arthur shoved me against a wall when I insisted on taking off to London after her, bringing our best men, just in case. Arthur clapped me on the shoulders and told me to get a grip. Get my head back into work. Only the knowing look in his eyes had been enough to break my focus. To show me I needed to sort myself out. Distractions are a slippery slope, and one I can't afford to slide down. I don't get that privilege. The others can both fuck up and fuck who they please — not me.

I'll deal with Kimber later.

So I did as he said. I got back to work. I tried to forget about her.

And I'm doing well. Each time that flare begins in my gut, I simply crush it down beneath liquor and work and cigarettes. I've basically never been better.

Cigarette between my teeth, I begin dealing the next hand. A tapping sounds through the room, a hollow echo — knocking at the front door.

"Has Arthur forgotten how to open the bloody door?" Polly mutters, smirking as she checks her cards.

I check my own. Hmm. Not ideal. But if I draw a King in the next round, and provided Michael hasn't got an ace up his sleeve...

The knock comes again, snapping me from my concentration. I lift my gaze, looking around my family members, all of whom are ignoring the knocking. As though it doesn't exist. As though their minds actually function like normal human brains, and not the tightly held coiling of wires like my own, insisting on perfect conditions to operate. The knocking doesn't bother them. It has me feeling like I'm about to crawl out of my skin.

"Suppose I'll fucking get it then, shall I?" I say, incredulous as I stand to my feet.

"Ta," Polly says, shifting the order of her hand.

Rain lashes against the windows. It's been an accompaniment to our game so far, distant and forgettable. But when I tug the front door open, it booms ten times louder, tipping down with a distant rumble of thunder. The integrity of our housing's insulation surprises me.

But it doesn't surprise me as much as the sight of Kimber. Wide-eyed and covered in bruises.

I blink, taking it in. It's not Arthur. Kimber's here, in Small Heath, at my door. But how...?

And then my shock wears away, swept out by the sudden torrent of rage that floods through me. I can hazard a guess as to who did this to her. Red tinges at the edges of my vision and plans burst through my mind — which gun I'll use. Which men I'll bring. Whether I'll have enough self control to draw out Billy Kimber's death, or if I'll simply sink bullets into him.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I... I didn't know where else to go."

My palms itch as fury floods through them, fury with no place to go. Not yet. Maybe I won't use a gun on Billy after all. Maybe my bare hands will do. I imagine how his throat will feel beneath them, how he'll gasp and beg and plead as I squeeze all life from him.

But for now, I'll have to be content with wrapping my fists around the strap of her duffel bag instead. "Upstairs," I say, my voice low and even, betraying little of the thoughts running through me.

She does as I tell her — thank fuck for that — and John calls out as I shut the door.

"We cutting Arthur in?"

"No," I call back to him, my eyes never leaving Kimber. "I'm off to bed."

Ignoring my brother's protests, I follow her slowly upstairs, gently passing her where she pauses on the landing. My bedroom will have to do. There's Arthur's empty bed, and every chance he'll drink half his whiskey just to simplify his stocktake and end up passed out in his own pub for the night. But if he does come home, I'd have to accost him on his way to bed and explain the situation. I'd rather not.

Not when I don't understand it myself.

My mind kicks into overdrive at this realisation. I don't operate like a normal person. I don't ask if she's okay, if she's safe, or what happened. I think like a machine. Priorities. Practicalities. First — ensuring she can't be found. Ensuring her immediate safety.

"Which car did you take?" My brothers are in no fit state to work until morning, but I'll find one bookie or another willing to run it back so she can't be traced here. So her father can't find her.

But she shakes her head. "Horse."

I frown, lifting the heavy bag onto my bed. She managed to not only ride a horse in her present state, but also lug this bag with her? It's lucky she made it here at all.

"The palomino?" I ask. John will recognise her. He'll be able to find her and hide her at one of our stables.

"No. My father..." She clears her throat. "Spangles has been relocated. To a trainer."

There's pain in her voice. Of all the things to cause her pain after what she's been through, it's the loss of her horse.

I can understand that.

There's a pinch inside my chest, like a rubber band snapping. I reach forward and hold her by the chin, tilting her face in the light to assess the damage. Fresh bruising blossoms across her cheeks. Swelling. A pattern of marks across her cheekbone, her jaw. Eyes slightly unfocused — that could be a concussion. I'm already holding in my anger. I don't know how much longer I can last.

"I hope you remember my promise," I say quietly.

"He's not worth it," she replies in a whisper.

Fuck it, I need a drink. Not worth it. My eyebrows raise as I cross the room, pouring a glass of whiskey from the bottles I keep stashed in here. I'll need to be hungover tomorrow. I'll need to feel like walking death. If I'm bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I'll be driving to London first thing to put a bullet in Billy Kimber. I don't want his death to be that quick. Best to drink myself to oblivion instead.

"You want one?" I ask.

She hesitates. "Alright."

"You sure?" I pour another one anyway. If she doesn't drink it, I sure as fuck will.

She takes the glass, pressing her fingers into the rim. "They taught us in school it's not ladylike to drink."

I can't hide the amusement that creeps across my face, slowly calming my anger. "That's the hill you chose to die on?"

She scowls and tries to cross her arms, but flinches at the movement. I stare fixedly at her left arm — where she'd recoiled when touching it.

"Take off your jacket," I order.

"As if," she mutters, but refuses to meet my eyes.

"Kimber." I place my glass down on the sideboard, ready to take it by force if I must. I need to know if she needs medical attention. "Jacket. Now."

She shifts, hands twitching like she thought about it. But she doesn't do as I asked.

I lean in towards her. Her breath catches, her eyes wide once more as my fingers graze the seam of the fabric. I release one button, then the next, the leather parting beneath my touch. My fingers brush across her chest, and I expect a scowl for that — but she doesn't protest.

I pull the fabric free and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. She still makes no move to stop me as I take her hand in my own, my fingers grazing softly against her palm. I unbutton the cuff of her shirt. Pull it up her arm. Finally, I tear my gaze away from her eyes to see what caused her so much pain.

I don't understand at first. Burnt, blistered skin running a trail the length of her forearm, from the crease of her elbow to the wrist.

And then I see the scars.

White rounds, some almost healed over, some still clear against her skin. My stomach flips violently, bile rising to coat the back of my throat. Billy did this. He's been doing this for years, judging by the scars.

She snatches her arm away. "I need a bath," she says, her voice trembling. "It's been a long day."

Words catch in my throat. Words telling her that it's not her fault. That I don't feel disgust or revulsion for her, but for her father. This fierce protectiveness is a new fire I've never experienced before, and one I still don't understand. My mind has categorised her in the same compartment where I kept the people on my unit during in the war. Protect. Keep safe.

But it's different. There's not the darkness, the fear I'll never make it home. The broken, fractured part of me might never heal. But when I look at Kimber, it doesn't feel like I'm back in the tunnels.

It feels like the first time I heard music again after the war.

I have a method for dealing with these feelings when they strike. I wrap them up in cloth, bundle and squeeze them tightly so they can't escape. And I throw them into a box. I lock the box,  throw it out into the ocean, and I watch as it sinks. It's gone. Nothing to worry about anymore.

Once more, repressing my emotions works. I've never been better.

"You can't get that wet," I finally say to her. "I'll have to bandage it up."

"I can do it."

"You won't be able to put enough pressure with one hand."

She clenches her jaw, then winces. Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Your jaw too?" I'm beginning to think there's no end to the secret injuries.

She stares resolutely at the ground. "Let's just say I'll need to book an appointment with a dentist."

Mercifully, my thoughts have stopped rising. They stay down. Numb. This is when I know I've crossed the threshold. When it becomes effortless to remain in control. I head to the bathroom and retrieve the first aid kit — Polly would be better at this sort of thing, but I don't want to involve anyone else. Not yet.

Kimber feels like mine, and I'm not ready to share.