Thomas Shelby (8)

Birmingham still felt cold; it had lost its warmth after the war. The children waited for their fathers who would never return. The year ended today. It should have been a joyous day, the end of the year, dances everywhere, parties to celebrate the arrival of the new year. Not for everyone. The ballroom was ablaze with lights, too lively. People, dressed in their finest suits and evening gowns, danced with their partners as soft music faded into the background. Your partner brought you. No, not because he wanted to spend time with you or loved you. But because he needed someone for something you didn't know. Even so, you came. Better than staying alone at home. He had strongly advised you to wear an elegant outfit, something that others would find charming and seductive. He had told you to use makeup to conceal your "imperfections," your sickly, pale complexion, that beauty mark on your cheek that he didn't like. As you danced, your gaze fell upon a figure: a man who stood there as if he owned the place. This stranger noticed the bruises crisscrossing your thin body, your partner's hand clutching cruelly around your wrist, your dull eyes veiled by illness and fatigue. Everyone knew this stranger except you. When your partner left to join a group of men, you found yourself alone. It was always like this. The music continued. Couples turned and swayed. Soft murmurs drifted through the room. The man you had noticed then began to walk towards you. Silent steps, muffled by the noise. His face was unreadable, his calloused hands holding two champagne glasses. He said nothing. Not a sound. He simply stood beside you and offered you a glass. Your eyes never met. You looked at him.