birmingham

-

Dorothy had closely examined the letter that had summoned her to Birmingham. There was a date, time and location written beneath the cryptic message - a evening fast approaching, and the name of a pub. She would meet whoever wanted an audience with her then.

Until then, she had little to do but sample what the city had to offer.

When they had arrived in Birmingham, the dusty neglect of Claudia's old house and the simmering tension between herself and her sister had driven Dorothy to the first pub she had come across. At that moment, she was seated on a stool before the bar in said pub, waiting for the barman to notice her and serve her some of Birmingham's finest. 

She could sense people's eyes on her, inexplicably. Perhaps they were examining her distinct Russian features, her expensive clothes. She was used to stares. Usually, they were out of fear, of intimidation. But these were looks of curiosity. She decided not to dwell on it. 

She heard the bartender approach, and looked up.

"Whiskey, on ice," she said without a moment of deliberation.

He didn't begin preparing the drink. Instead, he folded his arms, and said carefully, "Ma'am, will someone be joining you?"

Dorothy was lost for words for a moment. 

As if to seek those who sympathised with her outrage at being refused, she glanced to the side, and spotted a man eyeing her closely. Then, she turned her head to see a group of lads doing the same. Furrowing her brow, she looked back at the bartender, who cocked his head, waiting.

Then - shit. She had been able to drink alone without being questioned for so long in London that she had forgotten the treatment "normal" women received. The stares suddenly made sense. They weren't out of curiosity - just disbelief for the woman who had dared sit at the bar without a man.

She wasn't sure what to do. She couldn't simply tell the bartender who she was. This was Birmingham. Nobody knew her here - at least people who weren't interested in buying firearms.

"Ah - " she started to say, swallowing slightly. She could suddenly feel the entire bar looking at her. Waiting for 

The bartender quirked an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I'll have to ask you to leave. There are plenty of other places that might serve you," he said. Dorothy hadn't been spoken to like this in a long time. His tone was so dismissive.

Without thinking, she opened her mouth to call the man a few choice words. But before she even had the chance to say "Look, pal," she felt the warmth of a wide hand rest on the small of her back.

Instantly, she froze. She could sense the person's presence, feel them towering over her. Visions raced through her head. The most appealing: herself standing up, decking the person who had dared to touch her, and earning her drink due to the intimidation of the bartender. Many, though, involved her being dragged into a dark alley, the hand on her back muffling her screams.

She was prepared to do anything in order to prevent such a situation taking place. But again - she was no-one in Birmingham. If she fought whoever it was behind her off, she could be arrested.

So she remained still, trying to contain the panic rising in her chest. Her gaze flickered up to the bartender.

To her surprise, on his face was a look she received in London almost daily. One of fear, of recognition. One that was almost always followed up by a string of stammered apologies. And, surely enough - 

"I - I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realise - " the bartender began to say,

"Get this lady her drink, young man," said the person behind her. It was a man - one with a voice made gravelly from years of smoking. Dorothy's throat bobbed. She didn't dare look behind her. The panic in her chest was beginning to worsen, memories flaring up before her eyes.

"Yes, sir," the bartender returned, and got to work immediately.

As he scooped up a bottle of molten amber liquid and bustled around for a glass, Dorothy felt the man move from behind her to her side. She didn't dare move, keeping her gaze fixed on the liquor rack behind the bar, even as she sensed him sit down heavily on the bar stool to her left.

There was a moment of silence. She could feel the man's eyes on her, feel the hand still lingering on her back. Dorothy swallowed again, her gaze dropping to the wooden surface of the bar, concentrating of the sounds of chatter and clinks of glasses around her.

Then, the man cleared his throat, and said in a rolling Brummie accent, "I don't bite, darling."

For a second, Dot's eyes flickered closed.

Then, she heard the sound of glass on wood, and opened them. Her drink was sitting before her. Looking up, she threw a fake smile at the bartender, grabbed the glass, and knocked the whiskey back.

As the liquid blazed it's way down her throat, Dorothy reluctantly turned to look at her new companion in the eye.

A brown chevron moustache. Brown hair shaved all around, save for the top, which was sculpted and swept back with gel. Troubled grey-blue eyes. Perhaps around thirty-eight. Potentially an ex-soldier.

"I've never seen a lady drink whiskey like that before," he remarked lowly as she examined him. His eyes were warm, as if his intentions with her were pure.

I'm no lady. "I appreciate you doing that."

A untamed eyebrow quirked up. "You sound posh. London lass, eh?"

"Mm," she confirmed. She glanced over the man's shoulder, and felt her shoulder's loosen a little when she saw that everyone in the pub had - thankfully - stopped staring.

"What're you doing in dirty old Birmingham, then?" he asked, picking up the drink that had been set beside him without prompt and taking a sip.

She didn't move for a moment. But then, for the first time since arriving in the city, Dorothy's lips turned up in a slight smile.

Sitting up a little straighter and throwing her head back, she declared to the evidently amused man before her, "I'm on me holidays."

"Really?" He let out a slight chuckle. 

In moments, her demeanour had shifted from stiff and afraid to something new, something inviting. Intrigued, he dragged his gaze up and down her body. Dorothy held back a laugh. Even for someone who hadn't been intimate with a man for years, it was all too easy to lure them in. 

"Pretty girl like you should be somewhere nice," he continued, pronouncing the word "nice" with a long "oh" sound in place of the "i."

"I like dirty old Birmingham just fine," Dorothy said lowly, leaning towards him. A difficult task: she hated liars - in particular, those who lied to get women into their beds. She was many things, but she wasn't "pretty."

"Looking to let loose? Get smashed off our whiskey? Go to a few parties?" His gaze flickered from her body back up to her eyes, straying to her lips every now and then. "Meet some men?"

"Sure." 

Dot forced her grin to widen, to turn sultry, and leaned into the man, hoping he didn't notice how her fingers shook as she straightened his tie. The corner of his mouth turned up as she trailed her hands down his chest, slipping them under his jacket. The techniques came back to her so easily, and it made her queasy.

Her dark eyes flickered up to meet his, and his smirk grew. She didn't have to look to confirm that something else was probably growing too.

"What else is there to do around here? Hm?"

"It's cold tonight, eh?" he murmured. They were close enough that Dot could feel his tentative breath on her cheek. "When it's cold, we Small Heath lads like to help keep out the cold by warming another's bed. Fancy that?"

Dot's stomach clenched, but she hid her disgust, forcing a sultry chuckle.

"Buy me another drink first," she whispered.

He obliged quickly, and Dot knocked the whiskey back once again. Feeling it's influence take over her, she let out a light laugh, drawing even closer to the nameless man. She found that the hand that had moved from her back to her waist didn't bother her as much as it would have sober.

"I think there's a ring fight tonight," he said. His hand shifted against the curve of her waist, drawing her closer still. "You can watch me. Cheer me on. You'll be my lucky charm."

Dorothy laughed again, but this time, it was out of actual amusement. The whiskey gave her the courage to do what she did next.

"I don't spectate at ring fights, mister," she said tantalisingly.

He drew back a little, looking at her curiously.

Head cocked, she brought her mouth to his ear. "Watch this," she whispered. 

Just for the fun of it, and to draw him in even more, she nibbled lightly on his earlobe. A grunt drew from his throat, and she smiled to herself.

Then, without warning, she pulled away from him, hauled herself up off her chair, strode into the middle of the bar with her arms up, and bellowed, "Who wants to make a couple bob?"

The bar's patrons stirred visibly, turning around to see the source of the noise, murmuring curiously amongst themselves.

Feeling the man watching her, she threw him a wink before shouting, "Come on, boys!"

 Casting an eye around, she tracked down a lad around her age, and pointed at him. 

"You. Get up. Yes, you! Get up here!"

As he obliged, mostly out of baffled curiosity, Dorothy shrugged off her jacket and threw it onto an empty table. Some more people sat nearby craned their necks to see what the disturbance was about.

Once the lad was stood before her, Dot dug some coins out of her pocket and held it out before her. He reached for it, but before he could take it, she set it down on top of her jacket.

"You beat me, and the money's yours."

He frowned. "Beat you?"

"Are you thick?" Dot took out her earrings and dropped them on the table along with her jacket.

Laughter rippled through the gathering spectators, and the lad cleared his throat. 

"If you can fight me and win, that money there is yours," she continued.

The bartender, who had been eyeing Dorothy warily ever since she had gotten out of her chair, leaned over the bar and called, " Alright, alright, let's just calm -"

The man at the bar silenced him with a hand, never looking away from Dot.

The boy Dot had challenged looked over his shoulder at his mates, laughing.

"I'm serious," she said, folding her arms.

He looked back at her, took one look at her face, and made his choice.

"Alright. Yeah, I'll fight you," the lad said at last, removing his blazer.

"Splendid," Dorothy grinned, rolling up her sleeves.

When the lad's jacket was off, he moved to stand before her, tugging at his tie and pulling it over his head, throwing it to the side. He was still laughing, still acting as if the whole situation was a big laugh. 

He had no clue what he was getting himself in for.

A nameless man stepped forward, declaring himself in charge of their fight. "First to hold their opponent down for five seconds wins. Ready?"

Dot took up a fighters stance. The boy did the same - and she instantly identified his mistake. He had left his right side uncovered. She was prepared to bet that this was his first fight.

She was about to make it his first loss.

And to a woman, at that.

The self-identified referee looked between the pair, and raised a hand. The crowd that had formed around them held it's breath. 

The man at the bar brought a hand to his chin, looking on with a dazed look in his eyes.

Dorothy stared into her opponent's eyes from behind lowered brows. He stared back, trying to look tough. She could see behind his poor facade that he was realising he was afraid. That he was out of his depth. 

And when the referee shouted "Go!", her suspicions were confirmed.

He ran at her like a bull, no technique, no idea of where to hit her. His mates were roaring, along with the rest of the crowd. They were all cheering his name; not one person cheered for her. Nobody expected the crazy bitch who had sat alone at the bar to win.

So when she got the first punch in, the crunching impact of fist on nose sounding throughout the pub, for a moment, the crowd's cheers faltered.

The lad was stunned. And while he stood there, dumbfounded, Dot clamped his neck with one arm and planted the other on his stomach, hooked a foot behind his ankle, and hurled him to the floor.

The crowd flared up once again - but still not cheering for her. They were telling the lad to get up and fight.

And try he did. But he was too slow, slipping about as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows in a panic. Dot flicked her hair out of her face and pushed him onto his front with a foot. A knee landed square on his back, one hand pulling back his arm, the other planted on the back of his neck, keeping him down. He was crying out, struggling, but she couldn't be shifted.

The ref was counting. The crowd was screaming - and some of them were screaming in favour of her. Dot began to grin like a maniac, pressing down harder.

"three ... four... five!"

The moment the ref called it, the woman pulled back, and the lad let out a gasp as her weight lifted. His mates dragged him off the floor, yelling in disappointment. And while some of the crowd followed them, most of them flocked to her.

She felt them clap her on the back, rubbing her shoulders, complimenting her, telling her she was "good, for a lass."

The whiskey in her kept her from starting another fight over their comments, and she grinned, stuffing her money and earrings back in her pockets, grabbing her jacket.

And as she put it back on, she looked back at the man at the bar.

He was staring at her. No longer with amusement or curiosity. But almost in awe.

He stood. Began moving to her. But before he could reach her and propose once more that she warm his bed, she sent him and wink, weaved through the crowd and slipped out the door.