CHAPTER ONE:
RED RIGHT HAND
1919

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THE AIR WAS THICK with smoke and fog the morning Helen's brother died. Helen remembered it well; the pungent taste of ash on her tongue, clogging up her lungs, heart, mind. For a staggering moment, she felt like she was dreaming, as if the piece of paper crumpled in her fist was merely a figment of her imagination, her nightmares. But as Helen also knew, dreams were a concept created on false hope and promises. This was no dream, but a cruel version of reality.

Frank Mavis had been dead for a month. Really, the smoke and fog had nothing to do with it. After a series of delays with the post, Helen was only just finding out. His funeral took place on the 12th of March, Florence's letter had informed her. Florence had hoped for her to be there, to support herself and the children... Through a small huff of amusement and cigarette smoke, Helen caught a glimpse of the calendar that hung behind her kitchen door.

April 7th.

"Thanks for nothing, Florence," she muttered into the emptiness of her house. She didn't hesitate to burn the note, watching as the flames curled at the paper edges until the scrawl of death and tear stains of heartache were illegible.

Really, deep down, she knew Florence wasn't the one to blame. Helen had only met her brother's wife three times in the several years they were married. The first occasion just so happened to be when Helen turned seventeen. Frank brought along a date to the celebrations, a girl he'd met in the next town over.

We're engaged, he had informed his family not five minutes into her special night.

For that, it came as no surprise to Helen when, nine months later, she accompanied Frank to the hospital to meet her first-born nephew. That was the third time she met Florence, and the last, for the second was, of course, their wedding and now that Frank was gone, Helen had no reason to ever see the woman again.

For a crippling instant, tears pricked behind her eyes. She was quick to blink them away, staring into the heat of the flames until she was sure she'd smothered down her sobs. Then she turned away, steady hands pouring a jug of water into the fireplace. Yet another plume of smoke rose through the chimney, creating a darkening cloud above the tiny corner home on Watery Lane. Helen watched it as she stepped out onto the street, instinctively peering down the road to where a line of men waited to be let into the infamous Shelby Betting Den. She hastily averted her eyes when the door swung open, clutching the soft fur folds of her coat as she headed for the one place she knew would provide a distraction to her sorrows.

"Mornin', Miss Mavis," Harry Fenton greeted from behind the Garrison bar. It was reasonably busy that morning, a group of men including Freddie Thorne were sitting over in the corner by the door. Freddie nodded at Helen once, smirking when she looked away from him and back towards Harry. He had a dishcloth in one hand, a glass with beer dregs in the other. Helen smiled at him.

"Good morning, Harry," she replied as she shrugged her coat onto the back of one of the bar stools before sitting down. Her dress that morning was a dark grey, gloomy, representing the shadow that Harry noticed in her eyes, in the harsh set of her brow. "I'll take a whiskey. Irish."

Harry nodded once, discarding the dishcloth for a fresh glass and Helen's drink of choice. He ignored the coins she placed on the countertop, merely sliding the drink towards her under the curious eyes of a few nearby men. They may not have understood, but Helen did. Even without him, Helen demanded respect. There was something to be said about a woman who brought the likes of Tommy Shelby to his knees. Even if that was a long time in the past. Harry, like many others, wouldn't risk a place in the Peaky Blinders' bad books.

And speaking of the devil...

Helen knew how to recognise the silence of Tommy Shelby's arrival. It was something she'd grown accustomed to from her previous place at his side. Back then, Helen had felt invincible, untouchable. But now? Well, men still nodded when she entered a room, but that silence was a figment of the past.

"On the house, Mr Shelby," Harry assured, like usual, as he rushed to grab a whole new bottle of Irish Whiskey. Helen rolled her eyes, making a point of sipping on her own drink when Tommy took up residence on the bar stool two seats away from her. Not once did he look over at her, but Helen knew, even when Tommy tried to hide it, that he felt her presence regardless.

"You have a light?" she asked, before her courage could waver into familiar heartache.

Tommy didn't acknowledge her at first, with his eyes cast to his whiskey and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Then, just when Helen visibly began to grow disgruntled, he said, "What?"

Fucking what.

"I said," she scoffed, coolly enunciating each word as she shook the tin of cigarettes she'd fished out of her coat pocket. "Do you have a light?"

Without a word, Tommy snatched the tin from her and raised one of the sticks to the one by his own mouth. Then, when smoke began to curl from both, he handed it back to her, still not meeting her gaze. Helen muttered a thank you and lowered her head.

"Good to see you two getting along again," the infuriating voice of an old friend commented. Helen made no effort to hide her scowl when Freddie shuffled his way onto the seat between herself and Tommy. He was grinning deviously as he snuffed out his own cigarette to take one from Helen's tin left on the countertop. "Thanks, Helen. Thomas, you mind lighting this for me?"

Much like before, Tommy said nothing. Helen noted the tense tick of his jaw as he lit the cigarette and handed it back roughly. Freddie huffed out a laugh before turning to Harry. "I'll take a mild," he requested, then slid his empty glass towards him.

"Right," Harry responded, nowhere near as fussed as he had been with Tommy and Helen. A minute passed before he returned to the admittedly strange trio with Freddie's drink. He sat the glass down and waited for payment.

Of course, Freddie couldn't resist the opportunity to worm his way under Tommy's skin. They were good friends once, the best of friends. Even Helen had liked him, yet something had changed after the men came back. Freddie and Tommy stopped speaking, it wasn't even a question for the friendship between Helen and Freddie to end. Ever since, things had just been... stagnant, tense, tested by Tommy's patience and Freddie's daring in interactions like this.

Freddie didn't hesitate to reach out and drag one of the coins from Tommy's payment — unneeded, of course, for Harry refused to accept it — over to where the weary-eyed barman was waiting for Tommy's permission. When the Shelby man merely sighed and raised his chin in an indifferent nod, Harry went back to work.

"Cheers, Thomas," Freddie raised his glass towards him, still uncomfortably close to himself and Helen. "Good health to you."

"Do you mind taking your drink somewhere else?" Helen grumbled over the rim of her whiskey. This was not what she had in mind when she ventured from her home that morning. "I came here for a drink alone, not a mother's meeting."

"I think I'm alright here, thanks Helen," Freddie retorted dryly. "Unless, of course, I'm interrupting something between you two... I wouldn't want to step on your toes, Thomas."

When Tommy said nothing and Helen furiously downed the rest of her drink, Freddie settled back in his chair, triumphant. Running off the aftermath of his high, he didn't hesitate to snatch up Tommy's discarded peaky cap, the familiar sight of it making Helen's heart sink into her stomach.

She'd seen Tommy several times since the train station, and she was getting used to the achingly familiar emptiness of every interaction. But something about that stupid fucking hat always got to her. It tugged at a loose string of nostalgia. Croaky-voiced, Helen's jaw clenched as she demanded another drink from Harry. She added another coin to her growing pile, saying nothing when Harry nervously took the money away.

"The crown of a prince," she heard Freddie comment, carefully tracing the blade sewn into the hem. He chucked it back onto the counter dismissively. "Soon to be king, I bet."

Tommy didn't react to the words, even with Helen's careful stare tracing the side of his face for a sign.

Even before the war, there had been talk of Tommy Shelby taking over the family business. Arthur was the oldest, but everyone could see he wasn't cut out for what the Peaky Blinders needed in a leader. Whereas Tommy, on the other hand, was almost perfect for the role.

Helen had been once, too. It wasn't even a question that she would lead by his side, the second-in-command, the wife.

But that was before. And a lot had changed in the after.

"You don't bet," Tommy said.

Freddie smirked. "No, but these past few days, I've been speculating."

He waited for one of them to respond. When Helen merely downed half her drink and frowned at him, Freddie set his sights on Tommy again. The Shelby man struggled to hide his sigh. "About what?"

"One of my Union comrades has a sister, who works in the telegraph office at the BSA Factory."

"A nice story, Freddie," Helen scoffed, a hint of smoke on her breath coughed out of disintegrating lungs. A strand of curly blonde hair fell from the braid twisting around the side of her head. Tommy had to resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear when Helen left it hanging in place. "Perhaps it's one you could tell somewhere else."

"So eager to get rid of me, Helen," Freddie murmured in mocking disappointment. He turned back to Tommy, just knowing the dismissive gesture would infuriate the blonde woman. Helen hated that he was right. "She says, over the past week, they've had messages coming up from London to the brass, from Winston Churchill himself."

Now that got Helen's attention. She was careful not to show it, though, as she slowly put out her cigarette, all the while watching Tommy's face. The change was so insignificant, a mere twitch of his right eye. Freddie certainly didn't notice it, not even as he leaned in closer to get right up in Tommy's face. But Helen saw it, as clear as day. Freddie had gotten to him.

The question remaining was why.

"Something about a robbery. 'A robbery of national significance,' it said." Silence. Freddie continued. "She found a list of names left on the telegraph machine. And on that list was your name and my name, together. Now what kind of a list would have the name of a communist and the name of a bookmaker side-by-side?"

Tommy took a second to finish his drink before responding. His voice was cold, but stubbornly impatient. "Perhaps it's a list of men who give false hope to the poor. The only difference between you and me, Freddie, is that sometimes, my horses stand a chance of winning."

Caught off guard, Helen failed to hide her laugh. Something red hot flickered in Freddie, whose face went peony pink, a stark contrast to the furious scowl he wore as he pushed back the bar stool and stormed to his feet. Tommy didn't flinch as Freddie inched closer, close enough to hiss into his ear, "You know, there are days when I hear about the cuttings and beatings that I really wish I'd let you take that bullet in France."

It took a mere second for the situation to flip. Helen felt the blood drain from her face as she looked from him to Tommy, her drink and her sorrows long forgotten. Like that stupid hat still taunting her from the countertop, there were certain words, memories, missed chances that squeezed at Helen's heart until she couldn't breathe. France was once of these words, memories, missed chances...

"Believe me, there are nights I wish you had."

Perhaps Tommy was one of them, too.

The Garrison doors slammed open like a gunshot, echoing harshly through the air as startled men scattered out of their seats and Danny Whiz-Bang, better known as Daniel Owen, shot into the bar in a terrified state. Tommy and Freddie didn't hesitate to rush towards him, even when Danny knocked over a table, sending glass shattering across the floor and soaking his clothes with alcohol. Helen clutched at her own drink from the outskirts, watching cautiously as the two former friends snatched Danny's arms and held him in place despite his struggles.

"They're going to get me!" he screamed, staring unseeing towards Helen as he repeated the words over and over again, needing someone to understand the horrors of his brain.

He let out a cry as Tommy and Freddie dropped to the floor, forcing Danny down with them and holding his hands behind his back. He was still screaming that same phrase, even with Freddie demanding for him to just breathe. Helen felt a rush of sympathy for the man, despite everyone else's grumbles of annoyance that their drinks were disrupted. It couldn't have been easy, losing your mind to a war you'd never truly escaped out of. Like every man sent away to fight, Danny was another name on a long list of people who lost part of themselves to the battlefield. 

Only where someone like Tommy lost their heart, Danny lost his mind.

"Danny! Danny, you're home!" Tommy shouted as Danny started to sob against the floorboards. "We're all home in England. You're not in France. You're not an artillery shell, Danny, you're a man. Hey? You're not a whiz-bang, you're a human being, Danny, and you're alright."

He repeated that last phrase again and again. You're alright. Helen, like Danny, felt it wash over her and strike where it hurt. While Danny's sobs slowly eased, Helen had to fight the urge tearing at her throat. She turned away, slowly slipping her coat up her arms and fishing out another cigarette for the road.

"It's alright," Tommy repeated, glancing at Helen over Danny's shoulder.

The other man moaned miserably. "Ah, hell. Did I do it again?"

"You did it again, Danny."

Sniffling, Danny tore the cap from his head, burying his face against the material as Tommy leaned in to mutter, "You've gotta stop doing this, man."

As it was, Daniel Owen had a reputation that preceded him. If he kept on going the way he was, it would be easy for... people to decide he wasn't up to making his own decisions. It had happened to plenty of men after the war, and Helen had the horrible feeling that Danny would be next.

"Oh, Mr Shelby, I'm sorry," she heard him whimper as Tommy and Freddie lead him towards the door.

"It's alright," Tommy dismissed. "You go home to your wife now, Danny. Try and get all that smoke and mud out of your head, eh?"

"Yes, Mr Shelby," Danny nodded dutifully. "I'm sorry."

"Just go on."

With that, Danny disappeared through the doors he'd slammed open just minutes before. Head bowed, he refused to meet anyone's eyes as disgruntled men returned to their tables and drinks. Once he was out of sight, Tommy let out an exhausted sigh, ignoring Freddie's smirk as he turned back to face Harry. The bartender tried not to seem annoyed, but Helen noticed the tightness of his jaw when he leaned in to speak to Tommy.

"Mr Shelby, you have to do something about him."

"Damn right, Harry," Freddie patted the man on the shoulder. Helen scoffed and blew a plume of spoke in the air, idly watching as Tommy returned to the bar for his cap. "You pay the Peaky Blinders a lot of money for protection."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Thorne," Helen rolled her eyes. "You know there's nothing attractive about a bitter, jealous man. You should really get a grip on yourself."

"The same can be said about a bitter, jealous woman," Freddie was quick to retort. "I was merely pointing out that Tommy's the law around here now. Aren't you, Thomas? Maybe you should put a bullet in Danny Whiz-Bang's head like they do with male horses."

"Don't be cruel," Helen snapped before Tommy had the chance.

"It isn't cruel," Freddie insisted. "It's mercy." Without looking at Tommy, he murmured into his drink, "Maybe you'll have to put a bullet in my head someday, too."

"I've heard enough," Helen scoffed.

Her heels made a sharp clicking sound against the wooden floorboards, distinct among the chatter of drunken males. Her shoulder brushed against Tommy's as she pushed past him, and Helen had to fight the urge to lean into the ever-so-fleeting touch. For that was all it was. Incidental. There one moment and gone the next. Tommy didn't even look at her, and yet she was close enough to smell of smoke and whiskey on his breath. He never stopped looking at her once... It used to be like she was the only person in the room. Now. she was a stranger among the crowd, and Tommy wasn't about to stop her as Helen continued on her way.

"Thanks for the drink, Harry," she acknowledged the man who was busy cleaning up Danny's mess. "I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow."

If only Helen had known then, that in just one night, everything was about to change. As the door creaked open behind her, and Tommy Shelby stepped out and continued on his way without looking at her once, things were changing. Then, as she slept in her bed and cried herself to sleep with the memory of her brother on replay, Grace Burgess got herself a job at the Garrison, and changed things again.

Change. 

Life. Death. Marriage. Heartbreak. 

All unavoidable, and hurtling at Helen Mavis like a freight train.

Helen just wasn't so sure she was ready for the impact.