ACT ONE
— here we go again —

1. SCENE ONE
— prison blues —

It had taken her three weeks to get used to the lumpiness of the mattress. Another two weeks had made the stifling stench of urine and other bodily fluids just less than tolerable. But that sound, coming from just past the iron, grated door that separated her cell from the hallway, Veronica could not get used to. It was a constant dripping of water, rhythmic- slow enough to make her long for the quietness in between, yet quick enough to make her irritation erratic.

It wasn't that she had expected to get sleep while in Winson Green prison. But the lack of it- the building block of fatigue- was agonising, and Veronica used it as every excuse for her problems.

It had been a week since her old cellmate had been dragged away kicking and screaming to the noose and she still hadn't had a replacement. Veronica had months left before it would be her turn to hang, but the sense of death hung in the air, a suffocating thing, looming over her head for all hours of the day. For that week, at first, she welcomed the added silence and the privacy, but then the dripping started again and she could concentrate on nothing other.

Though she should have loathed the hour when her new cellmate would arrive, Veronica did not. As the officers rounded the corner of the white-walled corridor, visible only through a small gap in the bars, she found herself gaping, stretching from where she later upon the bumpy bed, trying to catch a gaze.

The woman was older by more than a few years, but the dark bags under her eyes and tired frown on her lips added a few years. Veronica knew she looked no better. Her own red-tinged hair hadn't been brushed in weeks and the grime that laced the air like a suffocating poison clung to her skin. But this woman, she appeared as if she had been dragged from war, a criminal of some enormity.

The guards were not considerate as they pushed her through the crack into the barred doors, forcing her to the bed so the tight shackles could be removed from around her ankles and wrists.

"You look like shit," Veronica said.

The woman took so long to answer that she expected her not to.

"I'm not here for a fucking tea party" she finally said, not moving her gaze from the ceiling.

"Why are you here?"

And again, Veronica didn't expect her to answer, but the woman said, "I killed an Inspector."

"I suppose he deserved it."

Her words were not meant to be a swipe or a snap, but Veronica supposed that being in prison for so long did something to your natural voice, making it sharper and lowered pitched automatically. Her new cellmate scowled, obviously feeling attacked, and Veronica struggled to keep in a snort. The woman's eyes trailed down to her fingernails, the only part of her body that was clean, scrubbed dangerously clean by soap that had been bribed and smuggled into her.

"And I suppose you're in for petty theft," she bit back.

Veronica smirked, resuming her calm position, sitting against the rough metal of the bed. "It's not nail polish staining these hands," she said, raising a judging brow. "You're going to hang." The woman's head snapped toward her. "I think you'd like to know that everyone in this row will."

"So what did you do?"

"I murdered my husband," she said, eyes narrowing as she picked casually at her nails. "He beat me. I finally hit him back. Not my fault he couldn't handle it."

"Sounds psychotic," the woman said.

She was eyeing her up, Veronica realised, so she took the time to do the same. The woman's hair was short, cropped into dark waves that just reached her lower neck. There was a quality to her that made looking at her addictive, and the more Veronica looked and noticed, the harder it was to pull her eyes away.

"Polly Gray," the woman finally said, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

"Veronica," she greeted with a nod.

Polly rose a brow as if waiting for more. Veronica shook her head.

"Just Veronica," she breathed. "Nothing more, nothing less."

1. SCENE TWO
— crimson colours —

If there was one thing that Veronica missed from the outside, it was the trees. Autumn time would be arriving soon if the growing chill in the cell was anything to go by, and with it the cooling winds and red, crisp leaves. She could see it all through the little slit in the wall which stood just out of reach from her fingertips. If she lay low enough against her bed, Veronica could see the very tips of the trees, of which on most days poked at the charcoal clouds, only seeming to make the weather angrier.

Autumn had always been Veronica's favourite time of the year. It was the time where Billy was never home, always drinking in the pub and crashing down in another woman's bed, many times spending weeks away in other counties while visiting family. Crimson colours brought freedom, Veronica had swiftly realised.

She would be wearing red the day the noose was placed around her neck. That was her one request, and somehow, it had been granted. It would be her favourite garnet dress that she wore to greet the devil. The colour of freedom, taking her down crashing from the restraints this life had brought.

Polly Gray seemed like the woman to wear red. The tattered, beige prison gown did nothing for the woman's complexion, nor did the frailness of her face, that Veronica knew glowed with power in the outside world.

"Why just Veronica?" Her cellmate asked, not bothering to look at her from where she still lay on her bed, feet hanging from the edge.

"My maiden name never suited me," Veronica said. It was the truth. Veronica Hogg didn't exactly have a nice ring to it. "If I was to be called by my ex-husband's name, I would be sent to an early grave."

"Polly Gray," Veronica said, toying the name on her lips. "Who are you, Polly Gray?"

"Who am I?" She scoffed, shuffling further into the bed. "What kind of question is that?"

"A tricky one."

Polly rolled over. "I don't want to talk."

"What else is there to do in here?" Veronica stood, drifting over to the bars of the door, which faced nothing but a blank, grey wall. "We have weeks - months - to kill. Time won't move quickly in silence." She turned, standing over her bed. "Is Gray your maiden name?"

"No," Polly said with a sigh. "Shelby. Mr Gray was my husband."

"He was kind to you?"

Polly's answer wasn't straight, but Veronica took it. "He liked to drink. But any gypsy man likes to drink."

"And what did you do out there that made it possible to get in here?" Veronica asked, sitting down in the side of Polly's bed, forcing her to move her legs along.

"I told you I kil-" Polly began, but was cut off.

"I know that," Veronica said, waving her hand dismissively. "But what lead to that? What kind of grudge leads to the murder of an inspector?"

Polly shuffled up, returning the woman's look with harsh eyes, but Veronica couldn't pull herself away. The power in her look drew her closer, making her want for the answer even stronger.

"Shelby," Polly said, pausing before she said any more. "Does that name mean nothing to you?"

Veronica thought about it for a moment. Everything she's down in the outside seemed so far away now, out of reach whenever she tried to access it. But the name Shelby did sound familiar, in a way that sent goosebumps trailing up her arms.

"The Peaky Blinders," Veronica breathed, the mentions of the razor gang coming back to mind. Her husband had a run-in with them once.

"There you go," Polly shouted. "There you go. You don't fuck with the Shelby family. The inspector learned that the hard way."

Veronica's stomach dropped and twisted, a warm tingling feeling flooding through her body. She had to shift, moving herself away from where she sat upright in the side of Polly's bed instead to her own. Veronica did not look at the woman, in fear that blinding sensation would return.

1. SCENE THREE
— dance with the devil —

The clattering of hands against cell bars happened routinely at noon. Veronica never had the energy to join in. It would change nothing, if not accelerate her time before her hanging.

As Veronica leaned against the bar, trying to angle her head and body to get a better look, Polly came up beside her. The cell was so small, that Polly stood close, so close that she could smell the last remnants of perfume that lingered on her unwashed skin. It was a pleasant smell, beneath the mask of filth, with a scent of flowers and musk, obviously expensive if it had lasted so long.

"What are they doing?" Polly asked, and Veronica was so caught up that she had to shake her head to snap herself from it.

"Annoying the prison wardens," she said, nudging her head to the chunky man who was just about to run past.

"What's the point?"

"There is none," Veronica said, but as the words left her mouth, she saw the tediousness behind them. "I suppose it's one way to pass the time."

She looked down, so close that Polly could no doubt feel the hotness of her breath against her nose. She was smaller by a few inches at least, and Veronica found herself towering over the older woman, even with a lack of shoes.

"The guards never split up cellmates. Not even when they do this every day. They think that because we're women, we can't do much damage," she said. "Funny, given the reasons we're all here."

"Then what happened to your old cellmate?"

"They gave her a nice rope necklace for being good," Veronica said with a snort, watching as Polly scowled. "But don't feel left out, we'll all get one too."

Polly's expression darkened as she moved back to her bed in a sulk.  Veronica laughed mockingly but felt the sound melting from her lips, tasting sour and cruel. She had come to terms with her death, but by the looks of it, Polly Gray had not.

1. SCENE FOUR
— time to kill —

It had taken Veronica a short two weeks to make peace with her death sentence. Her satisfaction with the reason she was in prison in the first place probably helped, but she couldn't imagine Polly being content with the fact that it was the Inspector's fault she was heading toward an early grave.

It was a morbid thing to help someone come to terms with their own death. Veronica herself had never been afraid to die. But to know exactly when it would be and how it would happen made it a completely different case.

Veronica had been unintentionally staring at Polly for at least a few minutes. She liked to notice the way the woman's eyes never lowered to less than a glare, a captivating brown colour that matched the colour of her hair. Polly shifted to return the stare with the same intensity, hoping to put her off, but Veronica only smiled, relaxing her face.

"Could you stop that," Polly barked, and it was not a question.

"Stop what?"

"Staring," she said, eyes darkening and lowering. "What are you doing?"

"I'm watching you," Veronica said truthfully, adding a smirk to her parade. "You're awfully tense."

"You know, ten minutes ago I was going to ask how in hell you'd managed to stay sane," Polly began.

"But now you've realised I'm not sane at all?"

"Exactly," she snapped.

Veronica hummed into the silence. "We have months to kill," she said, her voice breathy. "We need a decent way to pass the time."

"Have anything in mind?"

"I have one or two things," Veronica said, eyes sliding lazily to drift up the woman's figure, landing on her raised brow. "I'm not sure you're ready for them."

"Then where can we start?" Polly asked, beginning to play along.

"By joining the trouble makers before we're dragged down to hell."

END OF ACT ONE