☆

CLARA SHELBY OFTEN PRIDED HERSELF ON HER KNOWLEDGE of the world around her. She prided herself on knowing the ins and outs of Birmingham and every single inch of road that led out of the city. She'd spent so much of her youth walking from place to place or riding her horse out of the city bounds, that naturally, every inch embedded itself in her mind. The roads were familiar, as were the fields beyond the city. Cannon was also familiar with the routes usually taken so when Clara had saddled and reined him up to ride him, he knew where she was heading.

She'd arrived back from London after spending the day with Nadia and within the hour she decided to take Cannon out to escape the city. She missed her horse and the feeling that came with riding him.

The wind whipped her loose hair around her face as it swept through the countryside, sending surges of fresh grass smells and clean air. The feeling of indescribable and palpable liberty flowed through her frame, from her wild hair to her cold fingertips. It was a feeling that freed every desire and longing allowing the girl to embrace every last second of it.

Clara found that although she loved the hustle and bustle of her home and the streets of London, she had an affinity for the countryside. The roads felt like home. They held a certain flare of nostalgia, each road representing a time in her life. She supposed it came from her family's roots. She could still remember being little and being taken on spontaneous trips to the middle of nowhere in the family Vardo. Whilst she couldn't remember a lot of those times clearly and certainly, she had flashes and vague flickers of memories from those trips.

Clara remembered the smell of dewy grass being tread on in the early morning. She remembered the roaring fire that she would dance around, usually on Arthur or Tommy's toes, or being held under the arms and spun around by John. She remembered the strong and wilful horses that led them, both of their gaits steady and unwavering.

She remembered her mother.

Sometimes it was hard to picture her. It was hard to remember moments spent in her presence. You see, Clara remembered snippets of the past, but they were usually prompted by photographs. She could remember vague details, but she had been four when her mother had died. Her memory wasn't strong enough to maintain memories of importance. What she could remember of her mother was little but prominent. She could remember her mother's long hair, hair quite like her own. Her mother had never cut it. Aunt Pol had been the one to explain that the Shelby mother's hair tied her to her past and allowed her to feel young. Clara had vowed to honour the woman and to never cut her hair as short as the fashion of the era, to leave it long and tangled.

It only felt fair.

Clara could also remember her mother's voice. It wasn't that clear anymore. Now, it was reduced to a mere hum, but she knew the frequency and tone. She  remembered being on one of the family's spontaneous trips to the countryside and listening to her mother sing. The woman had sung a lullaby in Shelta, it was sweet and lulled the girl by the fire. When she was younger and craving her deceased mother, Clara could swear she could hear the lullaby as she struggled to fall asleep. It was soft and comforting in a way like no other. She liked to think of was a sign from her mother rather than her overactive imagination.

Clara had always told the family over breakfast of the lullaby she'd heard the night before. They'd usually nod and entertain the childish fantasy. She'd been too young to comprehend death. Of course, Clara knew she would never be able to see her mother again, she just couldn't understand why. These familial breakfasts would end in sorrow shrouded goodbyes and her siblings would leave for school or work or whatever trouble they'd gotten themselves into. Pol would stay. Pol would always stay. She would always stay and talk and ask Clara about her lullabies and dreams.

Pol was desperate to keep their culture alive within the family, to stop the horridness of society from inhibiting them from their roots. Pol would reassure Clara that the lullabies were a sign from her mother, she would reassure the girl that her mother was with her and now that the woman was gone, her spirit would continue to grow within Clara.

The young girl had been so scared by that.

How on earth could her five-year-old body cope with the weight of another person's soul atop her own? It terrified her. She remembered refusing to sleep at night in fear that she would die like the body of the new soul that had taken up residence in her own.

When she'd been caught wide awake in the depths of the night by a younger Tommy on his return home from a date with Greta Jurossi, she'd told him of her worries. He had scowled so deeply that Clara had thought she was in trouble. He reassured her that Pol was lying and that there was no way that Clara could die during the night from such a silly cause. Tommy had told her with a slight smile that if Death were to come knocking, her brothers would tell him to hit the road.

Clara had laughed through her teary eyes.

Tommy's words had rid her of the majority of her startling fear, yet for that night alone, twenty-year-old, big and scary Thomas Shelby had slept soundly beside his sister at her demand.

Clara held the little memories close to her heart. She did not share them. They were strictly hers and hers alone. She clung to them, holding them so tight in fear of forgetting. She also feared that if she were to share them, her siblings would discredit each little memory and tell a completely different tale. As if her memories were figments of her longing imagination rather than genuine recollections. She feared that the sole thing that soothed her younger self was all a lie. She didn't want the truth. She wanted to believe in herself and have faith that her memories were real.

Below her, Cannon let out a whinny, his head jutting forward as they rode toward an open and familiar field. Clara allowed her heels to lightly dig into Cannon's side as she clicked her tongue against her teeth to urge him forward. The sinking sun was hidden behind the darkened clouds, its rays sheathed out of sight. Clara sat up straighter as she brought Cannon to a canter, bypassing the hedges barricading the field. The field was vast and untouched. It almost surprised Clara. Usually flowers or wheat bloomed over the horizon, but nothing was to be seen.

The Shelby girl continued as she hummed underneath her breath to fill the silence of the openness. She urged Cannon towards a small gathering of trees that separated the fields. The haunting lullaby tune that plagued her child years was as soft as ever. The song was sung alone; not a single bird chirped their shrill harmonies. The birds that habitually flocked in the trees above were nowhere in sight, their presence not going unnoticed as Clara and Cannon passed through the trees. One thing the girl had realised at that moment was that birds always seemed to be there and unnoticed, yet when they were gone it was starkly different and things felt...off.

It was silent. Not mystical or welcoming but eerie and tense.

"Come on, boy, just through these trees," the girl murmured, suddenly afraid that her voice was too loud for such a silent route. Her heart felt heavy as a small pit began to form in her stomach.

Cannon broke through the thicket as the two entered the oh-so-familiar spot where Clara had spent hours upon hours lying underneath the skies of the countryside with Penny. The girl's shoulders straightened as she looked around. Her heart pounded through her body in racing static pulses that shattered like glass in veins and punctured the walls of her soul in fragmented feelings of such indescribable despondency.

What once was the epitome of serenity and joyous repose during the times of her youth had been decimated. Clara and Penny's Wonderland had been demolished and destroyed. No longer did luscious purple, white and pink flowers bloom, in their place, weeds upon weeds wrapped themselves amongst the deadened grass. The pond which had once acted as a water trough for Cannon was now muddy and murky, its depths were hidden well beneath a layer of dark, rotted moss and algae. The tree that once acted as a shade from the hot summer sun had been carelessly chopped, its stump rotting away in chunks of bark.

What once was a Wonderland had moulted into a figment of pure disregard. A baron wasteland of deceit and malice. No longer was a mystical world that lay untouched by the society around it, now the tendrils of hate from the cities and towns had gathered and crept over their spot like dark growing vines that possessed each negative thought and action, and destroyed everything good.

Clara lowered herself down from Cannon. As soon as her booted feet touched the ground, mud splattered up the sides and the grass flattened miserably. She stood still as her hand clenched around the horse lead, the leather biting into her skin. There was a twisting feeling in her stomach, a feeling that she couldn't quite place. It pulled her stomach to either side of her body and twisted so hard, that she swore that she could hear her veins breaking and snapping from the tension. She took a deep and shaky breath in before she stepped forward.

Her foot sunk into the mud as she trudged through the withered grass and the weeds. Cannon followed behind, his hooves caked in mud. It felt as if the world she'd known had been robbed in broad daylight leaving nothing but a wasteland. It hurt to see such a beautiful place descend into an unkept and gloomy expanse. She couldn't decipher how it could even happen. Sure, Clara hadn't been to the spot in a while (a year and nine months if she were to be exact), but how could a foundation like such crumble to the ground and wipe itself out in complete obliteration?

Clara stopped in her tracks. She stood as still as the tree that once stood in their spot. She stood silently. Unmoving. A part of her felt rooted. Rooted in the past, rooted in the present. Stuck. She feared that if she took another step the sludge below may just swallow her whole and leave her tumbling beneath the skin of the earth.

Cannon nuzzled against the side of Clara's head, as she idly ran a hand over the side of his face. She turned her head towards the now sunken sun that allowed the moon to peak precariously through the grey cloud cover. She had to leave. She had work to file away in the offices. Her time here was up. She had to return to the city fog and leave behind the withered grounds of her past where they lay beyond the point of conservation.

"Alrigh', boy, I know," Clara murmured as Cannon nuzzled his head against hers once more. "Time to go home..."

☆

THE JOURNEY BACK TO SMALL HEATH was one spent reminiscing, quite like she had spent the journey there. Except for this time she was not reminiscing about her dead mother and the childhood shrouded by so many memories that were so warm that sometimes they felt freezing cold and numbed Clara's heart to send her into a whirlpool of contrasting emotions.

No.

This time she was thinking of the countless memories with Penny that were now tainted by the destroyed fields of once emerald green. Each memory she thought of, all she could see was the horrific sight of weeds, yellowed grass and not a single once of wildlife in sight.

It had been a solemn ride back, her soul deflated and her shoulders slumped. She was tired. Simply tired. All she craved was a little bit of peace but on her one supposed day off, she was being forced to go into work to file the papers from London away.

Clara rode silently and tall as she entered the outskirts of Small Heath. The factory men that were still hard at work looked after her as she passed, yet her eyes never drifted from ahead. Mothers pulled their children out of the smoky streets, their heads bowed while they avoided eye contact with the Shelby girl as she rode by. Clara had grown used to the fear her brothers had forged in Small Heath, but it hurt that as her youth faded, so did the carelessness of those around her.

They'd all heard the stories of Clara Shelby. The girl who'd been seen drenched head to toe in blood one too many times. The girl with the vicious temper and wicked mind. The girl who supposedly learned how to cut someone at only two years old. The murderous girl who carried the gun. The girl who killed too many people to count. Clara had heard all of the whispers and rumours. She often thought that people forgot that whispers were meant to be whispers instead of panicked shakes and loud exclamations.

Clara clacked her tongue against her teeth as she felt Cannon grow skittish beneath her from the loud factory noises that surrounded them. Her fingers smoothed over his neck, while she hummed ever so quietly. Her fingers were wrapped tight around the reins as she guided the horse towards Charlie's Yard, the dark gates open and welcoming to those who dared enter.

Dark mud splattered against the bottom of her shoes as she rode through the gates, with a very excited Curly scrambling towards her. She swung her leg over the side and dismounted Cannon, her feet causing the puddles of mud to splash. 

"Evening, Curly," she grimaced, as she allowed the man to take the horse lead. "Can you take 'im in? I need to get to the offices."

Curly let out a string of rambled words to which Clara's tired body could only nod to in response. The Shelby girl watched closely as Curly coaxed Cannon towards the stables, her eyes watching until they disappeared into safety before she turned on heel and disappeared into the smoggy streets of Small Heath.

☆

CLARA HAD ARRIVED AT THE OFFICES late into the night having spent her time slowly stalking through the darkened roads. The Shelby Company offices were empty and solemn, and only the singular stream of light from Clara's office illuminated the desolate section. Clara liked the quiet that the offices possessed at night.

She leaned back in her chair as she shuffled through papers that had been stacked on her desk within the past days in which she'd been absent. Her fingers flicked through the papers as she skimmed over the contents and set them aside to go through them properly in the morning. She twirled a pen in her fingers as she grabbed the stack of documents that she'd obtained in London.

Clara sighed heavily as she leaned forward and held it closer to the lamp to read its contents. It contained the usual. Names of workers, amount earned through exports etc. etc.

Clara found it to be more boring than invigorating.

The girl pinched the bridge of her nose as she squeezed her eyes closed. She couldn't wait to go home and slip into bed and warmth and comfort. Most times it was a relief, to slip into bed and slip from reality into dreamless rest, whilst other times she dreaded her bed. She dreaded falling asleep. She dreaded the dreams that would chase her and morph into nightmares.

The girl's ears suddenly pricked up as a pair of footsteps echoed through the empty building. Her hand slipped down to her gun holster at her side as she withdrew the gun. She glanced down at the half-empty barrel before she loaded it and kept it beneath her desk in anticipation. A shadow passed the frosted glass of her door before it was opened. Clara swiftly raised her gun with her finger over the triggers before she swore loudly.

"Jesus, fuck!" she scowled and put the gun back into its holster. "You're like the bloody grim reaper."

"Clara," Tommy solemnly greeted as he shut the door behind him.

"Back from your little holiday? Did Charlie have fun?" Clara asked, leaning back into her seat with her hands connected. Tommy didn't answer as he sat in the seat opposite her and lit a cigarette.

"Do you have the papers?" He ignored her amusement as he inhaled a cloud of smoke. Clara studied her brother for a minute as his cold eyes bore into her.

"Yes," Clara answered nonchalantly, leaning further back into the leather of her seat. "They're locked away to be reviewed in the morning."

"Good...good" the man repeated with a nod as he sucked in air. Clara took a moment to examine her brother. His hair was dishevelled as if he'd been constantly running his hand through it. His face was sunken and it seemed as if more stress lines had appeared under his eyes, between his eyebrows and on his forehead. He looked older. Sadder. His eyes were darker and the underneath of them were painted black from his evident lack of sleep.

"So, are you back?" Clara questioned bluntly, her eyes narrowed on him. "Back to work, I mean."

"Never left," Tommy swiftly answered,

"Right, course not," she raised her eyebrows as she stood up with a tired stretch. "Well, if that's all..."

"Clara, sit down," he looked up at the girl. "Sit," Clara grumbled as she obliged and sank back into her seat. She inhaled before tilting her head to the side. "I need you to listen and listen carefully."

"I always listen carefully," Clara interrupted which earned her a sharp look of warning. "Oh...my apologies, do continue," she waved her hand urging her brother to speak again.

"I received a letter...our father is dead," He said bluntly, blowing out a small fog of smoke. "Two men shot him as he left a bar in Boston, and I received a letter saying that in his last moments he begged for our forgiveness."

Clara was silent. She wasn't upset. Not a single morsel of her soul felt any guilt towards the lack of empathy. She felt nothing toward that man. She couldn't remember a single memory with him as her father. He was nothing but a story told to Clara. A story about a drunk man, his sickly wife and their six kids and their sorrows.

"I have nothing to forgive him for, and even if I did, I would hardly doubt that it would be on the table," Clara answered after a few moments of silence. "I didn't know him. Quite like his existence, his death means nothing to me."

Tommy hummed as if he approved of the answer. He stubbed out his cigarette. "I want you working in the betting den the day after next...Good Friday." he spoke as Clara's face scrunched up.

"Why?" She questioned, she hadn't been set to work in the den for a long while.

"I'm taking the men of the family out hunting," Tommy huffed simply. "They won't be working."

"So you're not back at work, you're back to tell me you're going on a piss up with the idiots of this family." Clara concluded in a monotonous tone, "I presume that all of their wives will be working?" She paused and let out a laugh. "Of course! Because we have nothing else to do with our bloody lives apart from picking up the slack."

"Be at the den early," Tommy instructed, ignoring the callousness of her voice.

"If I'm going in, I'll go in when I want," She shot back, because whilst her child heart spun with joy at the prospect of the responsibility, her older heart trudged through the depths of dread.

"Clara." His voice was firm and scarily calm. It wasn't loud enough to be a yell but it certainly was no whisper. "Today I killed the man who killed my wife. Shot him right in the head. You will be at the den early because I don't have the fuckin' patience to sit here and treat you like a fuckin' child." He paused and took in a breath to cool his fiery rage. "You will be there."

Clara rolled her eyes, "Fine," she answered curtly, biting the inside of her cheek as she sat forward and organised a few loose sheets. "Is that all? Or..."

"No," Tommy stood up and shut the window blinds behind Clara before leaning against the windowsill. Clara swivelled in her chair to face him as he withdrew another cigarette.

"Jesus bloody Christ! It's never-ending!" Clara raised her hands in despair. "Look, if there is something else, can we hurry this up?" Her words were more of a bored drawl. "I'd like to get home at some point tonight."

"Stop talking," he huffed, shifting his position as he looked down at the girl. "Stop talking and listen. Listen because I won't be saying any of this shit again and if you don't understand, too bad."

Clara sat up straighter as she rolled her shoulders back. It reminded her of the time before when he'd told her about his Kimber plans. It always amused her that he always told her plans. She assumed he thought she was either too loyal to share or too stupid to run her mouth.

She was suddenly more awake and listening. Tommy's voice was low and cautious as if anyone could be listening. It intrigued Clara. She had never seen him take precautions before discussing business with her.

"...There's going to be a robbery."

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SURPRISE!!

Hello, my lovelies, it's been a while! I'm so so so sorry that I've been M.I.A. but I had exams and literally no time to write!

So how are all of you on this fine Saturday? I for one am exhausted but I'm happy to be back posting chapters for this book!

ANYWAYS, I LOVE YOU ALL AND I'LL SEE YOU SOON! (Here's your weekly meme)