Chapter 4
Small Heath, Birmingham — Early 1919
James Shelby walked the streets of his childhood like a stranger.
Smoke hung low between the narrow lanes, clinging to the cracked red-brick houses like an old memory refusing to let go. The cobblestones beneath his boots were the same ones he'd run across as a boy, scraped knees and skinned palms, but they felt alien now. Distant.
People looked up from their stalls and doorways, pausing mid-sentence, mid-step.
They stared.
Not because they didn't recognize him.
Because they did.
> "That's James Shelby—"
"He's back?"
"I thought he died at Passchendaele."
"No, no, he was buried alive. Crawled out of the mud, slit thirty Germans with a trench knife."
"No medal. Just walked off the front like a bloody ghost."
James kept his head down, collar turned up against the cold and the weight of a hundred whispered legends.
He didn't need to hear more.
He'd seen it in their faces already—he wasn't a hero.
He was something unnatural now.
He passed old neighbors who once ruffled his hair and slipped him sweets. Now they locked their doors. Mothers pulled their children inside. Every window seemed to watch him, every crack in the street an old wound split open again.
It wasn't until he reached Watery Lane that his feet slowed.
There it was.
The Shelby house.
Weathered, leaning, stubborn as hell. The number was crooked, half-faded. The doorstep sagged where years of boots had worn it thin.
Home.
If it still was.
James stood there for a long moment, breathing in the coal-dusted air, before he knocked.
---
The Door Opens
John Shelby wasn't expecting visitors.
He had a cigarette between his fingers, halfway through the door, when the knock came.
He swung it open lazily—and froze.
The cigarette slipped from his hand and tumbled into a puddle.
He stared at the man on the stoop. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"James?" he rasped, voice breaking.
James gave a small nod.
In two strides, John was on him—grabbing him, clinging to him like a drowning man to a rope.
"I thought you were dead," John gasped against his brother's shoulder. "I bloody buried you."
"I know."
"They said you were blown to bits. That there wasn't enough left to shovel into a grave."
James said nothing. Just held on tighter.
They stood there longer than two men should, but neither of them cared.
When John finally pulled back, his face was wet with tears he didn't even try to hide.
"You fookin' idiot," John said, half laughing, half crying. "Could've sent a bloody letter!"
James smiled faintly. "Didn't know what to say."
John punched his arm lightly. Then grabbed his bag, swung it inside.
"Come on," he said roughly. "Come home."
---
Shelby Company House — That Evening
The house smelled exactly the same.
Coal smoke, stew cooking in the kitchen, the damp stink of wet boots drying by the fire.
James stepped inside slowly, boots thudding heavily on the worn wooden floorboards.
Polly was there, wiping her hands on a rag, halfway through scolding Arthur about something. She glanced up casually—and froze.
The cloth slipped from her fingers.
She stared like she'd seen a ghost.
"James Shelby," she whispered, voice cracking.
James nodded.
Polly crossed the room in three strides and cupped his face in her rough hands, searching his features like she needed to feel them, to be sure he was real.
Without warning, she slapped him across the face.
Hard.
James didn't flinch.
"You don't get to come back from the dead and knock on my door like it's a fookin' milk delivery!" she snapped, even as tears ran freely down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
"You're a Shelby," she muttered, pulling him into a crushing hug. "You don't get to die on us. Not like that."
He held her tight, breathing her in — smoke and soap and something fierce and familiar.
Arthur came next, stepping out from the kitchen.
He stopped dead in his tracks, a glass of whiskey halfway to his mouth.
He stared at James for a long moment before setting the glass down carefully.
"I saw your name," Arthur said. "Written on the wall. Crossed out. Black line."
James just nodded.
Arthur strode forward, caught him in a hug rough enough to crack ribs, thumping him on the back hard enough to leave bruises.
"You bloody stubborn bastard," Arthur muttered thickly. "You're too tough to kill."
---
The Silence Before Tommy
When they turned, Tommy was there.
Standing at the top of the stairs.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just stared down at James with that unreadable expression—the weight of a thousand deaths behind his eyes.
James stared back—and for the first time, he felt something strange and sharp twist in his gut.
Because Thomas Shelby looked exactly like the Thomas Shelby from the world he barely remembered.
From the flashes.
The screens.
The half-remembered scenes in hospital waiting rooms and office lounges.
It wasn't just familiar.
It was identical.
The cheekbones. The cold, clear eyes. The scar. Even the way he leaned on the banister with calculated casualness.
It shouldn't have been possible.
But here they were.
Living it.
Breathing it.
And now he was part of it.
Tommy descended the steps slowly.
When he reached the bottom, he stood in front of James.
Neither spoke.
Then, after a long, aching silence, Tommy offered his hand.
"Welcome home, brother," he said quietly.
James shook it.
The house exhaled as one.
---
Ada and Finn
The door creaked again and Ada Shelby stepped inside, her arms full of newspapers.
She froze at the sight of him.
Her face crumpled instantly.
"James?" she whispered.
He nodded, throat tight.
Ada dropped everything she was carrying and practically ran across the room.
She smacked him hard in the chest—then pulled him into a fierce, bone-crushing hug.
"You bastard," she said into his coat. "You scared me half to death."
"I'm sorry, Ada," James whispered, feeling the years fall away between them.
She stepped back, blinking hard.
"You owe me a drink," she muttered.
"Whole bloody bar," he said, smiling.
From behind Polly's skirt, a small figure peeked out.
Finn Shelby.
Still just a boy. Big brown eyes, skinny arms, trembling slightly.
James crouched low.
"Hey, Finn," he said gently.
Finn stared, wide-eyed.
"You're real?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.
"I am."
Without hesitation, Finn ran into him, arms locking around his neck.
James caught him easily, standing up with the boy clinging to him.
It took everything he had not to cry.
He wasn't a ghost.
Not here.
Not yet.
---
Later — The Garrison
The pub was packed.
The noise was deafening—laughter, shouting, the clink of glasses—and every eye turned to James wherever he went.
He sat in the corner, back to the wall, nursing a whiskey he barely touched.
Polly sat beside him, not saying anything. Just being there.
The stories flew around him like birds.
> "Saw him at the Somme, didn't flinch when the shell landed."
"Carried a wounded man two miles through no-man's land."
"Thirty Germans. Killed them with a shovel."
James said nothing.
Most weren't true.
The ones that were?
He wished they weren't.
Ada dropped into the seat across from him, sliding a pint his way.
"You look miserable," she said with a crooked smile.
"I am," he said honestly.
"Good," Ada said. "Means you're still human."
He smiled faintly.
For now.
Polly squeezed his shoulder gently.
"You're home, James. Whatever else you are—you're home."
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
For tonight.