Chapter 7
Small Heath, Birmingham — January 1920
The cold bit deeper in January.
Rain slashed across the gray sky, pooling in the ruts between the cobblestones. Small Heath looked less like a place people lived and more like a place they survived.
Inside the Garrison, the fire crackled low. The room was quieter than usual — no drunken brawls, no singing. Just low voices, cautious and sharp-edged.
James Shelby leaned against the bar, arms folded across his chest, watching Tommy speak in hushed tones with Arthur and John. Polly hovered nearby, arms crossed, face pinched with worry.
The atmosphere had shifted.
Something heavier than stolen guns hung in the air.
"You heard?" Arthur muttered, sliding up beside James with a pint.
"Heard what?"
"New copper's in town," Arthur said. "Sent from Belfast, they say. Special Division."
James arched an eyebrow. "Serious men, then."
Arthur snorted. "Aye. Serious enough Tommy's got a face like a funeral."
Across the pub, Tommy's jaw was tight as he scribbled something into a small black book.
James took a long drink, the ale biting down his throat.
It wasn't just about guns anymore.
It was about survival.
Later that evening, they gathered in the back room — the Shelbys only.
Polly poured whiskey into battered glasses. No toasts. No jokes.
Tommy leaned against the mantle, flipping the black book closed with a snap.
"Inspector Campbell," he said, voice low. "Sent by Churchill himself."
Silence rippled through the room.
Arthur swore under his breath.
"He's here for the guns," Tommy continued. "But he won't stop there. He'll bleed us dry if we let him."
James watched Tommy carefully. His older brother's face was calm, but the hands resting casually on the mantle were tense, coiled.
"We hold the line," Tommy said. "We give them nothing. We protect the family, protect the pub, protect the betting shop."
He glanced at James.
"And we hit first if we have to."
James smiled faintly. "Good to be home."
Tommy's eyes gleamed.
"Good," he said. "Because I've got a job for you."
---
The next night, James stood in the mist outside a rival bookie's office, cap pulled low, hand flexing at his side.
The target was a man named Patrick Byrne — a loudmouth who'd been telling anyone who'd listen that the Shelbys had something dangerous tucked away.
Tommy wanted the message clear.
No more talking.
James checked the heavy sap tucked in his coat sleeve. It wasn't war, not exactly. But it would do.
Byrne came stumbling out of the bookie's, drunk and laughing.
James moved.
He stepped out of the shadows and slammed the sap into the side of Byrne's head before the man could even shout.
Byrne crumpled like wet paper.
James knelt, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and hissed into his ear:
"You keep your mouth shut. Next time, we don't leave you breathing."
He dropped him like trash and disappeared into the fog.
---
Later, washing the blood from his knuckles in a cracked sink behind the Garrison, James stared into the rusted mirror.
His reflection stared back: hard, sharp, unrecognizable.
He leaned his palms on the sink, breathing hard.
Small Heath was crumbling.
The war was over, but the battles here were just beginning.
Men would die for pennies. Empires would rise and fall on dirty streets.
And James knew — he knew — because he remembered snatches of history from another life.
Industrial boom.
Automobiles flooding the streets.
Radio.
Television.
The crash of '29.
Another war brewing across the sea, not yet visible but inevitable.
He clenched his fists, water dripping from his wrists.
He couldn't just fight and drink and f**k his way through this life.
Not again.
Not when he had an advantage no one else had.
He could be more.
---
Part 5 – Planting Seeds
The next morning, James sat in the Garrison with a scrap of paper and a pencil.
He jotted ideas quickly, head bent low:
Motorcars — Invest early in factories. Ford, Austin.
Housing — Buy property before the boom.
Tobacco — Import when shortages start after the next war.
Music halls — Ownership. Radio companies. Entertainment rises in the 20s.
Money lending — Private banks rise when the world tightens credit.
He scratched the paper harder, heart pounding.
He didn't have much now.
But he had time.
And he had knowledge.
If he played it right, he wouldn't just be another soldier under Tommy's thumb.
He could build an empire alongside the Peaky Blinders.
One that wouldn't just own Small Heath — it could own Birmingham, London, even farther.
James tucked the paper into his coat pocket just as Tommy approached.
"You look busy," Tommy said casually.
"Just thinking," James said, folding his hands over the paper.
Tommy gave him a knowing look but didn't push.
"Keep sharp," Tommy said. "Storm's coming."
James nodded.
It was.
But he wasn't afraid anymore.
He was ready.
---
The doors to the Garrison slammed open hard enough to rattle the windows.
Conversation died.
James turned casually on his stool as a group of men swept into the pub like a pack of wolves.
At the center of them: Billy Kimber.
Younger than James remembered — slick hair, expensive suit, rings on every finger — but the eyes were the same.
Sharp. Cruel. Hungry.
Tommy rose slowly from his booth, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Billy," he said calmly. "Didn't expect a social call."
Kimber sneered. "You fixed the bloody Monaghan Boy race, Tommy Shelby. That's my race."
Murmurs rippled around the room.
James stayed quiet, hands loose at his sides, senses sharpening.
"You're reaching too far," Kimber said, voice rising. "Small Heath's yours. Betting on my tracks? That's mine."
Tommy blew a lazy stream of smoke. "I just put a wager, Billy. Same as any man."
Kimber's men spread out, hands slipping inside coats.
Shelby boys mirrored them.
The room stank of blood waiting to be spilled.
James shifted his weight subtly, tension thrumming through his body like a live wire.
Arthur's hand twitched near the butt of his pistol.
John cracked his knuckles loudly.
Tommy stayed cool.
Watching. Calculating.
James knew that look.
He also knew a fight here, now, would bring the law down like a hammer — and not just the local coppers.
This could destroy everything before it even started.
Kimber jabbed a finger at Tommy's chest. "You think you're ready to play with men like me?"
James moved.
Before Arthur or John could lunge.
Before Tommy could say a word.
James stepped between them.
Straightened his jacket.
And looked Billy Kimber in the eye.
Voice calm. Cold as the winter outside.
"You're right, Mr. Kimber," James said. "We're small. We're nothing. Just gutter rats from Small Heath."
Billy blinked, thrown off for half a second.
James leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Kimber could hear.
"But if you put one more foot on our street…
or touch one hair on a Shelby head…
I'll find you asleep.
And I'll carve your fookin' heart out."
Kimber's nostrils flared. Rage flickered in his eyes.
But he stepped back.
His men shifted nervously, reading the change in air.
Tommy's face never moved.
Kimber straightened his jacket sharply.
"This ain't over," he spat. "Not by a bloody long shot."
He turned on his heel and stormed out, his crew following like angry dogs.
The doors slammed behind them.
Silence snapped back into the Garrison.
Arthur let out a low whistle.
"Jesus, James."
John laughed, nervous and high.
Tommy stubbed out his cigarette and said nothing.
Just watched James.
Measuring.
James turned, met his gaze without flinching.
Then without a word, he grabbed his coat, shrugged it over his shoulders, and walked out into the rain.
---
Small Heath blurred past him as he walked.
His boots splashed through puddles. The mist swallowed the streetlamps.
He wasn't thinking.
He was moving.
He didn't stop until he reached the tram station. Boarded the last tram out of town.
Rode it into the black fields outside Birmingham.
The sky was a lid of ash.
He slipped off the tram near a row of sprawling estates — grand, arrogant things with gates and driveways and gardens.
Billy Kimber's residence.
The house loomed ahead, lights glowing behind tall windows.
James stood at the edge of the trees, coat heavy with rain, knife tucked inside his belt.
His breath steamed in the cold.
His heart was steady.
No more waiting.
No more surviving.
No more fearing bigger men.
He would strike first.
He would carve his place in this world with blood if he had to.
The blade rested cold against his hip, silent and patient.
James Shelby smiled.
And stepped into the dark.