Polly's seen it before. Boys who came back with part of themselves still buried in France. Arthur's not weak; he's cracked. And cracks don't heal when no one dares name them.
-------------------------------------------------
Elliot stood at the counter with chalk on his hands and his heart beating fast.
Polly trusted him now because he stopped Malone's cheating days ago.
Monaghan Boy's got punters coming in, and coins piling up.
But Campbell's playing filthy, he was hitting every gang whether it's Italians, bookies or thieves, except us, and folks are eyeing us like we're his dogs.
But what hurt the most was seeing Arthur like this.
'Arthur's the real mess. I know from the show, his mind's broken from the war, "shell shock" they called it.
Tonight, the sound of a coin hitting the counter set him off. He started muttering about mud and lads drowning in trenches, like he was still back there.
Campbell's cops beat him bloody over a robbery. It was about the guns Tommy is hiding, but Arthur didn't know that. On top of it, he got a beating for not knowing.
Life is cruel like that sometimes. The beating left him shamed, and now he's drinking to try to kill the ghosts of it all.
I do feel for him, family or not—he's just a broken man.
I'm scared Arthur might snap and drag us all down with him, even though he didn't in the show, but it's different, Arthur was like a bomb. In the show, it never went off. But it's different when you're watching that same bomb in real life, you literally start hearing the nonexistent countdown tick down to the explosion.
I whisper a prayer for him like Polly would. "Protect his soul. Keep him whole." Arthur's getting worse, and someone has to keep the shop running.
I can do it. It's the perfect opportunity for me.'
The shop smelled with whiskey, the evening crowd thinning as bets slowed.
Elliot counted betting slips and listened to everything around him.
Arthur was slumped by the backroom door with a glass in hand. His lip was split from when Campbell's men beat him.
They took him in yesterday, asked him questions about a robbery, beat him until he bled, then let him go.
John tossed a coin, and the sound made Arthur freeze. His hand clenched, and his eyes looked far away. "Mud... bloody mud. Lads gone under," he said quietly, like he was back in the war.
Elliot felt sick in his stomach. His prayer stayed in his mind, but he didn't look up. He just kept working, thinking about how much the war broke Arthur.
Arthur tried to shook it off, muttering, "Bloody coppers, bastards," but his hands were trembling.
He looked ashamed, and the shop felt tense around him.
Polly was at the table, writing in the ledger. Her eyes kept moving between Arthur and the men placing bets. "Keep those books right," she told one of the clerks, her voice hard but soft with worry, like a mum guarding a broken son.
John leaned on the counter, trying to shake the gloom from the room. "Oi, this ain't a bloody church. Bet big or get lost, yeah?"
A few chuckles stirred. Then he turned toward the back. "Arthur, you on your arse or what? Might as well lay out a cot for you, mate."
Arthur sat slumped with a dark face and lip split. He didn't look up. "Say one more word, John, I'll knock the fookin' teeth out yer mouth."
John raised his brows while the edge of a grin still clinging. "There he is. Knew you were in there somewhere." He glanced at Polly, his grin fading. Then softly said, "You alright, though? Really?"
Arthur didn't answer. His glass clinked against the counter. then said, "Don't ask me that. Don't ever fookin' ask me that."
Elliot didn't look at Arthur. His mind knew a man with war scars and a fresh beating was trouble waiting.
He picked up the ledger—normally Arthur's task—and began checking the Yellow basket. His hands moved fast. His voice stayed low. "Ned, three pounds on Black Star. Paid," he said, making the mark neat and clear. He didn't look up.
Ned, a thin man with sharp eyes, gave a nod and tossed a shilling onto the counter."Sharp lad, Finn," he said. His bet was small, though. He looked nervous, probably still thinking about the coppers hitting every shop but this one.
Elliot kept going, his hand moving fast over the slips. "Alfie, two quid, lost on Red Dog," he said, keeping his voice calm, eyes on the paper. He didn't look up. Just kept marking bets, making sure everything stayed smooth.
Polly glanced over and saw Elliot working the ledger. She scribbled a note—Alfie's debt, ten quid, with a circle around it—and slid it to him. "Check their tabs, Finn. Don't let 'em slide," she said in a low voice, a gesture meaning she is trusting him with more.
Elliot nodded, his heart racing as he marked Alfie's slip. His eyes caught a sneaky double bet hidden in the details. He quickly made a note, keeping his focus sharp.
Arthur stirred with the glass in his hands clinking. "You're at my ledger, Finn," he rasped, his eyes clearer now.