CHAPTER THREE:
FOOL'S GOLD

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THE FIRST THING SHE noticed was the blood. Crusted around the bruised bridge of her nose, some of it had gotten into her mouth while she was out of it. She coughed and sputtered at the pungent, metallic taste, flinching when the sound of a chuckle cut through the darkness somewhere to the right of her.

It hit her then, that she had no idea where she was, or who she was with. Helen really only knew two things in that moment; according to her captor, she was Tommy Shelby's wife, a cruel woman who hadn't hesitated to bludgeon a man's eye — that, and she was completely and utterly alone, an odd thing for the wife of a gangster.

"Good to see you're finally awake, Mrs Shelby." The man with the cane stepped out of the shadows into a square of light coming from the window. Slowly, Helen realised she was in an office of some kind, separated from her captor only by an oak wood desk. She watched the darkness behind him cautiously, but no one else followed after him. She wasn't sure if her relief was justified. "I was meaning for this to be a quick chat, but as you can see, you were out far longer than we expected. Apologies."

A flicker of panic roared in her chest then. Helen attempted to lean forward, the feeling flaring like a wildfire when ropes kept her arms firmly in place. "Where am I?" she demanded, sneering when he laughed at her. "And who the fuck are you?"

Something like disgust morphed the man's features. His laughter was quick to fade into silence, allowing a cold warning, "Now, that's no way for a lady to speak, Mrs Shelby."

Helen scoffed. "Apologies. I seem to have forgotten my manners. What I meant to say was — who the fuck are you, Sir?"

For a tense moment, he seemed to contemplate hitting her again. The knuckles around his cane went white as he brandished it towards her like a sword, forcing her chin up so her eyes had no choice but to meet his. Helen gulped, the man's eyes keenly tracking the movement. "No more games, Mrs Shelby. We only want to know about the robbery."

"What robbery?"

A naive part of her was waiting for Tommy to break down the door, to save her from this man and the cane still pressed uncomfortably against her neck. But Tommy didn't owe her anything anymore, and even if he did somehow find out where she was and what had happened to her, Helen truly wasn't sure if he'd come for her.

She would've come for him in a heartbeat.

"Mrs Shelby, if there is one thing I hate most in this world, it's a liar. Liars and women who don't know their place." Closer and closer, the cane inched forward, until a trickle of blood had spilled down Helen's neck. Fruitlessly, she strained at the ropes around her wrists, wincing when they created lesions on her skin, red and raw. "Now, I'll give you one more chance. What do you know about the robbery?"

"I know nothing about it," Helen snapped, then let out a shocked gasp when his hand arced towards her face. She'd expected the slap, but her cheek still stung like hell from the impact. At the very least, she no longer had a cane pointed at her neck. "Do you truly think Tommy would tell me anything, even if I was his wife? Look, whatever you think he's done—"

"Oh, there's no thinking to be done here, Mrs Shelby," the man smiled, and Helen's heart lurched uncomfortably at the sudden, eerie sweetness of it. She knew merely by looking at him that a smile was a promise of danger. "I know he has those guns. Just like I know that you have nothing to do with it."

Helen's brows furrowed at his admission. "Then why—"

"You're our message, Miss Mavis. Arthur wasn't enough, but the woman he once loved enough to marry? Hopefully, this warning will be one that sticks."

Helen had no time to think before his fist curled and slammed into her jaw — once, twice, three times. She was unconscious by the fourth punch, and the others that followed.

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HELEN WAS CERTAIN HER parents loved her once — at least, she hoped they loved her, or came close to it in their own way. She wasn't always imperfect. Once, when she didn't know the darkness of Small Heath, or the way that Tommy Shelby's lips felt, or how nice freedom truly was, Helen Mavis was the dutiful daughter. She was the apple of her father's eye, allowing her mother to dress her up in fine silks and gaudy jewels. The embodiment of seen and not heard, until she was fifteen and her father started discussing marriage and alliances and everything that went against what Helen had imagined for herself.

That was when everything fell apart, when she found her voice at long last, and Lawrence and Elizabeth Mavis didn't like what they heard.

It used to hurt her once, knowing they raised her for one thing and one thing only. Frank always had options. It wasn't until he got older that anyone expected anything worthy from him. But not Helen. She was a doll to be dressed up, a jewel to be passed around then forgotten when she lost some of her shine.

Sure, it hurt, but Helen had suffered worse, and she probably always would.

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WHEN HELEN WOKE AGAIN, the sky was a dreary canvas with no moon or star in sight. The night air was biting, even with her coat shrugged around her shoulders. It had Helen shivering as she forced herself to sit up with a groan. Head spinning, dried blood on her face, jaw pounding with the blossoming of a violent bruise to match her nose.

To put it simply, Helen Mavis had seen better days.

With a careful look around her, she determined that the man with the cane and his brainless lackeys were long gone, having abandoned her in the same alley they'd kidnapped her in. The man she presumed was now dead at her hands had been taken care of. The only sign he — or anyone, really — had been there in the first place was a sickly maroon smudge that stained the concrete red. That, and the absence of Helen's beloved pin.

Something cold washed over her then, and it wasn't just the wind. Helen would never admit it in fear of sounding pathetic, like a lovesick fool pining after someone who did not feel the same, but that pin was the last thing she had to remember the happy times with Thomas Shelby — a hair pin and a whole lot of what ifs. Her head felt bare without the silver design gripping her hair back. The entire trek back to Watery Lane, Helen struggled to keep the blonde strands out of her face, feeling positively lost without her safety net, without Tommy.

God, she sounded so sad.

Maybe that man hit her harder than she thought.

When she reached her destination, she didn't hesitate to slam her fist against the door. The peeling green paint bubbled beneath her knuckles, but Helen paid it no mind. The light in the kitchen was on, that much was obvious, though no one came at first. Scowling, Helen knocked again, rougher this time, until the person on the other side grew impatient with the sound and threw the door open.

"What—"

Whatever rude warning Tommy Shelby was about to give died on his tongue the second he spotted the damage done to Helen's face. Something dangerous flashed through his blue eyes before he schooled his expression into cool indifference and stepped aside to let her in.

"About time," she muttered on the way through to the kitchen. "I was freezing my tits off out there."

"What happened?" Tommy asked as he closed the door behind them. He gestured for Helen to take a seat at the round dining table, which she did after a brief flicker of hesitation. In the end, her exhaustion won out, and she lazily shrugged off her coat before slumping into a chair. "Who did this?"

"Well, I didn't get the chance to ask for his name," she grumbled, eyes immediately darting to where a half-empty bottle of rum was perched by the sink. It was practically calling her name in that moment. "Mind bringing that over here, Thomas? I could do with a drink or three."

Tommy looked ready to disagree but thought better of it when Helen nudged a bruise on her face and winced. He poured them both a glass, sliding hers towards her before lowering himself into a seat on the other side of the table. Helen frowned at the distance, but thought it was best not to comment on it.

"According to him, he wanted to give Thomas Shelby 'a message that sticks,'" she murmured, voice dropping a few octaves to mimic her captor's words. Their eyes met in the darkness, Helen raising a careful brow at him. "Through his wife, because his brother wasn't enough. Kept on saying something about a robbery..." Tommy cursed under his breath, quickly standing up so that his back was facing her. Even in his undershirt, he seemed put together. Helen had admired that about him once. "What have you gotten yourself into, Thomas?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

The quick response infuriated her. Swallowing half her drink in one sip, Helen stumbled out of her chair and forced her way in front of him. "It does concern me," she corrected him sharply, sneering when he stubbornly turned the other way. "Thomas, whether you like it or not, I'm involved in this now. Don't you dare tell me otherwise when I can't feel my fucking face because of—"

"Because of what? Me? We've been over this before, Ne–Helen—"

Helen's jaw clenched. Finally, he was looking at her, the air tense between them. Normally, by this point in an argument, one of them would've caved in by now, kissing the other and allowing the anger to pass. No matter how much she wanted to, Helen wouldn't be kissing him tonight.

"Just tell me the man's name," she said, lips pursed in a grim line. The action hurt, but she wasn't about to tell him that. "At the very least, I deserve to know who did this to me."

Tommy let out a sigh. "Chester Campbell. He's the new Inspector in town. Here on behalf of Winston Churchill about a robbery of national significance."

"Winston Churchill?" Helen's eyes blew wide. She recalled the robbery Freddie mentioned the day before. So it really was Tommy. "Fuck, Tommy. What the hell did you steal?"

When Tommy remained stony-faced, she scoffed and retreated to the table, pausing only to down the rest of her drink before reaching for her coat. Tommy made no move to stop her, but Helen caught the instinctive twitch of his wrist reaching out, as it always had, even then, not truly wanting her to go.

"I don't want to be kidnapped and interrogated every time you fuck up, Thomas," she said, her parting words. "Next time, make it known that I'm not your wife."

By the next morning, Helen's face was an ugly shade of blue and purple, the bridge of her nose also tinged with a sickly shade of yellow. Helen slept in until midday, then kept herself busy around the house — cleaning, cooking, anything not to think of Inspector Campbell, or what on earth people would think if they caught a glimpse of her injuries.

It was no long past lunch time when someone knocked on the door. Helen did her best to hide some of the damage with her hair, but found there was no need for it when she peered out the window beside the door to see nothing but an empty porch waiting for her. Sighing, Helen propped the door open and poked her head out.

It was then that she saw the hair pin.

Similar to her last one, this pin was gold — real gold — with an intricate design of butterflies flying through a patch of flowers. Each flower was encrusted with a glistening jewel in the middle, and the pin itself was sharpened into a blade, though it seemed to be hand-done rather than an original part of the design. Helen's mouth crept into a small smile, something only for her and the shadows to witness as she reached down to pluck a note from the floor.

In familiar handwriting, she read — Try not to lose this one.

Her smile blooming wide, Helen closed the door, and Tommy returned back home with a grin of his own.

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A/N: the calm before the storm lol