CHAPTER SIX:
DEAL WITH GOD

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HELEN WORE HER FAVOURITE evening dress to the races, the sky blue one that cinched at her waist and flared around her hips in soft silk. The neckline was made of intricate lace, descending down her arms in long sleeves covered by a coat of the palest pink, so light it was almost cream. Despite her soft demeanor — from her clothes to the way she had pinned back her hair with an ornate silver pin (she'd deliberately chosen not to wear her usual one, with the blade and its secrets tucked away at the back of her vanity) — her lips remained a harsh shade of crimson, a statement in itself, a Siren's song luring in the damned with each word and every breath.

Patrick Godfrey might've been a true gentleman, but even he could not draw his eyes away from her mouth for the life of him. By the time they arrived at the races in Patrick's car, his cheeks were almost as dark as her lipstick, the vibrant blush burning from the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears.

Damn you, Christ, for cursing me with this hair, he thought, for the sudden change in his regular, pale complexion could not have been more obvious when Helen's date happened to be a redhead. She smiled at him, then raised a brow when he failed to move from his seat.

"Well? Aren't you going to open the door for me?"

He was at her side in an instant, offering her his hand while holding the door with the other. Grass crunched beneath her feet, and Helen paused.

Up close, Patrick smelled like Woodbines and citrus, dressed nicely in a freshly pressed suit, his hair gelled back but nevertheless, it was stubbornly curly. Helen had only known him for two weeks, and yet she had started to recognise the small things about him as their 'tour' of Birmingham quickly became an excuse just to spend time with each other. Helen understood the way Patrick squeezed her hand, how his eyes glinted as he smiled. The sharp intake of breath when he was nervous, followed by a cough to smother his woes. How he kissed her knuckles in greeting, and curved an arm around her waist whenever they were out in public. A silent display of interest.

Piece-by-piece, she built him up in her head; before she knew it, she had created a whole other version of Patrick Godfrey that fitted into her perfectly. A man who could love her how she wanted to be loved, a man who wanted her and couldn't help but show it every time he looked at her.

It was all in the eyes.

Helen had been to the races before, but it had been a few years. It took her a moment to regain her bearings, to lead the way towards the entrance. As expected, Patrick's hand came to rest on her back as they lined up behind a group of laughing men who had women hanging from their arms like sunken, dressed up dolls. Helen had seen this type before, and her lips pursed in wariness, shoulders bunched until they were inside and had moved to the opposite end of the room.

Once their identities were confirmed, Helen and Patrick were able to head for the bar.

"What would you like to drink, Nel?" Patrick murmured as he fished through his coat pocket for some coins. Helen offered to pay, but was quickly shut down with a frown and something along the lines of 'a decent man never lets his lady pay for a drink.'

Near breathless, Helen couldn't think of anything but his words as her mind shuffled past her usual whiskey and her mouth asked for a gin and tonic. A minute later, Patrick turned back with their two drinks and they settled at a nearby table. From their vantage point, they had a near perfect view of the dance floor, of friends swaying with glasses in hand and lovers pulling each other just that bit closer as the belting music consumed them.

A long time ago, Helen would've skipped the drink and gone straight for the dance floor. She and Tommy had loved to dance. In the early days, Helen would return home just as the sun started to rise, her cheeks flushed pink, eyes bright despite the blisters from her heels digging into her feet. The next night, she and Tommy would return to the music like a moth to a flame, and the bandages on Helen's heels would be replaced by new ones the following morning like clockwork.

"So what do you say?"

It took her a second to realise Patrick was speaking to her. Shame filled Helen's heart, hot and acidic. She downed the rest of her drink before murmuring a strained, "Excuse me?"

Patrick smiled. He was so unbothered. Helen wondered if he'd ever had a love like Helen's and Tommy's, so consuming that the sting of it lingered long after the crash and burn of the end. Her heart clenched at the mere thought, then turned on itself just as quick.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Helen forced herself to listen closely this time, and heard Patrick clearly when he inclined his head towards the crowd and asked, "Do you want to dance?"

He must've seen the ache in her eyes and mistaken it for longing.

Helen hesitated, then took his hand with a buzzing, alcohol-encouraged smirk. "Are you sure you can keep up, Godfrey?"

Patrick's eyes glinted. "Try me, Mavis."

The music picked up almost as soon as they fought their way to the centre. There, Patrick twirled her roughly and Helen let out a surprised laugh as she steadied herself with her hands on his chest.

"Smooth," she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

His gaze landed on her mouth. As the music crescendoed, Helen fought the urge to kiss him. Instead, she danced until her feet bled and her heart pounded. As promised, Patrick kept up with her, spinning and twirling and dipping her until the songs started to slow and they began to look out of place. It was then that Patrick grounded her, pulled her in so that her head rested on his shoulder and Helen could take a second just to breathe, think.

"Do you want another drink?" he asked. "Or perhaps we can catch the last of the races?"

In truth, the horses hadn't even crossed Helen's mind.

She shook her head, and said softly when he frowned, "I want to stay here. One more dance?"

Patrick twirled her again. Slow, with careful movements, and murmured as the space between them receded again, "If that's what you want."

Helen wanted so much, and yet nothing seemed to amount to who stood just a matter of metres away, consumed by a blonde in a red dress, who had somehow distracted his heart for long enough that he didn't even notice as Helen's gaze finally found him, like her body had sensed him the second he entered the room.

Helen's feet stumbled, and she let Patrick guide her away as the music faded.

"If I asked you to kiss me," she blurted out, deciding to throw caution to the wind once her second glass of gin had been downed. "Would you?"

Patrick blinked at her. "You're certainly forward."

Helen shook her head. "No. If I was, I would've asked you the day we met."

It sounded romantic, a line for the clichès, but it was anything but. Patrick thought about his answer far too long for Helen's liking. Beneath the dim lights, he was beautiful, and Helen wanted to be blinded by him, to forget everything with the taste of him. The scent of Woodbines was overpowering as she traced a finger along his jaw.

"Depends," Patrick said at last. "If this is a date or not."

Helen laughed. So it was that easy. Relationships had never genuinely been this smooth for her. There was always agony and sorrow and regret between every happy moment, leeching off Helen until she was lifeless, a walking corpse.

With Patrick, her whole body was scalding, like being reborn from Elysian.

"Take me home," she said then. "Or wherever you want to go."

So he kissed her, for one brief second, appropriate enough in the case of curious eyes. "Have you ever been to London?" he said against her mouth, and Helen's heart seemed to pause as if waiting for its own answer with bated breath.

"No," she shook her head. Not once did her eyes leave his. "But I've always wanted to go."

Her gaze couldn't resist moving to scan the dance floor. Tommy and Grace were long gone. Had they truly been there in the first place, or were they just a figment of her imagination? Two tortorous ghosts, demons, who wanted to open fresh wounds and drag Helen back to Hell? She wouldn't let them. She wanted this; Patrick, even if love was a long distance away and lust was all there'd ever be. Helen wanted to feel, so much that she took his hand and they disappeared into the night.

When Tommy first came home, Helen's insincts had told her to flee. London. Go to London. Somewhere you can breathe easier. Perhaps, if one believed in rubbish like fate and destiny, they would say that Helen's subconsious had wanted her to find Patrick Godfrey much sooner, to save herself from ruination a long time ago. Helen had ignored the thoughts, and so she suffered every day, woeful but so angry, sinking...

She would listen to her heart now.

A deal with God (or the devil in disguise) lead her to the last train to London for the night. With the clothes on her back and nothing more, she knew Small Heath and its demons would be waiting for her in the morning, but every second in the dark of night counted. She resisted Patrick's touches on the train, followed him to a hotel on the outskirts of London where they shared a bed and much more. Not once did her mind go to Tommy, or to anything but the chance to let go.

But there was always the morning. And when she woke, her beloved blue dress strewn across the carpet with Patrick's arm curled around her waist, Helen had started to sink again, her deal with the devil her greatest sin yet.

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A/N: So... we're over halfway into the first act already. Season one does admittedly have a lot of jumps, but I'm trying my best to keep it interesting for you. What do you guys think of Helen? And of Patrick? Do we trust him? 👀 Let me know your thoughts! And while you're at it, take a look at the stunning banner that I requested from lovely11854's Quotev shop. Isn't it just stunning? I love my babies so much despite the angst 😭 Anyways, thank you so much for reading, and please do share with me any thoughts or theories you may have!!