Betting Shop, Small Heath
A solitary bulb cast a weak light on the scratched table, where betting slips were scattered: red for the morning races, blue for the afternoon, and yellow for any wager over a pound.
Half-empty whiskey glasses sat here and there, and their rims smeared with fingerprints.
Outside, the punters still murmured, but Inside, the only sound was Polly's pen scratching across her ledger.
And the Garrison meeting with Billy Kimber was drawing closer every day.
Polly hunched over her books. "Finn, get those slips in order by date", her eyes stay fixed on the numbers, but there's a flicker of reliance on the boy she's watched grow.
He'd saved them twice this week; once spotting Malone skimming bets, then sorting out Arthur's drunken mistakes.
She heard from Arthur and John how he'd fought in the Forge, a stark contrast to the boy he once was.
Finn didn't speak, he just nodded and his hands moved fast stacking the slips in neat rows.
He glanced up noting Polly's tight jaw and Arthur's red face, and John's restless grin.
Arthur slumped in his chair, a nearly empty bottle hanging loosely from his hand. "Tommy's off playing king," he growled, "and Campbell's putting the pressure on us. The punters think we're informing on them, and Tommy's nowhere."
John stood against the door flicking his knife blade with a lazy smile. "Relax, Arthur. Tommy's always got a plan. You're just pissy because he won't tell you."
Arthur slammed his fist onto the table and the glasses rattled. "Plan? We've got no bets, no backup. And Campbell's dogs are sniffing every corner!"
Polly slammed her ledger shut. "You two can argue like schoolkids, but the books don't lie. We're losing money fast, and the raids only made it worse. People think we're Campbell's puppets and no one's putting money down."
The door creaked open and Tommy walked in.
He wore his long coat, his cap was pulled down, and his eyes looked colder than usual.
The room went quiet, and nobody breathed too loud.
He says nothing, letting the weight of his silence settle.
Arthur nodded towards Finn and said. "Alright Finn, Thank you. Now, fuck off."
But Polly stood up for him. "He's staying. He's earned his place here. Malone would still be taking our money if it wasn't for him."
Tommy's eyes met Finn's, measuring him carefully, his thoughts hidden. "Stay". His voice was low but final. "You've grown to a man while we were in France."
Finn sat back down with his heart pounding, but he kept his face calm.
He belonged here now and part of their circle. Yet his mind raced with plans the Shelbys hadn't dreamed of yet.
Arthur finished his whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the table. "Alright, Tommy, what's the plan? Are we just going to wait here until Campbell's men break down the door?"
Tommy glanced at the table, then back at Arthur. "Campbell's raids are his tactic, we'll use ours. Keep the betting shop open and get the customers to come back."
Polly's fingers tighten on her ledger, her voice slicing. "Easy to say, Thomas. But punters aren't betting, they think we're Campbell's dogs. Do you have a solution for that, or just more things you're not telling us?"
Arthur leans forward, his voice rough. "She's right. We're losing our reputation on the streets!"
John's knife pauses and his grin faded. "Maybe if Arthur's lads kept their mouths shut, we wouldn't be the talk of every bar."
The room bristled with tension; growls, glares and jabs.
And Tommy stood like a rock.
Finn nudges a pencil toward Polly, a subtle signal she catches.
Her eyes flick to him, then to Tommy, reading the tension.
"Anything else?" Tommy asks, his sudden voice silencing the room.
Finn stands slowly and calmly, mirroring Tommy's calm.
His heart pounded, but his words were calm and measured, reflecting a wisdom beyond his age.
He understood the danger – the lack of customers, the increasing police raids, the broken trust – and saw an opportunity to not only save the betting shop but also to subtly advance his own position.
"I have an idea," Finn says, voice even.
Tommy's eyes narrow with a spark of curiosity. "Go on."
Finn kept his explanation simple, concealing his deeper intentions. "Stashes. We use tin cans and tuck them under corners in the alleys. Just a few spots close to the shop and the younger lads collect it every week, discreetly. The coppers can't raid what they can't find."
Arthur snorts, half-drunk. "What's the kid yammering about?"
"Quiet," Polly snaps, her gaze fixed on Finn, intrigued.
Finn leans in and lowering his voice. "We offer better odds, but only to the right people. Send our lads out to the pubs and carefully spread the word. Anyone we trust gets a signal; a tap on the knuckles. Two quick and one slow. That's how they know they're in. That's how we bring the punters back."
John whistles and his knife stilled. "Bloody hell, Finn. You're thinking like Tommy now."
Finn keeps his voice steady. "We plant fake bets in the books just for show. Clerks add them in, but they don't count. When the coppers come snooping, they only see clean numbers. The real bets? We hide those in the stashes."
Tommy silently watches with his stare dissecting Finn.
After a long pause, he nods once. "That'll do."
Polly's expression softened with a hint of pride showing in her eyes. "I'll incorporate it into the ledgers. We can use red, blue, and yellow ink to mark the fake bets as well."
Arthur grunts, squinting at Finn. "Smart for a runt, don't get cocky."
John winks and resumes his knife twirl. "Keep him close Tom. Kid's got brains."
Tommy's voice was decisive. "Get it done, Finn. By morning."
Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as the Shelbys moved, each returning to their familiar roles.
Tommy headed towards the back room, his long coat swishing behind him.
Polly turned her attention back to her ledgers.
Arthur reached for his bottle.
And John made his way out to the street.
Finn sat back down, letting out a slow controlled exhale.
He was no longer on the periphery.
He was in the middle of them now, a quiet but undeniable force in the volatile world of the Peaky Blinders.
But underneath his outward actions, his own plans were quietly developing.
The hidden stashes, the coded knuckle taps, and the false betting slips would indeed rescue the shop, but they would also create something.
The expansion of the Archive.