Chapter Text
As all of his wife’s ideas tended to be, buying a truck had been a good one. Bill was opposed to it at first of course, but as dubious as he was of anything remotely new or modern, he was just as trusting in his wife usually being right, wise as she was, and this time was no different. It was a blessing being behind a windshield and under a roof on a chilly night and it allowed him to make deliveries farther and faster, just as Eleanor had said. From time to time he still hikes the wagon to Mary, his old trusty mare who seems very content with retirement on the pasture. But for produce deliveries into town in the early hours of the morning, or like now, traveling home on a late winter’s night, the truck is nothing short of a blessing.
The dark road is slick with mud him after days of rain, and when the car skids he remembers to keep his thoughts on driving. He squints as the headlights throw sharp glares into his eyes when they reflect off the mud. Perhaps his wife is right about the glasses too, but the thought of booking an appointment with an optometrist doesn’t sit right with him. That’s just in his nature. It’s a goddamn struggle, getting older-
Before he can finish that thought, a figure appears in the headlights. Bill throws himself on the breaks and there’s a dreadful, long moment of metal screeching and the car sliding in the mud before it comes to a halt. He is left with his heart pounding in his ears and his hands clenched around the steering wheel, trying to catch his breath.
The figure stands frozen in the headlights, like a deer in the same. Only it’s not a deer.
Bill hesitates for all of one second before climbing out into the cold night air.
“Oi, you alright there, mate?”
The headlights reflect in a pair of ghostly pale eyes, enormous in the gaunt face. But the man, because it is indeed a man, doesn’t answer. He just stares at Bill, swaying ever so slightly. He’s painfully thin, clad in nothing but an undershirt and a pair of too large trousers, dark hair hanging limply over his face. Shivering violently as he hugs bony arms against his chest. And those eyes- he’s never seen eyes like that. They seem to pierce right through him.
It takes him a long moment to regain his voice. “What’re you doing out here at this hour?”
Still no answer, but the man takes a step backwards, hugging himself tighter.
It suddenly occurs to him that he might be dangerous, this stranger. Only someone completely unhinged would be wandering barely dressed down country road in the middle of the freezing winter. He does look unhinged. But no, Bill quickly decides, hardly dangerous. He looks… broken. Scared. And it’s true, scared people can be dangerous, the same way cornered animals can, but he’s is well versed in taking care of those, luckily.
He does his best to sound kind when he asks, “Where are you going?”
The man blinks, once, twice, he repeats the question, and finally gets a response:
“Margate.”
His voice surprises Bill with its deep timbre. Somehow it doesn’t seem to fit with the frail little thing he’s got in front of him. The tone does, though. As if he’s not entirely sure himself where he’s going.
“Margate? Well, you’ll be walking for a while, then. Over twenty miles there, you see.”
He studies the shivering figure. Only now discovers that he’s barefoot. And knows that he has to help, stupid as it may be. He can’t live with himself if he leaves the poor thing out here. “But I’m going that way. All the way to Bedford actually. I can give you a ride if you’d like. The weather’s not very nice for walking in.”
The man seems to shake harder with every passing moment, and he’s not moving. Bill walks up to him slowly and he stumbles backwards, eyes wide with terror when he reaches out. Afraid to be touched.
He could be homeless, one of those poor sods who returned from the war too broken to be useful and who was banished to the streets. Doesn’t explain what he’s doing out in the middle of nowhere, but judging by his appearance he’s not exactly right in the head. That awful limp might be from his bare feet, but the world is full of bad people preying on the vulnerable. God knows what he’s been through. Bill reminds himself to tread carefully.
“It’s alright,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”
He’s swaying again, staring with glassy eyes at nothing, but Bill closes the distance between them and grabs his shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Yeah, let’s go. You’ll get there a lot faster this way.”
For some reason the man lets Bill lead him to the car and help him into the passenger seat. Bill finds a blanket in the boot and drapes it over his shoulders.
Then he begins to drive.
He fills the silence with idle chit chat, hoping to soothe his fragile passenger. At first he asks questions; what his name is, why he’s going to Margate, but receives no answer, so he starts talking about the farm and the animals instead, where he’s been making deliveries to, how nice it’ll be to get home to a warm house and his dear wife. The man is silent, save for the occasional mutters, too quiet for Bill to hear. The only words he catches seem disjointed, unrelated to anything Bill himself has said. And once they pass Bedford, he’s gone completely quiet, staring with glassy, unseeing eyes at nothing and curling inwards on himself in his seat.
It was the right choice, picking him up. He’s hardly dangerous, that much is clear. A danger to himself possibly.
Still, it’s hard to relax in his company
When they reach the farm, Bill stops the car and turns to his strange passenger.
“Well this is home. I can drive you the rest of the way to Margate, but I think you could use a meal and some dry clothes. My wife’s cooking is wonderful.”
The man has curled himself into a ball, head resting against the car window. Bill reaches out and squeezes his shoulder and he doesn’t react.
“What do you say?”
Nothing, that’s what.
Bill climbs out of the car and walks around it to the passenger seat, opening the door
The man startles and looks around with wide eyes.
“We’re not in Margate yet,” Bill explains again. “But I think we should get you something to eat. Maybe some warmer clothes.“
The blue eyes catch on something. Bill looks over his shoulder but only sees the farmhouse shrouded in fog and the warm lights coming from the kitchen window. He turns back to the car.
“Go on, let’s get you inside-“
He reaches out but the man flinches away from him, pushing himself further into the car and wrapping his arms around his head. Bill contemplates his options. He could pick him up and carry him inside easily enough even with all his minor aches and pains but if he begins to struggle that might end badly.
He looks around, feeling lost. Eleanor is better at this kind of thing…
“Alright, out you pop,” he tries again, gesturing vaguely. The man cowers underneath his arms, clutching at his hair, muttering to himself again, words he can’t hear.
“Right, right…” Bill scratches the back of his head. “I could- I’ll go get my wife. Just stay there.”
He jogs towards the house despite his bad hip, calling for Eleanor as he goes.
Thankfully his wife accepts only a short explanation as he ushers her away from the stove. She follows him towards the car without asking too many questions, only mildly berating him for picking up a complete stranger at the side of the road.
But the car is empty.
Eleanor raises her eyebrows as Bill searches the bushes. “Are you sure you didn’t give a ride to a ghost, dear?”
Bill scratches the back of his head again and looks around, feeling lost. “No, no he- he was here. Poor thing, seemed terrified. Maybe he’s just hiding?”
Eleanor helps him search the vicinity of the car, and then further, calling out, but when they’re both shivering in the cold, they have to accept the fact that he’s gone.
“You said he was going to Margate?” Eleanor says and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders against the wind.
“Yeah, yeah but I have no idea how he was supposed to get there. He was in quite bad shape.”
Eleanor takes his arm and squeezes it. “You’ve done all you can do. He probably decided to set off on foot again. And you can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
He lets Eleanor lead him back to the house, still looking over his shoulder.
….
Bill doesn’t recognize the man at first, when he months later opens the paper and finds him staring back at him from the page. But then he does. It’s the eyes. Even in black and grey they’re unmistakable, large, eerily bright and framed by those dark lashes. Even if the face on the photograph isn’t as gaunt and harrowed as the one belonging to his strange passenger, he can tell that it’s him. And after reading the article several times, he brings the question to his wife who leaves the dishes in the sink to come stand behind him and study the paper.
“Are you absolutely sure it’s him?”
“Sure, sure. Yeah. That’s not a face you forget.”
She puts her hands lightly on his shoulders. “But what on earth would this-” she leans closer, “-Thomas Shelby be doing wandering around the countryside in the middle of the night?”
“Didn’t seem like he knew that himself.”
He thinks of those eyes. How lost and scared they looked.
“How can he be dead?” he mutters. “I should’ve- should’ve taken him to a hospital. It was cold that night. Didn’t have much meat on his bones, poor fellow. What if that’s how he-”
Eleanor seats herself next to him, gently taking his hand. “There’s no use thinking of such things.”
“It says here he died… that he died at home. That he was sick.” He speaks out loud, trying to make sense of the situation. “Why was he out there, all alone? Why was he going to Margate?”
Eleanor squeezes his hands. “It’s not your responsibility, caring for every lost soul you come across.” She kisses his cheek lightly. “But I love that you want to. You know that.”
She leaves him there with the paper as she returns to the dishes, knowing he needs to sit there and mull things over at his own pace.
Bill reads the article three more times before finally tossing the paper.
…
Later that night he can’t sleep. Instead he lies awake staring at the ceiling.
“You’re thinking about the article,” Eleanor sighs and he can’t help but smile. She reaches under the blankets to take his hand. “I can always tell when your mind is busy.”
“I should’ve taken him to a hospital. He was unwell.”
“You did what you thought was right. And many people might’ve just left him by the road.”
“I might as well, for all the good I did him. I picked him up somewhere out there, around Birmingham. Just took him further from home.”
With another sigh, Eleanor turns the light on and props her head up to watch him.
“Bill, that’s enough. You’re not helping yourself by agonizing over this. Obviously he got home somehow. You did what he asked.”
“I just have a strange feeling ‘bout all of this.”
Her features soften and she reaches out to gently run her thumb across his cheek. “Well, if it helps you, talking about it, then I’m here to listen.”
“No, no it’s fine.” He takes her hand and kisses the palm lightly. “Think I just need a bit of time, is all.”
Eleanor turns the light off and settles next to him.
Eventually he falls asleep to a night full of strange dreams about pale blue eyes.
…
“What are you writing, dear?” Eleanor asks when she finds him hunched over the kitchen table the next day, with the finest stationary the humble household has to offer in front of him and pen in hand.
“I’m reaching out to the family. To tell them about what happened,” he mutters. “Give my condolences.”
Eleanor is frowning, he can tell without even looking up from his letter.
“That seems like a very bad idea. You have no idea what kind of people they are, the Shelbys. Might be the type you don’t want to get mixed in with.”
“I’m not putting our address on there. There’ll be no ‘getting mixed in with’.”
He re-reads the letter. He’s never been great with words, but it’s the content that matters, not how it’s put together.
“If it had been Peter, we would’ve wanted to know,” he finally says. Eleanor sighs, but they both know he’s right.
“Well, if this makes you sleep at night, dear,” she says and kisses his cheek. “But please take a few days to think it over before sending it.”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
Bill closes the envelope.