One month later.
May had arrived with characteristic Birmingham reluctance—spring finally asserting itself despite industrial resistance. The days were longer, warmer, the evening light lasting past eight o'clock.
Children played in streets until darkness forced them inside. Families gathered on doorsteps. Life continuing its messy, imperfect patterns.
Mrs. Price had returned home from hospital, recovering steadily in her familiar kitchen. Jimmy visited three times a week, managing genuine presence more often than not.
Still caught himself strategizing occasionally, but less frequently. Progress measured in minutes of actual connection rather than hours of perfect planning.
Ada maintained careful distance—civil but not warm, acknowledging but not forgiving. They had coffee occasionally, talked about books and politics, maintained relationship built on honest damage rather than false healing.
It wasn't friendship as it had been, but it was real. Authentically broken instead of perfectly performed.
Webb continued serving as councilman, voting unpredictably enough to confirm genuine independence. His "yes" votes carried weight because everyone knew his "no" votes were real.
The credibility made him more valuable than any puppet could have been. Tommy was satisfied with sustainable influence, accepting imperfection as price of authenticity.
Foster had been released from hospital, scarred but alive. She'd left political work permanently, taking teaching position at Webb's old school.
The IRA's contribution to medical expenses was genuine—O'Connor keeping his word about restitution for unintended casualty.
Billy Kitchen remained in Glasgow, maintaining regular contact. They coordinated occasionally on intelligence matters, genuine partnership where neither controlled the other.
The uncomfortable cooperation was functional precisely because it was uncomfortable—trust without certainty, collaboration without domination.
Eleanor's article had created ripples that lasted weeks—political repositioning, relationship rebuilding, operation adjustments. But the damage was manageable.
The Shelbys adapted. Life continued, imperfectly but sustainably.
---
Jimmy sat in his office above Morrison's butcher shop on a Friday evening in late May, the spring twilight filtering through windows he'd actually cleaned for the first time in months.
The office looked better—not perfect, still cramped and blood-stained, but more organized. Papers filed rather than stacked. Ashtray emptied regularly. Tea cup washed daily.
Small improvements reflecting larger changes.
The blood still seeped through his ceiling occasionally—Morrison's blade moving through flesh in the shop below, violence always present beneath civilized surfaces.
But Jimmy's relationship to that violence had shifted. He wasn't adding to it anymore through manipulation that was just refined cruelty.
He reviewed the month's progress: cooperation with Danny and Billy that actually functioned despite messiness. Ada's conditional acceptance based on boundaries rather than false healing.
Mrs. Price's blessing contingent on continued effort. Webb's autonomous opposition that proved his independence was real.
Not perfect outcomes. But real ones. Sustainable ones. Honest ones.
The work continued. Problems never ended. But Jimmy was doing it differently now—trying to be human again, failing frequently but genuinely, choosing connection over control even when connection was uncomfortable.
Progress. Real progress. The kind that felt insufficient but was actually sustainable.
Three raps on the door interrupted his reflection. Evenly spaced, polite but urgent. The familiar rhythm from hundreds of clients over the years.
"Come in," Jimmy called.
The door opened. A woman entered, young child holding her hand. Working-class clothing showing wear. Fear visible despite attempts at composure. Desperation in her eyes tempered by determination.
Sarah Mitchell, though Jimmy didn't know her name yet. Her daughter Emma, age six, clutching her mother's skirt.
Exactly the same as Book 2's ending. Same desperation, same fear, same need for help from someone who could fix impossible problems.
But everything about Jimmy's response would be different.
"They said you're the man who fixes things," Sarah said, her voice carrying Birmingham's working-class accent. "I need help. I need to disappear before my husband kills me."
Jimmy gestured to the chair beside his desk. "Sit down. Both of you. Tell me what's happening."
Sarah sat, pulling Emma onto her lap. The child remained silent, trained by experience to be invisible during adult conversations. The particular stillness of children who'd learned that attention meant danger.
Jimmy recognized it. Had seen it dozens of times. In Book 2, he would have immediately begun planning—new identities, safe passage, resources to start over.
Treating Sarah and Emma as problem to be solved rather than people making choices.
Now, he listened. Actually listened, without planning three moves ahead.
"My name's Sarah Mitchell. This is Emma. My husband Thomas—he's a foreman at the steel works. When he drinks, he gets violent. It's been eight years. Getting worse.
Two days ago he threatened Emma with his belt." Sarah's voice shook but strengthened. "I got between them. That's when I knew we had to leave."
"What kind of help are you looking for?" Jimmy asked, the question genuine rather than manipulative.
"I need to disappear. New identities for both of us. Passage somewhere safe where he can't find us. Resources to start over."
Sarah's hands trembled. "I don't have much money, but I'll pay whatever—"
"No payment necessary." Jimmy pulled out notebook, but not to design perfect plan. To take notes while asking questions. "Tell me about your situation. Not just immediate danger, but your skills, your resources, what you'd want for your future if you could choose freely."
Sarah blinked, surprised by the question. "If I could choose?"
"Yes. If you could choose your destination, your new life, how you'd support yourself and Emma—what would you want?"
This was different from Book 2. Not "tell me everything so I can design optimal solution" but "tell me what you actually want so I can help you achieve it."
The distinction was everything.
Sarah explained haltingly at first, then with growing confidence. She had sister in Manchester. Had worked in factories but dreamed of something different.
Emma was bright, deserved proper schooling. They needed safety but also community, connection, future rather than just escape.
Jimmy took notes, asked clarifying questions, made no immediate promises. When Sarah finished, he set down his pen.
"I can help you," he said carefully. "But I need to be honest about what that help looks like. I can create documents that will let you disappear—new identities, employment references, everything needed to start over.
I can arrange safe passage and provide resources."
He paused, choosing words precisely. "But that means making choices for you. Deciding what's best based on my analysis rather than your judgment. It's efficient but it's also controlling."
"What's the alternative?"
"I explain everything. Give you complete information about options. You make your own decisions about destination, timing, how you want to rebuild.
I help you implement choices you've made rather than making choices for you." Jimmy met her eyes honestly. "That's messier. Takes longer. You might make decisions I think are suboptimal. But they'll be your decisions."
Sarah studied his face, looking for trap or manipulation. Finding only exhaustion, honesty, and genuine offer of choice.
"You're asking my permission to help me?"
"I'm asking which kind of help you want. Perfect solution where I decide everything, or imperfect solution where you decide everything."
"I've had someone controlling me for eight years." Sarah's voice was firm. "I don't want that anymore, even if the control is benevolent. I want to know my options and make my own choices.
Even if I make mistakes, they'll be my mistakes."
"Then that's what we'll do."
---
They spent the next two hours working together. Jimmy explained options for destinations—Manchester near her sister, Liverpool with better employment prospects, other cities with different advantages.
He described documentation needed, timeline for creation, resources he could provide. He outlined risks and complications for each option honestly.
Sarah asked questions, considered alternatives, made decisions. Jimmy provided information and support, but didn't guide or manipulate.
Emma drew pictures with paper and pencils Jimmy provided, occasionally looking up to watch her mother making choices that would determine their future.
It was inefficient. Messy. Full of uncertainties Jimmy would have eliminated through strategic control.
It was also right. Actually right, not strategically optimal.
Sarah chose Manchester—wanted family connection despite complications. Chose to keep their first names—Emma needed continuity despite danger. Chose to leave in one week—wanted time to prepare daughter properly rather than rushing.
Some choices Jimmy wouldn't have made. But they were Sarah's choices, made with full information and genuine agency.
When they finally left near midnight, plans made and resources arranged, Sarah turned at the door.
"Thank you for treating us like people who could make our own decisions. My husband—he decided everything. Said he knew best, that I couldn't be trusted with choices. You're not doing that."
"You're welcome. And Sarah?" Jimmy's voice was quiet. "You're stronger than you know. The fact that you're leaving, choosing better life for Emma, making these decisions despite fear—that's courage.
Real courage, not strategic positioning."
After they left, Jimmy sat alone in his office, papers spread before him documenting cooperation rather than control. He'd helped Sarah and Emma differently than Book 2.
Asked permission instead of assuming authority. Respected autonomy instead of optimizing outcomes. Provided information and support rather than making decisions for them.
They'd probably make mistakes he could have prevented. Sarah's timeline was longer than necessary, her choice of Manchester introduced complications, her decision to keep first names increased risk.
But they were making their own choices. Living their own lives. Escaping one form of control without immediately entering another—however benevolent Jimmy's control might be.
That was worth the imperfection.
---
Dawn was approaching when Jimmy finally closed his notebook. The blood had started seeping through his ceiling again—Morrison beginning Saturday morning work early.
Violence beneath every surface, always present, always available.
But Jimmy had proven something more valuable tonight than any strategic brilliance he'd demonstrated before.
He'd helped someone without violating them. Supported their choices without controlling their outcomes. Provided genuine assistance that respected their humanity instead of treating them as problem to be managed.
The work never ended. The problems kept coming. And Jimmy Cartwright—former solicitor's clerk, disbarred forger, Peaky Blinder strategist, senior partner who'd learned intelligence without empathy was just refined violence—was beginning to remember how to be human.
Not perfectly. Not completely. But genuinely.
He'd spent eighteen months proving intelligence was better than violence. Achieved everything through strategic manipulation. Became exactly what Tommy hired him to be.
And he'd destroyed everyone he cared about in the process.
Now he was learning something more valuable: intelligence combined with humanity was better than pure intelligence. Strategic thinking tempered by genuine connection was stronger than strategic thinking alone.
Helping people while respecting their autonomy was more sustainable than helping them through control.
The blood kept seeping through his ceiling. Violence was always present, always available.
But Jimmy had discovered that manipulation was violence too. Subtler violence. More complete violence. Violence that destroyed people while making them grateful for destruction.
And he'd chosen to stop.
Not perfectly. He still caught himself mid-manipulation regularly. Still struggled with uncertainty that came from not controlling outcomes. Still found genuine cooperation uncomfortable and inefficient.
But he was trying. Failing and trying again. Choosing human connection over strategic isolation. Accepting that damaged humanity was better than perfect inhumanity.
The pen was still mightier than the sword.
But only when wielded by someone who remembered pens were meant to write truth, connect humans, create understanding—not manipulate reality for strategic advantage.
Jimmy picked up his fountain pen—the same pen that had signed contracts, forged documents, planned manipulations, designed perfect operations that generated catastrophic failures.
The next problem awaited. Some client would knock, desperate and afraid, needing help they couldn't provide themselves.
And Jimmy would help them. Genuinely. Respectfully. Honestly.
Not perfectly. But humanly.
That was enough.
That had to be enough.
Because perfection built on manipulation collapsed when discovered. But authenticity built on honesty—however imperfect—could actually last.
The work continued. The problems never ended.
But Jimmy Cartwright was doing it differently now.
Trying to be human instead of proving he was clever.
Choosing connection over control.
Accepting imperfection over forcing perfection.
Being decent despite knowing he'd never be innocent again.
That was growth. Real growth. The kind that felt insufficient but was actually sustainable.
The blood kept seeping. The dawn kept coming.
And Jimmy kept working, kept trying, kept choosing humanity despite knowing how difficult it was.
Exactly where he needed to be.
Doing exactly what mattered.
Finally.
THE END