It was a gelid night. You were wiping down the last of the sticky stains left behind by litres of booze on the mahogany bar, when the door opened. From the gloomy night emerges Thomas Shelby himself, and he moves to you, tossing you a few coins.

"Take these." He began, his Birmingham accent as thick as the snow outside. "Get yourself a nice dress. You're coming to the races with me." Tommy ordered. He wasn't usually one to ask for things. "And a glass of whiskey. Irish." He quickly added.