London, 1920

After the war, you had seen your brother's Arthur, Thomas and John in this state, like many other men. Empty, lost eyes. Silence during the day, turning into screams during the night.

They didn't talk about it, none of them, and Alfie was no exception. He had been a captain of a unit, that was the only thing you knew.

Even though there was a lot of tension between Alfie and your family, he respected the elder Shelby's for what they had been through there. All soldiers were brothers.

You'd come home after going to visit the distillery only to find both Alfie and Cyril absent, Ollie had told you that Alfie had cut his day short, complaining about his back.

Upon opening the front door, you heard Cyril whining softly, where he'd usually come to meet you at the front door, he instead lay at Alfie's feet as his master sat almost worryingly straight in his armchair by the hearth with no fire in it.

Cyril looked hopefully up at you as you rubbed his ear in greeting, gently placing your coat over the back of the settee.

You tried to get Alfie's attention, slowly coming to stand in front of him, no reaction. As if you weren't there, he remained frozen in the chair, muscles tense, wild eyes staring at the wall where there was nothing hanging.