The year was 1919.

The pub was quiet this evening, an eerie and stark contrast to the usual liveliness. The Peaky Blinders were tipped off by a reliable source, that someone had information they needed. And they would be stopping by the Garrison tonight.

Thomas sat in a seat facing the doorway so that he could keep his eyes on them the entire time. A cigarette hung from his lips, already half smoked, and he exhaled just as the door opened. He straightened, looking up at who had just come in.