One last time

Vibrations stirred in the darkness. Strange — Thomas only ever noticed the darkness when those vibrations appeared within it. Time and memory flowed differently here. Never letting him grow bored. But the vibrations would come, and the darkness, as if frightened by them, would retreat from his sight. Pitch-black thinned out like worn linen. It gave way to endless blue expanses. Empty. Lonely. Thomas pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, slipped a cigarette out, and lit it. Since the world had taken on familiar shapes, he might as well indulge in familiar bad habits. “Do you think you’re dead, Tommy?” Thomas didn’t flinch, but his lashes trembled, not letting his eyelids fall. The sudden voice belonged to Michael Gray. His cousin sat beside him on a thick tree trunk — the only tree in the dark-blue desert of a twilight field. There were no more trees around – no stomp it could have fall from. Which meant this definitely wasn’t real. “Oh, you were very close. Maybe you were dead. For a while.” Michael looked exactly as he had the last time Thomas put a bullet through his eye. With those unwonted moustache and hat. “But you’re not in across the line. You feel it, don’t you?” This lonely darkness and desert felt like purgatory. But they vanished abruptly, replaced by a street on Miquelon Island — one Tommy remembered as vividly as the “Garrison” back home. Though Michael likely didn’t know that. Tom found himself by the car, staring at the leather bag. Michael stood nearby, along with one of his associates. “My mother was a gypsy. She saw the future. She always said it won’t be a bullet that kill Tommy Shelby.” The men stood by the bag as if afraid to breathe on it. A smirk on one set of lips, tension on the other. “And apparently, not even three.” Michael suddenly turned toward Thomas. The other man remained frozen in place, as though time had forgotten him. A curl of vapor slipped from Tom’s lips, trembling uncertainly in the air. So empty. So lonely. And cold. Clearly, there was only Michael here. Michael, Tom himself — and no one else. No one for a very long time. Michael took a step closer, squinting as if the light was too bright. Thomas said nothing. He looked at him with pale, icy eyes — eyes that held little besides hauntings and ghosts. But in Michael’s eyes, there was everything — complete understanding that Tommy knew exactly where these words were leading, absolute certainty that the body of Polly Gray’s nephew was already being pierced by a very real cold. “Wake up, Tommy. You’re still alive.” Michael wasn’t smiling, but his words sounded triumphant — almost mocking. Tommy jerked, exhaling sharply, as if he’d been struck in the gut. Dark gray walls flashed before his eyes, and the air hit him with its real, crushing weight. His whole body seized in a spasm. And the entire image before him stretched thin, unraveling into fraying threads of linen. To the left — blue, and Michael. To the right — shadow, and a white angel. A white angel watching him. Only a silhouette, woven from light. He couldn’t see their eyes, but he could feel their gaze upon him. “You wanted to die so badly. Planned it all out. But when has anything ever gone according to your plan?” Michael went on, a faint smirk touching his lips. No, no, no — NO! Thomas tensed, trying to force his body back under control. It came with terrible effort. “Dreamed of peace? Forget it. You won’t have it.” Thomas stretched out a hand — never before had it trembled so much. His fingers pushed forward as if through thick tunnel mud, slow and heavy. He was reaching for the angel. “Suffer.” Thomas opened his eyes.