The morning meeting at the Shelby betting shop felt different. Jimmy arrived at eight, finding the family already gathered—Tommy, Polly, Arthur, John, with Billy Kitchen and Danny Whizzbang waiting in the back room.
The atmosphere was tense but purposeful, everyone recognizing they were facing threat that required genuine coordination rather than brilliant individual planning.
Tommy stood at the head of the table, cigarette smoke curling upward, his expression carrying the controlled intensity that marked serious business.
"Jimmy's leading protection strategy for Webb," Tommy said without preamble. "Billy and Danny are co-leads. We're working as team—no one person controlling everything."
Arthur frowned. "Since when do we need three people for one job?"
"Since Jimmy learned that control isn't always strength," Tommy's voice was matter-of-fact. "And since this situation requires coordination with people who won't be managed."
Billy and Danny exchanged glances—both understanding what Tommy was actually saying. They were here to teach Jimmy how to work differently, whether he wanted to learn or not.
Jimmy stood near the table, visibly uncomfortable with the arrangement. Every instinct told him to take charge, design comprehensive plan, assign specific roles.
But he'd made choice last night: try working without manipulation. Actually try, not perform trying while maintaining hidden control.
"Alright," Jimmy said, the word requiring more effort than it should. "Let's coordinate."
---
They spread maps across the table—Birmingham city center, Small Heath, routes between Webb's home and office. Danny marked known IRA meeting locations. Billy added Glasgow intelligence about Birmingham cell members.
Arthur contributed information about Peaky Blinder territories and protection capabilities.
Jimmy's instinct was immediate and overwhelming: synthesize all information, identify optimal strategy, design comprehensive protection plan, assign specific roles to each person.
His hands gripped the table edge. Physical struggle not to take over. Not to leap ahead three moves. Not to turn genuine cooperation into performance of cooperation while maintaining strategic control.
"Billy, what do you think?" Jimmy forced the words out, each one feeling like small death of certainty.
Billy looked surprised—not at the question, but at Jimmy's visible effort asking it. "Glasgow contacts say Birmingham IRA is focusing on symbolic targets. Not trying to kill Webb quietly—they want visible statement about Shelby political expansion."
"Which means?" Tommy prompted.
"Which means they'll hit public locations. Council chambers, maybe. Or Webb's home. Somewhere the message is clear to everyone watching."
Billy traced routes on the map. "We should focus protection on transitions—traveling between secured locations is when he's most vulnerable."
Jimmy's mind immediately spun variations: Better to vary routes unpredictably. Create false patterns to draw attackers into traps. Position observers at key intersections. Establish fallback positions if primary route is compromised. Use decoys to—
He stopped himself. Billy's suggestion was good. Not perfect by Jimmy's standards, but functional. And more importantly: it was Billy's idea, genuinely offered, not performance of cooperation.
"That could work," Jimmy said, the acknowledgment feeling foreign on his tongue. "Let's develop that approach."
Danny added his perspective. "IRA won't attack during heavy foot traffic. Too many witnesses, too much police response. They'll choose times when impact is maximum but escape is possible."
Again, Jimmy's mind leapt ahead to comprehensive planning. Again, he forced himself to just listen, acknowledge, incorporate rather than control.
"Good point," Jimmy said. "What times should we focus protection?"
"Early morning, late evening," Danny said. "Webb leaves home at seven, returns near six. Those transition windows are highest risk."
Arthur shifted impatiently. "This is all talking. When do we actually do something?"
"Now," Tommy said. "Arthur, you coordinate physical security—guards at Webb's home and office. John, you handle route security—eyes on streets, people who can spot trouble before it develops.
Danny, you maintain intelligence gathering. Billy, you coordinate with Glasgow contacts for advance warning."
"And me?" Jimmy asked, recognizing his traditional role—comprehensive coordinator who ensured everything functioned perfectly—wasn't being assigned.
"You facilitate cooperation without trying to control it." Tommy's assessment was blunt. "You make sure everyone communicates, information flows, coordination happens.
But you don't design perfect plan everyone else executes. You enable collaboration where everyone contributes."
The role felt wrong. Insufficient. Full of gaps and uncertainties his previous methods would have eliminated. But it was the only role that respected everyone else's genuine contribution rather than treating them as pieces executing his strategy.
"Understood," Jimmy said, though understanding and accepting were different experiences.
The meeting continued another hour, mapping logistics and coordinating responsibilities. Jimmy participated, offering strategic input when asked, but consciously restraining himself from taking over.
The effort was exhausting—like learning to walk again after injury, every step requiring conscious attention to movements that used to be automatic.
But small successes emerged. Billy presented ideas Jimmy wouldn't have chosen—but they were functional. Danny identified patterns Jimmy hadn't noticed—because Danny actually talked to Irish community rather than just analyzing them as variables.
Arthur's crude approach to physical security was effective despite lacking Jimmy's elegant complexity.
They were working together. Messily, imperfectly, but functionally. And it was happening despite—maybe because of—Jimmy not controlling everything.
---
After the meeting ended, Polly caught Jimmy alone in his office corner. She'd been watching from her desk throughout, that sharp gaze missing nothing.
"Saw you fighting yourself in there," Polly said quietly, setting tea on his desk—Earl Grey, prepared exactly how he liked it, without him asking.
"It's harder than I expected." Jimmy accepted the tea gratefully. "Every instinct tells me to take control. Design comprehensive approach. Ensure optimal coordination."
"But you didn't." Polly settled into the visitor's chair. "Watched you grip that table edge so hard your knuckles went white. Saw you bite back corrections three times. Noticed you literally forcing yourself to ask Billy's opinion instead of just taking over."
"Is it working? Or am I just pretending to cooperate while everyone sees through the performance?"
"You're trying. That's different from performing." Polly's voice was gentle. "Trying means visible struggle. Performing means smooth execution. What I saw was genuine difficulty choosing different path—that's trying, not pretending."
"It feels impossible."
"Most worthwhile things do." Polly stood, preparing to return to her desk. "Keep fighting yourself. Every time you force yourself to ask instead of direct, to incorporate instead of control, to trust instead of manage—that's growth.
Uncomfortable growth, but growth nonetheless."
After she left, Jimmy sat with the tea, experiencing something unfamiliar: gratitude for someone who'd seen his struggle and called it progress rather than failure.
The small recognition mattered more than he'd expected.
---
The afternoon brought meeting with Webb at his council office. Billy, Danny, and Jimmy arrived together—team rather than leader with assistants. The shift in dynamics was subtle but significant.
Webb looked exhausted, dark circles under eyes suggesting sleep had been difficult since Foster's injury. But he was dressed for work, papers spread across his desk, determination visible despite obvious strain.
"We're coordinating protection," Billy said, taking lead naturally. "Want to explain what we're planning and get your input."
The phrasing struck Jimmy immediately. Not "explain what we've designed" but "get your input"—genuine consultation rather than performance of asking opinion about decisions already made.
Billy outlined the protection plan: guards at home and office, monitored routes, intelligence gathering on IRA movements. He explained rationale without condescension, presented complications honestly, acknowledged uncertainties directly.
Webb listened carefully, asking questions that showed genuine engagement rather than polite performance. He asked Danny about IRA patterns—Danny answered from direct knowledge rather than strategic analysis.
He asked Billy about Glasgow intelligence—Billy explained connections and limitations honestly.
Jimmy noticed: Webb responded positively to honest consultation. Engaged genuinely when treated as equal participant rather than protected asset.
The trust they were building was messy and imperfect but functional—exactly what Jimmy's perfect manipulation would have prevented.
"I'm not hiding," Webb said after hearing the plan. "I'm continuing my work. Education funding vote is Tuesday, housing committee meets Thursday. I won't let fear determine my schedule."
"That's strategically unsound," Jimmy said automatically, then caught himself. "But it's your choice."
"It is." Webb met Jimmy's eyes directly. "And that's what you're finally learning, isn't it? That some things are principle rather than strategy. That genuine courage sometimes means choosing values over safety."
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Webb was teaching Jimmy something essential: real human choice introduced chaos into perfect systems, but that chaos was necessary for anything meaningful.
"You taught me everything's strategy," Webb continued, voice carrying irony without bitterness. "Now I'm teaching you some things aren't. Some things are just right, regardless of strategic calculation."
After they left, walking back through Birmingham's afternoon streets, Billy spoke quietly. "You did well in there. Caught yourself mid-correction, acknowledged his autonomy. That was progress."
"Feels like failing at what I'm good at."
"No," Billy corrected gently. "Feels like learning to be good at something different. You're not failing at strategic brilliance—you're succeeding at human cooperation. Different skill, equally valuable. Maybe more valuable."
---
Evening brought them to The Garrison for coordination meeting. The pub's familiar atmosphere—smoke, beer, working-class conversation—felt almost comforting after the day's uncomfortable growth.
They settled in a private snug, documents spread across the table, coordination continuing into evening hours. Billy, Danny, and Jimmy mapping protection logistics while Arthur and John handled physical security arrangements.
Jimmy caught himself planning manipulation three times:
First time: Designing conversation flow to guide Billy toward specific conclusion. Stopped himself, asked Billy's opinion directly instead.
Second time: Crafting question that would make Danny reveal information while appearing to ask innocently. Stopped himself, asked straightforward question honestly.
Third time: Positioning information to make Arthur choose option Jimmy preferred. Stopped himself, presented options neutrally and let Arthur decide.
Each interruption of automatic manipulation was painful. Like relearning basic motor functions after injury. But each time, cooperation continued functioning despite his not controlling it.
"You're getting better at this," Billy observed during break in coordination. "Catching yourself before the manipulation completes. That's significant progress."
"Getting better at being worse at what I was good at," Jimmy said, hearing the bitterness in his own voice.
Danny laughed—rare sound from shell-shocked man. "That's called being human, Mr. Cartwright. We're all bad at manipulating people. You're just learning to be normal like the rest of us."
The observation should have been insulting. Instead, it felt oddly reassuring. Normal human badness at manipulation was better than exceptional skill at violation.
---
After the meeting, Billy suggested walking back through Small Heath together rather than heading separate directions. "Want to show you something."
They walked through evening streets—spring twilight lingering, children still playing in the extended daylight, women calling from doorsteps, men returning from pubs. Normal Birmingham life continuing around them.
"Watch," Billy said, pointing to children playing street football. A boy of perhaps eight kicked makeshift ball with fierce concentration, completely absorbed in the game. "Just watch them. Don't analyze patterns. Don't think about recruitment potential. Don't calculate demographics.
Just see them playing."
Jimmy tried. Watched the children kicking ball between makeshift goals marked by jackets on cobblestones. His mind immediately started: Working-class families, potential future recruits, understand their social patterns, identify natural leaders who could—
"You're doing it right now," Billy said. "I can see your eyes glazing over with analysis. Stop thinking. Just watch."
Jimmy forced his mind quiet. Actually looked at the children as children. The boy with fierce concentration. The smaller girl trying to keep up with older kids. The laughter when someone scored. The argument when someone claimed foul.
Life happening without strategic purpose, without agenda, just children playing because playing was what children did.
For thirty seconds, Jimmy managed it. Actually seeing without analyzing. Experiencing present moment without immediately strategizing about implications.
The thirty seconds felt longer than most days. Present without planning. Experiencing without calculating. Just existing in moment with other humans who were existing in their own moments.
"There," Billy said quietly. "That's what you've forgotten. Life that's not strategic opportunity. People who are just people, not variables. Moments that exist without serving purpose beyond themselves."
They continued walking, Jimmy processing something that should have been obvious: reality was larger than his operations. People existed independent of his strategic calculations. Life continued regardless of whether he was managing it.
The recognition felt like waking from long dream where everything was problem to be solved.
---
Jimmy stopped at the hospital on his way home, visiting Mrs. Price during evening hours when the ward was quieter.
She looked better—color fully returned, breathing easily, sitting up reading a book. When he arrived with fresh flowers (remembered again), she smiled with genuine warmth.
"Cariad. You're looking different."
"Different how?"
"Less haunted. Still exhausted, but less... isolated." She set down her book. "Something changed."
"I'm trying." Jimmy pulled the chair close, sat without immediately strategizing about treatment plans. "Trying to be present like you asked. Trying to work with people without controlling them. Trying to remember how to be human."
"I can see that. The trying is visible." Mrs. Price reached out, covering his hand with hers. "Tell me about your day. Not strategically. Just... tell me what happened."
Jimmy did. Described the morning meeting, his struggle not to take control, Billy and Danny teaching him cooperation. Webb's courage and principle. The walk through Small Heath seeing children just playing.
Small victories and frequent failures, progress that felt like regression, learning that was uncomfortable but necessary.
Mrs. Price listened without interrupting, just being present with him while he talked. Five minutes became ten. Ten became fifteen. Jimmy sat with her, actually present, mind not racing ahead to logistics and planning.
When he finally noticed the time, surprised at how long he'd been there, Mrs. Price squeezed his hand.
"That was lovely, cariad. Actual conversation. You being here with me instead of somewhere three steps ahead." Her eyes were bright. "That's what I've missed. That's the boy I remember—capable of being present, of connecting, of just existing with someone without agenda."
"I'll probably fail again tomorrow. Catch myself strategizing when I'm supposed to be present."
"Probably," she agreed. "But you'll catch yourself and try again. That's all anyone can do. Try, fail, try again. Progress isn't linear—it's messy and full of backsliding. But it's still progress."
Jimmy left the hospital feeling lighter than he had in months. Five minutes of genuine presence with Mrs. Price. Not solving her problems, not planning her recovery, just being there with her.
Small victory. Insufficient victory. But victory nonetheless.
---
The betting shop was nearly empty when Jimmy returned past nine o'clock. Just Polly working late at her desk, reviewing ledgers by lamplight.
She made fresh tea without asking, brought it to Jimmy's office along with her own cup. They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, the kind of companionship that didn't require conversation.
Finally, Polly spoke. "You're trying. I see it."
"Trying and failing and trying again," Jimmy echoed Mrs. Price's words. "Is that enough?"
"It's all anyone can do." Polly sipped her tea thoughtfully. "You want to know something? Tommy asked me the same question after John got arrested that first time—'Is trying enough when consequences are serious?'
I told him then what I'll tell you now: trying while knowing you'll fail is braver than succeeding through methods that guarantee outcomes."
"What if I can't recover what I lost? What if that boy Mrs. Price remembers is gone permanently?"
"Maybe he is," Polly said gently. "Maybe that innocence can't be recovered. But maybe you become something better—someone who knows the cost and chooses humanity anyway.
Someone who understands what intelligence without empathy becomes and chooses connection despite knowing how difficult it is."
She stood, preparing to leave for the night. "That person—damaged but trying, aware but choosing better—might be more valuable than the innocent boy. Because that person knows why the choice matters."
After she left, Jimmy sat in his office reviewing the day. Papers spread around him, but not plans—just notes about coordination, communication, cooperation. Documentation of messy human collaboration rather than perfect strategic control.
The day had been exhausting. Every interaction required conscious effort. Every choice to trust instead of control felt unnatural. Every moment of presence instead of planning was uncomfortable.
But small successes accumulated:
Cooperated with Billy and Danny without controlling them
Let Webb make his own choice about danger
Managed fifteen minutes of genuine presence with Mrs. Price
Watched children playing without analyzing them
Acknowledged others' good ideas even when imperfect
Caught himself mid-manipulation three times
Progress. Insufficient progress. But progress nonetheless.
---
Late into the night, Jimmy worked on coordination documents. Reviewing the protection plan Billy and Danny had developed, making notes about communication protocols, identifying gaps that needed discussion.
He caught himself designing manipulation into the plan.
Mid-sentence, writing: "If we position Webb here, he'll naturally choose—"
Stopped. Read what he'd written. Recognized immediately: manipulating outcomes while pretending to facilitate cooperation.
Jimmy tore up the paper. Started over. Wrote instead: "Present Webb with options. Let him choose based on his assessment of risks and priorities."
The revised approach felt wrong—too uncertain, too dependent on Webb's judgment, too willing to accept suboptimal outcomes.
It was also honest. Genuinely respectful of Webb's autonomy. Actually trusting his judgment rather than manipulating his choice.
Jimmy filed the revised document, experiencing small satisfaction. Caught himself mid-manipulation and corrected course. That was progress—not perfection, but movement in right direction.
---
Near midnight, the phone rang. Danny calling with update.
"IRA contact wants to meet. Discuss terms. Not sure if it's legitimate or trap, but thought you should know."
Jimmy's instinct was immediate: design the negotiation, script responses, control outcomes, position everyone strategically for maximum advantage.
Instead, he asked: "What do you think we should do?"
Brief pause on the line. Danny clearly surprised by actual consultation rather than instructions.
"I think we listen," Danny said slowly. "See what they actually want. Might surprise us—could be looking for de-escalation rather than war. IRA has resources but Birmingham expansion is complicated for them too."
"Makes sense. Set it up. You and Billy lead the meeting, I'll provide support if needed."
"You're not taking lead on negotiation?"
"No. You understand IRA better than I do. Billy has Glasgow perspective I lack. I'd just complicate things trying to control outcomes you're better positioned to navigate honestly."
Another pause. Then: "Alright. I'll coordinate with Billy. We'll handle initial contact, bring you in if necessary."
They ended the call. Jimmy sat holding the phone, experiencing something significant: he'd just let Danny make strategic decision without interference.
Let someone else handle important negotiation without trying to control, manipulate, or ensure specific outcome. Trusted Danny and Billy to navigate complications Jimmy would have insisted on managing before.
Small thing. Huge thing. Surrendering control over significant strategic decision because other people were genuinely better positioned to handle it.
Progress. Real progress. The kind that felt like failure but was actually growth.
---
Jimmy finally left his office near one in the morning, exhausted from the day's emotional labor. Learning to trust was harder than learning to manipulate had ever been. Requiring more energy, more conscious effort, more vulnerability.
But walking home through Birmingham's sleeping streets, he felt something he hadn't experienced in months: hope contaminated by uncertainty rather than confidence built on control.
Tomorrow would bring more struggle. More catching himself mid-manipulation. More forcing himself to trust when control felt safer. More uncomfortable cooperation when perfect planning felt more efficient.
But tonight, he'd made progress. Small victories insufficient for celebration but genuine nonetheless.
Billy would arrive tomorrow from Glasgow with more intelligence. Danny would coordinate IRA contact meeting. Webb would continue his work despite danger. Mrs. Price would recover slowly. Ada would remain distant. Foster would fight for life.
All of it beyond Jimmy's control. All of it requiring trust he was learning to provide. All of it messy and imperfect and unpredictable.
And for first time in eighteen months, Jimmy was accepting that messiness. Not trying to eliminate chaos through strategic brilliance, but learning to work within chaos through genuine human cooperation.
The blood would keep seeping through his ceiling. Morrison's work continuing, violence always present.
But Jimmy was learning that intelligence without humanity was just refined violence. And that choosing to trust people despite uncertainty was stronger than controlling them through manipulation.
He didn't have all the answers. Couldn't predict outcomes. Couldn't guarantee success.
But he was learning—slowly, painfully, imperfectly—that not needing all the answers was actually freedom rather than failure.
Tomorrow: IRA negotiation handled by Danny and Billy while Jimmy supported rather than controlled. Webb continuing his work with protection that respected his autonomy. Continued attempts at presence with Mrs. Price.
More catching himself mid-manipulation and choosing differently.
More trying. More failing. More trying again.
That was enough.
That had to be enough.
Because perfect control had generated catastrophic failure. And messy humanity, however insufficient, was better than isolated brilliance.
Jimmy Cartwright went to bed that night without perfect plan for tomorrow.
And for first time in eighteen months, that felt like progress rather than failure.
The education was beginning. Slow, uncomfortable, imperfect.
But beginning nonetheless.