Not bad as a start

"Big moves don't start with noise, they start with noticing what no one else sees."

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March 9, 1919 – Small Heath, Birmingham

The betting shop at Watery Lane buzzed with low constant noise. Men stood shoulder to shoulder with their breath misting in the stale air ang fingers gripping coins and paper slips with quiet urgency.

Every few minutes, someone would shout a bet over the heads of the others, and one of the Shelby boys would jot it down, nod once, and pass the slip down the line.

Behind the desk, Polly Gray sat in her usual spot with posture straight and cigarette resting between two fingers, and eyes sharper.

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. One look was enough to keep the whole room moving.

In the corner, quiet as dust, stood Finn Shelby; or rather, Elliot, the man behind the boy's eyes.

He wasn't meant to do anything but watch today. No one told him that, but it was obvious. The shop had a rhythm, and no one asked the youngest Shelby to join the beat.

So Elliot did what he always did when the world tried to ignore him: he learned.

He'd been watching these pas days. Watching how Polly handled the ledgers, how Arthur shouted louder than he needed to, how John grunted at the regulars and scribbled in shorthand he barely looked at twice. Most importantly, Elliot watched the slips. The paper trail of the empire.

They were everywhere; stuffed in pockets, spilled over the desk and jammed into metal tins. Some were smudged. Some barely legible. And still, Polly caught nearly every one. Still, she managed to balance the chaos.

But it was costing her time. Elliot could see it.

He took a slow and careful step closer to the desk with a bundle of slips in his hands.

Polly didn't look up.

"Finn," she said flatly. "You've been starin' at me for the past ten minutes. Say what you've got to say, or stop breathin' so loud."

Elliot cleared his throat. "The slips, Aunt Pol. They're hard to track and messy."

Her eyes lifted. No warmth. Just a long, steady look.

"Messy," she repeated. "I see. And you've been keepin' books where, exactly? The grammar school?"

He didn't flinch. "No. But I've been watchin'. There's a better way to do it."

Arthur snorted from the back. Someone near the door muttered something and got elbowed into silence.

Polly leaned back slightly, dragging from her cigarette. She didn't blink.

"Go on, then," she said. "Let's hear the clever idea."

Elliot stepped closer and set the bundle on the desk.

"What if we grouped them by race and time? Like morning and afternoon with separate colours for each. Red slips for morning, blue for afternoon. And anything over a quid, we put in its own pile. We keep track of the big ones."

Polly's fingers tapped the desk.

"Colour-coded slips."

"Yeah. And maybe a board. Not for the punters. For us. Race name, odds and who bet what. Just the high-value ones."

"And how long have you been thinkin' on this?"

"Couple days ago."

Polly took another drag. "And you never said a word."

"You were busy."

She leaned forward. "And what makes you think I've missed anything?"

Elliot hesitated. "I don't think you've missed anything. I think you shouldn't have to do all of it alone."

There was a pause. Not long. Just long enough for Arthur to stop fiddling with the tin, and for John to glance over from the chalkboard.

Polly exhaled, smoke curling up toward the wooden ceiling.

"Alright, genius. Do it. But if you make a mess of my desk, I'll box your ears and send you back to changin' lightbulbs."

Elliot didn't grin. Just nodded once.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in the back corner of the shop with slips spread out in front of him. Polly didn't speak and didn't check on him. But he felt her watching.

He sorted by time then by size of the bet. Slips with torn edges went into a separate pile—those were usually folded quickly, handed off by anxious fingers. High-stake gamblers rarely folded anything. They liked to show they had nothing to hide.

By the end of the day, he had three piles, a handwritten tally, and a small board drawn on a scrap of butcher paper.

Polly looked at it that night once the shop emptied.

She didn't speak. Just scanned the grid, her finger pausing on one name.

"Tommy Redden?" she asked.

Elliot nodded. "Bet a quid and a half on a long shot. Did the same thing three days ago. Lost both times. Then yesterday, he bet two pounds on the favourite."

Polly lit another cigarette. "So?"

"Maybe nothing," Elliot said. "But it's unusual. His wages from the mill wouldn't cover that kind of betting."

Her gaze lingered on the name. Then she folded the paper, tucked it into her coat.

"Come early tomorrow," she said. "You'll help open."

He didn't say thank you. She wouldn't want that.