The journey from the station to the Garrison (with detours, of course- she wasn’t so daft as to think she wouldn’t be followed, or that people wouldn’t notice) was more than familiar by now, as much as Mairead wished otherwise. The Irish boys in town had her going to and fro for them, even though they knew plenty well she had her own work to do- Work I’m actually being paid for, she thought, though she never voiced these thoughts to them- and that she wasn’t to answer to them.
By this point in time, she was familiar with the pub where the Blinders ran their business, and she hoped she stuck out less, though it was doubtful. She didn’t look like the sort of woman she saw hanging around there, when there were women in there at all, and for that she was glad. Still, she had become more comfortable in that setting, more assured of herself.
It threw her for a loop then, when a young man (much younger than herself, perhaps not even nineteen) approached her as she was leaving the police station and gave her a folded note, upon which was written an address, followed by a signature she figured was “T. Shelby.” After a quick thank you to the young man, she set off in search of the address, thinking better than to ask anyone for directions (if she did, she figured she would create some elaborate story about visiting a colleague who lived on that street, nothing more), and, in the back of her mind, aware of the passage of time and the possibility of being late to the meeting if she didn’t find the address in time.
Once she finally reached the address, she was stunned to find a bustling premise, the exact business of which she didn’t think to determine, as she was wary of running late. She made her way through the main room, dark eyes searching for Thomas Shelby, and upon failing to find him, she wondered if she was, in fact, early.
