The Ballad of Tommy Shelby (written by Steven Knight. Narrated by Cillian Murphy)
The boy had something; you know. One of them kids walks around so brave and quiet behind the sleepy lids. Never made a sound he didn’t mean you to hear. Like a stare from behind when you turn and it’s there. But for a laugh with a stick, not to rob you, he’d come out of the fog—not to rob you, just to scare you and make you laugh. Not like the boys from his street in their charity boots—Walking barefoot on his own smoking passing clouds he’d say something softly and you’d think “This lad, this kid, what’s in there? That stare? What’s he waiting for? This Tommy boy?”
And once to save a horse he used a stick on a drunk and they had to pull him away or the man would be dead. They whispered, “Get him away from here, that man has friends.”
So, it was 1915 and he enlisted and went where they said. The boy had something and the stare and the lids went away in a ship to fight a million other kids and they all drew straws to see who eventually died and the kid came home knowing everyone but the horses lied. He said out loud: “I am the horse and I am the reins but I’ll cut the fucking reins and let the horse go her own way because nothing you’ve shown me makes me believe in anything. So, I’ll gather up my brothers and we’ll gamble our souls away.”
So, we’re burning all the bridges and burning the past and we’ll tell the sons of bitches that this is a new day. And when the poor returning soldier won’t give up his gun and he turns it on the father, the ghost, and the son because not one of your prayers made it out of the gas. You can take your fucking medals and stick them up your ass.
I was underground already so what the fuck. Like a mouse or a signifier of the latest fuck up. You see beneath the waves of mud you go fishing for what’s up and the first thing you know is the sound of rockets from a truck. The earth above you shaking like bone marrow. Hold your ears and think “Wait.” Up it comes, then down. Alive. Fuck. And no one digs you out just to bury you back because you’re underground already and that was your luck. And Polly wrote you letters. And you tried not to look up until someone blows a whistle and you vomit your courage into a government cup.
You remember the time when horses had little souls. Now they’re dancing in the mud and the waterlogged holes and jaw to jaw nailed by noise. No survives this. Say farewell to the boys.
And you say softly, “In the bleak midwinter.”
Then, by some miracle, they sail you home to the place you used to be. And the barman says: “Tommy, I heard you died. Well, anyway, what is that you want?” And you say: “I’d like a fucking explanation” or “Okay, just a whiskey shot.” He says: “Did you run?” You say: “No. I dug a hole. I got out because someone wanted to only save the un-shot.”
It wasn’t about what you deserved, but about what you got. And I got out of the hole and into a Mercedes-Benz and I drove to the place where the old morality ends. I became the soldier of the living lost. The king and protector of the forgotten past. Never once remembering anything except what must come next.
You must never ever forgive me for the rest of what I did.
I came out of the fog a sleepy-eyed kid.
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