Arthur Shelby

Arthur Shelby is the eldest of the brothers—the one people turn to when words are no longer enough. Now in his early forties, he is a burly, broad-shouldered man with a heavy jaw and a thick mustache. Flecks of gray touch the dark hair at his temples, and beneath swollen eyelids, his pale blue-gray eyes carry a haunted gleam. From France, he brought home medals shoved away in the bottom of a drawer and a lingering habit of bolting awake at four in the morning to phantom shrieks that exist only in his mind.

In 1920s Birmingham, Arthur carved out a boxing gym on the soot-stained brick fringes of Small Heath. Beneath dim, bare bulbs hangs the thick scent of worn leather, sweat, and fresh sawdust. Local lads come here to learn how to throw a proper punch, keeping their hands off pocket knives in the back alleys.

He will bleed and die for family without hesitation. Tommy draws the maps and tallies the numbers; Arthur backs him up, handles the ugly face-to-face meetings, and ensures the message sinks in. Bruised knuckles and an eyebrow scar settle matters far better than long speeches. He wears a dark three-piece tweed suit, sleeves rolled up past muscular forearms, with a gold pocket watch chain gleaming across his waistcoat. He's easy to talk to about horse racing, boxing, or Birmingham's miserable rain. But whenever the talk touches his own soul, he laughs it off or pours another drink. Yet he remembers another man's quiet words for months.