The morning preparation meeting at the betting shop was tenser than usual. Danny's IRA contact had agreed to meet that afternoon—three o'clock at The Garrison, neutral ground, no weapons, genuine negotiation rather than posturing.
Everyone recognized this was either pathway to de-escalation or trap that would escalate everything.
Arthur wanted weapons ready regardless of agreement. "If it goes wrong, we shoot our way out."
"If it goes wrong, we've already failed," Tommy said flatly. "This is negotiation, not ambush. Violence means we couldn't solve the problem through intelligence."
The irony wasn't lost on Jimmy—eighteen months proving intelligence beat violence, and now the test was whether intelligence could prevent violence without resorting to manipulation that was just violence by other means.
Tommy turned to Jimmy. "You're there to listen and observe. Not to orchestrate. Danny and Billy are handling actual negotiation."
"Understood."
"Actually understood?" Polly asked from her desk, her sharp gaze cutting through any performance Jimmy might attempt. "Or just saying it while planning to manage outcomes anyway?"
Jimmy met her eyes honestly. "Actually. I think. I'll try to just support rather than control."
"That's all we can ask," Tommy said.
---
The team gathered at The Garrison just before three. Danny had arranged private room upstairs—away from main bar's noise, but visible through windows so both sides could verify no additional forces were hidden.
Trust through transparency rather than control through deception.
Tommy positioned himself at the main bar below with Arthur and John, visible but not participating. Presence that said "we're serious and protected" without saying "we're threatening violence."
The balance was delicate.
Upstairs, they arranged the room: table with six chairs, three on each side. Shelby side would be Danny (center, lead negotiator), Jimmy (right, observer and strategic support), and Billy (left, Glasgow perspective).
The positioning made clear Danny was leading, not Jimmy—significant reversal of usual dynamics.
Billy positioned himself outside the door initially—security, but also ready to contribute if needed. Polly watched from the corner of the room, observer rather than participant, but her presence adding weight.
Family matriarch bearing witness.
The IRA representatives arrived at three precisely, Danny having vouched for their safe passage through Peaky Blinder territory. Three men: older leader, younger militant, and security.
Seamus O'Connor entered first—mid-forties, weathered face carrying weight of years in Irish struggle. Not Birmingham born but Birmingham resident for two decades, community leader who commanded respect.
He moved with careful dignity, acknowledging Tommy at the bar with a nod that was neither submissive nor aggressive. Recognition between equal powers.
Michael Reilly followed—late twenties, intensity visible in every movement. The younger generation who'd grown up with stories of rebellion and occupation, less patient than elders but respectful of their authority.
His hand stayed near his coat—no weapon per agreement, but ready for violence if negotiations failed.
Liam O'Brien brought up the rear—security, silent and watchful. His eyes cataloged every detail, every exit, every potential threat.
They climbed the stairs without speaking, entered the private room, assessed the setup. O'Connor nodded approval—fair arrangement, clear positioning, honest transparency.
"Mr. Whizzbang," O'Connor said, Irish accent thick but English precise. "Thank you for arranging this."
"Mr. O'Connor," Danny responded. "Appreciate you coming. Let's see if we can avoid further bloodshed."
They sat. Shelby side: Danny center, Jimmy right, Billy entering from door to take left position. IRA side: O'Connor center, Reilly left, O'Brien right.
The symmetry was intentional, neither side positioned as supplicant or superior.
Jimmy forced himself to settle back in his chair, hands folded on the table rather than reaching for notebook. Observer. Support. Not orchestrator.
The discipline required was immense—every instinct screamed to take control, guide the negotiation, ensure optimal outcomes.
He bit the inside of his cheek, using physical discomfort to anchor himself in the moment rather than leaping three moves ahead.
---
O'Connor spoke first, his voice measured and professional. "We're not here for war. We're here for understanding."
The opening statement was significant—not threat, not demand, but statement of purpose. Jimmy's mind immediately analyzed implications, then forced itself quiet. Danny was lead. Let Danny respond.
"Understanding is what we're after as well," Danny said. "The bombing hurt someone who wasn't combatant. Dr. Foster—she's a reformer, suffragette, someone actually trying to help working families. That's not IRA's usual target."
"No, it's not." O'Connor's acknowledgment was genuine. "The bombing was meant as warning, not assassination. We regret the injury to someone outside the conflict.
But the message needed sending: Shelbys expanding into government threatens Irish community power."
He leaned forward slightly, voice gaining intensity without becoming threatening. "Birmingham has Irish population of five thousand. We're workers, dock laborers, factory men. We've built community here, mutual aid societies, political organizing.
When Shelbys put their man in council, that's English gang gaining legitimate authority over Irish community."
"Webb isn't puppet—" Jimmy started, then caught himself. Not his negotiation. He closed his mouth, face flushing with embarrassment at the automatic interruption.
Danny glanced at Jimmy, a look that said "let me handle this," then turned back to O'Connor. "Webb is independent politician with Shelby connections. He helps working families—Irish families too. Education funding, housing improvements. He's not suppressing Irish community."
"Then why not support Irish candidates too?" Reilly spoke for the first time, his voice harder than O'Connor's. "Show us you're not trying to dominate, that you're willing to share power."
The younger man's intensity was palpable, barely controlled frustration with English gangs controlling everything. O'Connor held up a hand—gentle restraint, acknowledging Reilly's passion while maintaining negotiation control.
"Michael has point," O'Connor said. "If Shelbys are expanding into legitimate governance, Irish need representation too. Not asking you to stop your operations. Asking for share.
Recognition that Birmingham isn't just English criminal territory."
Silence. The request was reasonable—more reasonable than Jimmy had expected. This wasn't demand for Shelby withdrawal or threat of continued violence. This was negotiation between communities competing for limited power.
Danny considered, not rushing to respond. Jimmy watched him think, noting how Danny's shell shock gave him particular quality—no pretense, no performance, just genuine processing of complicated situation.
The authenticity made him credible negotiator in ways manipulation never could.
"What does 'recognition' look like practically?" Danny asked.
---
Billy leaned forward, entering the negotiation naturally. "In Glasgow, we have similar arrangement. Irish community runs candidates in their neighborhoods, we don't interfere. They don't oppose our candidates in ours. Cooperation through clear boundaries."
O'Connor turned to Billy, assessing him. "You're not Birmingham. Why do you care about this?"
"I'm friend who's learning that cooperation beats control," Billy said simply. "And I've seen what happens when communities respect each other's space versus when they try to dominate everything."
The honesty was disarming. O'Connor nodded slowly, recognizing genuine perspective rather than strategic positioning.
"Glasgow model works because both sides accept limitations," O'Connor said. "Can Shelbys accept limitations? Can they share power instead of accumulating it?"
Everyone looked to Danny, waiting for response that would determine whether negotiation continued or collapsed.
Danny glanced at Jimmy—not asking permission, but checking if Jimmy would interfere. Jimmy consciously stayed silent, giving Danny space to make his own call.
"We'd need to discuss with Tommy," Danny said. "But I think we can work with clear boundaries. Shelbys support Webb. Irish run candidate next district over—we don't oppose, just don't actively support.
See how cooperation works before expanding further."
"What guarantee do we have you'll keep your word?" Reilly challenged, his skepticism visible. "You're criminals. Why should we trust gangsters?"
The question hung in the air—fundamental issue of whether agreements between criminal organizations meant anything.
Billy spoke again, his voice carrying weight of experience. "Because we're all criminals here. That's the point. Criminals keep word better than politicians."
He leaned forward, explaining to Reilly directly. "Politicians promise everything, deliver nothing. Make grand speeches about principle, then compromise everything for votes.
Criminals? We promise little, but deliver what we promise. Because our survival depends on reputation."
Jimmy listened, recognizing truth in Billy's assessment. The Shelbys' word was reliable because betrayal meant death, not just electoral loss.
Criminal agreements were more enforceable than legitimate contracts because consequences were immediate and violent.
"I refused to work with Section D again when they came to Glasgow," Billy continued. "Could have made good money, but I gave my word to someone and I kept it.
That's how criminal communities function—word is bond because breaking it means no one trusts you again."
O'Connor studied Billy's face, looking for deception or strategy. Finding neither—just honest explanation of how Birmingham's underworld actually operated.
"What about Webb?" O'Connor asked, turning back to Danny. "He stays in office? Visible symbol of Shelby political power?"
"He stays," Danny confirmed. "But we make clear he's independent. He votes his conscience, not Shelby direction. Irish can verify that—he's already voted against us four times in six months. That independence is real."
Jimmy's hands tightened in his lap. The independence is real was both accurate and strategic ambiguity—Webb was genuinely independent, but within parameters Jimmy had... no. Stop.
That thinking was manipulation. Webb's independence WAS real now, whatever its origins. And O'Connor didn't need to know the complicated history.
Sometimes truth didn't require full disclosure. Sometimes context could be withheld without being deceptive. The distinction felt important but uncomfortable.
---
The negotiation continued another hour. O'Connor and Danny trading proposals, making adjustments, finding middle ground. Reilly interjecting occasionally with sharper concerns, O'Connor mediating between younger militant energy and practical reality.
Jimmy watched, forcing himself not to intervene. Several times he saw opportunities—points where strategic input could guide negotiation toward optimal outcome.
Each time he bit his tongue, let the moment pass, trusted Danny and Billy to navigate without his management.
It was excruciating. Like watching chess game where you see perfect moves but can't touch the pieces. Every instinct screamed to optimize, coordinate, ensure best possible result.
But this wasn't about best possible result. It was about sustainable result. Agreement both sides chose rather than outcome one side orchestrated.
The distinction was everything.
Finally, O'Connor proposed terms: "IRA stops targeting Webb. No attacks on him or his associates. In exchange, Shelbys don't interfere with Irish candidate in Aston district election next month.
Webb remains visible as independent—votes his conscience, not Shelby orders. Monthly meetings between our communities to coordinate on issues affecting both groups."
"Any disputes handled through negotiation, not violence," Danny added.
"Agreed. Violence means we both lose more than we gain. This arrangement serves both communities better than war."
Reilly looked unsatisfied—he'd clearly preferred harder stance. But O'Connor's authority held. The younger man would accept elder's judgment even if he disagreed.
Danny considered the terms, then asked: "And Foster? The woman injured in bombing?"
"We'll contribute to her medical expenses," O'Connor said immediately. "She wasn't target, shouldn't bear cost of message meant for others. It's right thing to do, regardless of politics."
The gesture was significant—acknowledgment of error, material restitution, recognition of shared humanity even in criminal conflict.
Jimmy felt respect despite himself. O'Connor was leader who understood that honor mattered even in violent world.
"I think we have understanding," Danny said, extending his hand across the table.
O'Connor shook it. Firm grip, direct eye contact. "We do."
They poured whiskey—ritual completing agreement. Six glasses, toast to "pragmatic peace." Even Reilly participated, though his skepticism remained visible.
"To avoiding bloodshed," O'Connor said, raising his glass.
"To cooperation that serves our communities," Danny responded.
They drank. Jimmy sipped his whiskey, experiencing something strange: satisfaction that felt different from strategic victory. This wasn't triumph achieved through manipulation.
This was compromise reached through genuine negotiation where both sides gave up something to gain something.
Nobody won completely. Nobody lost catastrophically. Just pragmatic arrangement that served mutual interests without perfect optimization.
---
After the Irish left—carefully escorted back through Shelby territory with same safety they'd arrived under—the Shelby team gathered for debrief.
Arthur was frustrated. "We gave up too much. Should've demanded more, threatened harder."
"We gave up nothing we needed," Tommy corrected. "Got everything essential. Webb stays safe, we keep political operations, they get recognition and Irish candidate in Aston. That's victory."
"Doesn't feel like victory," John said.
Polly spoke from her corner. "That's because real victory never does. It feels like compromise. Like everyone giving up something to get something else. If it felt triumphant, it wouldn't be sustainable."
Tommy turned to Jimmy. "You handled that well."
Jimmy blinked, surprised. "I didn't do anything. Just sat there."
"Exactly. You let Danny and Billy work. Didn't try to control the negotiation. Didn't intervene with strategic corrections."
Tommy's approval was genuine. "That took more strength than orchestrating would have."
The assessment landed strangely. Jimmy had spent the entire negotiation feeling like he was failing—not optimizing, not controlling, not ensuring perfect outcome.
But Tommy was calling that restraint strength rather than weakness.
"Danny did the actual work," Jimmy said. "I just... supported."
"That's coordination," Tommy said. "Real coordination where everyone contributes rather than one person controlling everything. You're learning."
After the others dispersed, Tommy kept Jimmy back for private conversation.
"I'm proud of you," Tommy said quietly. "Not for the outcome—though outcome is good. For how we got there. You surrendered control to let genuine negotiation happen. That's harder than any strategic brilliance you've demonstrated."
"It felt like failing."
"I know. But it wasn't. It was succeeding at something different—human cooperation instead of strategic domination."
Tommy paused. "The old you would've designed perfect plan that satisfied everyone through manipulation. This negotiation wasn't perfect, but it's sustainable because both sides chose it genuinely."
Jimmy nodded slowly, processing the distinction. Perfect manipulation versus imperfect authenticity. Optimal outcome versus chosen outcome. Control versus cooperation.
"Keep doing what you're doing," Tommy said. "Keep trying despite it feeling wrong. Keep choosing trust over certainty. That's how you actually recover what you lost."
---
Jimmy walked home through Birmingham's evening streets, the spring twilight lasting longer now as April progressed toward May. The negotiation kept replaying in his mind—not with strategic analysis, but with genuine reflection.
O'Connor had been reasonable. Reilly passionate but respectful of elder authority. The IRA wasn't faceless enemy—they were community trying to survive in city where English gangs controlled everything.
Their concerns were legitimate even if their methods included violence.
And the resolution... it satisfied nobody perfectly. Shelbys didn't get complete control. IRA didn't get Shelby withdrawal. Webb stayed visible but independent. Both sides gave up something to gain something.
Messy compromise that perfect systems would reject. But compromise both sides had chosen rather than outcome one side had imposed.
Jimmy recognized the pattern emerging over past days: genuine human cooperation was messy, inefficient, imperfect. But it was also sustainable in ways perfect manipulation could never be.
Because people who chose their arrangements defended those arrangements. People who were manipulated into arrangements eventually recognized the manipulation and rejected everything.
He'd spent eighteen months proving intelligence beat violence. Now he was learning that genuine cooperation beat intelligent manipulation.
The lesson was uncomfortable but essential.
---
Back at the betting shop for evening coordination meeting, the atmosphere was lighter than it had been in weeks. The IRA threat had de-escalated through negotiation rather than violence.
Webb's protection could scale back from crisis-level to sustainable monitoring. Foster was stable—still critical but improving. Ada remained distant but the immediate crises were resolving.
Not perfectly. Not completely. But adequately.
Tommy gathered everyone for brief assessment. "Good work today. Danny, Billy—excellent negotiation. Jimmy—strong support. Arthur, John—security held without being provocative. We all contributed."
The collective acknowledgment felt different from Jimmy's usual sole credit for strategic success. More sustainable. More honest. Less dependent on single brilliant individual.
"What happens if IRA breaks agreement?" Arthur asked.
"Then we handle it," Tommy said. "But they won't break it lightly. O'Connor's word is solid—he's community leader who keeps commitments. And we'll keep ours. That's how cooperation works."
After the meeting, Jimmy found Polly at her desk.
"You were right," he said. "About perfect systems failing catastrophically. About needing human elements I'd eliminated. About everything."
Polly looked up, her expression softening slightly. "I take no pleasure in being right, boy. Just relief you're finally seeing it."
"The negotiation today—it wasn't perfect. Nobody got everything they wanted."
"That's what makes it sustainable," Polly said. "Perfect victories through manipulation collapse when manipulation is discovered. Imperfect compromises through genuine cooperation last because both sides chose them honestly."
"I'm never going to be good at this, am I? The cooperation, the trust, the presence. I'll always struggle against my instinct to control and optimize."
"Probably," Polly agreed. "But struggling and trying is better than succeeding through violation. Your discomfort is evidence of growth, not failure."
---
That evening, Jimmy visited the hospital. Foster was conscious for the first time since the bombing—weak, heavily medicated, but aware. Webb sat beside her bed, holding her hand with careful tenderness.
Jimmy stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to enter. This felt like private moment, intimate grief and relief he had no right to intrude upon.
Webb noticed him, gestured him in. "She's awake. Doctors say she'll recover—slowly, with complications, but she'll live."
Jimmy approached the bed carefully. Foster's eyes tracked him, recognition visible despite medication haze.
"Mr. Cartwright," she said, voice barely above whisper. "Heard the IRA agreed to stop. That's... good."
"I'm sorry you were hurt," Jimmy said, the words feeling inadequate. "You were positioned visibly in the campaign for legitimacy. I never considered that visibility meant vulnerability. That was my failure."
"Not just yours," Foster said. "I chose to work in politics. Knew it was dangerous. But..." She paused, gathering strength. "Would've appreciated knowing full scope of danger. Whose operations I was actually serving."
The gentle accusation landed accurately. She'd believed she was serving reform politics. Actually, she'd been asset in Shelby criminal expansion. The distinction mattered.
"You're right," Jimmy said. "You deserved full truth about what you were part of. I should have told you."
Foster closed her eyes, exhausted. Webb stood, indicating they should leave her to rest.
Outside her room, Webb spoke quietly. "She'll never work in politics again. The trauma, the injuries—she's done with public life. But she's alive. That's something."
"Because of negotiation Danny and Billy conducted," Jimmy said. "Not because of any strategic brilliance I contributed."
"Because you let them conduct it," Webb corrected. "The old you would've controlled the negotiation, ensured optimal outcome through manipulation. This you stepped back, let genuine cooperation happen. That's growth."
They walked toward the exit together. "You're still a bastard," Webb said, voice carrying irony without malice. "But you're becoming honest bastard. That's progress."
---
Jimmy returned to his office above Morrison's butcher shop past midnight. The blood had stopped seeping hours ago—Monday night, Morrison closed early.
He sat at his desk, papers spread around him documenting the day's events. The negotiation. The compromise. The imperfect resolution that served both communities adequately if not perfectly.
For eighteen months, he'd proven intelligence beat violence. Achieved everything through strategic manipulation. Become exactly what Tommy hired him to be.
And today he'd succeeded at something different: enabling genuine cooperation without controlling it. Supporting negotiation without orchestrating outcome. Trusting other people to navigate complications he would have insisted on managing.
The success felt strange—less triumphant than his usual victories, more sustainable than his perfect manipulations.
Danny had been right about IRA wanting de-escalation. Billy's Glasgow perspective had provided crucial insight. O'Connor's reasonableness had enabled compromise.
Even Reilly's skepticism had kept negotiation honest by preventing either side from becoming complacent.
Everyone had contributed. Nobody had dominated. Messy human cooperation achieving what perfect strategic control couldn't.
Jimmy made notes for tomorrow's coordination—not comprehensive plan dictating everyone's actions, but framework enabling continued cooperation. Suggestions rather than directives. Trust rather than control.
The work continued. Problems never ended. But his approach was changing—slowly, uncomfortably, imperfectly.
Progress. Real progress. The kind that felt like failure but was actually growth.
The blood would keep seeping through his ceiling. Morrison's work continuing, violence always present beneath surface.
But Jimmy was learning that choosing cooperation over control, accepting imperfection over forcing perfection, trusting others despite uncertainty—these weren't weaknesses. They were strengths he'd mistaken for vulnerabilities.
Intelligence was better than violence. But humanity was better than pure intelligence.
The lesson was uncomfortable but essential.
And Jimmy Cartwright, brilliant strategist learning to be human again, sat in his office past midnight and acknowledged:
Sometimes messy compromise achieved through genuine cooperation was better than perfect victory achieved through strategic manipulation.
Not because it was optimal. But because it was sustainable.
And sustainability—relationships that lasted, agreements that held, cooperation that continued—that was worth more than any perfect plan that collapsed when manipulation was discovered.
The negotiation was over. The compromise was reached. The immediate crisis was resolving.
And Jimmy had learned something more valuable than any strategic technique:
That letting other people solve problems in their own ways was harder than solving problems himself.
But also more sustainable. More honest. More human.
Progress. Imperfect progress. But progress nonetheless.