"It's Tommy. Tommy Shelby." Part of him expects recognition, even though he knows it's unlikely in this strange little place, but the Shelby name is well spun into the fabric of Birmingham, he's forgotten what it's like to be anonymous.

The stack of spirits saunter over, if three knobbled beings balancing on each other's shoulders can be said to saunter, and the bottle appears between their fingers, the wineglass refilled and they retreat to the other side of the bar.

"Strange that," Tommy says, his tone level, inclining his head in their wake.