— What are you doing, Tommy?
— Shovelling shit, Curly. Just like you.
— Why're you doing that, Tommy?
— To remind myself what I'd be if I wasn't who I am.
Intelligence is a very valuable thing, innit, my friend? And usually it comes far too fucking late.
It's like a fucking boat, Tommy. Full of heavy cargo, like coal or iron. Sometimes it slips to one end. And the boat tips. I can feel it slipping. And I can feel the boat tipping. But there ain't nothing I can do about it. It's like me fuckin' head's just like this fuckin' black fucking barge! And it just fucking drifts in and out, in and out.
— What happened to your nose?
— You want to have that brother of yours put down.
— Oh, I tried that. He bit the vet.
— Nevertheless the pro-treaty Paddies and the King want the same man dead... Why him?
— Did you ask why in France?
— Yeah.
— So, it's the same answer, because.
— Why me?
— Because.
— Thomas Shelby from where?
— From Birmingham.
— Goodness!..
— No, not much.
— Some part of you...
— I have no parts.
— Some part of you wanted me as well. I know that, I felt it. And sure as hell some part of me wants you still. And no just that part, but... some part of my soul. Some part of my soul. Curious how that is to me and curious that it should be you. Opposites perhaps. Opposite, and that... That thing sticking in my heart, you own, you own part of that heart, you do. You do, Polly. You do.