Darcy’s confused gaze shifted between the glass of whisky in front of him and the Italian.
Timothy, meanwhile, wore a faint smile.
There was something resembling interest in his eyes.
At that moment, he nodded with conviction and pointed at him.
“That’s precisely why I chose you. I’m never wrong.”
Darcy frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
“When I saw you fight last night, there was something about you that caught my attention…” He poured himself another glass of whisky before continuing. “The way you kept defending yourself despite taking such a beating was… artistic.”
He glanced at Darcy’s glass, which the young man still hadn’t touched.
He nodded toward it.
“Have a drink. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”
Darcy cautiously picked up the glass.
He took a small sip before answering.
“I don’t understand…”
“Your mother’s name is Catherine Hallinan, isn’t it? Her maiden name is MacCormack… She raised you well.”
Darcy’s eyes widened.
He clenched his fists, gripping his trousers.
“How the hell do you know my mother’s name, you bastard…?” he spat through clenched teeth.
Timothy leaned slightly forward.
The cigarette smoldered between his fingers.
His faint smile remained unchanged.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters… is that I need men like you.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes.
He still couldn’t quite understand what Timothy meant.
“Men like me?” he repeated incredulously.
Timothy calmly took a drag from his cigarette.
“You said it yourself: ‘at least my reasons are honest,’ and you were right.” He flicked the ashes onto the floor before continuing. “Besides, I know you weren’t lying to me. Not once.”
“And what do you know about me? You don’t know anything.”
Timothy exhaled deeply.
As though he were being forced to explain himself for no good reason.
“I know you work at Trema Colliery, that your partner Henry died three days ago, and that you have two siblings, Róisín and Owen. You’re an honest, hardworking family.”
Darcy was stunned.
Something inside him wanted to run or demand answers.
But he did neither. His mind was still trying to process how a stranger could know so much about his life.
He clenched his jaw.
His blue eyes locked onto Timothy.
“Have you been following me?”
Timothy slowly shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
Darcy ran a hand over his forehead.
He was beginning to grow frustrated. None of this made any sense.
His breathing grew uneven, and his patience was wearing thin.
“Then if you know so much about me, why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?” he asked, raising his voice. “Why the hell did you go through all the trouble of bringing me here and making me drink as if we were sitting around talking about horse racing?! What the fuck do you want?!”
Darcy’s shout echoed through the empty room.
He felt a pressure in his chest.
But he wasn’t going to show weakness. Never.
Timothy listened without interrupting.
When he noticed the young man’s glass was empty, he poured him more whisky.
“Tell me, why were you there last night? What was a humble twenty-year-old miner doing in a betting house?”
“You already know that…”
Timothy gave a dry laugh.
“Believe me, I don’t. Answer my question.”
Darcy held his gaze.
He wiped the still-wet blood from his eyebrow with the back of his hand.
“The bloody landlord unfairly raised my rent… and I needed money, that’s all.”
“And your best idea was to gamble? Why?”
At first, Darcy didn’t want to answer.
Then he slowly exhaled, his expression weary.
“Because I refuse to let my family end up on the fucking streets. I couldn’t bear it… so I’m going to get that money, even if I have to die trying.”
His words hung in the air.
Ronan and Damian exchanged glances.
The confession seemed to have caught their attention.
Timothy smiled faintly.
He had heard plenty of excuses from desperate men.
This wasn’t one of them.
Darcy wasn’t asking for help.
He was announcing that he would do whatever was necessary.
And that was precisely what Timothy had been looking for.
Suddenly, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit.
He pulled out an old watch and placed it on the table.
When he set it face down, a pair of engraved initials could be seen.
“E.H.”
Darcy froze, unable to believe he was seeing his father’s watch again.
“Your father must have been a good man… I’m sorry for what happened to him. Do you want to talk about it?”
Darcy picked up the watch.
He stared at it as though he could see the past within it.
He rubbed his thumb over the letters and, hearing the probing tone in Timothy’s voice, clenched the watch in his fist.
He had always avoided any conversation about what had happened that day, but now he knew this wasn’t the time to dodge the subject.
Darcy took a deep breath before beginning to speak.
“It was in ’18. I remember it was April because the British government wanted to extend compulsory military service to Ireland.”
Darcy paused.
He took a sip from his glass, feeling the whisky burn his throat.
He exhaled once more before continuing.
“My father and I had gone to the market square in Galway. During the protest, the police started forcibly dispersing the crowd… and that was when an officer from the Royal Irish Constabulary…” he continued, his voice slightly strained.
Timothy listened in silence.
So did Damian. Even his smile had disappeared at the mention of that name.
Royal Irish Constabulary.
Ronan grimaced in disgust.
“The RIC… those fucking bastards… traitors,” he muttered.
“Then he cornered me in an alley, accusing me of being a republican rebel or a Sinn Féin sympathizer. He beat the hell out of me and… when my father intervened…”
Darcy lowered his head.
He felt a knot in his throat.
The words wouldn’t come.
He gripped the watch tighter, as though holding onto it could somehow bring back a piece of what he had lost.
He remained silent for several seconds before gathering the strength to continue.
“My father pushed the officer away and shielded me… and the bastard… pulled out his revolver and shot him at point-blank range right in front of me. I tried to help him, but by the time I did, my father was already dead… I still remember that night, when I had to tell my mother…” he spat the last words through clenched teeth.
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Darcy slammed his fist against the table, his frustration barely contained.
“If only I’d been more of a man… damn it…”
Timothy picked up his whisky, took a sip, and pointed at the watch.
“Your father protected you. He looked after your safety, and perhaps you’re more of a man than he ever imagined you would be.”
Darcy lowered his gaze to the watch.
He opened it to make sure it was still working properly, then closed the cover again.
“You didn’t know him. You don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“Perhaps not, but you still gambled the only memento you had of him to pay the rent and save your family. Not just anyone would do that. It says a lot about you, boy.”
Darcy said nothing.
He remained silent, considering Timothy’s words.
Damian and Ronan kept their expressions neutral.
Silent.
They didn’t want to get involved.
Especially after Timothy had already told them to keep quiet twice.
“What time do you usually wake up?”
Darcy raised an eyebrow at the Italian’s unexpected question.
“Four-thirty or five in the morning. Why?”
“There’s a pub on Warrington Lane. It’s called The Old Armstrong. I want you there at seven sharp.”
Darcy blinked in confusion.
“What?”
Timothy stood up, signaling that the conversation was over.
Damian and Ronan started toward the exit.
Timothy took his black coat from the back of the chair and put on his hat.
“See you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“But… I have to work tomorrow.”
Ronan passed him and gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“That won’t be necessary, lad,” he replied with a flippant smile.
Damian chuckled as he walked away with his hands in his pockets.
When the two of them left the warehouse, Timothy stopped in the doorway.
He didn’t turn around.
He only spoke a few final words before leaving.
“Oh, right. I almost forgot… Timothy Calandra. Pleasure to meet you, Darcy.”
The door closed, its echo reverberating through the room.
Darcy kept staring at the floor, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened.
The room’s only light shone down on him.
He finished his drink in one gulp.
He slipped the watch into his pocket.
He stood up and left the warehouse.
The cold afternoon air hit his face.
He stood outside the building for a few seconds.
He lit a cigarette.
He took a deep drag.
And started walking.
Darcy didn’t know what to think about what had happened or about Timothy.
At least he had recovered the only sentimental memento he had left of his father.
But now there was another matter to deal with.
Tomorrow at seven.
On Warrington Lane.
And for some reason, he felt as though he had no choice.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in Wigan…
Owen walked through the streets of Higher Ince, near the wharf.
He wore the same clothes as always.
A white shirt, his reinforced-soled boots, and his old coat that had once belonged to Ernan.
He looked over his shoulder.
No one seemed to be following him.
He kept walking until he reached a corner where three boys were waiting, leaning against a brick wall.
The red-haired boy raised his eyebrows when he saw him arrive.
“Hey, you’re six minutes late.”
“I know, I know…” Owen replied as he greeted them one by one.
The group watched the wharf from a distance, where several barges sat in the water and two officers guarded the perimeter.
The second boy, Eddie, turned toward the red-haired boy.
“How much longer, Jesse? I’m starting to think they gave us the wrong information.”
Jesse checked his watch.
“About… three minutes. He should be here any moment.”
Owen looked back toward the wharf beside the canal.
One of the officers was slowly walking alongside the barges.
The other remained near the entrance.
“The guard at the entrance will be easy to distract. The problem is the one on the wharf.”
Exactly three minutes passed.
A figure appeared in the distance.
Jesse watched carefully.
“Alright, there he is.”
All four fell silent.
A barge moved slowly along the canal until it reached the stone wall.
It was loaded with crates.
Once the wooden hull gently bumped against the edge, the boatman jumped onto the wharf with a thick rope in his hands and secured it around an iron post.
One of the guards patrolling the area immediately approached.
“Cargo?”
The boatman pulled a stack of crumpled papers from inside his jacket.
“General merchandise, you know. Everything’s on the manifest.”
The guard took the documents.
He began looking them over.
“Officer, would you mind if I used the lavatory? The trip to Bristol will be a long one.”
The guard raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on the papers.
“Sure, go over there.” He pointed with his thumb.
The boatman nodded and headed toward the wooden latrines beside the canal.
Jesse watched carefully, still hidden beside the brick wall.
“Eddie, Billy.” He turned his head and ordered in a low voice. “Go to the wharf entrance. Pretend to fight, shout, make the first guard leave his post. Owen and I will go for the cargo.”
The two boys nodded and slipped toward where the first guard was stationed.
Owen and Jesse stayed behind, crouched behind a pile of coal sacks.
A few seconds later, Eddie and Billy’s shouts echoed near the main entrance.
Fake insults.
The sound of bottles breaking.
The guard at the entrance reacted immediately and ran toward the commotion.
They moved crouched along the coal, doing their best to stay out of sight.
Owen reached the edge of the wharf first.
He looked down.
The canvas covering the bow had been partially pulled back.
The wooden crates were exposed.
They both slipped their hands beneath one of the crates.
“On three.”
Owen gritted his teeth.
“One… Two… Three.”
They managed to haul four of them up to the edge of the wharf.
Both gasped for breath. They needed to find an easy way to transport them.
Jesse carefully looked around and spotted a wheelbarrow at the edge of the dock, near a moored barge.
Once they had the wheelbarrow, they loaded the crates one by one and covered them with an old tarp.
“Done. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jesse muttered breathlessly as he gripped the wheelbarrow with visible effort.
Owen grabbed the last crate and hoisted it against his chest, gripping it tightly with both arms.
They slowly slipped between the piles of coal and a steam crane.
Night was beginning to fall.
At that moment, they heard a noise.
Both froze, hiding among a pile of large debris.
Owen slowly raised his head.
The boatman was still in the latrine.
The first guard was returning to his patrol after driving Billy and Eddie away from the entrance.
The second guard, who had finished checking the papers, was heading back toward them.
“Damn it, what do we do now, Jesse?”
“We’ll go around him. It’s the only way.”
Owen nodded firmly.
The two tried to move carefully.
The guard was getting closer.
Every step sounded heavy and deliberate.
Owen held his breath.
Cautiously, they moved around the debris, waiting for the man to walk past them. Then they slowly advanced, weighed down by the crates.
The exit was only a few yards away.
Jesse led the way with the wheelbarrow, struggling to keep the three crates balanced.
They quickened their pace despite the weight they were carrying.
They hurried around a corner between the containers.
Suddenly, they stopped dead.
They came face-to-face with the guard from the entrance.
Owen and Jesse immediately went pale.
The guard stared at them in surprise, his eyes widening.
Then he noticed the bag Jesse was carrying.
“You fucking rats,” he spat hatefully.
Immediately, the man’s hand shot toward the upper pocket of his chest.
He was reaching for the chain of his metal whistle.
Owen didn’t think twice.
He dropped the crate.
Instinct and adrenaline took control.
He lunged at the guard before his fingers could touch the chain.
He punched him square in the face.
The impact was sharp.
The guard staggered backward with a grunt.
Owen gave him no time to react.
He threw himself on top of him, striking him again and again.
“Owen, stop!” Jesse abandoned the wheelbarrow and grabbed him by the coat. “For fuck’s sake, enough!”
Blood splattered.
A tooth went flying.
Every blow was violent and savage.
His knuckles turned red.
When he finally stopped, the guard was no longer breathing.
A thick haze of shock paralyzed him as he stared at his trembling hands, covered in blood.
Jesse grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him away from the body.
“Come on, you bloody maniac! There’s no time. We have to go!”
Once they were out, they put as much distance as possible between themselves and the wharf.
They met Billy and Eddie at the spot they had agreed upon beforehand.
The two boys watched them approach.
First Jesse.
Then Owen.
When Billy noticed Owen’s vacant stare and his bloodied hands gripping the crate, he put both hands on his head.
Eddie blinked and took several steps backward before muttering,
“What the hell…?”
Owen fixed his eyes on him.
His lips parted, but he couldn’t answer.
Jesse intervened.
“Listen to me. Nothing happened here. Forget it. Is that clear?”
They all looked at one another and nodded at the same time.
“Alright…” Owen finally managed to say with a trembling sigh.
Finally, the four of them left Higher Ince.
Night had already fallen.
The job was done.
There was money to collect.
But for Owen…
this was nothing more than a door.
A door that should never, ever have been opened.