Darcy took hold of the doorknob.
When he opened it, he found Timothy sitting in his modest but meticulously kept office.
The man sat behind a dark wooden desk.
Several documents were stacked neatly to one side, while a gas lamp illuminated the centre of the desk.
A brass ashtray, an inkwell, and the cigarette between his fingers completed the space without a single thing out of place.
Timothy’s eyes remained fixed on some papers.
He didn’t even raise his head when Darcy entered.
“Close the door,” he ordered in a monotone voice.
Darcy obeyed, closing the door behind him, and remained standing for several long seconds.
Timothy turned one page, then another.
Darcy waited.
A slight curve at the corners of his lips betrayed his impatience and uncertainty.
The only sounds in the room were the rustling of paper and the faint crackle of the lamp.
The silence lingered a little longer until the Italian’s voice finally broke it.
“So… what did you think?”
Darcy tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.
The question caught him off guard.
“Think of what…? I don’t understand.”
“I’m talking about the pub, carusu. What else could I mean?”
“Ah… right. It seems like a decent place.”
Timothy placed his cigarette in the ashtray and finally looked up.
“Good. It’s good to know…” He moved the papers aside and pointed toward the seat across from him before continuing. “Sit down.”
Darcy looked at the chair and sat down across from him.
Timothy studied him for a moment before speaking again.
“How are you feeling?” He gestured toward his temple, referring to the injury from the butt of the gun.
Without realizing it, the young Irishman touched the dried wound on his temple.
“This? It’s nothing. I’ve been worse,” he replied with a resigned grimace, shrugging his shoulders.
Timothy gave an almost imperceptible smile.
“Yeah… That’s what I used to say when we’d run out of ammunition and food in the trenches.” He picked up his cigarette and took a drag before murmuring, “Could be worse…”
Darcy swallowed at the apparently reflective response.
Another brief silence settled over the office until the man resumed the conversation.
His dark eyes locked onto the Irishman’s.
“Anyway, what can you do, Darcy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve worked at the mine since I arrived in Wigan.”
“I mean before that. What did you do before you came to England?”
Darcy weighed his words.
Suddenly, the salty scent of Galway Bay and the bitter smoke of peat returned to his memory.
For a moment, vivid images of the past surfaced in his mind.
The narrow streets beneath an endless drizzle, the salty smell drifting in from the coast, and the sensation of walking barefoot across wet cobblestones.
The way he used to play with Róisín, running to dodge horse-drawn carts and hiding behind piles of coal at the wharf.
Those afternoons when the tide went out and the two of them ran toward the shore to catch small crabs, snails, and pieces of broken crockery that the sea washed back in.
He also remembered the years he had worked at the docks.
The rough sacks scraping against his neck.
The ice from the fish crates numbing his fingers, and the salt stinging the cuts on his hands.
Abruptly, the sharp clink of two glasses against the desk brought him back to the office.
Timothy had already poured whisky from a bottle of Dunville’s.
Darcy blinked and focused on him again before answering.
“I worked at the docks in Galway. Since I was a boy, I loaded coal that came from Wales and, later, the fish the boats brought into the bay.”
“Do you know how to serve beer? How are you with customers, lad?”
Darcy shrugged and made an expression of indifference.
“No… but I learn quickly, and dealing with people isn’t a problem,” he replied before picking up the glass of whisky in front of him.
Timothy slowly nodded at those last words.
There was a faint glimmer of conviction in his eyes.
“Va beni. Learning quickly is important.”
He took a sip before continuing.
“I hope we can do great things together. A la salute nostra.”
He raised his glass in a toast, and the two glasses clinked.
That sound was the only thing heard throughout the office.
Caught off guard, Darcy looked at the amber liquid, then at Timothy.
Finally, he mirrored the gesture, a casual smile appearing on his lips.
“Sláinte mhaith.”
Timothy raised an eyebrow at the Gaelic.
He let out a low, almost inaudible laugh and set his glass down on the desk.
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll quit the mine. Your only duty will be to get here at eight o’clock sharp in the morning. Not a minute earlier, not a minute later. Without fail.”
Darcy tightened his grip around the glass, feeling its faceted edges press into his fingers.
The man’s statement caught him by surprise.
Yet his expression didn’t move an inch.
He kept his smile, took a slow sip, and let the whisky’s heat burn down into his chest.
“So, does that mean I start tomorrow?”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Timothy immediately shook his head and emphasized his answer by tapping his index finger against the desk.
“You start today.”
“What do I have to do?”
Timothy adjusted his jacket, pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked around the desk.
“First, you’ll learn your job and meet your partner. Come.”
Darcy stood up immediately.
Timothy opened the door, and the two of them walked down the corridor until they reached the pub’s main room.
The place carried on as though nothing had happened.
A noisy atmosphere filled with clinking tankards, roaring laughter, and the thick scent of malt and old wood.
When the two reached the bar, they found a young man of about twenty-four with his back to them, cleaning a shelf full of bottles.
Timothy approached the young man and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The lad turned around and looked up at the two of them.
Darcy studied him critically, taking in every detail of his appearance.
His wavy hair was light brown.
There were faint marks on his face and a pair of brown eyes whose hard gaze still carried a youthful air.
His physical build was complemented by the dangerous calm emanating from his broad shoulders.
“He’s my nephew… Tommy. You’ll help him run the place, and he’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes at Darcy and simply extended his hand with a crooked smile.
“Thomas Fiorenza. Pleasure to meet you. So you’re the fellow my uncle mentioned—the one who’d be starting work here?”
Without preamble, Darcy gave a dry laugh and returned the greeting with the same cordiality.
The handshake was firm and confident, as though they had known each other all their lives.
“Darcy Hallinan… So you already knew I was coming. Who else knew and I wasn’t told?” he asked sarcastically.
Tommy laughed openly, shaking his head.
“Don’t let it surprise you. News travels fast in this pub. The tongues here are quicker than the bursts of a Vickers machine gun.”
They both smiled knowingly and, without missing a beat, Tommy tossed him a dry cloth.
Darcy caught it in mid-air.
With a nod of his head, Tommy pointed toward the opposite end of the bar.
“Then get to work. We’re not here to sit around drinking tea,” he said with a mocking tone.
The clock on the wall already read 11:25 a.m.
Outside, the drizzle had stopped over Scholes’ wet cobblestones, leaving a grey mist suspended above the street.
The place remained busy.
Darcy worked hard while Tommy served customers and kept filling tankards.
Timothy, meanwhile, sat at a table off to the side, observing everything without making the slightest sound.
Suddenly, the pub door burst open.
Ronan Plunkett crossed the threshold without hurry, shaking the droplets of water from the lapel of his dark coat.
He walked in without greeting anyone, ignoring the people sitting at the tables.
His path led directly toward the table closest to the bar, where Timothy was finishing his cigarette.
Darcy watched him from a distance as he approached, never stopping his work of arranging the bottles.
When he arrived, Ronan pulled out the worn leather notebook he always carried inside his green jacket.
He placed it on the wooden table and spoke to Timothy in a low voice.
“Two weeks overdue,” he said flatly, though impatiently, pointing to the paper listing dates and names. “The bastard swears he’s run out of cash because of the strike, but he’s still running the warehouse down the alleys of Millgate.”
Timothy’s expression didn’t change.
He processed the information while taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Seeing him lost in thought, Ronan snapped his fingers.
“Tim, what do I do? Go with Damian?”
Timothy blinked once, shook his head, and removed the cigarette from his mouth.
“No… Damiano is dealing with something else in Higher Ince.”
“And Thomas?”
Timothy scanned the room with his eyes until they stopped at the bar.
“Tommy stays,” he said firmly, resting one arm on the table. “There’s too much going on before midday closing. Take the lad.”
Ronan’s eyes moved between the bar and his boss.
When he saw Darcy, he frowned in confusion but chose not to contradict him.
“You sure?”
Timothy merely nodded without saying anything else.
It was a direct order.
Ronan understood immediately.
He closed the notebook and slipped it back inside his jacket.
He walked toward the bar, where Darcy was setting down the glass in his hands, and watched him approach.
Ronan examined him for several seconds.
Hallinan held his gaze.
He hadn’t heard the conversation between the two men, but he didn’t need to.
He could already tell this had nothing to do with serving beer.
“You got time to get your hands a little dirty?”
“I’m starting today, aren’t I? I suppose there shouldn’t be a problem with that.”
A slight tilt of the head was all Darcy received in response.
Apparently, that was enough.
“Good. I can tell you’re neither naïve nor stupid…” He paused briefly. “Anyway, come on. We haven’t got time.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Ronan was already heading toward the exit.
Darcy followed, grabbing his coat on the way.
As they stepped outside, the fine morning drizzle had left the cobblestones covered in thick, greasy mud, where standing water mixed with the constant soot of the city.
The air scraped against their lungs, carrying the smell of damp coal, chimney smoke, and wet wool.
Ronan adjusted his coat as his heavy boots struck a dry, sharp rhythm against the wet street.
“Where are we going?” Darcy asked, matching his pace with his hands buried in his pockets.
“Millgate. There’s a Scotsman named Arthur Blair. He owes three pounds and he’s been dodging us for two weeks.”
“So he’s using the strike as an excuse, and on top of that he’s selling to the small shops around here?”
Ronan didn’t bother looking at him as he answered.
He kept his eyes fixed ahead as they left Darlington Street behind.
“Not just that. Besides moving around Wallgate and the town centre, we’ve been told he’s been trading with people in Scholes.”
Around them, the street moved in a heavy lethargy.
Two unemployed miners, shivering in a corner with tattered sacks and their hands buried in their pockets, stopped their murmuring when they saw them pass.
Neither spoke.
They simply lowered their heads and pressed themselves closer to the soot-stained brick wall.
Darcy slowly shook his head and gave an incredulous smile at the Scottish merchant’s audacity.
“It’s not just that he doesn’t pay. He’s also got the balls to do business on our turf,” Ronan added as they left Harrogate Street behind.
A cart pulled by a worn-out Percheron passed beside them, making its iron wheels rumble against the cobblestones and drowning out the sound of their footsteps.
“And the idea is to show up at his warehouse, or just leave him a warning?” Darcy asked.
“Those are the same thing,” Ronan replied, adjusting his cuff button just as they crossed into Rodney Street. “That man’s run out of time. His only option is to pay… or pay.”
Rodney Street was soon left behind.
As they moved toward Millgate, the houses gave way to small workshops, depots, and warehouses wedged between blackened buildings.
The smell of coal still clung to the air, but now it mixed with oil, damp wood, and goods that had been stored for far too long.
Ronan slowed as they reached a corner.
“There.”
Darcy followed his gaze.
Across the street stood a narrow dark-brick building with a wooden gate beneath an almost illegible sign.
Several crates and sacks covered with tarps were piled in front of the entrance.
“So he lives above the shop itself…”
Ronan didn’t hurry.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly receptive to how quickly the young man had put the pieces together.
“You’re observant, lad,” he spat onto the pavement before adding, “Good. Saves me having to waste my breath explaining the obvious.”
Without waiting any longer, they walked straight toward the warehouse.
When they reached the gate, Ronan knocked twice.
They waited.
Nothing.
He knocked a third time.
From inside came the hurried sound of crates being moved.
Meanwhile, Darcy chose to look up toward the upstairs window.
As his gaze sharpened, he caught sight of the curtain moving slightly.
A moment later, they both heard a key entering the lock.
Ronan cracked his knuckles.
He stepped forward, fixing his eyes on the wood.
“I want you alert. Don’t get distracted, understood?”
Darcy nodded firmly, though he couldn’t help feeling his heartbeat pounding against his ribs.
But if there was one thing keeping him calm, it was knowing that this feeling… wasn’t fear.