The four of them headed toward Whelley without saying much.
The wheelbarrow loaded with the stolen crates passed from hand to hand as they made their way through the dark streets.
Owen walked behind the others.
He still felt something strange in his hands.
It wasn’t pain, but something else. Something far more peculiar and unsettling.
He lowered his gaze, still confused.
Dried blood remained caked around his knuckles and fingers.
Images of the murder assaulted his mind like photographic flashes.
He remembered the guard’s face. The way his groans sounded with every blow. Jesse’s hoarse shouts.
Just then, Owen covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.
He inhaled and exhaled slowly. He controlled his breathing, forcing his heart to gradually calm down.
The voices and the metallic smell of blood hammered at his temples until, suddenly…
there was only silence.
A deathly silence.
Reality hit him head-on.
He had finally processed it all.
He had taken someone’s life.
But he felt no remorse or guilt. Only an immense emptiness and… a terrifying sense of power.
The group continued deeper into an alley.
They emerged from the other end, crossed the street, and turned onto Cumberland Street.
They stopped in front of the door of a pub called The Cherry and White.
Jesse knocked three times.
They waited a few seconds until someone finally opened the door from inside.
The yellowish light of a gas lamp partially illuminated a man’s face.
Voices and muffled laughter could be heard in the background.
Despite the late hour, the place was clearly still active.
The man’s eyes moved over the group.
Then they settled on the crate Billy was now holding and, finally, on the wheelbarrow hidden beneath the old tarp.
“I hope they’re all there, Jesse. You know Duncan doesn’t like mistakes, right?”
Jesse nodded once, firmly.
Noticing that distinctive heavy, sweet smell, the man quickly checked the contents beneath the tarp.
Sure enough: four crates of Capstan cigarettes.
Undeclared.
Freshly arrived from Bristol.
And now they were here… in a modest pub in the heart of Whelley.
The man took the crate Billy was holding.
“Quickly. Bring the wheelbarrow inside,” he ordered.
Without question, Jesse pushed the wheelbarrow into the pub.
The door closed behind them.
Owen, Eddie, and Billy remained outside.
They waited.
The minutes passed.
Until the door opened again.
Jesse stepped outside with a wet cloth in one hand and a blue cloth handkerchief tied around something in the other.
He looked at Owen, smiled, and tossed him the cloth.
“Here, you idiot. Clean those hands before they start thinking you’re the Whitechapel Ripper,” he exclaimed mockingly.
Owen caught the wet cloth and began cleaning his hands.
He carefully rubbed his knuckles, slowly wiping away the dark stains.
The four of them set off, leaving The Cherry and White behind.
Billy rubbed his hands together, clearly impatient.
Eddie, meanwhile, was calmer, a cigarette between his lips, but he kept glancing at the bulging blue handkerchief.
“Come on, don’t keep us waiting. Give us our share already,” Billy demanded.
Jesse laughed, untied the handkerchief, and pulled out several coins and banknotes.
“Right, let’s see… that’s twenty-five pounds and twelve shillings, which means…” he muttered as he counted the money before continuing. “That makes six pounds and eight shillings each.”
Owen merely listened and slipped the stained cloth into his pocket.
Eddie coughed after taking a drag from his cigarette.
Billy’s smile widened at the amount.
Jesse began handing out the money one by one.
“Bloody hell, this is better than going to school!” Eddie exclaimed with a crooked grin as he looked at the banknotes.
When he reached Owen, he looked him straight in the eye and placed his share in his hand.
Eddie and Billy watched the exchange.
Visibly uncomfortable with the tension that had arisen.
Noticing Owen’s expression, Jesse’s tone became serious, almost threatening.
“Here. Take it. You saved our bloody arses tonight… that’s all that matters.” He grabbed Owen by the collar of his coat before delivering his final words. “Got it?”
Their eyes met, as if time itself had frozen, until Owen nodded.
He didn’t say a word, but that was more than enough.
“Good…” Jesse released him, turned around, and started walking without looking back. “See you, lads. I’ll let you know if Duncan’s got anything lined up for us.”
“See you,” Billy replied, raising a hand in farewell.
Jesse walked away from the group, disappearing around a corner between Thompson Street and School Avenue.
Eddie and Billy took another route shortly afterward.
Owen remained in the middle of the street for a few seconds.
He looked at the money in his hands and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
He raised his gaze toward Wigan’s night sky.
He slowly exhaled and relaxed his shoulders.
On the walk home, he felt the weight of the entire day come crashing down on him.
The damp cold seeped so deeply into him that it reached his bones.
Every joint felt stiff and heavy, with a sharp pain running through his arms, legs, and knuckles.
He walked through the nearly deserted streets of Whelley until he entered Scholes.
Several minutes later, he arrived home.
He carefully opened the door so as not to wake anyone and quietly closed it behind him.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
He took off his boots at the threshold.
He walked barefoot across the cold stone floor.
The sitting room was dim, lit only by the dying embers of the fireplace.
Upstairs, the creaking of floorboards beneath the straw mattresses confirmed that his family was still asleep.
Owen reached into his coat and pulled out the banknotes.
He searched the entire ground floor for the perfect hiding place to stash the money.
His gaze wandered around the room until it stopped on a picture his mother had hung there.
He felt that this was the right place.
He climbed onto a chair in front of the fireplace and tilted the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
He slipped the banknotes into the gap behind the frame and let the weight of the picture press them against the wall.
Once he climbed down from the chair, he took out the eight shillings along with the stained cloth he had kept in his pocket.
He placed the coins in the centre of the cloth and twisted it tightly to muffle their metallic clinking.
He climbed the stairs carefully.
The wood creaked softly beneath each step.
When he reached the upper floor, he headed down the hallway toward his bedroom.
Along the way, he could hear Catherine and Róisín’s dry snores coming from the other room.
As soon as he reached his own room, he pulled the curtain aside and stepped inside quietly.
He looked toward the only bed on his right.
Darcy was sleeping soundly, his face covered by his pillow.
Owen knelt beside his straw mattress, right in the corner where his boots rested.
They were the same ones he wore to church on Sundays.
Catherine always insisted on having a clean pair so they could look presentable.
He took one of the boots, the cleaner of the two, and pushed the bundle containing the coins all the way into the leather toe.
To secure the hiding place, he rolled up an old wool sock and stuffed it tightly on top, locking the money in place.
He returned the boot exactly where it had been and slipped over to his mattress, which rested on a few improvised wooden planks.
He collapsed onto it, his body relaxing immediately.
With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his eyelids gradually began to close, and he surrendered to the inevitable sleep.
The job was done.
He had brought the money home.
Nothing else mattered.
Tomorrow would be another day.
The following morning…
The grey light of dawn filtered through the thick curtains, drawing thin lines of light across the dark walls of the bedroom.
Outside, the sky was overcast, and a fine drizzle tapped against the windows of every house in Lancashire.
Darcy opened his eyes reluctantly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
He remained beneath the blankets for a few seconds, enjoying the warmth before remembering that he had things to do today.
He then pushed the blankets aside and sat up lazily.
When he turned, he saw Owen asleep on the mattress beside him.
His instincts led him to study him carefully.
His gaze passed over his brother’s relaxed face, followed the sound of his breathing, and finally stopped at his hands.
His knuckles were reddened, with several dark stains still clinging to his skin.
Darcy gave a tired, incredulous smile as he shook his head.
“Same old story again…? It’s pretty clear you never learn, little brother, do you?” he muttered to himself.
He gave it no further thought.
It wasn’t worth dwelling on.
He had probably gotten into a fight with some drunk.
Darcy dressed in silence and left the room.
He went downstairs, careful not to make too much noise.
As his foot touched the final step, a wave of warmth from the ground floor greeted him.
The fire in the fireplace hissed among brief bursts of sparks, and the smell of dampness mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.
Catherine stood beside the table preparing breakfast, while Róisín sat opposite her with a cup between her hands.
Both looked up when they saw him appear.
“Leaving already?” Róisín asked.
Darcy put on his coat and cap as he nodded.
“Yes. I’ve got a few things to take care of.”
Catherine frowned slightly.
“But it’s Thursday, isn’t it? Weren’t you supposed to work today? Did Mr. Webster give you the day off?”
Darcy froze for a moment when he realized that.
Taking a day off work wasn’t something he could afford.
Not in the nearly two years he had been in England, ever since they had left Ireland behind.
From the very first minute he set foot in this city, he hadn’t missed a single day of work.
Even without raises, decent treatment, or the slightest compensation, he had never been absent.
Although the guilt of not having gone to the mine weighed heavily on his chest, he knew this situation was different.
Because this wasn’t about work.
It was something more important.
“Er… yes. Manager Webster gave me the day off,” he lied convincingly.
“Why? Did you have another argument with that idiot Clifford?” Róisín interjected.
“Don’t you want something to eat, son? It’s not good to leave on an empty stomach…”
Darcy looked at the table.
Breakfast was the usual, with little variety.
He smiled at Catherine and reached toward a banana in the basket sitting in the centre of the table.
“I don’t have time. I’ll take this with me.”
He took hold of the doorknob.
“Son, please be careful. With these two weeks of strikes and the police arresting those boys from Rowters Colliery, I don’t know what to think anymore,” Catherine managed to say.
Darcy had already opened the door.
The cold morning air rushed into the house.
“Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll keep out of it… I’ll be back later.”
Darcy closed the door behind him, adjusted his cap, and started walking down the street.
His expression hardened, as it always did whenever he left home, and the introspective boy gave way once again to the man carrying the weight he always bore.
The drizzle had turned the cobblestones into a dark, slippery surface.
The constant drops soaked the brim of his cap and seeped through the heavy fabric of his coat as he walked with his hands buried in his pockets.
He pulled out the banana he had taken from the kitchen, peeled it, and took a bite.
He wasn’t eating because he was hungry, but because of anxiety.
It was that constant need to anticipate everything, to think several steps ahead before anything could go wrong.
Lost in thought, he went over yesterday’s events again and again.
Timothy Calandra.
That unsettling presence.
Ronan and Damian.
And that peculiar proposition.
No matter how hard Darcy tried to anticipate what awaited him at that pub, he couldn’t arrive at an exact answer.
The only thing he sensed was that he had an unavoidable obligation to go.
He quickened his pace while continuing to eat the banana, turning onto a street that led toward the main avenue, Darlington Street.
He continued straight ahead; the clock of St. Patrick’s Church showed that it was a few minutes before seven.
When he turned right, he entered Warrington Lane.
Through the fog and rain, the sign for The Old Armstrong rose before him.
Darcy stopped in front of the pub entrance.
From inside came the muffled murmur of several voices and the smell of cheap beer.
He checked the time on his old pocket watch.
It was exactly seven o’clock.
The wait was over.
He tossed the banana peel onto the pavement and pushed the door open.
The warmth and smell of tobacco immediately enveloped him.
Several tables were occupied in the main room.
Further back, three men stood beside an upright piano.
One hammered away at the keys, another blew into a clarinet, and the third kept time with a banjo while singing in a worn voice:
“Waiting for me, praying for me down…”
Darcy raised an eyebrow the moment he heard the song and surveyed the room.
“Al Jolson… seriously?” he muttered under his breath.
The pub seemed fairly ordinary.
Many were drinking, talking, and even an old man was reading the newspaper with the week’s headline.
Suddenly, a familiar voice threw him off with a theatrical tone.
“Hey, sweetheart, you finally made it!”
Darcy turned his gaze to the right.
Damian was leaning against the bar, that mocking smile spread across his face.
Noticing Darcy’s confused expression, he laughed and approached with a glass of whisky in his hand.
“Blimey, what a miserable face you’ve got on, dolly lass.” He took a sip before continuing. “I told him… Ron’ll have to pay me my four shillings.”
“What? Hold on. Who the hell are you calling dolly lass, you bloody loudmouth?”
Damian let out a dry laugh.
“Relax, don’t get angry, paddy. It was a bloody joke.”
“And what did you bet on me?”
Damian raised his glass as though toasting himself.
“Ronan said you’d shit yourself. I told him you wouldn’t.”
He looked Darcy up and down with that crooked smile that never seemed to leave his face.
“And look at you… here you are.”
At that precise moment, another voice interrupted with indifference.
“Damian, shut your fucking mouth already.”
Ronan appeared, walking toward them with his inscrutable expression.
He stopped in front of Damian and silently studied him.
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the four shillings.
He thrust them into Damian’s chest.
“You just got lucky.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say… bloody hell, Irishmen are a miserable lot,” he muttered as he pocketed the shillings.
Then Ronan fixed his gaze on Darcy.
“And you? Look who finally decided to show up, eh…? Come on. Timo’s waiting for you.”
He moved off without waiting for an answer.
Darcy followed him down the passageway running through the middle of the pub.
When Ronan turned right, he stopped in front of a door.
He nodded toward it.
“It’s in there. Go on in.”
Darcy’s eyes moved from Ronan, who was already walking away, to what appeared to be an office.
He let out a deep sigh.
He moved until he stood directly in front of it.
Then he knocked twice on the wood.
A voice answered from the other side.
“Come in.”