Darcy could not take his eyes off the shaft.
His breathing came in short, uneven breaths.
His hands were covered in black dust.
He could not remember when they had started trembling.
Around him, the mine had come to a standstill.
Some men ran.
Others shouted orders.
More than one pressed his cap against his chest.
But Darcy remained motionless.
“Bring more lamps!”
“We need doctors!”
“Notify the families!”
A foreman shoved curious onlookers out of the way.
Another tried to organize a rescue team.
The engineer remained seated in front of the enormous steel drum.
No one could get a response from him.
The chaos continued well into the night.
Rescuers descended again and again. Some bodies took hours to be brought back up; others never came up whole.
Two days after the funeral...
Evening fell over Wigan.
The sky, stained a dirty orange beneath the industrial grey, seemed to press down on the city's rooftops.
Darcy walked slowly through the streets.
His face was utterly expressionless.
His blue eyes seemed lost, empty, and dull.
The factories continued to spew smoke.
Men returned to their homes after another day's work.
Some Englishmen talked about rugby.
A few Irishmen argued over the latest match between Celtic and Linfield.
Others debated wage cuts or the latest newspaper article.
A group of children ran after a ball made from rags.
The city kept breathing.
Darcy lit a cigarette.
He continued walking.
As he turned a corner, the row of terraced houses in Scholes came into view.
He recognized his own by the clothes hanging behind the window and the smoke escaping from the chimney.
Catherine, his mother, must already be preparing dinner.
A small bunch of dried shamrocks hung from the doorframe, already wilted from the passing months.
Catherine insisted on replacing it every spring.
She said that as long as that shamrock remained there, Saint Patrick would never abandon the Hallinan home.
Darcy did not know whether he believed in such things.
Because after losing his father... and now Henry...
He was no longer sure what to believe.
Along the way, he dropped his cigarette to the ground.
He stopped for a moment in front of the door.
Then he turned the handle and stepped inside.
The warmth of the kitchen enveloped him as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The smell of stew replaced the damp coal of the mine.
Catherine stirred a pot over the fireplace while Róisín finished folding some sheets that were still damp.
Owen sat beside the table, repairing an old boot with needle and thread.
All three looked up at the same time.
“I'm home,” Darcy said as he removed his coat.
The three of them looked at him.
His mother was the first to react.
Catherine approached him with the same smile she always wore.
“Hello, my boy... Feeling any better?” she asked, taking his face between her weathered hands.
Darcy nodded.
“I'm fine, Mum.”
Róisín smiled faintly.
She approached and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“That's good. Your bath is ready.”
Owen looked at Darcy from the table and flashed a crooked smile.
“Ey up, lad. Anything new today? Another pit accident?”
“Owen!” Catherine scolded.
Owen raised his hands, still wearing his lopsided smile.
“Sorry, Mum. Just asking.”
Róisín rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Don't mind him. He's like this because Mr. Cooper only gave him half his wages.”
Darcy let out a brief laugh.
It sounded more tired than amused.
“Yes, I can see that.”
Owen made a dismissive face without losing concentration on the needle and his boot.
“That bloody old bastard... One day I'll give him what he deserves,” he muttered without taking his eyes off the boot he was sewing.
Some time later, Darcy finished bathing beside the fireplace.
The water in the tub had turned completely black.
He put on clean clothes and returned to the kitchen.
Catherine went back to the pot and carefully served the stew.
Her children took their seats one by one.
She filled Owen's plate first.
Then Róisín's.
Then Darcy's.
Hers was the last.
When the spoon scraped the bottom of the pot, barely enough remained to cover Catherine's plate.
A heavy silence fell over the table.
Everyone began eating as though nothing had happened.
As dinner continued, Owen looked at Darcy.
“Here, lad. Got this today.”
He placed the newspaper on the table.
The headline read:
“Violent Riots in Central Manchester: Police Investigate Involvement of Irish Republicans.”
Darcy chewed calmly.
He looked up, glanced at the newspaper, then lowered his eyes back to his plate.
“Owen, we've already talked about this. Not at the table.”
“Look, these bloody British are finally getting what they deserve,” Owen remarked, pointing at the newspaper headline.
Catherine placed her spoon on the table.
“Lower your voice.”
Owen frowned.
“What? We're at home.”
“Exactly,” Catherine replied. “You never know who might be listening.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Róisín, who had remained silent, stopped eating and picked up the newspaper.
“This war is absurd... When will they realize the politicians are the problem?”
She sighed deeply.
She shook her head and handed the newspaper to Darcy before returning to her plate.
Darcy set his spoon down.
He read the headline once.
Then a second time.
Finally, he pushed the newspaper toward Owen.
“In conflicts like these, nobody is right.”
Owen stared at him with barely contained anger.
“So now you're going to defend them? After what they did to Dad?”
Darcy slammed his open hand against the table.
He slowly leaned toward him and lowered his voice.
“This isn't about who I like. It's about keeping us out of trouble. And by bringing this into the house, all you're doing is putting us in danger... And don't talk about Dad again. Not here.”
Catherine looked between her two sons as though something was about to happen.
“Enough, both of you. We're having dinner. If you want to fight, go outside.”
Owen stared silently at Darcy.
Frustration showed in his brown eyes.
“Fine... I'll shut up,” Owen muttered.
Both returned their attention to their plates, letting the argument end there.
Róisín stood.
She took the newspaper without saying a word.
She threw it into the fireplace.
The flames devoured the headline within seconds.
“I hope none of the neighbours heard...” she murmured.
No one spoke again.
The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery against plates and the crackling of firewood in the fireplace.
Outside, rain began beating against the windows.
When they finished dinner, Catherine began clearing the plates while Róisín helped her wash them.
Owen took his coat and pack of cigarettes and went out into the backyard without saying a word.
Darcy remained seated for a few more seconds, watching the embers consume the last piece of the newspaper.
Then he stood and walked toward the door.
“I'm going out for a while.”
Catherine looked up.
“Don't be out too late.”
“Just try to come back in one piece, lad.” Róisín added without looking at him.
“No promises.”
He took his coat and Scally cap, which were hanging beside the door, and stepped back out into the streets of Scholes.
The cold air struck his face.
The rain had stopped, but the cobblestones still gleamed beneath the yellowish glow of the gas lamps.
Darcy adjusted his cap and buried his hands in his coat pockets.
He walked without any particular destination.
He passed St. Patrick's Church.
A few candles still burned behind the stained-glass windows.
He looked away and continued walking.
He had no desire to pray that night.
A murmur of voices escaped through the pub's half-open door.
Protruding over the cobbled pavement and hanging from a rusted iron bracket, an old wooden sign announced:
The Dullahan Rider.
The glow of the oil lamps filtered through the fogged windows.
Darcy stopped for a few seconds.
Then he stepped inside.
A wave of warmth and noise enveloped him as soon as he crossed the threshold.
The smell of beer, tobacco, and damp wood replaced the coal of the mine.
At a table near the bar, several labourers played dice while others argued about the weekend's horse races.
In a corner, an old man played a battered piano.
Behind the bar, the barman dried glasses with a greyish cloth while continuing to serve the customers.
Darcy scanned the room.
Out of habit, he looked for Henry.
The chair where he always sat was occupied by another man.
He froze for an instant.
Then he walked to the bar and took a seat.
“The usual?” the barman asked when he recognized him.
Darcy nodded without saying a word.
The man took a thick glass mug and filled it with stout.
He set it in front of Darcy with a solid thud against the wood.
Darcy left a few coins on the counter.
He took his first drink.
The beer was cold, thick, and bitter.
He did not know whether he liked it or simply needed to feel something other than exhaustion.
But somehow, that bitterness tasted like comfort.
Around him, the conversations continued as they did on any other night.
Some talked about the price of coal.
Others cursed the mine owners.
At another table, they argued about the railway workers' strike and the difficulty of finding work.
No one seemed to have any answers.
Only different ways of enduring the same misery.
“Tragedy at Trema, wasn't it?” a man commented from several stools away, without addressing anyone in particular.
“They say that cable had been asking to be replaced for months,” another replied before taking a drink of his beer.
“As long as it keeps turning a profit, the owners don't give a damn who dies.”
Darcy simply listened.
He tightened his grip on the mug.
The glass creaked beneath his fingers.
He lowered his gaze, watching the dark liquid inside.
Suddenly, the barman's voice broke through the murmur of the pub.
“Hallinan.”
Darcy raised his head.
The barman placed a cloth on the counter and leaned closer.
“Didn't think I'd see you in here today,” he said quietly.
Darcy shrugged.
“Never too early, Fred.”
Fred looked at the beer, which had barely dropped an inch.
“Still dwelling on what happened at the mine?”
Darcy did not answer.
The silence was enough.
Fred rested his forearms on the bar.
“Listen, lad. You can't keep thinking about it. You've got a family to support. You're the man of the house now that your father is gone. You haven't got time to doubt yourself... and you know it.”
Darcy turned his eyes toward the bitter foam and clenched his jaw.
“I know, but it's as if we don't mean anything to them. Seems it's cheaper for them to bury us than to fix a machine.”
Fred did not know what to say.
He simply nodded and gave Darcy a pat on the shoulder.
That was the closest thing to a hug he could offer.
“Go home, lad. Tomorrow's another day.”
Darcy gave a weary smile.
“Yeah...”
He stood.
He finished the last sip in one go.
Then he set the empty mug on the bar with a solid thud.
“Good night, Fred.”
“Take care, Hallinan.”
Darcy adjusted his cap and left the pub.
The cold air greeted him again as soon as he stepped outside.
Midnight had fallen over Scholes.
The gas lamps barely managed to break through the darkness of the streets.
The cobblestones were still wet from the rain.
Darcy walked in silence.
The only sounds were his footsteps and the distant whistle of a locomotive passing through Wigan.
When he reached the corner of his street, he noticed a motionless figure standing in front of his house.
A tall man.
Grey moustache and brown eyes.
Dark overcoat.
Bowler hat.
Wooden cane.
He stood with his back to Darcy, watching the Hallinan home.
Darcy narrowed his eyes slightly.
He quickened his pace.
The man turned when he heard the footsteps on the cobblestones.
Their eyes met.
“Good evening, Mr. Hallinan.”
Darcy recognized him instantly.
It was Mr. Whitmore.
“I heard about the mine. I'm sorry for your loss.”
“Yes... Good evening, Mr. Whitmore. I know why you're here. I promise I'll pay you tomorrow without fail,” Darcy replied as he approached his door.
Mr. Whitmore gave a dry laugh.
“That is precisely what I wanted to speak to you about.”
Darcy's hand stopped halfway to the door handle.
He turned and fixed his eyes on the man.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, Mr. Hallinan. I've come to tell you that the rent will increase starting next week.”
“You're joking, aren't you? Isn't five shillings enough?”
Whitmore gave him a crooked smile.
“How much do you think it costs to keep this house standing, Mr. Hallinan?”
He reached into his waistcoat and calmly pulled out the rent book.
With a fountain pen, he crossed out the previous amount and wrote in a firm hand:
9/-.
He held it out to Darcy.
“From now on, it will be nine shillings.”
Darcy's eyes widened when he saw the figure.
He snatched the rent book.
He took three steps toward Mr. Whitmore.
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?! Nine shillings?! Are you mad?! That's extortion!”
Whitmore held his gaze without flinching.
He cleared his throat and pointed his cane toward the roof.
“Mr. Hallinan, I must recover what I invested in repairing the roof, and I have expenses of my own. Inflation is eating away at all of us.”
Darcy clenched his teeth.
He felt a knot forming in his stomach.
He knew the story about the roof was an outright lie.
“We don't have nine shillings,” he snapped in a whisper.
Whitmore tucked the cane beneath his arm.
“I suggest you find them.”
He paused.
“Because I'll be here to collect them on Monday.”
The smile disappeared from his face.
“And if you can't pay...”
He leaned slightly toward Darcy.
“I'll have you evicted.”
Whitmore let out a feigned sigh and tipped his hat in farewell.
“Good night, Mr. Hallinan. I hope you sleep well.”
He turned and began walking away down the street.
Darcy remained motionless.
The small rent book was still open in his hand.
Staring at the ground, he snapped the rent book shut and squeezed it tightly between his fingers.
9/-.
Four shillings.
Just four miserable shillings more...
And yet those four shillings could take away the only thing they had left.