Darcy closed the door carefully.
Nobody should wake up.
The wall clock showed that it was past midnight.
The fire in the fireplace was dying among a few remaining embers.
He placed his coat and cap on the chair.
He left the rent book on the table.
He stared at it for a moment.
He placed both hands on the table.
Lowered his head.
Closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but he couldn't.
He felt a knot rising from his chest to his throat.
He clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt.
“Why...?” he whispered.
He swallowed.
“Why do I have to carry all this on my own...?”
How did I end up like this...?
His eyes grew wet.
For several seconds, he fought back the tears.
Then he let out a bitter laugh.
“Dad... what am I supposed to do now...?”
He covered his face with both hands.
“Bloody hell... bloody hell... I don't know what to do...”
The silence of the house was the only answer.
Between sobs, he covered his face.
He wanted to scream.
Punch the wall.
Curse everyone.
But knowing that his family was asleep upstairs stopped him.
Darcy raised his head.
He wiped his tears with the sleeve of his coat.
He opened the rent book again.
9/-.
He stared at the figure for several seconds.
Then he slammed the book shut.
“No... I'm not going to sit around like this.”
He took a breath.
“I have to get that money. Any way I can.”
Darcy became lost in thought for a moment.
Then he extinguished the last embers in the fireplace with the poker.
He climbed the narrow wooden stairs.
Each step creaked softly beneath his boots.
When he reached the upper floor, he carefully moved aside the old curtain dividing the room.
Catherine and Róisín slept in the only bed in the house.
Their steady breathing was the only thing breaking the silence.
A few steps away, Owen slept on a thin mattress laid directly across the floorboards.
One arm was beneath his head, while the other hand was still stained with grease from the boot he had been repairing that afternoon.
Darcy sighed deeply.
He sat on the edge of the mattress on the floor.
He remained there, watching them.
First Owen.
Then Róisín.
And finally, his mother.
Catherine's face seemed much older while she slept.
Grey hairs were beginning to show in her beautiful brown hair.
The wrinkles around her eyes had deepened over the years.
Her hands, roughened by decades of washing other people's clothes and cooking for others, rested on the blanket as though, even in sleep, she were still clinging to her family.
Darcy clenched his fist and bit his lip.
Seeing the passage of time reflected in his mother's face hurt more than he could admit.
He slowly lowered his gaze.
He closed his eyes, thinking about how he could get out of this situation.
He thought about the rent.
He thought about food.
He thought about his family.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes again.
Then he remembered a conversation he had overheard weeks earlier in the mine's changing room.
Two miners had been talking about a place in Ince-in-Makerfield.
A shoe shop on Chorley Street.
They said that, if you were lucky, you could win in a single night what a miner took weeks to earn.
They never said much more.
Only that it was better not to ask too many questions.
Darcy looked at Catherine again.
“I'm sorry, Mum...” he whispered.
He turned around.
He went back downstairs as quietly as possible.
He took his coat and cap again.
He closed the door carefully.
And stepped back out into the night of Scholes.
The cold air struck his face again.
The silence of the city was broken only by the occasional distant dog and the wind whistling between the chimneys.
As he walked, he remembered one of the many conversations he had had with his father.
Darcy clenched his jaw.
He knew his father had never liked gambling.
He always said that a fool and his money were soon parted.
At that exact moment, Darcy reached into his pocket and took out his watch.
It was a silver piece with a gold plating so worn that the original metal showed along the edges, dull and covered in scratches.
The watch had once belonged to Ernan.
Darcy ran his thumb over the lid.
The initials “E.H.” were engraved on the back.
It was the only thing he had left of his father.
It was also the only thing of value he could still call his own.
He lowered his gaze.
For a moment, he considered going back home and letting it go.
But if he wanted to save his family...
He would have to risk even that.
He let out a deep sigh.
Despite the uncertainty circling his mind, his steps were determined.
“Forgive me, Dad... I know you wouldn't have liked me doing this. But I have a good reason,” he murmured to himself.
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Darcy slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket.
He adjusted his Scally cap and quickened his pace.
The streets of Scholes gradually fell behind as the workers' houses gave way to buildings increasingly blackened and run-down from the soot.
The wind dragged old newspapers across the cobblestones.
Some drunk sang badly in the distance.
A horse-drawn cart slowly crossed the main street before disappearing into the fog.
Darcy kept walking.
He did not know this part of Ince particularly well.
He had only been there a couple of times for work.
He remembered the miners' directions almost word for word.
That was enough.
After several minutes, a plaque bolted to the wall came into view:
Chorley Street.
Darcy slowed his pace.
He looked from side to side.
There was a butcher's shop that had already closed.
A small grocer's.
A blacksmith's.
And, a few yards farther...
A modest shoe shop.
The window displayed worn work boots and neatly arranged black shoes.
There was nothing unusual about it.
No movement out of the ordinary.
Darcy frowned slightly.
“Could this be it...?” he murmured.
For a moment, he thought he had the wrong place.
Then he noticed something.
A man dressed as a labourer came walking along.
He did not look at the window.
He did not even slow down.
He simply opened the door, went inside...
And the door closed behind him.
Darcy waited.
One minute.
Two.
The man did not come back out.
Another man appeared from the corner.
He did exactly the same thing.
Went inside.
Disappeared.
Darcy felt his stomach turn.
He exhaled deeply and walked toward the shop.
When he reached it, he stopped in front of the door.
For a brief moment, he did nothing.
He could turn around.
Go home.
Forget this absurd idea and deal with the problem the next day.
But then he remembered his mother's face.
His hand closed around the watch inside his pocket.
He pushed the door open.
A small bell rang above his head.
The interior smelled of leather, shoe polish, and old wood.
Behind the counter, a man in his sixties looked up and smiled politely.
“How can I help you?” he asked as he adjusted his spectacles.
Darcy looked around.
There were shelves filled with shoes, work boots, and boxes stacked all the way to the ceiling.
Everything seemed completely normal.
Too normal.
“I'm looking for something,” Darcy replied.
The man tilted his head to one side and waited.
“What?”
Darcy glanced toward the door.
Then looked back at the man.
“I was told I could... try my luck here.”
The man remained motionless.
He did not even blink.
“We sell shoes here.”
“I know.”
There was a long silence.
Darcy felt that he had made a mistake.
Then the man calmly removed his spectacles.
“Who sent you?”
Darcy did not answer immediately.
He did not want to mention any names.
“Some men from Trema.”
The man watched him in silence.
Finally, he nodded toward a narrow door at the back of the shop.
“Go through there.”
Darcy looked at the door.
“Thank you.”
“Just tell the tall fellow you're here for double soles. He'll understand.”
Darcy nodded.
He walked to the door and opened it.
On the other side was a staircase leading downward.
The light was much dimmer.
From somewhere in the distance came the muffled sound of several voices.
Darcy closed the door behind him.
A moment later, he heard the latch lock behind him.
He began descending the stairs.
As he went down, the smell of tobacco grew stronger.
The basement air was thick with smoke, cheap beer, and dampness.
Muffled voices came from below, along with the dry clatter of dice striking a table.
Darcy reached the last step.
Before him stretched a room much larger than he had imagined.
The brick walls were blackened by years of smoke.
Several tables occupied the centre of the room.
Men in worn clothes or dark coats played cards while talking and laughing, while others drank or smoked casually.
In one corner, two men argued in low voices, visibly drunk.
At another table, a group watched the movement of dice across a felt-covered surface.
Darcy stood still, observing the room.
At that moment, a man walked past him without saying a word.
Darcy stepped aside to let him pass.
He looked around, searching for the tall man the shopkeeper had mentioned.
Finally, he spotted one to his left, leaning against one of the basement's four columns with his arms crossed and an attentive gaze.
He was a man in his forties, thin and dressed in a dark waistcoat.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his red hair was slicked back, and a cigarette hung from his lips.
Darcy approached.
The man slowly lowered his gaze toward him.
“What are you looking for, lad?”
Darcy looked him straight in the eye.
“I've come for some double soles.”
The man frowned.
He removed the cigarette from his lips.
He studied him for another second before nodding.
“Good. Go to that table over there. They're short a player.”
Darcy looked where he pointed.
Three men were talking.
There were coins, glasses of beer, and a worn deck of cards on the table.
The card game was about to begin.
He walked slowly toward the table.
As he did, Darcy knew there was a chance he might lose.
And losing was not an option.
Not when he and his family were about to be thrown out onto the street.
So he calmly considered what to do.
His gaze swept across the basement until it stopped on a nearby deck of cards.
No one was sitting at that table.
Darcy studied the situation carefully.
The tall man was focused on the other players.
Most of the room was concentrated on their own games and bets.
No one seemed to be paying attention to him.
Then Darcy moved discreetly.
He took the deck and quickly slipped it into his pocket.
He reached the assigned table.
The three men looked at him for a fraction of a second.
“Irish... eh?” remarked the man with the scar over his eye.
Then a burly fellow with an unkempt beard pointed toward the empty chair.
“We haven't got all day. Come on, sit down.”
Darcy took the seat.
The moustached man sitting across from him shuffled the cards skillfully and dealt them across the table.
“What do you know how to play, lad? Slippery or Brag?” he asked.
Darcy placed a few coins on the wood.
“Slippery.”
The other two exchanged a glance.
The moustached man smiled faintly.
“Alright... By the way, what's your name?”
“Darcy.”
The moustached man raised an eyebrow.
“Darcy...” he repeated before continuing. “I'm Harold. The bearded one's Joe, and the one with the scar over his eye is Buck.”
Darcy looked at the three men and nodded in greeting.
The game began.
Darcy studied the cards carefully.
He did not know any of these men, but that did not mean he could not read them.
Joe talked too much.
Buck constantly looked at his own cards before betting.
Harold barely showed any emotion.
Darcy waited.
He let the bets gradually increase while studying every move.
When the time came, he made his play.
Joe frowned.
“You in?”
Darcy nodded.
“I'm in.”
The coins were pushed toward the centre.
The cards changed hands.
One of the men folded.
The other bet the rest.
Darcy matched him.
Finally, Joe laid his cards on the table with a confident smile.
“Let's see what you've got.”
Darcy laid down his own.
For several seconds, no one said anything.
Then Joe cursed.
Darcy had won.
Buck let out a dry laugh.
“Bloody hell...”
Darcy collected the coins without saying a word.
He did not smile.
He had won, but it was not enough.
He simply kept the money in front of him and looked back at the table.
At that moment, the basement door opened.
The conversations quieted for a few moments.
The atmosphere grew tense.
Three men entered.
Two remained behind.
The third advanced calmly.
He wore a brown suit beneath a black overcoat and a red tie.
A brown Fedora with a black band rested on his head, while a cigarette remained between his fingers.
He was a man in his thirties.
Short black hair, neatly combed.
His deep gaze swept across the basement without hurry.
No one needed to announce his arrival.
Some men looked away.
Others simply continued with their games.
The newcomer walked toward the back of the basement.
There was a table set apart from the others, reserved for him.
He took a seat.
One of his companions remained standing behind him.
The other took up a position near the wall.
The man in charge of the drinks approached with a bottle in hand and carefully poured wine into a glass.
Darcy briefly raised his eyes.
His gaze met the man's beneath the Fedora.
He held his stare for a moment.
He did not know who the man was.
But something about his presence made Darcy understand that he was not someone he wanted to know.