The morning light filtered weakly through the window.
Darcy opened his eyes.
Still drowsy, he tried to sit up.
A sharp pain shot through his abdomen.
“Argh... bloody hell...” he muttered.
He placed a hand over his stomach.
The memories of the previous night came back one after another.
The game.
The watch.
The fight.
His expression hardened.
He looked around.
Everything was still quiet.
Catherine and Róisín were still asleep on the other side of the curtain.
Owen was also asleep on the mattress.
Darcy remained seated, lost in thought.
He went over the events in his mind.
Wondering whether there might have been a better way to handle things.
His body felt heavy and sore.
He touched his eyebrow.
When he pulled his hand away, he saw a small smear of dried blood on his fingers.
He lowered his gaze.
He huffed through his nose in frustration.
In a week, his family could be evicted.
To make matters worse, he had been unable to recover his father's watch.
And in a few hours, he would have to return to the mine as if nothing had happened.
Darcy slowly stood up.
He did not want his mother to see him like this or his siblings to ask what had happened.
He put on his coat. He did not even bother with the stain of blood on the collar of his shirt.
He did not even have the will to change his clothes. He felt defeated.
Then he carefully made his way down the stairs.
A new day had begun.
When he reached the ground floor, the house felt even colder.
The embers in the fireplace had gone out during the night, leaving little more than a layer of ash in the hearth.
He approached the table.
The rent book he had left there the previous night was still sitting on it.
Darcy walked past it.
He did not even bother thinking about the matter any further.
He simply went to the coat rack and took his cap.
Then he heard a noise behind him.
He closed his eyes in resignation, knowing perfectly well who it was.
“Darcy?”
He turned around without hurrying.
Róisín stood at the foot of the stairs.
Her gaze immediately travelled over his face.
The bloodstain on his shirt.
The cut on his eyebrow.
The dark circles beneath his blue eyes.
She stood still with her arms crossed.
Finally, she asked calmly.
“Aren't you going to tell me what happened to you?”
Darcy remained silent for a moment.
He looked her in the eyes.
Then he looked away and adjusted his cap on his head.
“Nothing, Róisín. You don't need to know.”
Róisín frowned and let out a sharp laugh.
“I'm not stupid. You've got blood on your face.”
Her eyes remained fixed on him.
Darcy took hold of the doorknob before she could ask anything else.
“I have to go to work.”
He opened the door.
The cold morning air entered the house.
Róisín approached him.
“I know what you're trying to do... But you don't have to do it this way, Darcy.”
He stopped.
But he did not turn around.
“I'm fine... and don't tell Mam.”
Without waiting for a response, he stepped outside.
Róisín, leaning against the doorframe, watched as Darcy disappeared around a corner on Hardybutts.
After closing the door, she began preparing breakfast as she did every morning.
Nothing extravagant or particularly elaborate.
The food was simple.
A piece of stale bread spread with beef dripping, a few potatoes left over from the night before, and a cup of weak black tea.
Róisín placed everything on the table while Catherine continued sleeping upstairs.
She looked toward the stairs.
Then back at the table.
Something did not quite add up to her.
Darcy had never been good at hiding things from her.
He could lie to their mother.
He could even try to do it with Owen.
But Róisín knew him far too well.
She sat down and took a piece of bread.
For a brief moment, she became lost in thought.
Then she heard footsteps coming from upstairs.
Róisín looked up.
Owen appeared, coming down the last step still half-asleep.
He was still wearing the same clothes from the day before.
“Sleep well?” Róisín asked as she chewed.
Owen rubbed his eyes.
“You could say that.”
He walked over to the table, took one of the potatoes, and sat across from her.
Róisín lowered her gaze toward his hands.
There was dark dirt beneath his fingernails.
And a small, fresh cut ran across one of his knuckles.
“What did you do yesterday after working at the docks?”
Owen looked her in the eyes.
“Why do you ask?”
A crooked smile appeared on his lips.
He grabbed another potato.
Róisín held his gaze.
“Because you've been acting a bit strange for almost three weeks now.”
Owen stopped chewing abruptly.
His posture stiffened.
“Nothing that concerns you, little sister... I've just got a lot of work, that's all,” he replied as he poured himself some tea.
Róisín narrowed her eyes.
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She took a sip of her tea before replying.
“Yeah, right... Try not to get yourself into trouble. Mam worries, you know?”
Owen let out a quiet laugh.
“What do you know? Don't talk as if you know what I do.”
Róisín settled back into her chair, placed her arms on the table, and intertwined her fingers.
“You're right. The only thing I know... is that three days ago, I followed you to the Dullahan Rider. Anything you'd like to say?”
For a second, a heavy silence settled over the room.
Owen froze.
The cup stopped just short of his lips.
Then he set it aside and fixed Róisín with a visibly irritated stare.
“What, is Darcy the only one who has the right to drink, go to pubs, and spend his money however the bloody hell he wants?”
Róisín brought her fingers to her temples and sighed.
“Darcy doesn't spend his entire wage drinking for one night. You burn through yours like a bloody drunk. Besides, you're seventeen.”
Owen let out an ironic laugh and shook his head.
He stood up.
He downed his tea in one gulp and set the cup down with a sharp thud.
“I haven't got time for this. I'm busy... I've got to go.”
Róisín simply watched him walk away.
She knew her younger brother was very stubborn, and that was something she knew all too well.
She exhaled deeply before speaking.
“Owen.”
He stopped beside the door.
“What?”
Róisín took a few seconds before replying in an exasperated tone, knowing it was pointless to argue with him.
“Be careful.”
Owen looked at her over his shoulder.
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Don't worry. Things will get better for all of us soon... I promise.”
He opened the door and stepped outside.
Róisín remained seated at the table.
She only heard his footsteps fading down the street.
She lowered her gaze toward her cup of tea.
Her instincts told her something strange was going on.
The dried blood on Darcy's face.
The marks on Owen's hands.
But she understood that pressing them would accomplish nothing.
“I hope they can sort out whatever differences they have... if that's what I think it is,” she murmured to herself.
The day passed normally.
The shift ended shortly after noon.
Darcy left the mine alongside the rest of the workers.
The noise of the machinery faded behind him as he walked toward the exit.
He could still feel the pain from the previous night.
Every movement reminded him of the kicks and blows he had taken.
“Bloody hell... I hope I haven't broken a rib...” he muttered.
He adjusted the collar of his coat and continued walking through the city streets.
He had only one thought on his mind.
Get home and figure out how he was going to deal with the landlord.
He had already walked several streets when he heard footsteps behind him.
Darcy did not turn around.
He continued along Platt Lane and changed direction to his right, turning onto Durham Street.
Yet the footsteps continued behind him.
He quickened his pace slightly.
So did they.
Darcy carefully glanced over his shoulder.
They did not look like men who had just finished work.
One was tall, wearing a dark coat and a bowler hat.
The other walked several yards behind him, his hands in his pockets.
Their appearance did not go unnoticed by Darcy.
They were not following him by chance.
He began to quicken his pace.
He left Bedford Street behind and slipped into a narrow alley between two rows of houses.
The footsteps could still be heard behind him.
Darcy clenched his jaw.
He knew these streets better than they did.
He turned right.
Then turned again.
He crossed a narrow passage between two buildings and emerged onto another street.
He quickened his pace, wanting to run, but his body was still aching badly.
He had to settle for a jog.
He turned down another street.
He looked back.
There was no one there.
Darcy slowed down.
He figured he had lost them.
He controlled his breathing and walked more calmly.
Suddenly, just as he was nearing a corner, a hand appeared from the side and grabbed him by the coat, shoving him into an alley.
Darcy barely had time to react.
Another man appeared behind him.
He dodged him and tried to run again.
It was impossible.
At that moment, a third man appeared, grabbed him, and slammed him against a wall.
One side of his body struck the bricks.
“Argh! Shit!” Darcy cried as he clutched his ribs.
As he fell from the impact, one of the men drew a short-barrelled Webley revolver.
Darcy watched the movement.
The man quickly struck him in the temple with the butt of the revolver.
Before he could do anything, he collapsed to the floor.
The last thing he saw before completely losing consciousness was the three men staring down at him.
One of them was smiling.
A smile he was certain he had seen before.
His mind spun.
His vision blurred.
His eyes closed.
Everything went silent.
When he slowly opened his eyes, Darcy tried to regain consciousness.
The first thing he noticed was the smell of dampness mixed with tobacco.
A sack covered his head.
He tried to move his arms.
His hands were tied behind his back.
Darcy remained still as the pain in his head began to return.
He tried to remember what had happened.
He slowly moved his wrists.
The rope was tightly secured.
There did not seem to be any easy way to free himself.
Then he heard footsteps.
A chair scraping across the floor.
The click of a lighter.
Darcy stopped moving when he heard a low laugh resembling that of a hyena.
“Has our handsome Sleeping Beauty finally woken up?”
“Just take the bag off his head,” another man replied in a frivolous tone.
One of the men removed the bag.
Darcy blinked.
His vision was blurry, but there was a figure sitting in front of him and two more to his left.
He tried to focus his eyes, and then he saw him.
It was him.
The stranger in the brown suit.
He was sitting there, his black hair neatly combed, a serious expression on his face, and a cigarette between his fingers.
His hat rested on the table beside a bottle of Teacher's Highland Cream.
His brown eyes scrutinized him from head to toe.
In silence, he poured some whisky into two glasses.
He placed one in front of Darcy.
To his right sat the man with the untrustworthy smile.
The other remained standing beside him, wearing that frivolous expression, with blond hair and an olive-green suit.
The man in the brown suit watched him for another second.
He took a sip and stared directly at him.
“Your name...?”
Darcy made no sound.
The corners of the man's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Bene... you know how to keep quiet. That's good.”
He took a drag from his cigarette before continuing.
He did not take his eyes off Darcy.
“However, there are moments in life when it's better to speak... so speak.”
The silence heightened the tension in the room.
Darcy swallowed.
He let the air escape from his lungs and looked him directly in the eyes.
“My name is Darcy... Darcy Hallinan.”
The man slowly nodded as he watched the smoke from his cigarette.
“How old are you, Darcy...?”
“I'm twenty years old.”
The man stubbed out his cigarette, crushing it against the table, and fixed his eyes on him again.
“As you know, three of my lads were injured yesterday, and you’re responsible. So tell me... what on earth am I to do with you?”
Darcy did not want to speak. He sensed that if he said the wrong thing, his situation could become worse.
The man with the smile let out a low laugh.
“Hey, are you mute or what? If you want, I can help you get your tongue out,” he declared mockingly, pulling a knife from his waistcoat.
Darcy looked between the two men.
The man in the brown suit raised his hand slightly.
It was a clear signal of refusal.
“Damiano.”
Damian complained with an exaggerated sigh and put the knife away.
“How boring... you always take the fun out of life.”
The man turned his eyes back to the young Irishman.
Darcy's glass was still sitting there, untouched.
He took another sip of whisky before continuing.
“As I was saying... normally, I would have already given the order for you to take a bullet to the head and have your body thrown into the River Douglas. How do you expect me to take this incident?”
Darcy did not know what to say.
The situation was overwhelming him, and perhaps this would be his last breath.
Then several things came to his mind.
He remembered his family.
The landlord's words.
Henry's death.
Last night's fight.
Finally...
His father's face.
Darcy clenched his hands, gritted his teeth, and then formed a half-smile, his eyes filled with anger.
“Whatever I say, you won't give a damn. So what if I'm responsible? So what if I cheated? At least my reasons are honest, you fucking Italian bastard.”
The man in the green suit drew his pistol and aimed it at Darcy's head.
“Alright, boy. That's enough.”
At that moment, the man in the brown suit let out a soft but genuine laugh.
His laughter brought a brief silence.
Damian smiled sideways.
The man in the green suit turned his head toward the Italian.
Darcy looked at him in confusion.
“Ronan, put the gun away.”
“Tim... we haven't got time for this.”
Timothy merely smiled and raised a hand to silence him.
“Adesso basta, Ron.”
Ronan hesitated, but immediately put the pistol away.
Timothy fixed his gaze on Darcy.
“Damiano, untie the boy's hands.”
Damian approached and cut the rope with his knife in a single motion.
Darcy grabbed his wrists and rubbed them, trying to ease the pain.
His gaze moved from one man to another.
Completely confused, he tried to make sense of the situation, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not comprehend what had just happened.