The amount of string that had gathered in his hands told him the torch was now about halfway to him. It could light the firedamp at any moment. However, it might not catch fire at all: sometimes, his father had told him, the gas seemed to vanish, no one knew where.

He felt a slight resistance to his pull and knew that the torch was rubbing against the wall where the tunnel curved. If he looked out he would be able to see it. Surely the gas must blow now, he thought.

Then he heard a voice.

He was so shocked that at first he thought he was having a supernatural experience, an encounter with a ghost or a demon.

Then he realized that it was neither: he was hearing the voice of a terrified small child, crying and saying: “Where is everyone?”

Mack’s heart stopped.

He knew instantly what had happened. As a small boy working in the mine he had often fallen asleep during his fifteen-hour day. This child had done the same, and had slept through the alarm. Then it had woken up, found the pit deserted, and panicked.

It took Mack only a split second to realize what he had to do.

He pushed aside the board and sprang out of his trench. The scene was illuminated by the burning torch and he could see the boy coming out of a side tunnel, rubbing his eyes and wailing. It was Wullie, the son of Mack’s cousin Jen. “Uncle Mack!” he said joyfully.

Mack ran for the boy, unwrapping the sodden blanket from around him as he went. There was no room for two in the shallow trench: they would have to try to reach the shaft before the gas blew. Mack wrapped the boy in the wet blanket, saying: “There’s firedamp, Wullie, we’ve got to get out!” He picked him up, tucked him under one arm, and ran on.

As he approached the burning torch he willed it not to ignite the gas, and heard himself shouting: “Not yet! Not yet!” Then they were past it.

The boy was light, but it was hard to run stooping, and the floor underfoot made it more difficult: muddy in places, thick with dust in others, and uneven everywhere, with outcroppings of rock to trip the hasty. Mack charged ahead regardless, stumbling sometimes but managing to keep his feet, listening for the bang that might be the last sound he ever heard.

As he rounded the curve in the tunnel, the light from the torch dimmed to nothing. He ran on into the darkness, but within seconds he crashed into the wall and fell headlong, dropping Wullie. He cursed and scrambled to his feet.

The boy began to cry. Mack located him by sound and picked him up again. He was forced to go on more slowly, feeling the tunnel wall with his free hand, cursing the dark. Then, mercifully, a candle flame appeared ahead, at the entrance to the tunnel, and Mack heard Jen’s voice calling: “Wullie! Wullie!”

“I’ve got him here, Jen!” Mack shouted, breaking into a run. “Get yourself up the stair!”

She ignored his instruction and came toward him.

He was only a few yards from the end of the tunnel and safety.

“Go back!” he yelled, but she kept coming.

He crashed into her and swept her up in his free arm.

Then the gas blew.

For a split second there was an ear-piercing hiss, then there was a huge, deafening thump that shook the earth. A force that felt like a massive fist struck Mack’s back and he was lifted off his feet, losing his grip on Wullie and Jen. He flew through the air. He felt a wave of scorching heat, and he was sure he was going to die; then he splashed headfirst into icy water, and realized he had been thrown into the drainage pool at the bottom of the mine shaft.

And he was still alive.

He broke the surface and dashed water from his eyes.

The wooden decking and staircase were burning in places, and the flames illuminated the scene fitfully. Mack located Jen, splashing about and choking. He grabbed her and heaved her out of the water.

Choking, she screamed: “Where’s Wullie?”

He might have been knocked unconscious, Mack thought. He pushed himself from one side of the small pool to the other, bumping into the bucket chain, which had ceased to operate. At last he found a floating object that turned out to be Wullie. He shoved the boy onto the deck beside his mother and clambered out himself.

Wullie sat up and spewed water. “Thank God,” Jen sobbed. “He’s alive.”

Mack looked into the tunnel. Stray wisps of gas burned sporadically like fiery spirits. “Away up the stairs with us,” he said. “There might be a secondary blast.” He pulled Jen and Wullie to their feet and pushed them up ahead of him. Jen lifted Wullie and slung him over her shoulder: his weight was nothing to a woman who could carry a full corf of coal up these stairs twenty times in a fifteen-hour shift.

Mack hesitated, looking at the small fires burning at the foot of the stairs. If the entire staircase burned, the pit might be out of commission for weeks while it was rebuilt. He took a few extra seconds to splash water from the pool over the flames and put them out. Then he followed Jen up.

When he reached the top he felt exhausted, bruised and dizzy. He was immediately surrounded by a crowd who shook his hand, slapped his back and congratulated him. The crowd parted for Jay Jamisson and his companion, whom Mack had recognized to be Lizzie Hallim dressed as a man. “Well done, McAsh,” said Jay. “My family appreciates your courage.”

You smug bastard, Mack thought.

Lizzie said: “Is there really no other way to deal with firedamp?”

“No,” said Jay.

“Of course there is,” Mack gasped.

“Really?” Lizzie said. “What?”

Mack caught his breath. “You sink ventilation shafts, which let the gas escape before ever it can accumulate.” He took another deep breath. “The Jamissons have been told time and time again.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the miners standing around.

Lizzie turned to Jay. “Then why don’t you do it?”

“You don’t understand business—why should you?” Jay said. “No man of business can pay for an expensive procedure when a cheaper one will achieve the same result. His rivals would undercut his price. It’s political economy.”

“Give it a fancy name if you like,” Mack panted. “Ordinary folk call it wicked greed.”

One or two of the miners shouted: “Aye! That’s right!”

“Now, McAsh,” Jay remonstrated. “Don’t spoil everything by getting above your station again. You’ll get into real trouble.”

“I’m in no trouble,” Mack said. “Today is my twenty-second birthday.” He had not meant to say this, but now he could not stop himself. “I haven’t worked here the full year-and-a-day, not quite—and I’m not going to.” The crowd was suddenly quiet, and Mack was filled with an exhilarating sense of freedom. “I’m leaving, Mr. Jamisson,” he said. “I quit. Good-bye.” He turned his back on Jay and, in total silence, he walked away.

9

BY THE TIME JAY AND LIZZIE GOT BACK TO THE castle, eight or ten servants were about, lighting fires and sweeping floors by candlelight. Lizzie, black with coal dust and almost helpless with fatigue, thanked Jay in a whisper and staggered upstairs. Jay ordered a tub and hot water to be brought to his room then took a bath, scrubbing the coal dust off his skin with a pumice stone.

In the last forty-eight hours, momentous events had happened in his life: his father had given him a derisory patrimony, his mother had cursed his father, and he had tried to murder his brother—but none of these things occupied his mind. As he lay there he thought about Lizzie. Her impish face appeared before him in the steam from his bath, smiling mischievously, the eyes crinkling in the corners, mocking him, tempting him, daring him. He recalled how she had felt in his arms as he had carried her up the mine shan: she was son and light, and he had pressed her small frame to himself as he climbed the stairs. He wondered if she was thinking about him. She must have called for hot water too: she could hardly go to bed as dirty as she was. He pictured her standing naked in front of her bedroom fire, soaping her body. He wished he could be with her, and take the sponge from her hand, and gently wipe the coal dust from the slopes of her breasts. The thought aroused him, and he sprang out of the bath and rubbed himself dry with a rough towel.