Serenity

11. Miss Molly Stockholme's Boudoir

Black. Everything was black. His fingers, his hands, the rough surface of the tunnel walls under his palms. The air solid and choking the breath in his throat, his lungs. He had to get out.

Bill's body twitched and jerked, consumed in the action taking place deep within his dream.

Deep growls of shifting ground rumbled up the mine shaft. Bill forced his vocal chords into life. He shouted names. All the names he'd taken the time to learn.

"Grahame."
The big fella with the heart of gold.

"Ivor."
The young boy who followed his father down into the mines like a puppy.

"Gruffydd."
Slow to speak but a steady hand with the pit ponies.

"Daffydd."
Always quick with a joke or a fist in a fight.

Other names he couldn't remember. Faces he always would.

A thick blanket of dust rose from the lower levels, forcing Bill to head along the black shaft until he reached the lift platform. Acting on automatic pilot, a younger version of Bill Dawson slammed open the grates of the elevator and jumped inside the swinging apparatus. One quick push of the controller and up he went.

So easy.

From down below the dismembered voices of men, young and old, baritone and alto, melded together to form the haunting melody of song.

Bill's eyelids flickered while his stubby fingers clenched and unclenched some imaginary object. Droplets of tears sprung under his eyelashes. They held on until the very last possible moment, until his rapid eye movement gave them no option but to fall. Gently at first. Then, rapidly, they streamed down his rough cheeks until they buried into his thick greying beard.

His top lip quivered, the nerve endings flicked like a rattlesnake's tail. He loved that Welsh melody, even though it destroyed his soul.

Fresh, early evening air struck his lungs. Followed by a soft russet glow of the dying day's sunset.

Rough hands of many men wrenched open the lift gate and bodies rushed close, throwing him out of the box, while they crammed into it.

Bill stumbled to his knees on the damp ground. He watched the lift full of men descend back down into hell. Faces of stone stared back.

All around him, the thick coarse material of the local dress fabric flapped. Women of every age gathered in close above him. Some weeping, some muttering in prayer. He made the mistake of glancing up to see if he knew their faces. If he recognised a wife, mother or daughter of one of the men he'd left behind.

Their pale expressions and livid anguish slapped him into action. He sprang to his feet and ran.

All the way to the public house.

The voices of the miners' singing that song rang in his head. It only stopped after the first ten glasses.

His eyes slowly opened. Bill caught a glimpse of Molly lying stretched out along the edge of her messy bed. He passed the back of his hand over his wet cheeks, sighing deeply. For a brief moment he stared off into the direction of the ceiling, then he shook his shoulders and sat up straighter.

Taking a big swig from the whisky bottle, Bill caught her eye as she came round.

He saw pain. He'd seen it there before. Tonight, it shone brightly. He wanted to take it away. He was one of the good guys after all, right? He'd always been respectful, decent and courteous to her. He knew exactly what she did for a living, yet he'd never once used her for this purpose.