The Shamrocks.

Sheffield, 1919.

A car is driving down the streets of Sheffield. Passing on the crowded outskirts of Crookesmoor, it rushes down towards Hillsborough, past the narrow corner of Howard road. The city is murmuring with craftsmen, women home from the marketplace, steel workers heading to the pub after a long day of work. It's dirty and dusty, but lively. Not a dull moment to be felt in here.

Aboard the car, three young boys are all smoking cigarettes, except the one at the wheel. Two of them sitting in the front, one in the back. Next to him, are a pair of large pliers, a length of wire, about 50 yards and three bottles, wrapped around with cloth, one filled with what looks like whisky and the other two with twigs, sawdust and dried leaves. The driver is looking very focused at the road, his hands gripping the wheel like an old wizard weaving a spell, the passenger is holding his cigarette between his middle finger and his thumb, pensively gazing at the horizon, the boy in the back is laying his hands upon the tools, almost afraid of losing them.

The three boys exit the city, via Loxley, driving across a very quiet and empty country road. The car's shine blinds any would-be passengers in the sun's rays. After another thirty-five minutes, the boys reach the very far end of a prairie and park their car very discreetly at the far end of its driveway, where no one would enter with their cars at this time of night. They park, turn off the engine and sit. Waiting. The driver pulls out a cigarette, well deserved after the long and patient drive to their destination. He lights it without diverting his gaze for even a second or blinking and then lets out the cliché puff after that first drag.

For about 30 minutes, nothing happens. Not a single word exchanged between the boys and then, as they notice two people, an older man with short hair and a bourgeois moustache and a woman – presumably his wife – with blonde bobby hair enter the house, their quickly flick their cigarettes, open the doors and exit the car, grabbing each a tool; the boy on the back seat grabs the pliers, the passenger in the front takes the three bottles and the driver takes the length of wire. They all sit beside the car, waiting still.

"Hold up, boys", says the driver, holding his hand open against his other two friends, both of them behind him on the right, all three waiting while squatting, beneath a thick shrubbery far away from the entrance in the house.

"Smear some dirt over your face, get the mint too. The dogs can't smell you if you smell like the terrain around them. It won't hold out for long, especially after we start sweating, but it'll give us a few moments head start."

The boys are still waiting. The light inside the house is still open. While the passenger, the first one behind the driver is smoking his cigarette, the owners of the house were getting prepared to go to bed. Surely enough, in a few moments after the passenger takes his last drag on his cigarette and what in total was around 20 minutes of patience, the lights finally go out. The sun is completely gone at this point and the moon came out.

"Go, go go!" Said the driver. Both of his friends quickly followed him.

The house was rather large. It had two stories and an auxiliary part to what one could only assume were the live staff on the left, facing it and a big red barn on the right. Also two large trees on either side, both about forty yards far away from one another.

"Loft! Come on help me! Connor, go tie the wire to the first tree!"

The driver and Loft headed straight for the barn door. Loft put down the bottles next to the left side of the barn and rushed to help the driver get to work.

"No, no, put the smoke bombs in front of the porch first!" said the driver.
"Alroight" said Loft. He rushed towards the porch and laid the three bottles at the bottom of the staircase, this time on the right and rushed back to the driver.