The Demon of Millsworth Colliery Read online

  The Demon of Millsworth Colliery

  Such is the importance of today’s event that every shop in the large cobbled square is closed. The notices advertising this fact hang behind the wood-and-glass doors, as though it is possible that someone might be taken by surprise.

  Set against the rolling fields and the grey sky beyond the small town the pit-wheel stands stark and defiant, an iron salute to those men both dead and alive who spent and spend much of their lives working underground, extracting from the earth its precious gift at the expense of their backs, their lungs, and sometimes their lives.

  In the narrow streets leading away from the square stand the small, two-up two-down houses with the slate roofs, sparrows hopping along the ridges and resting atop of chimneys which do not smoke. The front doors exit straight into the street, the communal ground for children to play and adults to gossip.

  But this communal ground now lies deserted, blanketed with the type of deathly calm more usual to a churchyard. From across the valley a bell tolls both the hour and its sympathy for a way of life that’s soon to be destroyed, and the thin misty rain spatters the windows of the small houses which gape like soulless eyes above the empty streets.

  Back – quickly, back to the cobbled square! Back to where men and women stare with grim expressions at the man who would destroy their way of life, where the eternal strength of the human spirit hopelessly battles the relentless advance of technology!

  The man stands on a wooden platform, dressed in a light blue suit that sets him apart from the assembled crowd as clearly as his convivial expression, this mask that fails to disguise the falseness of his words. His heavily-veined hands tightly grip the wooden rail, the only indication that he might be nervous. But this is enough for the gathered crowd – it is both noticed and evaluated.

  Beside him stands the people’s champion, the underdog – the man who has petitioned Parliament and appeared on national television. He shares the crowd’s grim expression; he is one of them. He offers them no platitudes, no false hope – he never has done. His speeches are brutally straightforward, in stark contrast to the ambiguous statements and counter-questions of those he is called upon to battle – those who have the force of economic might behind them, who can call upon a sinisterly-attired army to bludgeon its enemies into bloody submission.

  Against such power the underdog can only direct his words to fly as verbal arrows straight to the heart, to make the populace see the extent of the foul crime that is being committed, and to make them rise up against the oppressors of a noble industry that is being driven to extinction.

  Yes – the underdog stands beside this demon of capitalism, stoic and straight-backed. From somewhere among the crowd a baby wails as though in sympathy for the underdog’s plight, and is quickly shushed by its mother.

  ‘The simple fact of the matter, ladies and gentlemen, is that Millsworth Colliery is no longer sufficiently productive,’ states the demon of capitalism, his eyes looking imploringly at those faces set like granite before him.

  His hands grip the rail more tightly, his senses alert to a murderous rage that may be developing behind the peoples’ grim visage. He looks at the top of a nearby lamppost, its dark-green paint cracked and flaking. He reflects on the skirmishes he has seen between striking miners and the police and he momentarily imagines himself being lynched. He has come alone, trusting to the powers of reasoning and education to ensure his safety.

  These are, after all, hardly the Middle Ages.

  The men shake their heads and smile with humourless disbelief at the demon’s words. He is a fool. How many times have they entered the cage backwards at the start of a seven-hour shift, so to be facing the right way once the rattling descent down the shaft is finished, the banksman hauling up the safety-gate and they trooping out towards the waiting paddy train, its lights and their helmet-torches illuminating the rich black face?

  And it’s still there, waiting to be extracted, waiting to be transported, waiting to be used.

  For Christ’s sake! – there is still life in this pit!

  The men and the women look at the underdog in the hope that he will work a miracle; the underdog realises their colossal expectation and although his hard-lined face remains set his heart quails, knowing that he will fight this evil to its bloody finish while knowing that he has already lost.

  But this cause is his woman, his religion – it is his life. He has been plucked from obscurity because of it – he has sat at a round table with Chiefs of Industry and politicians, the façade of democracy allowing this underdog with his alien logic towards business to put forward his suggestions, which are listened to with a politely attentive air by his enemies and then dismissed.

  He has been interviewed by television reporters stood beside busy roads and shouting protesters; he has been forced to raise his voice and appear flushed in the face to those sat watching in warm living rooms with dinners on their laps, so that they can point their forks at the screen and declare, ‘He’s not right in the head, that one. Trouble, that’s all he is, egging the rest of them on…’

  He has consequently seen the interviews with his enemies; sincere men in suits speaking in calm measured tones in quiet offices, a backdrop of folders and files on shelves making them appear all-the-more knowledgeable, allowing them to explain and develop their points to a nodding interviewer. Following this are the graphs and statistics, detailing in the coldest manner possible the decline of the British Mining Industry, entirely divorced from any sentiment or passion.

  It no longer works, says the enemy.

  We understand, comes the toneless response from the ignorant populace.

  The underdog knows both his enemy and the nefarious ways in which they work.

  He turns to face the demon on the wooden stage, and he speaks for the crowd as he says, ‘You come here not six month ago, promising us that t’colliery would remain open.’

  A murmur, both of confirmation and approval, issues from the crowd following this statement. The demon spreads his hands in an attempt to indicate his abject accord.

  ‘Mr Farthing, when I predicted that Millsworth Colliery would remain open several important factors had not been properly discussed. I confess that I spoke in haste, that I’d not the full facts at my dis – ’

  The demon is silenced by hissing and mocking laughter. Mr Farthing glances at the crowd, his sad brown eyes bidding them to keep their peace. This is a funeral, he realises – the demon is committing the colliery to the metaphorical grave. And although he does not realise it, with this realisation his hands knot into fists.

  The demon immediately grabs the opportunity this silencing of the heckling crowd affords him, hoping to placate it with what is currently being proposed in the corridors of power, far away from this cold and dismal little town.

  ‘I have already said,’ he says in a strident, authoritative voice, ‘that the nuclear plant will provide employment for every able adult within Millsworth, as well as for those adults in the surrounding area.’

  ‘Aye, an’ I’ll be coming home a’ night with two bloody ‘eads,’ shouts one man, his words greeted with a ripple of dejected laughter.

  ‘We don’t want it!’ declares a woman, at the risk of awakening the small child she holds in her arms. ‘I’ve read about these nuclear sites; about kiddies getting sick and dying with some sort o’ cancer o’ t’blood. Don’t you go building such a thing anywhere near Millsworth – I’m warning you.’

  The demon’s hands let go of the rail; he clasps them together like a true politician as he replies, ‘Such reports are wildly untrue, engineered purely to create concern about something that with the appropriate safeguards is completely ha
rmless to both people and the environment. Indeed, coal is more damaging to the environment –’

  ‘Bloody nonsense,’ grumbles an old man wearing a ragged brown cravat, his suit of the same colour faded and creased. Hard of hearing as he is, he is now completely deaf to the demon’s allegation of coal’s effect on the environment, refusing to allow him to offer any reasons supporting this preposterous claim. The pit is his life; although he has retired he lives in its shadow, and such a great change as its proposed closure will destroy him as surely as if he is denied air, of that he is certain.

  Mr Farthing’s hands tightly grip the rail in anger; his sallow mouth purses and he cries, ‘All we’ve had a’ lies, damn lies! You say summat an’ then you do exactly t’opposite!’

  ‘We don’t want your new-clear power!’ shouts the old man in a hoarse, despairing voice, knowing that what we want doesn’t matter a toss one way or the other.

  ‘It ain’t safe,’ declares the woman.

  The demon studies the increasingly restless and angry crowd with eyes that are bright with fear. He looks at the lamppost and swallows thickly, attempting to dismiss his secret concern as being ridiculous. He does, however, still have his trump card to play; and upon realising this his expression reposes slightly.

  ‘Do you know what I’ve got in my pocket?’ he asks.

  A thickset man in his late twenties has heard enough; there is only one language that these bastards understand, and this is uncomfortably close to the demon’s secret fears concerning the lamppost.

  After all, this man has watched documentaries showing striking miners being battered and beaten, of them being led bleeding back to their homes to have bones set and faces stitched, assuming of course that the bastards who carry batons and wear body-armour have been unable to bundle these heroes into the backs of their vans. And there are dark rumours concerning what occurs in the police-cells later on.

  ‘How we meant t’know, you daf’ bugger? Wha’ are thar, a bloody magician?’ the thickest man shouts, his enraged mockery intended to rile the townsfolk into violent action – let’s make an example of this demon: let’s show these bastards what we can do with just our hands. After all, the demon is scarce human: he is nothing other than the flesh-and-blood embodiment of the force which is attempting to destroy both Millsworth and its inhabitants.

  The demon smiles nervously, attempting to demonstrate his appreciation for the thickset man’s flash of sour humour.

  ‘No, I’m not a magician, but what I’ve got in my pocket is the best way of demonstrating that nuclear power is completely safe.’

  And without further ado he reaches into the inside pocket of his suit-jacket, producing a thin tube which is perhaps six inches long and a gleaming grey colour. He holds it aloft for the crowd to see, and as though this non-descript tube has somehow imbued him with great confidence he no longer appears remotely nervous.

  After several silent moments the thickset man asks in a voice somehow rendered less aggressive, ‘Well, what is it?’

  The demon looks at him, his expression now arrogant and cold, his contempt for this young relic of a dying era obvious. The ghost of a supercilious smile hovers about the edges of his thin mouth, and with something akin to pleasure he slowly replies, ‘This is uranium.’

  That word! The crowd immediately take a step backwards, recoiling from this tube of death and disease. The thickset man now looks at the demon with something curiously similar to respect – has the demon proved his mettle? – and noticing this the demon understands that the younger generation, at least, can have their attitudes changed. There is no chance of such a thing occurring amongst the older generation: the best that can happen here is that they’ll die quickly.

  Mr Farthing blinks several times and wonders if he will cry. The game is lost. There is no chance. The demon has waved his wand and worked his magic – there will certainly be a large, gleaming nuclear plant situated close to Millsworth in the near future.

  He grows aware that the old man with the brown cravat is staring at him with rheumy opaque eyes, willing Mr Farthing to wave his wand, to work his magic: to ward off this evil.

  So reaching into his jacket pocket Mr Farthing produces a lump of coal, holding it aloft for the crowd to see. It looks pathetic in comparison to the tube of uranium; dirty, small – insignificant.

  The crowd realise this and they begin to turn away; beaten, apathetic. They can resist the force of change no longer. The demon’s health and life are safe: the powers that be will have their way. Mr Farthing’s voice rises clear and loud, issuing his last challenge against this evil –

  ‘You ask Mr Nuclear if he can do this with his bloody uranium!’ he shouts, and with this he puts the piece of coal in his mouth and begins to chew, his eyes wide and wild, madness beginning to relax the almost rigid lines of his face.

  The old man’s solitary cheer is quickly choked by the continuing silence of the crowd.

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  Ben Stevens, The Demon of Millsworth Colliery

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