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.

A true gentleman. He hoped. Despite his drinking, he had never laid a rough hand on her, or any kind of hand for that matter, but he needed company. He craved comfort.

She'd done her best to give him what he wanted, he believed, as a paying customer of course and this had led to a kind of friendship. At least, on his side of the story. What she imagined he felt about their relationship remained with her alone.

He loved her, in his own, strange asexual way. Not brotherly, far from it, but in some distanced affectionate need. She made it better. Being with her kept the nightmares away. Maybe that's why he couldn't say no tonight?

His eyes grew heavy again as he tried to force them awake and watch her fall back to sleep. She really was beautiful. At least, she had been and that beauty remained, imprinted on her manner, her style, her way.

Bill took a deep breath and stretched his aching legs. The ends of his scuffed brown boots crippled the tips of his toes.

He knew he'd have a peaceful, quiet night's sleep here, in the ladies' quarters. Not even Mr. Zimmerman would be bold enough to burst in her room. Besides, Bill was sure that mean asshole knew exactly who was around his Saloon. Locals as well as strangers.

Strangers tended to go missing.

Then again, locals such as his own dear friend, Hickey Harrison, had befallen on unfortunate times as well.

Had it been intentional? Bill found it difficult to believe. Hickey had almost screamed vitality throughout his existence. How could it possibly have ended in submission? After all, that's what it came down to and Bill himself should know. If you submitted yourself to giving up, thinking you're not worth it, believing yourself to be unworthy of any kind of prosperity, then surely you deserved the worst?

Is that what had happened to him? Not Hickey. Me?

Bill shook his head, trying to clear his train of thought. Damn. He had to stop drinking. These mind benders were killing him.

He opened his mouth wide, as if the intake of air would clear his thoughts, and forced himself up on his feet. Staggering at first, he slowly connected his body to the wishes of his mind.

Molly smiled.

She held out her hands, her painted nails flickered in the gaslight. Her smile didn't change. Not even a twitch.

Dead.

Her smile was dead. No other word for it. No pleasure or passion lived there for him. What a fool he'd been.

Without a word, Bill turned on his heels and strode for the door. He'd rather sleep it off in his own lonely bed than keep up with the pretence she'd so obviously laid out for him.

Women.

So subtle, so crafty. How could a man ever truly trust them?

Bill's fingers yanked the door knob to the right while Molly began pleading him to stay. It had little effect. His mind had woken up, with or without the help of the liquor. Or perhaps it was confusing his entire thought process?

He wrenched open the door and stepped out into the hallway. Immediately, an ice cold slap of air slammed his body backwards into the room. He stumbled and half fell to the floor, grappling for a hold of the doorframe as he fell.

"What in the name of...?" Molly rushed to his aid, catching his splaying arms. They crumbled together in a heap on the floor.

"Jesus, Molly, what the heck was that?"

Miss Molly bit her bottom lip and helped Bill up onto his feet.
"I ain't saying nothing."

Her trembling hand led him to believe that somethings were best left unknown. Perhaps the whiskey was the way to go this particular night after all.

The pair stumbled back into the shelter of the room and resumed their previous positions.

"Guess I'm paying the night?" Bill muttered as he brought the bottle back to sit on the peak of his belly bulge.

The lady flung herself on her back and sighed up at the ceiling.
"Reckon so, Bill."

"You wanna tell me what you make of that out there?" He peeked out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to scare her into full confrontation. He guessed some things were easier to seep out without pressure.

She squirmed around a while, the sheets squeaking in resilience. Her voice came out croaky and broken.
"I have no idea. But I don't want any part of it. It's bad stuff. That's all you need to know."

Bill nodded and took up his bottle once again.
"Oh, I get that alright." He swallowed, fighting the upsurge of unwanted liquor that his overwhelmed liver kicked back. Taking a deep breath, his watery eyes scanned the ceiling. Pale yellow with tabacco, the paintwork had begun to peel away where patches of damp came through under the roof's dodgy tiling. Much like the way he felt right now.