Free Underworld by Reginald Hill Page A

side, out of sight of his country house. At last an engineer was employed who knew what he was doing. He looked at the mish-mash of workings on the south ridge, shuddered, turned to the north and after several months of exploration recommended that here was where the next generation of Burrs would earn the necessities of life such as London Seasons, Grand Tours, four shirts a day, and the most up-to-date treatment of their social diseases.
    He proved right. Deep beneath the northern ridge rich new seams were found, running north and west. The pitheads which rose here were completely invisible from His Lordship's house, and the remnants of Gratterley Wood still crowned the southern ridge to provide a nice bit of rough shooting for a couple of chaps on a morning stroll.
    But that was long ago, aye, ages long ago, thought Colin Farr as he approached the Welfare Club. The mine belonged to the people now, the Burr estates had contracted, and you could walk freely through Gratterley Wood with more risk of having your head blown off by some poaching miner than an angry gamekeeper. Even the Burr mansion had declined to the clubhouse of the Burr golf club (miners welcome to join the Artisan Section), and all was well with the world.
    Except that he was still walking up the long hill to clock on for his shift. He needed a drink. He glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time for a leisurely pint in the Club, but he wished now that he'd come on his bike instead of walking so that he would have had the option of going to a pub outside the village.
    Then, annoyed with himself for his weakness, he turned up the steps of the Welfare.
    Pedro Pedley watched him enter the bar with a studiously neutral expression. Farr smiled with all his charm and said, 'Pedro, I'm sorry if I were a bit obstreperous last night.'
    Before the steward could reply, another voice said, 'You're not obstreperous, Farr. You're just not fit to be around decent people. Peter, I thought this trouble-maker were banned.'
    It was Harold Satterthwaite who spoke. He was sitting close to the bar in company with a dark-suited, red-faced man, with a ragged moustache and an alderman's belly. Farr turned to face them as Pedley said, 'I decide who's banned in this bar, Harold. What is it, Col? A pint?'
    'In a minute, Pedro. I just want a word with these decent people.'
    He strolled towards the two men with a friendly grin on his face.
    'Hello, Mr Satterthwaite, sir,' he said. 'And I know you too, don't I? You're that journalist I dumped through the shop window.'
    'That's right, Mr Farr. Monty Boyle's the name,' said the stout man, returning the grin. 'Let me buy you a drink to show there are no hard feelings.'
    'Thanks, Mr Boyle, but no, thanks. I think I was right about you first time we met. You come near me or my mam asking any of your nasty little questions and it'll be a brick wall I throw you through next time.'
    'You hear that, Peter? Do you still say he shouldn't be banned, threatening members' guests like that?' demanded Satterthwaite.
    Pedley who'd come from behind the bar put a restraining hand on the young man's arm. He shook it off and said, 'No sweat, Pedro, I'm not threatening this gent, just giving him some local colour, that's what newspapers like, isn't it? As for you, Mr Satterthwaite, sir, I'd not dream of threatening you because I just don't have the time to wait in the queue. But I'll tell you this for nothing. Sure as eggs, you'll be standing on your ownsome deep inbye some shift, with nothing but the mice for company, or so you'll think, only someone will be creeping up behind you with a shovel to bash your thick skull in and toss you into the gob with all the rest of the shit!'
    'You heard that?' exclaimed Satterthwaite looking round. 'All of you here heard that: By God, you'll not get away with threats like that, Farr!'
    'Threats? Who's making threats?' said Farr all injured, 'I went out of my way to say I weren't threatening you, didn't I? No, it's all