This morning, Ivor left his wife. She was making breakfast when he left and did not even look up. She just cracked eggs. Jaw set tight as it ever had been. This afternoon, the doctor gave him a diagnosis he never wanted. He verified why Ivor cannot work in daylight. Meanwhile, the coal mine he has worked in all his life is closing down so he is doing anything he can to feel useful to anybody at all right now. Two floors down, his sister and Esme are waiting for him to come back and report on noises they’ve been hearing from the attic.

– You’ve no fear, have you, Uncle Ivor?

– None, Esme.

– It’s a tapping, every night. It’s driving Mum crazy, isn’t it, Mum?

A nod from Rhona as she popped two tramadol and lay down on the couch again.

– I’ll go find out what it is.

– Okay, and if you see my wee pal, will ye give her this?

Esme held out a teddy.

It’s in his back pocket – he places it on the broken armchair.

His niece’s wee imaginary pal is becoming a bit of a permanent fixture. He won’t question it. It’s her room he’s sleeping in, on the bottom bunk. He’s brought his records with him – they were the only thing he took. He’s got his clothes folded in the hall cupboard and nothing else of his is in her room; it’s Esme’s manor. She’s the coolest person he knows: eight years old, tenacious as hell and wise as a fucking owl! He does not want to infringe on her space any more than he has to.

The air is cold up here.

Ivor is glad to be wearing layers, as he always does.

It’s a habit from twenty-six years working down the pit.

The doctor said he should show his workmates the note, to prove why he can’t strike…

Funny fucker, his doctor.

His workmates are boys he was born and raised with – kids he played with his whole life, went to school with, watched get married and have kids of their own. Men he’s spent much of his life more than six feet under with. He would rather they think he is a scab than know the truth, which is that he is completely fucking mental.

The doctor asked him, didn’t he?

– What do you do?

– Coal miner.

– How many years?

– Since I left school.

– No other trade?

– I helped my uncle out at weekends renovating houses but noh. My da was a miner, my da’s da was a miner, my da’s da’s da was a miner, his da was a butcher, everyone before him wiz a miner, ma uncles are miners, cousins, ma brother, ma pals. Every man on ma street is a miner and in a few weeks, every one of us is out of work fir good.