“Bleedin’ eck,” Arthur exclaimed. “Look at that weather!”

The rain coming off Meechan Tor was fierce and boisterous. The coal-ashen ground was moist and spongy; the bald hillocks surrounding the mine were mercilessly assailed; the trampled verdant foliage submitted to the onslaught.

“You can’t stay here any longer,” the Foreman called out, locking his office. “You’d best run for it.”

The youngest, Percy, whistled at the task ahead. “Can’t you give us a lift to the pub, Mr. Jones?”

Jones snorted at the boy. “And let you mucky buggers mess up my car? Be off with you. It’s only a bit o’ rain.”

The buggers, Arthur, Percy, John, Bill and Jim, sighed as the bulky foreman locked up, forcing all of them outside.

“Let’s get going, boys,” Bill shouted out over the thunderous noise of the rain. “We can dry off at the pub.”

As they started to slowly jog along the gravel track that circled a large, crimson field of twisted bracken, Percy complained about the route they always took home.

“Why do we always take the long way around? Can’t we just cut across?”

John grunted at him. “Nobody goes that way since the Mitchell girl went missing. You know that. There’s slumps hidden in amongst that thicket and you’ll fall straight through.”

“I’m wetter than my wife’s cunny though!” Percy moaned.

Arthur laughed. “You’re lucky. My wife’s drier than a sheet of sandpaper.”

Jim, older and old-fashioned, tutted angrily at the two men. “Don’t be so crude about your wives. Have some respect.”

They apologised and the group fell quiet, trudging on miserably through the storm, the gravel cracking under their sodden boots.

“Sod this,” Percy said. “I’m soaked. I’ll see you girls at the pub!”

He ran off towards the vast overgrowth, the dense vegetation and the sunset haze quickly obscuring him from the others’ sight.

Jim called out to him angrily, warning him to come back.

“Percy! Don’t be daft, lad! It’s not safe in there!”

The remaining miners stopped.

“We should go after him,” John said.

Bill carried on walking. “He’ll be fine. Percy will be warm and dry with a beer in his hand before we will. Come on.”

The others agreed, despite Jim shaking his head.

Forty minutes later the drenched quartet finally reached the Black Cock Inn. They were hoping to find Percy waiting for them, a mug of ale in his hand.

He was nowhere to be found.

The men ordered their drinks and waited for him but after an hour started to become concerned. The rain had ceased and Jim convinced the others to go back. Arthur refused.

Nobody would venture too far into the bracken for fear of falling through one of the slumps into the mine shafts below. Of course, everyone knew that wasn’t the real reason.

Percy was never seen again.

To this day, miners swear they can hear him calling out for help as they make their way home.

Thirty years after he went missing.