A Place Called Freedom by Ken Follett

yelled, but she kept coming.
    He crashed into her and swept her up in his free arm.
    Then the gas blew.
    For a split second there was an ear-piercing hiss, then there was a huge, deafening thump that shook the earth. A force that felt like a massive fist struck Mack’s back and he was lifted off his feet, losing his grip on Wullie and Jen. He flew through the air. He felt a wave of scorching heat, and he was sure he was going to die; then he splashed headfirst into icy water, and realized he had been thrown into the drainage pool at the bottom of the mine shaft.
    And he was still alive.
    He broke the surface and dashed water from his eyes.
    The wooden decking and staircase were burning in places, and the flames illuminated the scene fitfully. Mack located Jen, splashing about and choking. He grabbed her and heaved her out of the water.
    Choking, she screamed: “Where’s Wullie?”
    He might have been knocked unconscious, Mack thought. He pushed himself from one side of the small pool to the other, bumping into the bucket chain, which had ceased to operate. At last he found a floating object that turned out to be Wullie. He shoved the boy onto the deck beside his mother and clambered out himself.
    Wullie sat up and spewed water. “Thank God,” Jen sobbed. “He’s alive.”
    Mack looked into the tunnel. Stray wisps of gas burned sporadically like fiery spirits. “Away up the stairs with us,” he said. “There might be a secondary blast.” He pulled Jen and Wullie to their feet and pushed them up ahead of him. Jen lifted Wullie and slung him over her shoulder: his weight was nothing to a woman who could carry a full corf of coal up these stairs twenty times in a fifteen-hour shift.
    Mack hesitated, looking at the small fires burning at the foot of the stairs. If the entire staircase burned, the pit might be out of commission for weeks while it was rebuilt. He took a few extra seconds to splash water from the pool over the flames and put them out. Then he followed Jen up.
    When he reached the top he felt exhausted, bruised and dizzy. He was immediately surrounded by a crowd who shook his hand, slapped his back and congratulated him. The crowd parted for Jay Jamisson and his companion, whom Mack had recognized to be Lizzie Hallim dressed as a man. “Well done, McAsh,” said Jay. “My family appreciates your courage.”
    You smug bastard, Mack thought.
    Lizzie said: “Is there really no other way to deal with firedamp?”
    “No,” said Jay.
    “Of course there is,” Mack gasped.
    “Really?” Lizzie said. “What?”
    Mack caught his breath. “You sink ventilation shafts, which let the gas escape before ever it can accumulate.” He took another deep breath. “The Jamissons have been told time and time again.”
    There was a murmur of agreement from the miners standing around.
    Lizzie turned to Jay. “Then why don’t you do it?”
    “You don’t understand business—why should you?” Jay said. “No man of business can pay for an expensive procedure when a cheaper one will achieve the same result. His rivals would undercut his price. It’s political economy.”
    “Give it a fancy name if you like,” Mack panted. “Ordinary folk call it wicked greed.”
    One or two of the miners shouted: “Aye! That’s right!”
    “Now, McAsh,” Jay remonstrated. “Don’t spoil everything by getting above your station again. You’ll get into real trouble.”
    “I’m in no trouble,” Mack said. “Today is my twenty-second birthday.” He had not meant to say this, but now he could not stop himself. “I haven’t worked here the full year-and-a-day, not quite—and I’m not going to.” The crowd was suddenly quiet, and Mack was filled with an exhilarating sense of freedom. “I’m leaving, Mr. Jamisson,” he said. “I quit. Good-bye.” He turned his back on Jay and, in total silence, he walked away.

9
    B Y THE TIME J AY AND L IZZIE GOT BACK TO THE castle, eight or ten servants were about, lighting fires