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T H E Y  S H O O T  P I T  P O N I E S ,
D O N ' T  T H E Y ?

She couldn't see. She hadn't seen anything for hours since the Davey Lamp went out with the rock fall. And she couldn't feel her leg, the one she'd kicked Ol'Doherty with last Friday as he'd tried to persuade her down Deep Shaft Number One. She thinks it's broken, but she doesn't have the strength to test it and her harness is pinning her down.


A dancing light in the darkness becomes a face, and it's Spike. She's his favourite. She knows, he's told her, every night back in the stable when he rubs her down.

"Oh, Buffy. Look at you." He holds her head in his lap and rubs her ears, not too manly for tears. 

 

He doesn't care that she's filthy, caked with coal dust and blood. He whispers a soft goodbye, tells her he loves her. 

 

Then brains her with his shovel.

 

 

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