Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  He looked familiar. Larkin knew him from somewhere. He spun the face through his mental rolodex. There was something …

  ‘You all right?’

  Larkin turned. There stood Claire Duffy.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Just looking for the toilets.’

  She gave him directions. They were the opposite way to Tony and his friend.

  ‘Thanks. Oh, Claire?’

  She looked him square in the eyes. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who’s that guy talking to Tony up there?’ He gestured along the corridor.

  ‘Oh.’ She seemed slightly disappointed. It didn’t look like that was the question she had been expecting. She followed his gaze.

  ‘Him? That’s Tommy Jobson.’

  Click. That was it.

  ‘Tommy Jobson? Is he a friend of Tony’s?’

  ‘Yeah. Local businessman. Owns casinos or something. Gives loads to charity. Well, loads to us, anyway.’

  Larkin nodded, said nothing. That description didn’t match the Tommy Jobson he was aware of.

  ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  Larkin shrugged. ‘Just … thought I recognized him, that’s all. Must be someone else. Well, I’d better be off to the loo.’

  Larkin turned to walk away.

  ‘Hope you see some action in the second half,’ Claire shouted after him.

  ‘Me too,’ he said without turning around.

  By the time Larkin returned to the changing room, Tony was there. His rallying speech was in full flow.

  Agincourt in Coldwell.

  Henry V inspiring his army of recovering addicts.

  It worked. They were ready to run back on and play their hearts out.

  Larkin joined them.

  Dougie had never seen anything like it.

  At fifty-two he was too young to remember what occupied France looked like during World War Two. But he could imagine. It would have looked like Coldwell did now.

  The town had joined the list of those under siege, martial law.

  The gates to the colliery were locked shut, ringed by tooled-up, visored woodentops. They stood impassively, waiting. It looked like a border checkpoint between warring neighbour states. Keeping one side out, one side in.

  Word had gone round late at night, early in the morning. Homeward-bound partygoers leaving the Miners’ Welfare Hall had seen the police operation but were too physically depleted to take action against it. The news had spread, angrily at first, then with a contemplative sense of inevitability: the gains of the previous day couldn’t go unpunished.

  There was no procession today. Word had gone out: pack the gates with bodies. Yesterday’s remaining flying pickets were there, as were neighbouring miners, plus the near-acronyms: RCP, SWP, WRP. Their numbers were much depleted from the previous day, the organization haphazard. The chants had no rhythm, the shouts were random: scatter-gun targetting. The banners were absent.

  The men were dressed for work again; boots and denim, plus a smattering of Frankie Says Coal Not Dole T-shirts.

  Tension choked. Tension stifled. Tension ate up the air between the two tribes.

  Dougie hadn’t had much sleep. The elation of the previous day, the previous night had drained completely away. He had watched through bleary eyes and an aching head as convoys of police buses, vans and support units had rolled up and disgorged officers, riot visors rendering them faceless, identities as blank and unaccountable as their numberless epaulets.

  As the police buses had passed, coppers had waved money out of the windows, tenners and twenties, shouted taunts about how much overtime they were making, the holidays in Majorca they were taking. Some of the older ones had looked embarrassed at this, had looked at Dougie and shrugged apologetically: This isn’t what I wanted from my job. Dougie could empathize with them. This wasn’t what he wanted from his, either.

  The roads and walkways had been reshaped. With bollards, cones and barriers, the only way round was the way the police wanted. Junctions were manned, routes enforced, entry scrutinized. Anyone intending to enter the town was stopped, questioned and sometimes searched. Pickets and sympathizers or suspected pickets or sympathizers were turned away with as much force as individual officers felt like inflicting. Anyone granted entry was directed to a designated parking area. The police had everyone where they wanted them.

  Dougie looked around at the townspeople, the locals. They watched helplessly as, piece by piece, their town was taken away from them. And with that, their dignity, their pride. Even neutrals, people who had no connection with the mine or the strike, were drawn in. With each decision, each section of Coldwell claimed by the police, lines were drawn. Divisions made. Sides, out of unconscious necessity, were taken.

  The people’s faces reflected anger hardening into hatred. Complacency turning into resolve. But above all, fear. Fear of the future. Fear of the present.

  Fear of the immediate future.

  The mini was travelling towards Coldwell, the Redskins on the tape player. Larkin nodded along to the beat, sang snatches of lyric. Bolland unconsciously kept time on the steering wheel. Larkin, buoyed by the events of the previous day, was allowing the music to carry him further up.

  ‘X. Moore wrote these songs on a picket line, you know,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Is that supposed to make them sound better?’

  ‘Yeah. Thinks they have more honesty and heart because of it.’

  Bolland smiled. ‘Some catchy tunes might be a better idea.’

  Bolland was a friend of Larkin’s, a journalism student at Newcastle Poly. He had an eye for a dramatic picture, marking him out as an excellent photojournalist of the future. They had worked together before and were good friends, although Larkin suspected Bolland’s George Michael-style coif extended further than his hair roots.

  Larkin was about to argue back when they saw it. The roadblock.

  Stretching the width of the road, manned by over a dozen policemen flagging down cars indiscriminately. The smell of testosterone was almost corporeal.

  ‘Shit,’ said Bolland. ‘That wasn’t there yesterday. What’re we going to do?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Leave it to me,’ said Larkin. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  A policeman flagged them down, pointed to the side of the road.

  Bolland pulled over, waited.

  ‘Better turn the tape off,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Morning, gentlemen,’ said the copper. Only school age but already swaggering, as if natural authority came woven into the uniform. ‘Tell me where you’re headed?’

  Bolland swallowed. ‘Coldwell.’

  The policeman tensed, a hard, anticipatory smile developing on his lips.

  ‘And can I ask what for?’

  ‘We’re journalists,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Really.’ The copper scoped them: Levi’s, DMs. Larkin wearing his Meat Is Murder T-shirt. ‘Working for who?’

  ‘The Daily Mirror.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ The copper looked over to his comrades, readying them for some fun.

  ‘Yes,’ said Larkin. He opened his jacket, took out the card Pears had given him, held it up. ‘This is our boss. Call him if you don’t believe me. The name’s Stephen Larkin.’

  The policeman looked at the card, hesitated. A blip in his cockiness. Larkin held his gaze.

  ‘Are you going to call him?’ asked Larkin. ‘If you are, could you do it quickly? I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ve got a job to do. Deadline to meet.’

  The policeman was confused. His instinct was not to let them through, but Larkin’s insistence, his calm, unblinking gaze, seemed genuine. He decided to take the chance.

  ‘Go on then, off you go.’

  ‘Thank you, constable,’ said Larkin, smiling.

  They drove off, Bolland putting his foot down.

  Bolland sighed with relief. Larkin laughed.

  ‘Fucking fascist bastard,’ he shouted, looking back at the retreating figure of the policeman as he watched them go.

  ‘Cunt,’
he said.

  Larkin turned the tape back on.

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘What’s the alternative? Your stuff? Wham?’ said Larkin.

  Bolland said nothing.

  ‘We’ve got through the first stage. Let the lyrics inspire you.’

  Larkin settled back in his seat, mouthing the words.

  ‘Bring it Down.’

  Dougie entered the Miners’ Welfare Hall.

  Last night’s party was a distant memory. Formica-topped tables were pushed together, newspapers, mugs and notebooks scattering the tops. Mick was just putting the phone down.

  ‘How’s it goin’?’

  Mick sighed. ‘Not good. The Yorkshire pickets got through all right. Most of them stayed here last night. But the Notts lads and the Lancashire men haven’t. They’ve got roadblocks all the way down the A1. There’s coaches and vans blockin’ the lanes … It’s chaos everywhere.’

  Mick rubbed his face with his hands while Dougie digested the news.

  ‘Aw, shite …’ said Dougie.

  ‘Listen,’ said Mick, his voice hesitant.

  Dougie looked at him.

  ‘I need to go home.’ His voice was small, distant. ‘Angie … She needs us there. She’s not…’

  Dougie sighed. Mick saw strain and worry etched into the lines on his face.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll stay.’

  ‘No,’ said Dougie. ‘If she needs you, she needs you. You’d best be off. We’ll manage here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Dougie nodded.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mick stood up, made his way to the door.

  ‘Tell her I’m askin’ after her.’

  Mick nodded and left. Dougie sat alone, thinking.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s like Eastern Europe,’ said Larkin, looking at the gates to the colliery.

  ‘You ever been to Eastern Europe, then?’ asked Bolland.

  Larkin reddened slightly. ‘No, but it’s what I’d imagine it to be like. Why, have you?’

  ‘Just the once. East Berlin. Very bleak. But a kind of strange … chromatic beauty about it.’

  ‘Spoken like a true poncy photographer.’

  Bolland smiled. ‘Piss off.’

  They had had to park in a designated area, directed there by the police. Even then they had been scrutinized for signs of miner sympathy, not allowed through another cordon of police until they could convince them who they were and what they were doing there.

  They looked around, breathing in the tension like an airborne virus.

  The strikers stood against the gates and the chain-link fence, sticks, dustbin lids and other makeshift noisemakers in hand. The police stood opposite them in lines with shields, batons and anonymous visors in place. They looked to Larkin like something out of a sci-fi film, a faceless, merciless invasion force.

  ‘Imperial storm troopers,’ said Bolland, echoing his thoughts.

  The TV crews were there; hungry-eyed, beige-jacketed reporters there to capture the news, hoping to make some.

  ‘Let’s find Dougie,’ said Larkin.

  They found him outside the Miners’ Welfare Hall, talking to some pickets who had made it through the roadblocks.

  ‘Hello, lads,’ he said. ‘It’s gonna be bad today. I think the best you can do is get some shots that’ll tell the truth. That’s all, just tell the truth.’

  Larkin nodded. ‘We will.’

  There was no more time for talk. A rumour began to move through the crowd, a Mexican wave of apprehension and adrenalin.

  A voice cried out: ‘The bus is comin’. This is it.’

  ‘Right, lads,’ shouted Dougie through a loud-hailer to the assembled miners. ‘Get ready.’

  The men surged towards the gates.

  ‘But remember the TV crews are here. Watch what you’re doin’. Don’t play into their hands …’

  Dougie’s words were lost in the air as men moved all around him.

  The mood was different, thought Larkin. More angry than the previous day, more ready for a fight.

  Dougie could feel the rasping shake of his breath, the thump of his own heart. Within that heartbeat he felt the beat of all the men there.

  Coldwell waited.

  But not for long. The bus, the same one as the previous day, made its way towards the colliery, revving and crunching as it negotiated the new road system, the route created specially for it.

  It turned the corner, progress slow but inexorable. At either side walked lines of armoured police.

  The strikers were waiting.

  ‘Come on, lads!’ Dougie shouted.

  He was a general giving an unnecessary order.

  The men swarmed forward, chanting, shouting, sticks and bin lids held aloft, clanged together. They surrounded the bus, were pushed back by police shields. They were yelling, lungs venting, football terrace training used against different opposition.

  The bus jerked, halted, grey clouds bursting from its rear, enveloping police and miners alike. Despite the police escort, the driver was more scared than on the previous day.

  The miners kept pushing.

  Scab! Scab! Scab!

  Bastards!

  Ya scab bastards!

  Words overlapping, fired out sharp. Sticks and lids clattering against the shields. Rhythm in free fall, a ferocious beat.

  Inside the bus the scabs sat, again scarved and huddled, even more fearful than on the previous day.

  The strikers were still chanting, rage feeding their energy, taking their arms beyond tiredness, their voices beyond hoarseness.

  The miners pushed, the police pushed back. The bus stopped moving.

  Dean Plessey found an opening in the police ranks. He jumped at the bus, trying to prise open the door with his fingers. Words hurled with spittle-flecked fury, eyes alight with mob-fuelled hatred, narrowing the gap between legitimate anger and the legitimization of violence.

  He was pulled off and hurled back into the crowd.

  The bus started moving again, moved, centimetre by centimetre.

  The strikers didn’t move.

  The driver put his foot down, revved again. The bus moved and kept moving.

  The colliery gates were pulled open, a solid wall of police admitting the bus, keeping out the miners, shields pushing back bodies.

  The miners, outnumbered, had no choice but to give way. The bus moved inside, the gates closed. The police regrouped in front of the colliery.

  The pickets fell back, spent. The chanting died down, replaced by a bitter silence.

  ‘Dougie Howden. You’ve just watched—’

  A microphone thrust in his face.

  ‘Get out me way, woman.’

  Dougie knocked the microphone to one side, kept walking.

  ‘Bloody reporters …’

  The men stood there looking at each other. Dougie looked at the police. Even behind the visors he could see them smirking.

  ‘Bastards …’

  Chants started up again as miners ringed the fence.

  Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.

  Out, out, out.

  Scab, scab, scab.

  Dougie joined them, adding his voice.

  ‘If you don’t stop throwing stones, my men will move in.’

  The voice, amplified by the buzz of a loud-hailer, rained over the top of the strikers. Gradually the chants stopped, their voices trailing off.

  The strikers looked at each other, confused. None of them had been throwing stones.

  The voice again.

  ‘This is your second warning. If you do not stop throwing stones, my men will move in.’

  Confusion became bemusement. The strikers began to laugh.

  Again: ‘Since you have not complied with the orders given, I am left with no alternative.’

  Before the words had echoed and died, the riot police in front of the gates ran towards the men. Shields up, batons drawn. It was like an advancing, offensive wall moving towards them.

 
The men stood for a few seconds, rooted in shock and dis-belief, then turned and ran.

  From the other end of the street the sound of hooves began to tear up the air. Mounted police, charging.

  The strikers looked around, stunned. They dispersed: running right and left, pell-mell, into each other, anywhere to get away. The riot police kept moving towards them.

  They looked around, trying to find anything that could be used as a weapon.

  Stones started to fly. Batons engaged.

  The battle of Coldwell had begun.

  They ran. Through streets, past shops, through gardens, round houses. No plan, no tactics, just to get away.

  The police had planned. They had tactics. Men deployed to get the miners running, men deployed to be there when they stopped. And the rerouted, reordered Coldwell would ensure they stopped exactly where they wanted them.

  Some uniforms felt nothing: this was just part of their job, another way to earn overtime. To others with family and friends in the pits it was difficult, a conflict of loyalties. But to most of them it was the Falklands War they never had. They weren’t the army, they were the next best thing: police behaving as army. But this time it wasn’t the Argies; it was the miners who were the enemy.

  The enemy within.

  They lay in wait: tooled up, ready.

  Here they come.

  Hidden and braced, coiled and bated.

  Here they—

  Waiting for the enemy to come to them.

  Here—

  The sound of running feet, the huff of men unused to exercise, forced into action. Scared. Confused. Voices shouting, overlapping.

  Waiting for the signal—

  And then they were on them: shouting whooping, batons raised, armoured bodies rushing forward, a blue serge tsunami.

  Batons slowly up, straining back, quickly down. Connect. And again. Connect. And again.

  Unguarded bodies twisting, crumpling and falling. Fighting back: some fists thrown, some lucky punches landed, some desperate kicks connected.

  On the police: opportunistic injuries, lessened by the armour.

  On the miners: plenty of injuries. No armour.

  Batons slowly up, straining back, quickly down. Connect. And again. Connect. And again.

  Connecting with flesh, punching through and breaking bone. Kickback from the impact: reverberations felt all the way through to collarbones.