Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Pain raining down, soaking through skin, reaching bones, organs.

  Bodies, not heads. Bodies, not heads. The chief constable’s words. The official policy. Hard to implement every time. Sometimes the necessity of winning every battle overrode that command. Sometimes like had to be answered with like. And sometimes you just needed to see, feel and hear the skull crack like an egg hatching blood.

  One by one, the enemy went down. A pile, of bloodied plaid and denim. A broken mass.

  Some ran off, escaped. They would be caught, dealt with, by other patrols hidden elsewhere. Taken down by another wall of batons.

  The defeated bodies of the enemy were hauled away, sealed in armoured police vans, transported to police cells. The batons and boots of the frontline soldiers had done their work.

  Now they tended their wounded, regrouped and re-prepared. They were laughing, self-mythologizing their baton work, perfecting later legends. Laughing up the body count. They were high on testosterone and blood: even those with initial misgivings, now they had had a taste, they too had a hard-on for hatred.

  They reassumed positions, waited for the signal.

  Waited to attack again.

  Dougie couldn’t move. He just watched, rooted by horror.

  He was a veteran of picket lines and no stranger to confrontation, but he had never seen anything like this before. He had thought he never would. Not in his own country. His own town. His own street.

  He thought again of his national service. Germany in the 1950s. There as friends, not foes. The German people happy to see them. He remembered bar-room conversations he had had with German ex-soldiers. Their English better than his German. One man, Florian, attempting to explain the temporary insanity that had gripped the country two decades previously. The rise of Hitler. Nazis and Germans, he explained, were two different things. The National Socialists were elected on the promise to reunite a divided country. They ruled by propaganda and brutality, rewarding a few, persecuting those who didn’t share their vision. People, he said, would watch Nazi soldiers abuse and beat other people in the street. And no one would stop them. Not because they didn’t think it was a terrible thing that was happening, but because if they did they knew they would be next.

  Above all, Florian told him, it was something that could happen anywhere. At any time.

  Dougie hadn’t believed him at the time, had thought he had just been apologizing, self-justifying.

  But he did now.

  All the police were lacking, he thought, was a swastika on their arms.

  His mind couldn’t find a rational vocabulary to process what his eyes were seeing.

  A miner on his knees, a mounted policeman encircling him, two foot officers beside him, taking turns with their batons, the horse keeping him in place, dissuading him from running.

  Dougie knew the man, had worked with him for several years. He was a big man, wife and three children, came in the club on a Friday night and drank with his friends. He was no coward, but no angel, and could settle an argument with his fists as he had done on several occasions. But not a bully. Not a man who went looking for trouble. A man unafraid to stand up for himself.

  That man was now crying, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, his body twisting ineffectually in a futile attempt to dodge the blows.

  The policemen were taking it in turns, their arms showing little sign of tiring.

  The man’s sobbing increased. Dougie saw a dark stain spread over the front of his jeans, the ground dampen beneath him. The man had pissed himself.

  Dougie heard the two policemen laugh and continue the beating, their enthusiasm intensified.

  The man gave a final howl of rage, fear, humiliation. Then silence. He slumped on to the ground, broken.

  The policemen carried him away.

  That wasn’t an isolated incident. All around him, Dougie could see the same scene being repeated. With variations, but the same result.

  Florian’s words again.

  It was something that could happen anywhere. Any time.

  His body began to move. Slowly at first, as if in a dream, then with increasing speed once the danger of his situation became apparent.

  I’ve got to keep moving, he thought. I can’t stop. Because if I do, I’ll be next.

  Larkin, like everyone around him, ran.

  Pelting through the streets with the rest of the pickets, up blind alleys, around corners, past shops, it was like the Pamplona bull stampede: for black-coated bulls read body-armoured coppers, for goring horns read batons.

  They rounded a corner and found another police unit waiting for them. They charged, batons waving, screaming.

  Chaos reigned. The miners ran down alleyways, through doorways, into each other.

  Batons rained, stopping escapes, breaking limbs.

  Larkin ran. Oblivious of who was with him, not risking the time to look. Just powering on.

  Bolland ran too, aware of the camera’s weight in his hands, aware of the job he had to do.

  He stopped running, found a doorway and aimed.

  He saw:

  A teenager running in terror, an armoured policeman pulling his T-shirt, ripping it off, beating him down over the bonnet of a Montego.

  Click.

  A man lying beneath the hooves of a police horse, his cardboard Socialist Worker banner held up to ward off the hooves.

  Click.

  A policeman holding a middle-aged miner round the neck in an arm lock while another truncheoned his stomach.

  Click.

  Click. Again and again. Click.

  The images were diamond-hard, precious and real.

  But not rare.

  When he had what he thought were enough, he ran. Holding his camera in his jacket, protecting it like a fragile bird.

  Larkin’s surroundings changed. Council estates gave way to older, bigger houses. Concrete-panelled boxes and mugger-maze walkways became high hedges bordering substantial front gardens and Edwardian stone frontage on tree-dotted pavements. He had reached the edge of Coldwell, where the inhabitants didn’t need to work down a mine.

  All he saw was shelter. He was exhausted, his body reduced to just elements and minerals: his legs were sand, his feet were water, his chest a burned-out lump of old, rusted iron. Shaken and shaking from fear and exertion, he could go no further. He jumped into a garden, flopping down behind a hedge. All around him, other runners were doing the same.

  They lay, chests heaving, faces reddened, long-unused muscles stiffening and cramping. Exhausted, ordered by exhilaration. Despite the fear and the threat, it was the most excitement some of them had had in years.

  Larkin, his breath returning, propped himself up on his elbows, opened his eyes. His body was crushing a flowerbed, his legs stretched out on a rockery. There were two pickets with him.

  Then a crash as another body joined them: Dave Bolland.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked Bolland.

  ‘Just about,’ Bolland said through ragged breaths. He opened his jacket, exposing the camera cradled inside. ‘Got some good shots, I think. If they come out.’

  Larkin smiled. ‘Ever the pro.’

  Bolland changed films, putting the used roll in his jacket pocket, fitting a new one. Larkin looked at the other two men, smiled.

  ‘Reckon I made better time than Steve Cram,’ said the older one with a short laugh. He looked at the camera. ‘What are you, journalists or somethin’?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Larkin. ‘Trying to balance up the coverage a bit.’

  ‘Best o’luck to you, lad,’ said the other miner. He had a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘I were at Orgreave. Saw some stuff that never made it into papers. Reckon strike would be over now if it ’ad done. We’d a’ had a bloody revolt against this lot.’

  Larkin nodded. ‘Well, we’ll do what we can.’

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  The men turned to the source of the voice. The front door of the house had opened and there sto
od the owner. The man sat sharply upright.

  ‘Just look what you’ve done to my flowers.’

  ‘We’re sorry, pet,’ said the older man. He stood up, not without effort, and crossed to the woman.

  Larkin made her age as early fifties. Wearing a three-quarter-length skirt and a long-sleeved round-necked jumper with the collar of a frilled blouse ruffing her neck. Hair a mature ash blonde, probably naturally grey. She didn’t look happy.

  ‘We’re very sorry,’ the older man said again, ‘but we had no choice.’

  ‘We’re being chased,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Chased?’

  ‘Police.’

  The woman’s anger subsided, replaced by a fear of involvement.

  ‘Now, look—’

  ‘As I said, we’re very sorry, pet. But if you could just let us stay here till it’s safe, we’ll be on our way.’

  The woman thought. She nodded.

  ‘Thanks, hinny.’

  ‘You’re miners, aren’t you?’

  The two men nodded.

  ‘What’s happened at the colliery now?’

  The older man told her.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said the woman, after he’d finished talking. ‘Well, I must say I’m very sympathetic to your aims, but I don’t like the way you go about it.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ asked the Orgreave veteran.

  ‘You know. Throwing stones. Violence. A lot more people would be on your side if you weren’t so aggressive towards the police.’

  A look of weary incredulity passed between the four men. They had heard that sentiment voiced so often that they had a stock reply.

  ‘It’s not aggression, it’s retaliation,’ said the older miner. ‘If you found you and yours bein’ threatened, what would you do? You’d fight back, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘That’s all we’re doin’. Fightin’ for what’s ours.’

  ‘But you see so many injured policemen in the papers.’

  ‘And how many injured miners do you see?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘Not many.’

  ‘That’s right. Because they never make it to the papers.’

  The woman looked at them. ‘I’m just saying you shouldn’t be so violent, that’s all.’

  Conversation was abruptly cut short. They heard noises from further up the street. Voices. Violence. And something else.

  The ground around them trembled and the hedge began to shake.

  They moved out of the way. They knew what was coming next.

  Police horses.

  Running through the row of gardens, their riders taking them over hedges and fences as if it were the Grand National, flushing out or trampling on hidden miners as they went.

  The men didn’t wait. They fled before the woman’s hedge was forcibly shredded, her garden ground to mulch and clay.

  Larkin ran.

  ‘Bastards! Bastard coppers!’

  He risked turning, wanting to see who was shouting.

  The woman was standing in the remains of her garden, throwing chunks of her dismantled rockery after the retreating riders. Her face angry, her voice venomous.

  ‘Bastards! Police bastards!’

  ‘Another convert,’ the old miner shouted, running.

  Larkin nodded but didn’t reply. He ran.

  And kept on running.

  Click.

  Mick was halfway home. He quickstepped, confident he had made the right decision, happy to be returning home to Angela, looking forward to seeing the expression on her face when he walked in, told her of his decision, demonstrated where his loyalties lay. Slightly guilty about leaving Dougie but, as Angela said, he had done his bit. Let someone else take over now.

  And then he heard it. He heard it before he saw it. A stampede.

  Behind him. Bearing down on him.

  He turned, saw pickets running, pursued by uniformed police. They were running away from the town, towards the streets and estates, their home territories. The same route he was taking.

  Every so often they stopped, turned, hurled missiles.

  Sometimes they connected; missiles hit shields, sent jarring shock waves up arms. Hit heads. Slowed their pursuers down.

  The crowd moved towards Mick. He began running, trying to outpace them.

  They started to gain on him, he ran faster. Head down, powering towards home as fast as he could.

  Soon both sides were after him, the miners and the police. He ran harder, trying to put more distance between himself and them, not wanting to get involved with either of them.

  But it was unavoidable. Gradually he tired and the crowd of runners caught up with him. He was no longer the pacemaker, the front man. He was overtaken, overwhelmed. Sucked back into the ranks once more, a component of a group he had never truly felt part of.

  The turn-off to his estate was coming up. He tried running towards it, tried to break free of the press of bodies around him. He collided with other miners, got into the paths of other runners, was knocked out of the way, hit, rebounded back into his place. The press of bodies and the speed of the men held him tight. The gap between himself and his house became smaller yet further away.

  He thought about Angie, sitting at home waiting for him. Saw the entrance to his estate recede behind him. Felt an ache in his chest from more than exertion.

  He was part of the mass, powerless to break away, powerless to change direction.

  He ran on with them, down streets, around corners. The men began to tire, the mass loosen. The chasing police began to slow. One by one, men stopped, hands on knees, heads down, gasping. Mick started to edge his way out.

  He reached the pavement, began to walk backwards, retracing his route, going home.

  He didn’t get far.

  From either side of the road, from in front of him, behind buildings, through alleyways, hidden riot squads charged. Helmets in place, batons raised.

  The miners looked around, off guard, tried to find escape routes, legs to run on, breath to put in bodies. They reached for weapons – bricks, anything – fitted them into weak grasps, hefted them with trembling arms.

  The police were on them.

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

  Mick tried to run, back the way he had come, back home. There were too many bodies around him. He pushed, elbowed, kicked. Tried to force an opening, a gap to squeeze through. A hand grabbed his shoulder, swung him round. He tried to shrug it off, saw the uniform above it, pulled harder. The grip didn’t loosen.

  He knew what was coming next, threw his arm up to protect himself. Pulling frantically away, flinching all the time.

  The baton cracked across his forearm, the pain as sudden as it was indescribable. He instinctively moved his free hand to his injured arm.

  Another baton crack on his shoulder and Mick went down. There was no thought of escape now, just protection.

  He attempted to fling his arms over his head, hoping the blows would hit knuckle rather than skull, but his arms wouldn’t respond. They hung, hurting and useless, at his sides.

  He looked up, tried to speak, to tell his assailant he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t meant to be here. He was on his way home to be with his wife. His pregnant wife.

  He saw a face behind a spittle-flecked visor, eyes twisted with rage, mouth hurling hatred. At Mick. A man he’d never seen before in his life. No communication, no reasoning there.

  He thought again of Angie, at home.

  Baton slowly up, straining back.

  He wished he was with her now.

  Quickly down. Connect.

  She had been right all along.

  And again. Connect.

  He should have listened to her.

  And again.

  I’m not meant to be here.

  The day wore down. The fights ran on. Police trying to impose a structure, a control, pickets forcing them back, shrugging them off.

  Territory became liqui
d: gains and losses tided forward, rushed back, ebbed and flowed, constantly moved, never still. The map redrawn by the minute.

  The police were well drilled, well ordered. The miners were fighting back with whatever they could find. Anything they could get their hands on. Bricks, stones, bottles. The debris of the streets. Makeshift barricades were hastily built, missiles launched from behind them. A true working-class resistance, thought Dougie. Symbolism made corporeal, as that journalist lad would have said.

  But he knew the miners would tire. There were only so many of them. The police could draft in reinforcements. And they would.

  Dougie stood at the window of the Miners’ Welfare Hall, mug of tea in hand. He didn’t know whether it was hot or cold, full or empty. He didn’t care. He had seen the carnage in the streets, now he stared at the aftermath. Broken placards. Destroyed banners. An overturned oil drum that had been used as a brazier for the pickets at the gate. He looked around the room, saw beaten men. Broken men. Still moving, but they had given in. Given up.

  Earlier, from the window, he had watched as the police had taken full control of the gates. Laughing with each other, making jokes at the pickets’ expense. He had watched them talk to the news crews, the chief constable shaking hands with the journalists, joking as if they were old friends, asking which shots they had got of the battle, explaining tactics, suggesting camera angles and vantage points to capture the best of the action. Inviting the crews to position their cameras behind police lines for a better view.

  ‘Bastards …’

  It was an epiphany: the moment Dougie realized what the miners were up against. Why they wouldn’t win. He had allowed the previous day’s victory to carry his heart away, to make him believe they had a chance. They had no chance. They were going to lose.

  He sat down, the sound of his spirit breaking almost audible to himself.

  Someone came over to him, asked a question. He didn’t hear the words, was vaguely aware of some of the words. End of the shift. Busing the scabs out. Picket line.

  Outside the window the chief constable was shaking hands with the news crew, walking down the street towards the Miners’ Welfare.

  ‘What should we do?’

  Dougie sighed. ‘Nothing.’

  He looked up, saw a surprised face.