by Kit Habianic
The security man dozed in his box, radio clutched in mittened hand. What point going home, Scrapper thought. Why give his parents fresh cause to have a go at him. But it was raining now and he didn’t fancy waiting around outdoors. He paused below the chapel. The wind whistled through the railway tunnel. He leaned his bike against the hedge, climbed up to the lych gate.
Above him, the terraces of Ystrad stared blindly across the valley. A boxy tomb towered above the slate headstones, green-stained marble angels topping the plinth, one on each corner. It was the family crypt of the coal barons who owned Blackthorn and a dozen other South Wales pits before nationalisation. Their names were chiselled in chipped gilt: Humphrey Humphrey, buried aged eighty, his son Edward and grandson Henry, both in their mid-seventies. There were no Humphreys around these parts now. They died out or moved on, having squandered their wealth on a stately pile – now The Mountain Ash Hotel – and laying themselves to rest in white marble.
He moved on to a cluster of slate headstones near the road. Simon Peter Jones, 1917 – 1960, Mary-Anne Jones, 1920 – 1978, his gran and granddad. Next to them, his uncles. Dafydd Jones, 1943 – 1960, and Idris Jones, 1945 – 1960. His gran lost three of her men in one day. This was what coal cost: torn bodies, wrecked lives.
He peeled a patch of algae off his uncles’ headstone, feeling sick. It was fate that Iwan had been off work that day, laid up with a sprained wrist, that he survived, went on to marry and have a son of his own. A miner paid his dues over and over. It was true in the Humphreys’ time, true today. A year had passed, yet Gabe’s grave was not grown over. It hurt to see that rectangle of bare earth. Hurt more to remember the other lost soul who was not yet here. He paused at his grandmother’s grave, made her a quiet promise that one day, as soon as he had the money, he’d lay a headstone for the baby next to hers.
Nearby, another grave: Jahaziel Price, 1928 – 1960. An inscription: Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sins. Matt’s granddad. The wind howled through the trees. Scrapper shuddered, pictured old Jahaziel rising from his grave, sleepless for knowing that his grandson was a scab.
Rain pelted down in sheets. Scrapper ran to the chapel, yanked the door open. The smell of cobwebs and floor polish tickled his nostrils. He peeled off his sodden jacket, piled two pew cushions on top of each other, stretched himself out for a kip. He lay still, as the wind bellowed murder and the rain whipped the tiled roof and let the storm howl him to sleep.
***
When he woke, his spine was knotted. He heard the door open and close, the scratch of dead leaves on flagstones. Footsteps tip-tapped past, halted beneath the pulpit. He peered over the pews. The room was almost dark. A large man slumped on the front pew, shoulders bent, hands clasped and head bowed.
At last, the man stood, breathed out loudly. ‘May God forgive me.’
Scrapper ducked down. The door opened again, filling the chapel with the scent of rain. The man’s footsteps tapped across the porch, then faded. Scrapper peered out. Grey mist stretched lazily across the sky. The man crossed the cemetery, stopped next to Gabriel Parry’s grave.
It was Dai Dumbells. He gripped the headstone and heaved, but the stone was wedged solid. He moved on to the next grave, with no success. Scrapper could tell from the set of Dai’s shoulders, from the tremors that shook his thick arms, that something was wrong. Dai moved forward, dipped out of view. Scrapper heard a loud scraping sound. He stepped outside, saw Dai stagger across the graveyard, a heavy object hefted on his shoulders. It was one of the Humphreys’ marble angels, its wings brushing raindrops from the yew hedge.
Dai would never steal for stealing’s sake.
Scrapper set off after him. ‘Dai,’ he yelled. ‘Dai Dumbells.’
Dai turned, saw him, picked up speed. Scrapper caught up with him at the bottom of the bank that led up to the railway track. The ground was soft and Dai lost his footing. The angel landed in the mud with a squelch.
He hefted the angel back onto his shoulder. Its face was smeared with earth. ‘Don’t try an’ stop me, Scrapper Jones.’
‘What the hell’s going on, Dai?’
‘Nothing to concern you, butty. Fuck off home.’
‘But what you doing with—?’
Dai’s ham-sized fist slammed into Scrapper’s jaw. He sprawled in the mud, branches blurring above his head. He heard a grunt and a grating sound. Dai hefted the angel onto the bridge and climbed onto the track. Scrapper staggered after him, rolled over the wall onto the railway track. Dai stood on the parapet above the tunnel, gazing up the road towards Ystrad, the angel propped next to him on the wall.
‘Dai?’
‘Stay back. Don’t move another step.’
‘But—’
‘Piss off.’
Scrapper inched closer. ‘No trains since the strike, butty. Wrong bloody place for killing yourself.’
Dai gawped at him, seemed to register, threw back his head and laughed. The angel teetered on the edge of the wall.
Scrapper understood at last. ‘The scabs?’
‘Bastards got it coming.’
Blood roared in Scrapper’s ears. He gripped the wall to support himself. ‘Don’t be daft, Dai. Form a queue to kill Captain Hook, I’d be first in line if I thought it’d make a jot of difference. But it won’t.’
Dai dabbed loose earth off the angel’s marble cheeks, a tenderness to his massive paws. ‘That the best you got, butt?’
‘The best?’ Scrapper said. ‘You and Debbie’ll get back together, try for another baby. Things’ll get better, Dai, you’ll see.’
Dai chuckled softly. ‘Things never get better for the likes of us. An’ Debbie’s a lying slut.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. I lost my butty, my baby, my woman and my home. Soon enough, we’ll lose the pit. It’s over, Scrap. All of it.’
Scrapper edged closer, steel toecap clinking on metal rail.
‘I said, stay back.’
But Scrapper inched forwards. He could hear voices at the top of the slope. The boys were coming down to picket. He’d get them come up and sort this. He only had to call out to them. But Dai had heard them too. He launched himself across the track, all seventeen stone of him knocking the air from Scrapper’s lungs. He planted his paw over Scrapper’s mouth.
‘One peep, and I’ll break your neck.’
The men’s voices drew closer. Footsteps passed under the bridge, amplified by the tunnel walls, emerged on the other side. The sound of steel-capped boots faded. Dai heaved himself to his feet, went back to the angel.
Scrapper doubled over, retching. After a while, he drew breath enough to stagger across the track.
‘Where d’you think you’re going?’
‘You’re a spanner short of a toolkit, butty. I’m fetching Dad and Dewi.’
Scrapper swung his legs over the wall, but Dai crossed the tracks in three long strides and yanked him back. He used his bulk to pin Scrapper against the bridge, one hand on the angel, his gaze fixed on the road.
At last, Scrapper heard the growl of an engine; saw a white minivan at the top of the hill.
‘Bingo,’ Dai said softly.
‘No,’ Scrapper forced the words out. ‘That’s the boys from Maerdy.’
He lunged for the angel. The statue wobbled. His throat tightened as the van came splashing through the potholes towards the tunnel. Lodge banners flapped in its windows. Dai’s shoulders relaxed. The minibus hurtled beneath them and passed into the tunnel, unharmed.
Scrapper wiped a hand over his sweating forehead. ‘Bloody ridiculous, this, Dai.’
‘Never asked you to come, did I.’
‘So you kill Captain Hook. Then what? You gonna kill all the NCB bosses, all the bankers, all the coppers, all the journalists? Kill every last fucking Tory, will you? Beyond even the bloody Provos, that.’
‘Spare me the beginner’s guide to revolutionary socialism, Scrapper Jones.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Dai. You’re
better’n this.’
There was a pause. Scrapper thought he’d got through to him at last. But the sound of an engine shattered the moment. He saw something flash beyond the trees, then a police car appeared, behind it a minibus, windscreens and windows shuttered under metal grilles.
‘Here we go,’ Dai shifted his weight, flung both arms around the marble angel as the vehicles raced towards the bridge. Scrapper wriggled away from him. He leaped onto the wall, arms flapping windmills.
‘Stop,’ he yelled. ‘You got to stop.’
The police car accelerated, flashed under the bridge. Scrapper’s arms flailed faster. Looking down, he saw faces peering up through the minibus windscreen. Dai bellowed triumph, gave the angel a mighty shove. Time bent and warped into freeze frame. Scrapper turned, hid his eyes, heard and felt the thud of stone on metal. The bridge shuddered.
As Scrapper lowered his hands, a crow burst out of the hedgerow, cawing fury. Black wings flapped inches from his face. He caught a glint of sharp blue eyes as the bird rose squawking and vanished beyond the trees.
— 10 —
Was this his hand over his mouth, his heart hammering the back of his throat? Were these his feet lurching away from the wall? Was this his body, legs leaden, spine rigid with shock? Was this the sky above Ystrad, that dark triangle his pit? Was the railroad calling him towards it, urging him to flee? Or was this where it ended, on this bridge?
He heard shouts floating up from beyond the tunnel, footsteps thudding up the embankment. Instinct seized him. There was a ditch up ahead. He dragged himself towards it and leapt in. The ditch was deeper than it looked. He peered out. Dai had clambered onto the wall, huge body braced to jump. Scrapper pulled the bracken over his head, waited to hear the thud of a body hitting the road.
***
Dai howled in protest. Scrapper heard a high-pitched scream of pain then a second thud, a third, a fourth. Each blow was studded with sharp, grunted breaths. He heard the chink of toecaps on metal track, then something heavy dragged across the stones.
The voices were harsh with anger. They belonged to Peter Plod, Johnny Boots, others he didn’t recognise.
‘Grab his feet, mate. We’ll need to heft the bastard over.’
***
Sirens blared down the hill, shut off at the foot of the bridge. He heard a babble of raised voices. The shriek of cutting equipment. The squeal of metal on metal. A sudden silence.
‘What’s the fella’s name?’ A stranger spoke at last.
Matt sounded shaky. ‘That’s the overman. Name’s Gwyn Pritchard.’
‘Skull cracked like a walnut. Poor fucking sod.’
Matt’s voice was amplified by the tunnel roof. ‘D’you mean he’s—?’
‘It’s best you boys don’t look.’
‘Dead? But he can’t be dead,’ a shrill edge to the apprentice’s voice.
‘Damn right,’ Matt said. ‘Bullet-proof, Gwyn fucking Pritchard. Everyone knows that.’
***
Red. She was all that mattered. Scrapper listened to the footsteps leave the tunnel, heard doors slam and engines rev. The sirens started up again, whether to carry Dai to the nick or the others to hospital, he didn’t know or care. It wasn’t his business. None of it was.
He heard footsteps scrabbling back up the embankment, ducked down, listening.
‘Kid must’ve legged it when they dropped the thing,’ Johnny Boots, breathless.
‘We’ll catch the bastard,’ the stranger said. ‘Reckon the lodge was in cahoots?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Peter Plod answered. ‘The kid had several run-ins with the deceased. Reckon he did this to settle some scores.’
The footsteps faded. There was a long pause, as though the valley was too scared to breathe. Scrapper peered out. No one. He hauled himself onto the track, crept back onto the bridge, peered over the wall. Two black helmets, faces hidden from view, a white hand scribbling notes, next to them, a mangled minibus. A stone object poked, pale and obscene, from a gash in the roof.
***
He followed the railway as far as he could. But the loading shed was locked, the pit secure inside its belt of chicken wire, under a crown of metal barbs. He skirted the perimeter fence, set off up the hill through the fields, and the long, stiff climb to Bryn Tawel. He ploughed on as though the ghost of Captain Hook was on his tail. He found a call box at the edge of the village, a piece of silver dropped outside it. One piece of luck, at last. A second piece of luck if Red took his call, for once.
***
He wasn’t sure Johnny would put him through, unless it was out of pity, hearing the terror and panic in his voice. He wasn’t sure Red would come, unless it was to finish things between them once and for all. As he waited in the dusty blackness of the barn, doubt weighed heavy on him. At last, the metal sheet scraped sideways. A blast of air and light. She was there, her face lighting the gloom. He ran to her and grabbed her. Pulled her down on top of him onto the oily, dusty floor.
— 11 —
The wind raised and dropped the barn’s corrugated iron roof. Sunlight leaked through the gaps between the sheets, through rusted nail holes, forming spotlights in the darkness. Helen raked cold fingers through her hair, brought away dust and shards of hay. Scrapper’s words hung in the air between them He slumped against her, pale and lost and broken, as brittle and fragile as the cobweb wrapped around her finger. The wind raised and slammed the roof again. The metal walls shuddered. She imagined the barn collapsing inwards, crushing the breath from their lungs. Just like her dad had been crushed.
‘It wasn’t me, Red. You got to believe me.’
How could she tell him what he needed to hear. She believed none of it.
‘Tell me what happened. Start at the start.’
He fixed his eyes on a patch of oil that slicked the dusty floor. Told her what happened. The barn moaned and shivered. She moved closer to hear him, his voice fallen to a whisper.
‘But the police are after you?’ she said at last.
Her dad or her husband; all her choices seemed to come to this. But she knew what she had to do. She leaped up, started pulling on her clothes. Scrapper watched her, as though paralysed. She picked up his jeans and jumper, hurled them at him.
‘Best they don’t find you, then. Get dressed.’ She dragged him to his feet, surprised by her strength, by his weightlessness. ‘Bastards want you, they’ll have to find you.’
‘Red, that’s insane—’
‘Completely insane,’ she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. ‘I went for a job at the chicken factory. The manager liked me. I’ll earn money, Scrap. Not much, but some. We’ll find some place to hide you. And one day— One day we’ll get away from here. Rent a little place by the seaside—’
But it was hopeless. He no more believed that than she did. He dressed as though the effort would break him. Outrage flared through her veins. Was he not the man? Should he not be stronger? It was too much for him, all of this. His fire burned down to ashes.
Somewhere near – too near – she heard a dog bark. Footsteps approached the barn. They stood inches apart, barely breathing. The metal doors burst open. The barn filled with the shouts of policemen, the snapping and growling of dogs and the crackle of radios. A huge black and tan dog launched itself at Scrapper. He shrieked with pain. At last, a policeman got between Scrapper and the dog, wrenched Scrapper’s hands behind his back, slammed his face against the wall.
‘No,’ she screamed.
All of it stopped.
The dog showed the whites of its eyes at her. The radios fell silent. Even the wind dropped. Weak daylight flooded the barn, revealed a million tiny specks of dust. They rose, those many tiny specks; rose and soared. Whirled in mid-air. Slowly, softly fell back into the dirt and vanished.
She looked up into the bug-eyed gaze of Peter Plod, one hand inside his lapel, feeling for his notebook.
‘This piece of scum killed your father, Helen Pritchard.’
A broken sound escaped from Scrapper’s throat. ‘I never. She knows it. You knows it, don’t you, Red?’
Then he was gone, dragged out into the feeble morning, feet scuffing hayseeds and dust and spilled oil. Peter Plod loomed over her, a jackal with a pad and pen.
‘Scrapper says he didn’t do it,’ she said.
The policeman snorted. ‘Like he didn’t break into your father’s house at Christmas. Like he never blockaded the pit. Never stopped decent folk doing a decent day’s work. Never went up the tip thieving coal. Never joined the rabble in the streets and on the docks. Never told a bunch of students to overthrow a democratically elected government.’
Helen stood and faced the policeman. ‘What would you do, in his shoes? Go down without a fight?’
‘There are laws—’
‘Rich men’s laws: Maggie fights the Argies for some island no one gives a stuff about, she’s a hero. But when miners fight for their livelihoods, they’re criminals.’
The policeman pocketed his notebook, turned, walked away.
Outside, the wind had dropped. The weak sunlight was as warm as milky tea. Blossom flickered on the apple trees in the allotment gardens below the fields, where a woman in headscarf and wellingtons was gathering daffodils for St David’s Day. The dog handler strode past, metal leash slung over his shoulder. Helen turned, expecting to see the Alsatian snarling at her. But the huge, ragged dog was running along the top of the field, tail wagging as it tracked rabbit trails from burrow to burrow.
Its work here was done.
— 12 —
Angela and Iwan sat at Sue’s kitchen table. Tension etched lines and shadows on their faces. They were too upset to answer Helen’s question.
‘What did they charge him with?’ she repeated.
‘Murder,’ Iwan said weakly.
Angela shuddered.
Sue brought tea, put the sugar bowl in front of Angela. ‘Take some; it’ll help with the shock,’ she said.
They sat, hands cupping their mugs. Helen wondered what to say, what to feel. Her gaze wandered to the pictures and flyers Sue had Blu-tacked to the fridge doors. Cartoons from Coalfield Woman, a slogan postcard: A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle. On the wall, Picasso’s Blue Nude hid her face and wept.