Born Under Punches (23 page)

The men went about gathering weapons. Stones, bricks, bottles. Chair legs, clothesline poles, discarded batons, lengths of metal. Dustbin lid-shields. Anything. Resistance had to be registered. Disapproval demonstrated.

They marched towards the pit. They were tooled up, bristling. They chanted. Angry as before, but now edged with hatred.

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.

Out, out, out.

Coal, not dole. Coal, not dole. Coal, not dole.

Kill the pigs. Kill the pigs. Kill the pigs.

Marching as one, chanting as one. They drew strength from each other, let the crowd subsume personal fear. Collectively, they dismantled their individuality, created a new mass identity. One forged from terror into hatred.

Maggie.

Out.

Kill.

Kill.

As they walked, they were joined by others. Gangs of men, bands of brothers.

Larkin and Bolland joined them.

They all traded news: who was injured, who had been taken. This strengthened their resolve, made their walk, their gait more purposeful.

They reached the gates and stopped.

Armoured woodentops all in a row. In front of them, some high-ranking policemen. And Dougie Howden with a loud-hailer. He raised it to his lips.

‘Listen. I've talked to the local executive. And they believe a negotiated settlement can be reached. They've asked me to ask you to put down whatever you're carrying and go home. The chief constable has assured me that if you all comply with this, no more arrests will be made. If you go in peace, they'll go in peace.'

He put the loud-hailer down. He grimaced, like he had just swallowed something unpleasant.

‘Sellout bastard!' It was Dean Plessey.

Dougie raised the loud-hailer again, spoke with no conviction: ‘It's not sellin' out.' He sighed. ‘It's the only way forward. What's your answer?'

The men looked around. They looked at the police, immobile, poised. Batons ready. They looked at each other. Saw tired men, used men, prematurely old men. The previous bloodlust was receding, replaced by a more honest assessment of the situation. One by one, they dropped the weapons they were carrying and turned away, avoiding eye contact with each other.

Dean Plessey pointed an accusing finger at Dougie.

‘Bastard! Bastard! You've sold us out!'

Men moved around him, drowned out his words.

The chief constable offered his hand for Dougie to shake. Dougie turned and walked away.

The battle of Coldwell was, officially, over.

The uneasy, bitter peace had begun.

*

Larkin and Bolland drove home.

No music on the stereo. No conversation between them.

They were both exhausted; tired, filthy, dirty.

Bolland had cradled his camera under his jacket until they'd got into the car, transferring it to the back seat. He had managed to take four rolls of film. Ninety-six shots of police inflicting pain and humiliation on striking miners.

Larkin had more images to turn into words than he needed.

They drove out of Coldwell. The streets seemed eerily quiet: what faces they did see looked defeated and bitter.

As they approached the outskirts, they saw the police checkpoint.

Bolland sighed.

They were flagged down. They pulled over. Seven policemen stood at the side of the road. Larkin recognized the one they had spoken to that morning. He recognized them. He had words with the officer who had asked them to stop. Took over from him. He indicated Bolland to wind down his window.

Bolland did so with weary compliance.

The copper leaned in.

‘Evening, lads. How's life at the
Daily Mirror
?'

‘Fine,' said Larkin.

‘Interesting. 'Cos I phoned them and they said they'd never heard of you. Descriptions, names, nothing. Could you step out of the car, please?'

The copper's eyes had a cruel glint to them.

‘Look, it's late and we've—'

‘Get out of the car, you fuckers.' The copper had his baton in his hand.

Bolland stepped out of the car. Larkin did likewise.

‘You were with them, weren't you? Fuckin' communists, eh? Deserve all you get.'

‘I told you,' said Larkin. ‘We're journalists. I work for—'

‘Hey, look at this.'

Another copper had lifted Bolland's camera from the back seat.

‘Put that back, please,' said Bolland.

The copper ignored him. ‘Always fancied one of these.' He opened the back, pulled out a roll of film. ‘Oh, dear. Holiday snaps, were they?'

Bolland's face reddened.

‘Hey, there's more here.'

The copper reached in, found the other roll of film, began opening their canisters, unwinding them.

‘You fucking cunts,' Bolland said. He began to shake.

The first copper rounded on them.

‘What did you say? What did you call me?'

He was right in Bolland's face. Bolland could smell his bad breath.

‘You heard.'

A sharp movement from the copper, Bolland went down.

‘That's the fuckin' thanks we get from protectin' decent people from scum.'

He kicked him as he lay. Bolland groaned.

Larkin grabbed the copper's arm. ‘I've had enough of your fuckin' lot today.'

He swung at him, catching the copper on the cheekbone with his left fist. The copper went down. His colleagues were there. One grabbed Larkin, half-nelsoned him round the neck, held his arms out of the way. Larkin struggled but couldn't break free. The copper he had hit was getting up off the ground.

‘Right, you bastard.'

He swung at Larkin's stomach. Right, then left. Right, then left.

Larkin's legs buckled. He would have collapsed if not for being held upright.

‘That's enough,' said another watching copper. ‘Unless you're going to charge him.'

The first copper was out of breath. ‘Naw, not worth it.'

‘OK.'

Larkin was let go. He crumpled to the ground, joining Bolland.

From where they lay they watched as the coppers systematically destroyed Bolland's car. The headlights went first, then the back lights. Then the side windows and finally the windscreen. They watched, unable to intervene, as the coppers rifled the tapes in the glove compartment, pocketing ones they wanted, grinding out the ones they didn't with their boot heels, ransacking the boot and walking off with Bolland's camera. When they had finished, the first copper came up to them, knelt down.

‘You're free to go now, sir,' he said, gave them a final kick each, and left.

Larkin and Bolland, broken glass around them like spilled diamonds on the tarmac, just lay there.

Mick lay on his right side in the police cell, his body curled, his shoulder and arm throbbing. Another striker lay on the floor next to him, unmoving. Mick hadn't spoken to him since he had been put in there. The man hadn't moved. Mick didn't know whether the man was alive or dead.

Mick closed his eyes, tried to blot out the naked bulb, the graffitied walls, the huge, studded metal door. The pain, the confinement.

But he couldn't blot out the sounds. The screams he heard from other cells. They had stopped now, replaced by a silence leaden with tension and fear.

The man on the floor groaned, turned over.

‘You all right?' asked Mick. His throat was harsh and dry. The words came out sandpapered.

The man groaned, then answered. ‘Aye …'

Mick rolled over, looked at him.

The man looked as if he had been dropped from a great height. His arms and legs moved as if they were not correctly joined to his torso. He didn't look too bruised, but his skin was stretched and shiny, like a plastic bag carrying offal and blood. He clutched his stomach, rolled.

‘Shall I push the button? Call someone?'

The man shook his head, kept on clutching his stomach.

Mick sighed, lay back, closed his eyes. His memory was like the night sky, black with small, shining pockets of white brilliance. He had collapsed in the street, knocked down by a hail of blows. He had come round briefly in what he presumed was the back of a police van: the feel of rough metal walls, the smell of diesel, sweat and blood, the sound of injury and laughter. Then someone in uniform asking him questions: he couldn't remember answering, could remember someone answering for him. He remembered a form being signed. Then the cell.

He had no idea what time it was. He had no idea how long he'd been there. He just knew it was too long. Any time was too long.

And all this time Angie was at home, waiting, wondering what time he would come back, putting another brick in the wall between them with each passing minute.

Fear and rage, tears and bile began to well up inside him. He fought them down, kept them back.

Then: keys in the lock.

The door swung open.

‘Sorry about the delay, lads. Shift change.'

Mick heard baton slap against palm. Smelled sweat, fag smoke, bad breath. Smelled blood and testosterone.

He closed his eyes, curled foetally.

Then it started.

He thought of Angie at home, the wait around her. He imagined himself at home with her, stepping towards her, entering the wall, closing it up behind him.

He stayed inside, let his and Angie's wall come between him and the rest of the world.

Auction concluded and money raised, the ref's whistle blew the second half under way.

The Coldwell CAT Centre Crew picked up where they'd left off, firing forward.

The opposition were sullen, Dave Wilkinson's interval bollocking having lowered their collective spirit rather than raised it.

Larkin thought of Tony's comments.
Him and his lot'll hate the fact that they're one – nil down to a bunch of ex-addicts.
Larkin smiled. It was informing every move the team made.

The CAT Centre Crew made a good team but not because of their footballing brilliance. The opposition were better players. They were a good team because they worked with each other, supported each other. Helped each other.

As before: Larkin and Mick on the bench. Dave Wilkinson and his subs sitting on the opposing bench. Tony animated on the sidelines. Claire watching.

A former professional footballer slid in behind a CAT Centre Crew player, taking his legs away, making no attempt to connect with the ball. The player – Larkin noticed it was the first-half scorer, Ged – went down painfully. A bad tackle. A professional foul. The crowd oohed and aahed in response.

Click.

The footballer held out his hand to help the man up. Ged slapped it away, got up himself and advanced on the other player.

‘Oh, shit,' said Mick. He stood up.

Larkin did likewise. ‘What's up?'

‘Ged. He's a bit volatile.'

Tony looked at the two of them. ‘Get warmed up.'

‘Me?' asked Larkin.

‘No, not you. Mick.'

Mick began peeling his tracksuit off, running on the spot. Tony had his fingers, in his mouth, whistling, attracting the referee's attention, looking to make a substitution.

The angry player stomped off.

Mick looked at the opposition, tuned himself in to the game. A dark shadow fell across his face.

‘Good luck,' said Larkin.

Mick turned to him, the shadow gone, thanked him, took a deep breath and ran on.

The first-half scorer came to the sideline. He opened his mouth to blast Tony.

‘Don't start on me,' Tony replied, finger pointing. ‘You got yourself brought off. What did I say before the game?'

‘But he was—'

‘I don't care. Yes, he took you down. But that doesn't mean you have to react, does it? Now, we had a deal. And you were ready to break it. I did it to protect him. And you. Now, sit down. Calm down.'

The man looked ready to argue again but, not without obvious effort, managed to contain himself. He said nothing, sat down next to Larkin.

Tension crackled from Ged's body like electricity. Larkin could feel it.

The man was solidly built, skin bulked with muscle. Cropped hair, broken nose. He looked more like a nightclub bouncer than a footballer. He shook his head.

‘Fuckin' cunt,' he murmured under his breath.

Larkin turned to look at him, wondering if the words were meant for him.

‘I wouldn'ta done anythin'. Just had a bit of a row. Fucker.'

Larkin said nothing.

Ged sighed.

They watched the game.

Mick was a different kind of player from Ged. Where Ged had been forceful and bullish, running headlong at the other team, Mick tried to slip in, dance around them. It was as if he didn't want to go near them. Like he wanted to avoid confrontation.

‘Tackle 'im! Tackle 'im!' shouted Tony Woodhouse.

But Mick wouldn't.

He ran quiet well, worked hard for a man in his bad physical condition, but he wouldn't tackle. Wouldn't confront.

The dynamics of the game changed as the opposition sensed his weaknesses, began to pass balls around him.

The CAT Centre Crew noticed it too and adjusted their game play accordingly. They compensated, let him use the skills that he considered his strengths, let someone else step in when he couldn't cope.

Working with each other, supporting each other.

Helping each other.

Teamwork.

‘You're that journalist bloke, aren't you?'

Larkin turned, surprised to hear Ged's voice.

‘Yeah. Yeah, that's me.'

‘I'm Ged.'

‘Stephen Larkin.'

They shook hands.

‘Bastard pulled me off. I wouldn'ta hurt 'im.' He shook his head. ‘Just 'cos he's a copper. Thinks I'd have a go.'

‘Would you?'

Ged smiled. ‘I wouldn't mind. But we've got better ways of teachin' them a lesson.'

‘Like how?'

Ged gestured to the pitch. When he spoke, there was pride in his voice. ‘Like that. Beatin' them.' He sat back. ‘That'll show them.'