Born Under Punches (28 page)

*

Four hours later, he had finished.

A speed-written fever dream: his own wounds opened on the page.

He had recalled specifically the events of the previous day. Personal experience mixed with anecdotal evidence wrapped in fact-heavy reportage. Nothing omitted, nothing glossed over or exaggerated. Just truth. Pure, filthy truth.

He read it over.

It breathed, it lived. It pulled the readers in, forced them to stand on a picket line, introduced them to their comrades, made them understand what was so important about the conflict. Showed in both personal and political terms why the miners had to win. Why losing was unthinkable. It hummed with power. It was a weapon.

It was undoubtedly the best piece of work he had ever done.

He stood up. Adrenalin pumped around his body. He felt alive, his injuries all but forgotten. He picked up the typewritten pages. Shuffled them. Straightened them. Felt the pages in his hand, ran his fingers over the typeface.

He smiled. Proud.

Then he phoned Bob.

‘So, what d'you think?'

Larkin sat on the corner of Bob's desk. Bob held Larkin's article in his hands, was leafing through it. ‘I'm sure it'll be fine.'

‘Are you going to read it now? It really needs to be read now.'

Bob looked up. He couldn't hide his shock and distaste at Larkin's appearance. The cuts and bruises, the bad, mismatched clothes. As he had led Larkin to his desk, he had been aware of the whole office staring at him.

‘Have they just let you out of St George's on day release or something?' he had asked.

Larkin had ignored him. He had begun to view his injuries and even his clothes as badges of honour.

Bob stapled the pages together, placed them on his desk.

‘Have you phoned Mike Pears yet? He won't wait around for ever, you know.'

Larkin stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms.

‘No, Bob, I haven't phoned him. And I'm not going to either.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't need to, that's why not. I don't need him or his money. Not when I can do stuff like this.'

Bob sat back, crossed his ankles, gave a quick glance around the room. People seemed to have stopped staring.

‘I think you should, you know.'

‘I know you do. Because you'll be getting a nice fat finder's fee if I do.'

Bob reddened.

‘That's not the point and you know it. You're a talented lad. What future have you got up here?' He pointed to Larkin's article. ‘You going to do stuff like this for ever?' He waved his hand at Larkin's appearance. ‘You going to get into this state every time you have to cover a story?'

‘I only want to do work I believe in.'

‘Then you'll starve.'

‘No, I won't.'

‘Look around.'

Bob gestured round the office. Larkin followed his gaze, looked through Bob's eyes. All he saw were burned-out people, ambitions traded for hackery. Staffers who didn't have the nerve or talent to follow their dreams.

Bob's voice was barely above a whisper. ‘This is where you'll end up. Maybe not here but somewhere like here. And you'll hate it.'

Larkin shrugged. ‘I'll think about it.'

Bob nodded, thinking he had won that round. He looked down at Larkin's article again. ‘Where are the photos?'

‘Tells you in there. Read it.'

‘Tell me now.'

Larkin told him.

‘Great story,' Bob said at the conclusion of it.

‘And it's all in there.'

‘Good.'

Bob stood up. ‘Right,' he said. ‘Well, this should be in tomorrow's edition. I can see a big spread on this. Pity about the photos, though. We'll have to see if we can get some replacements.'

They shook hands.

‘Well done,' said Bob. ‘I look forward to reading it.'

‘Me too,' said Larkin.

‘But think about what I said. Give Mike a call. Even if it's just to discuss—'

‘Yeah, all right, Bob, all right. I'll talk to you tomorrow, OK?'

Larkin left the building.

The euphoria of writing the article was beginning to wear off, like a painkiller dissipating and dissolving away. His injuries began to hurt once more. They no longer felt like badges of honour. He became aware of the fact that he was walking round in a Thompson Twins tour sweatshirt, DM shoes and tracksuit bottoms.

He hurried back to Bolland's flat, hoping his clothes were dry.

The mother walked on thin stick legs, her body enervated beyond expectation, weary beyond hope. She held out a metal pan into which was poured two plastic scoops of rice. She then turned round and trudged away, letting the next defeated woman receive her share.

What marked her as a human being had all but disappeared. Clothed in rags and dust, eyes deadened beyond horror, she was no more than a frail wraith haunting a scorched earth, no longer living in this world, not ready to pass to any other.

Then the children: skin shrunken back to bone, distended stomachs barely supported by legs like used matches. Flies buzzed, landed on their mucus-masked faces. They didn't have the strength to knock them off. And their eyes: fear, pain, incomprehension. Surely life wasn't meant to be like this.

A BBC reporter appeared, talking to the camera. The words background, the images foreground, all contextualized by the children's wailing. He strove for impartiality, non-emotive reporting. He failed. The words stuck out: Ethiopia. Famine. Hopelessness. Death.

Dougie watched. The images were horrific, made more so by being seen in his comfortable, familiar living room. Phrases came to him:

Years of civil war, decades of conflict.

A humanitarian disaster of monumental proportions.

The outside world doesn't understand, doesn't care.

Dougie nodded, sympathizing.

The outside world doesn't understand, doesn't care.

Then back to the studio. The anchorwoman, usually thin-lipped and hard-faced, was visibly moved by the report. She took a second to compose herself, turned to another camera, began to read from an autocue. It was a progress report on the strike. Coldwell in Northumberland was mentioned, scene of much recent violence by striking miners, pickets and other political agitators.

But now, her eyes glinting, her lips creeping up in a semi-smile, all vestiges of the concerned, shocked woman of a minute ago gone, police have restored order to the streets.

Coldwell on the screen, a press of bodies round the colliery gates. Then close-ups, mouths chanting:

Out, out, out.

Coal, not dole.

When do we want it?

Now.

Voices not trained, not used to shouting. Raw with passion. Coarse and distorted by amplification. The effect less honest passion, more raging hatred.

Then the camera being jostled, scuffles breaking out. Cut to the bus coming through, Dean Plessey clawing at the doors. The scabs caught on camera turning away. The voiceover lending them heroic status, bravery in the face of aggressive picket line intimidation.

Then noise, clamour.

A posed and framed shot of an injured PC, head bleeding, being led away.

The chief constable, whose hand Dougie had refused, soundbitten:

‘There has been an element here today whose only goal has been to cause as much damage and violence as possible. These people are not here in support of a labour dispute. They are destructive and anti-democratic. My men have now rounded up and removed them. Decent citizens of Coldwell can now go about their business without fear of attack or molestation.'

The voiceover continued in triumphalist tones.

A shot of the gates, of scab convoys being driven out.

Then a long shot of the town. Peaceful. Quiet. Empty. A couple of people shopping.

Order has been restored. The troublemakers have been removed. We are safe in our own homes again.

Dougie watched. He was beyond anger, beyond pain. He was broken. Beyond repair.

The outside world doesn't understand, doesn't care.

And until it experiences it first-hand or has it sympathetically explained to it, he thought, it never will.

The doorbell rang.

Dougie didn't move. He heard Jean go to answer it. She spoke in surprised tones to the caller, closed the door, ushered them in. The living room door opened.

‘Dougie …'

He heard the concern in Jean's voice, turned. There stood Mick, his face red, blue and purple, his clothes torn and soiled with dirt and blood. His body damaged and roughly bandaged. His eyes lost, defeated.

Dougie got quickly to his feet, crossed to him.

‘Bloody hell, Mick … What happened?'

Mick looked at him, opened his mouth.

‘Can I sit down?'

‘Course you can,' said Dougie.

Mick sat on the sofa, Dougie back in his chair.

‘I'll make some tea,' said Jean.

She left the room, soundlessly closing the door behind her. The two men looked at each other. One unsure how to explain, the other not knowing how to ask. Both grasping for their voices.

‘How … Who did this?'

‘I got arrested.'

‘Wha'?'

Mick started to talk. Haltingly, fractions of information coming at a time, stopping to reorder his thoughts, careful to keep the chronology, stick to the truth.

He told Dougie everything. Walking back home. Being swept up in the middle of a fight. Being beaten into submission. The van. The police station. Further beatings.

‘I couldn't move … Just lay on the floor …'

His voice sounded dislocated, as if someone else was telling the story, or Dougie and Mick were watching a news report. Human rights abuses in a Third World country.

‘On the floor of this cell. An' there was another bloke there. He couldn't move at all. They had a button in there. To press, like, if you were in trouble. This other bloke started moanin', changin' colour. I managed to get up an' press it. They took their time, but when they got there they hauled him straight out. They didn't look too pleased about it.

‘Then they went out again. I heard them havin' words, like. I couldn't hear what they said. Then they came back, hauled me on to the bed, sat me down. One of them sat next to me.'

Mick was back there. Dougie's sofa was gone. He felt the thin mattress beneath him, the hard, profanity-inscribed wall at his back. The naked bulb overhead. The cold. The fear.

The policeman to his right smiling at him. Calm. Controlled.

Let's see if we can come to some sort of an arrangement, he said.

He handed a clipboarded form and pen to Mick.

You're free to go. Just sign this. Then you can walk out of here.

What is it?

A waiver. Says that all your injuries were inflicted prior to you getting here. As a result of your unlawful picket line activities.

He uncapped the pen, held it out.

Mick shook his head. I'm not signin' that. It'snot true.

The policeman sighed, re-capped the pen. Then in that case I'm afraid we're going to have to charge you.

With what?

He shrugged. Violent conduct. Incitement to violence. Grievous bodily harm. Actual bodily harm. Criminal damage. Wanton destruction of property. Shall I go on?

Mick sat there, stunned. But I didn't … I didn't …

The policeman held out the form.

Sign this and you walk out now. A free man. No charges against you.

He uncapped the pen.

‘You did what?'

‘I signed.'

Mick was back in Dougie's warm, homely living room. Back, but still carrying the cell with him.

Dougie shook his head.

‘Mick, man, you shouldn't have done that. You could have had them. Done them for this. You might've got thousands.'

‘An' I might not, an' all. I might've got sent to prison. D'you think I'd've got a fair trial, eh? D'you think they'd've listened to a word I said?'

A knock at the door. Jean entered with a tray bearing a pot of tea, milk, sugar and two cups and saucers. She placed it on an occasional table between the two men. She looked at them.

‘Can I get you anything to eat, Mick?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘A sandwich, even?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Right.'

She retreated, closing the door behind her.

The two men sat in silence. Eventually Dougie sighed.

‘Well, Mick, I can't be angry with you. It's not for me to tell you what you should have done. I sold everybody out.'

‘What d'you mean?'

Dougie told him. About the final march on the gates. About the chief constable telling him that if he didn't get the pickets to disperse, his men would move in on them with so much force they would probably never work or walk again. How he had stood at the gates telling the men lies, saying the police would drop back and negotiate if action was halted. How Dougie had probably saved their lives, and possibly destroyed their futures.

How he hated himself for it.

Mick nodded.

‘You shouldn't hate yourself for it, man, Dougie. You did what you thought was best. If the men knew that, they'd understand.'

‘I know,' he said. His voice sounded so hollow he expected it to bounce off the walls, echo. ‘I know.'

They poured tea. Drank. The TV continued in the background. A chat show came on. Celebrities lined up to sell their book, their film, their play. Themselves. Free advertising. Human beings as commodities.

All alike, thought Dougie. All we have to sell is ourselves.

‘There's something else,' said Mick.

Dougie looked at him.

‘I went home. Angela's not there.'

‘Have you tried the hospital?'

‘I haven't tried anywhere. I was scared to in case she'd … Y'know.'

Dougie nodded, stood up. He crossed to the phone, picked up the Yellow Pages.

‘Which hospital was she due to go in?'