‘To intimidate you! You!
‘This is why you are here today. This is what you are here to stop –
‘Intimidation. Corruption.’
Neil changes channels. He listens to the Home Secretary make the same speech. Listens to the Home Secretary announce the formation of special squads to counter the intimidation in the pit villages of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire –
Intimidation squads.
Transit van. Boiler suit. House to house in Nottingham. Bringing out the dead scared. Twenty Yorkshire men still lodging down here with the striking families. Picketing pits. Twenty men still staying with the families on ThorneyAbbey Road. Intheir gardens —
In tents. In caravans.
The Mechanic sits in the Transit van. In his black boiler suit. He watches the pickets leave the tents. The caravans. Watches the pickets go into the Jolly Friar. Watches them leave the worse for wear. Watches the pickets buy their bags of chips. Watches them stumble back to Thorney Abbey Road. Watches them thank their hosts. Wish them goodnight. Head into the gardens —
Their tents. Their caravans.
It is gone midnight.
The Mechanic and his team get out of their Transit. They go up the drive of number 52. Round the back. Into the garden. There is an orange tent pitched on the lawn. There are two pickets inside. They are asleep. The Mechanic picks up a child’s bicycle. The rest of his team pick up some garden tools. Garden ornaments. Garden furniture. Theteam look at their leader —
The Mechanic nods.
They throw the objects onto the top of the orange tent. The pickets inside wake up. The pickets shout. Moan. The pickets try to get out of the tent. Thrash around —
The Mechanic and his team jump up and down on the tent. On the pickets inside. The pickets shout. The pickets scream —
They cannot get out.
The Mechanic nods again –
His team drag the tent out of the back garden. They drag it round to the front. Down the drive. They throw the tent and the pickets into the back of the Transit –
Lights going on up and down the street. Curtains opening. Faces at the windows.
The Mechanic and his team get in the back. The Mechanic bangs on the partition. The Transit sets off. The pickets tangled up inside the tent. Poles and ropes everywhere –
The pickets struggling to free themselves —
The Mechanic and his team punch them. They kick them. Beat and batter them —
The pickets shouting. The pickets screaming. Moaning and pleading.
The van stops. The Mechanic opens the back doors. His team jump out —
The Mechanic and his men drag the pickets out. The pickets wrapped in the tent—
They fall onto the ground at the side of the road.
The Mechanic and his men pull the orange tent off the pickets. They drag them round to the front of the van—
The two pickets are in their twenties, dressed only in their underpants and socks –
They are dirty, bloody and bruised –
One of them has pissed himself.
They blink into the headlights of the van.
The Mechanic and his men step forward. They punch the pickets. Bridge of their noses. Kick them. Their balls. The Mechanic and his men put bags on their heads. Tight.Handcuff their hands behind their backs —
Tighter –
They march the pickets to the side of the road. Lie them face down in a ditch —
They cover them with yellow Coal not Dole stickers.
The Mechanic nods. His men get back into their Transit.
The Mechanic stands by the side of the road. He looks at the two pickets face down in the ditch in their underpants and socks —
Bags on their heads. Badges on their bodies. Handcuffed.
The Mechanic takes two Polaroid photographs.
It starts to rain.
The Mechanic jumps down into the ditch. He takes off their handcuffs –
Whispers in their ears, ‘Stay out of Nottingham.’
Neil Fontaine takes the back roads. The lanes. He comes to the bridges. The roadblocks. He slows. He pulls over. He shows the necessary papers to the private security guards. Neil Fontaine comes into Flixborough. The Trent Wharves –
It is a beautiful sight, glorious –
The checkpoints. The helicopters. Stopping and searching –
Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.
The ships in the port. The wagons on the dock. Unloading and loading –
Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week –
Coal.
Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes. He walks across the car park.
She is waiting for him. She exhales. She smiles. She says, ‘Congratulations.’
‘The drivers need helmets,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘The windscreens need grilles.’
‘Never change, do you?’ laughs Diane Morris. ‘Never satisfied, are you?’
Martin
Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push — Police ten deep. Holding — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Everyone shouting — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Few stones coming over. Hands up. Coats up. Shields up — Brick coming. Lorries go in — Folk go down. Folk go under. Folk get lost. I get pulled back. Fall back. I get pulled up. Picked up — It’s Keith. He shakes his head. We go back in. Five minutes later another lot of lorries come up road — Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust — Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. More stones — Brick coming. Lorries inside. Gates shut. Lines break. Snatch squads of six coppers charge out. Piling in — Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust — Blue helmets. Visors down. Short shields. Round shields. Truncheons out — Hidings on both sides — Snatch squads taking as many prisoners as they can — Taking them hard — By their hair. By their throats. By their balls — Chaos. Bloody fucking chaos — Someone chucks a smoke-bomb. Fire-crackers. Thunder-flashes. Explosions. Red smoke everywhere — Then out come fucking horses. First time I’ve seen them up close. Six at a time. Visors down. Batons swinging — Kill you if they could — And they could. They fucking could — We run. We scatter — Half through wood. Half up hill — Into fields. Into open — Lads stopping to pick up sticks. Stones. Spars. Anything they can — I don’t stop. Horses don’t stop either — Straight into field after us. Open ground — Snatch squads behind horses. Transits behind snatch squads — Under blue skies. Across green fields — Fuck. I keep on running. Don’t stop till I get up near Asda — Till I hear them banging. Banging their truncheons on their shields as horses trot back and lorries leave — Leaving us to blood. To bodies. Burials. Under the ground. Day 85. My car today. I ask Pete for somewhere else. He looks at me. He shrugs. He opens envelope. He shakes his head. He holds it up. He shows it me — Orgreave. I tell him, It’s a waste of time. Fucking side-show. That’s what it is. He nods. He says, Fuck them. Try Bentinck. I say, Thanks, Pete. I go and get Keith and John. Lad called Stevie says he wants to come in with us. Set off. Get on M1. Radio on: Footloose. Everyone dead chuffed to be going somewhere else. Even if it’s back to bloody Bentinck. Wake me up before you go-go. Halfway down motorway it comes on radio Arthur’s been nicked up at Orgreave and pickets have invaded NCB HQ in London. Barricaded themselves in. Hung Free Arthur Scargill banners from windows. Mood in car changes. Radio goes off. Come to Junction 28 and it’s like police Transit van of year contest. Very helpful, they are — Try Junction 31, lads, they tell us. That’s where action is. Orgreave — They’ll let you go to Orgreave. No problem. They’ll even give you directions. Fucking escort — Make bloody sure you get there. There and only there — Nowhere else. I look at Keith. He shrugs. Stevie sticks his head between front seats. I want to go, says Stevie. Let’s go. I look at Keith again. He nods. I look at clock — Gone ten. Probably missed all drama. I go round junction. Set off back way we came. Come off at Junction 31. Take Retford Road. Head back to Orgreave. There for about eleven. Park by another pub called Plough. Place packed. Rammed. Have a pint. Talk all about Arthur. What they’ve done to our Arthur. Talk all about revenge. Payback. What we’re going to do to them. Word is lorries will be back between half-twelve and one o’clock. I look at my watch again. Time for another pint. And another. Dutch fucking courage. Gets to half-twelve and we head back out. Bright sunshine. Start up towards main entrance. Stormtroopers having none of that. Sieg Heil. Herd us all up to top field. Lot of lads are already up there. Not as many as yesterday. Most are sat about in sun. Shirts off. Packs of cards. Cans of cheap ale. Look like a load of tomatoes, that red. Be able to spot a scab by paleness of his skin. There’s a game of football going — Skins and shirts. Then game stops — Police boots march up road. Four abreast by us. Twenty deep down by gate — Lorries must be coming. Everyone pushes forward. Towards truncheons and shields. Full-length