Separate tracks, p.17
Separate Tracks, page 17
The management sacked everyone who had been on strike. Those who had not continued as if nothing had happened. And so it was over, as pointless as if it had not been, leaving in its wake only a small group of embittered, impotent men talking endlessly of revenge as they queued in unemployment benefit offices.
Phil was released next morning, but charged with threatening behaviour. His case would come up in court in a month or so. He recounted vividly how they had been pushed around and insulted, and his arms and shoulders were covered with bruises to prove it.
“You can’t prove it,” said Alison knowingly, “they’ll say you got them fighting on the picket line.”
“I know,” he spat and turned his interest to Orph. “What happened to you? I heard you yelling at that bastard, then I lost track of you.”
Orph shrugged. “I was there,” he said.
“Oh yeah, yeah, I know—lucky they didn’t pick you up too, the way you were going for them. What happened after we’d gone?”
“Nothing much. They just drove off. We stood around for a bit, then came back.”
Phil nodded. “Bastards. Shit heads. They fucking walk over us.”
For a couple of days he was very depressed, as if it had been a personal failure. He stayed with Alison, although they hardly seemed to speak, and was around the house in the daytime, when Orph was. He was full of bitterness for the factory workers. “Roll on the day when they’ve got nothing, when they’re starving in the streets, ’cos then they’ll have nothing to lose and they might even show some guts. Fucking wankers.” Orph listened and nodded.
Emma, seeing Phil’s bruises, and hearing Alison’s furious account of how the police had told her to “run along now little lady” when she went down to see him on the night of his arrest, faltered in her tracks. Parts of her life were receding and going out of focus like a badly made film. The bright safe university world became wobbly and unreal. When Phil told them there was a demonstration in Lowfield the following Saturday, she automatically counted herself in. To have spent the afternoon in the quietly humming library instead would have been playing, mere make-believe. The fact that she was terrified by the physical danger involved made it that much more compelling. That was real. Writing essays belonged to a dream world, a bubble world so sweet and fragile it would burst any minute now. Phil’s point of view was in urgent focus. As he described the reasons for the Lowfield demonstration, she could follow his arguments and see that it all fitted together. She had glimpsed it on the London march; now it was insistent and near to touch.
Lowfield was a run-down area to the east of the town. High Victorian terraces cramped between decaying industrial sites. The houses were dilapidated, many of them bricked or boarded up, barricaded behind overgrown dusty privet hedges where balls of scrumpled up newspaper, empty cans and smashed milk bottles proliferated. The population was mainly West Indian. The big youth club in the area, held in a church annexe on the corner of one of the few roads which boasted trees, had been closed down the week before. Phil told them that the council had closed it because residents complained about noise, drunkenness and fighting on the premises and neighbouring streets. But the complaints emanated from, and were orchestrated by, the National Front. All the kids who attended the youth club were black. And there was nowhere else for them to go.
The plan was for the kids and youth workers to meet outside the youth club on Saturday and march from there to the town hall, where councillors were supposed to be treating some foreign twin-town bigwigs to lunch. They would deliver their protest to the councillors personally. Unless somebody tried to stop them.
“But there can’t be many NF members round there, surely?” asked Alison. “Nearly everyone’s black.”
Phil sniffed at her naivety. “They’ll come in from outside, from miles around. Don’t need many, anyway—the amount of protection they’ll get from the pigs—they’ll outnumber us three to one. Bet you.”
He was right. But the numbers on the kids’ side were also much higher than he had predicted. Just as word had got round the NF supporters, so it had spread among anti-racist and left-wing groups. The scene was set for a battle. Alison, Emma and Orph went to Jessop Street together. Phil had gone earlier to meet friends. The whole neighbourhood was crackling. People stood in their doorways watching the street, arms folded. They waited in groups on corners, talking loudly and scrutinizing everyone who passed. There were police everywhere—parked in vans, talking into radios, patrolling the streets slowly in pairs. The air was electric. Near the club itself there was a feeling of anarchy—a lot of kids in their teens high and loud with excitement, shouting and laughing. Some were dancing to a transistor radio. They were nearly all black, and Emma was struck, and then immediately made guilty by, the sheer otherness of them. They looked so strange—like cattle, she thought, the same big prominent bones and swinging movements. They wore clothes as if they were decorations, all bright bits of things, sparkling crimson, yellow, bright green—the girls with tiny shiny plaits bristling all over their heads. She was frightened because they were so different, and felt she must be an obvious target for their dislike, being small and twitchy, pale and drab. The presence of Alison and Orph and, up front, Phil and a few other whites, was so diluted that it was comfortless.
They crowded in around her, overbearingly loud, and she began to panic. It was impossible to see ahead—or even out at the side—just a thick press of bodies, but she had to go along with it now. There was no escape. From a distance at the back of her head she watched the disconnected sections of newsreel film her eyes relayed. There was no commentary to make sense of it. It needed editing. Close-ups of backs and walls, sudden patches of black, faces and bodies appearing quickly and factually, undifferentiated in importance—long shots of a mass of heads or, sideways, a mass of legs, surging forwards. A white youth with a loud-hailer turned back to encourage the crowd, open mouth snarling. A full police coach in the first side street. A black man and a woman with a scarf on her head leaning out of an upstairs window with astonished faces. Shouts. The blare of a radio. Car horns. A group of kids pushing past them, bodies tilted eagerly forward, necks outstretched to see over the heads—thick and dusty-dull as old rags, the dreadlocks of two youths in front—a policeman’s scared face sideways through the crowd, speaking to his walkie talkie—shouting—coming together in a chorus of recognition, and sudden acceleration forwards—Orph breaking into a run—jerky now, the camera hand-held by a cameraman on the run—everyone running, sweat, panting, shouts and screams up ahead—a green sweater—the whole movement of the group faltering like water rushing up against a dam—coming up close behind backs and necks, more bodies pressing close behind— a shoulder with a white nylon shirt sticking to it—two arms lashing out sideways and up, hands grabbing, as a girl falls—blue uniforms pushing in from the sides, dragging people out—dense tangle of limbs ahead, screams and thuds—a glimpse of Phil, yards away, through plunging heads, waving them on—hair and sweating skin close—a shiny brown bottle in a white hand going up against the sky coming down fast—another long shot through a gap, to solid dark blue-black—a backdrop to all the tangle of bodies—an inflexible wave arrested there—blocking—faces turning—wide brown nostrils flared in horse-like horror with brightly red blood flowing—white eyes black skin mouth stretched open, a noise not a scream—noise—a stick long grey thing rising in air and coming down with a crunch. . . that stops all a second—keep away not a stick—don’t look—disintegrating now not even faces—a hand flailing, and eye screwed up tight close, crooked mouth, brown cheek skin stretched taut—white teeth in pink cavern, hand dabbing, unbelieving light, on top of hair—blood telling fingers raised to check—flying through the air—ducking—lips snarled back, throat streaming noise—feet can’t walk and now at the mercy to be pushed this way that way up against dark blue and going down, darker—white hand grasping on blue cloth, sudden shot of pavement a square foot of it clear and normal grey—up again across navy which suddenly wrinkles and swivels with flashing lights down to grab—sky, white clouded, fringed with movement and noise—white mottled sky—pain arm sharp spinning round fast taste of vomit—black.
Chapter 38
As the group of kids and their supporters surged forward from the corner where they had congregated, police formed a double line sealing off the side street where a handful of white youths with cropped hair and black jackets jostled and shouted. Heading down Jessop Street, the leaders of the main demonstration, scenting the enemy, lunged off up the side street and clashed head on with the police. Who swiftly experienced difficulties. They were attacked from both sides and the pressure of bodies in the narrow street made it virtually impossible for reinforcements to break through. The row facing the National Front attempted to force them back, and their ranks were quickly broken. Fresh men hauled their way through the demonstrators, who were being dragged back wholesale. Police had sealed off the Jessop Street end of the street and were succeeding in dispersing the mass of demonstrators, although running fights were developing over a wider area. Orph, who was very near the front when they ran up (or, more accurately, were pushed up by the force of bodies behind) against the solid line of policemen, went down near the wall and didn’t gain his feet for several minutes. When he did claw his way up it was to see Emma pushed violently against a policeman’s back, grabbing at his uniform and crumpling. He saw clearly that another policeman caught her arm and twisted it behind her back and up to level with her head. He saw the first one take her other arm. He watched them start to drag her backwards.
Suddenly he was moving forwards from his position by the wall, screaming “No! No! Let go of her—” He bumped into a black girl who staggered back staring at his face in horror; he pushed her aside and pressed forwards. “You fuckers you’re not taking her you’re not taking—” He ran into a knot of people who were crowded round someone on the ground, lost his balance and fell heavily. By the time he was up again, Emma and the policemen were out of sight. He threaded his way back towards the end of the street. People were milling in all directions now, many of them hurt and helping each other. Orph was in time to see a black van move off from the corner of Jessop Street. When he got into Jessop Street itself, it was clearing rapidly. Clusters of policemen were gathering around their vans. Orph stood still for a moment, then went to the back of the youth club and sat on a step by the dustbins. There was the sound of vans and motorcycles moving off and of people shouting in the distance. Close to, the silence became vivid. Dusk was gathering. A lamp at the corner of the building came on and shone on the dusty leaves of the privet bush growing behind the dustbins. Orph, sitting on the step with his knees drawn up, arms resting on them and head buried in his arms, began to cry.
Two little West Indian boys suddenly appeared at the side of the bush, and stood looking at him. After a couple of minutes he looked up, smearing his sleeve across his face. “Fuck off you black cunts.”
They turned and ran quickly, the taller of the two was shouting “One of them here—Joseph—Joseph—one of them Nazi shit—Jo---oseph—”
Orph jumped up and ran round the other side of the building, then started down the street at a brisk walk, keeping right in by the shadow of the houses. Four policemen who were talking in the middle of the road glanced at him but didn’t challenge him. The kid was still shouting, behind the club, and someone else was shouting back.
It got dark very quickly. Orph cut down side streets, making a zig-zag course for the centre of town, and was soon well clear of the Jessop Street area.
When he arrived back at the house it was empty. No one had been back. He had not seen Alison or Phil since the demonstration started. He made himself a sandwich, then went upstairs and sat on the bed in his dim smelly room. He sat there for a long time.
The church clock tolled ten. Orph waited till the last sound had drained away, then went to the toilet and then into Emma’s room. He closed the door behind him and stood still, leaning against it, for about a minute. At last he went downstairs, closing the front door quietly behind him. The sky was black. He went across the gravel flat-footed and slowly, making very little noise, and looked up and down the empty dark blue street. Then he moved back into the bushes growing by the side wall and squatted down amongst them, completely screened by their black shadows. In his hand was a half brick which he had picked up from the flowerbed border.
Very soon came the sound of footsteps approaching. A measured, regular tread, not heavy, sounding clearly on two notes, tap-tap, like a child’s wooden hammer. The heel then the sole of a stiff boot hitting the pavement. The silhouette of a thin man with a curiously elongated head moved past the end of the driveway and Orph stood up. He took two long strides along the flowerbed, avoiding the noisy gravel, and was on to the pavement. His feet in their rubber-soled baseball boots made no sound. The man stopped just the other side of the street lamp. Orph saw that his head was tilted right back. He was looking for stars. He made a snuffling noise in the back of his throat and brought out his white handkerchief. The sound of him blowing his nose filled the quiet street. He stopped again, to put his handkerchief away and stare into a parked car. Very close to him now, Orph hesitated for a fraction of a second, weighing the brick in his right hand. Two paces behind the man, he twisted his body to the right to give the blow extra impetus, then flailed leftwards with both arms. The left, fractionally before the right, knocked the helmet forward over the face. The right, with the brick, connected with the back of the skull. The man gave a strangled little cough, like a polite churchgoer with a frog in his throat, and lurched forwards onto the car bonnet, his hands clenching and slipping on the shiny metal. Bending over him, Orph struck him again on the side of the head, hard. Without a sound the man slumped on down to the ground, crumpling in upon himself.
Orph glanced up and down the street. There was no movement. In the houses all the curtains were drawn. He could see the flickering light and shadows of a TV clearly through the thin curtains in the nearest house. He slid the brick under the car, giving it a little kick to get it out of sight. Then he grasped the policeman’s wrists and straightened up to drag him backwards. For a moment the dead weight of the body did not give at all, and Orph strained backwards, using his whole bodyweight. Then the undignified heap which the police constable made on the pavement disentangled, the shapeless lump beyond the arms became a stretched-out torso and two legs which trailed behind. The blob of the helmet wobbled sideways and detached itself completely from the head. It rolled a couple of feet towards the gutter, was stopped by an uneven paving stone, rocked backwards and forwards twice and became quite still. Orph heaved the body out of the area directly illuminated by the street-lamp, dropped the wrists and straightened, breathing heavily. There was the sound of a car. He waited to see which way it would turn at the junction, and stepped smartly back amongst the bushes in the drive. The headlights moved along the dark street, pushing their pyramids of light in front of them, not coming near Orph or the dark shape by the wall. Orph kept his eyes on the helmet, which lay enormous and tell-tale, right under the street-lamp. The car passed without slowing. He watched its red eyes disappear backwards down the street, then slipped out and scooped up the helmet. With both hands he rammed it deep into the yellow litter bin which was fixed to the lamp post.
He dragged the body on towards the driveway. The policeman’s feet and clothes made a loud noise as they moved along. The edges of the soles of his boots scraped along the pavement and clicked at every joint between paving stones. The stuff of his uniform rustled and rattled and made ripping sounds. Orph stopped again, half-bent—breathed deeply, then lurched the last few yards in a staggering backwards run, getting the body in skew-whiff on to the gravel. Two cars went past, their lights just reached to the pavement’s far edge. Orph was safe in the darkness beyond. He looked down at the heap at his feet. Nothing in the dark shape was distinct except the pale bare face, and two white skinny forearms exposed like the legs of a chicken where the sleeves had dragged down towards the shoulders. Orph lifted the left arm to look at the watch on it—10.15—then dropped it like a piece of litter. He crunched across the gravel and unlocked the front door, pushing it open. Then he dragged the body across the gravel, making a noise like an avalanche, and hauled it up over the doorstep. When he dropped the wrists and went to close the door, it wouldn’t shut because the man’s legs were still in the way. Orph bundled them roughly aside, switched on the light and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, looking at his prize. The man lay like a rag doll. The backs of his trousers were ragged and filthy where they had dragged over the pavement. A patch of hair on the back of his head was matted with blood. But it seemed to have dried already. The face was young, under thirty, with blemishes in the skin around the mouth, as if he had eaten something he was allergic to or shaved too closely. His hair was short and thin, and at the front it had all flopped over to one side of his head.
Orph rolled his head back against the wall, eying the stairs. Then he grasped the wrists again and started up backwards, heaving the dead weight one step at a time, gasping rhythmically. He did not pause at the top but went straight on to his room. The carpet ruckled up under the body as they crossed the doorsill but Orph kept on pulling, so that half the floor was exposed by the time the body was fully in the room. He rolled it over and pulled the carpet straight. Then he went to Emma’s room and took four of her long Indian scarves from the wardrobe. He bound the policeman’s arms behind his back, tying the wrists tightly together, and then he bound the feet. Suddenly he bent and put his ear close to the man’s lips, and crouched motionless for several seconds, listening. He used one more scarf as a gag, and another as a blindfold. He tied his own scarf (formerly Phil’s) tightly around the knees. He locked his door, sat back on the bed and lit a cigarette.
