Skagboys (3 page)

‘
Awright, mate,’ ah say, lookin ower tae the lines ay polis. ‘Heavy stuff here the day but, eh?
’

‘
Too farking right. Came up ta Manchester on the train Friday, got a lift through here this morning. Place was farking crawling with Old Bill.’ He nods to the coppers’ lines. ‘Some of them divs was trained in new riot tactics after Toxteth and Brixton. They farking want it.’ His head whips round to me. ‘Who ya here with, san?
’

‘
Ma auld boy. Came doon oan the Scottish NUM bus,’ ah explain, as the baw flies ower our heids and
we
make a half-ersed attempt tae get back intae the game. But as mair numbers are assembling oan baith sides, the tension starts tae mount again. People stop chasin the baw as somebody shouts that the scab lorries are due soon, and we’re too far away fae the road tae stop them. Some boys mob up and start chuckin stanes at the polis, whae respond by bringin forward a cordon ay long-shielded polis in front ay the ordinary coppers. A cheer goes up as one polisman takes a healthy skelp on the coupon wi a bit ay brick. I feel sickness in the pit ay ma stomach, but there’s an electricity in me, overriding it, as a roar goes roond that the scab lorries are here tae pick up the fuckin coke fae the plant!

Every cunt steams forward tae try and get through the polis lines, n ah’m propelled right intae it aw, airms pinned tae ma side for a scary minute, and ah lose Nicksy n ah’m wondering in panic where ma dad is, suddenly rememberin what Granny Renton said. A space opens up and ah move intae it, then the mounted polis charge us and every fucker runs back. It’s like a row at the fitba, but it’s made room fir the lorries tae pass and we’re aw gaun fuckin mental! Ah’m shoutin right in the face ay a young copper, ages wi me, ‘WHAT YE FUCKIN DAEIN, YA SCABBY NAZI CUNT?!
’

There’s another surge forward, but when the horseback polis charge again, the whole polis lines are right behind them. Stanes are hurled through the air at the cunts and a pig oan the tannoy warns that if we dinnae retreat a hundred yards, they’re gaunny steam in wi full riot gear. We can see them, gettin ready, wi their helmets, short shields and batons
.

‘
This is outrageous,’ one old Yorkshire miner says, eyes seared with rage, ‘they ain’t used riot squads against pickets in this coontry!
’

‘
Them fookin small shields,’ another gadgie shouts, ‘they’re for aggro, not fookin defendin their sen!
’

The boy’s called it right, cause as we stand our
ground,
the bastards charge forward and it’s fucking mental. Maist people are wearing ordinary clathes, a few have thick donkey jaykits, but naebody has weapons tae protect themselves and when the polis attack, waving their batons, there’s mass panic among the strikers, as it aw goes oaf. Ah git hit oan the back, then the airm, which makes me feel sick, then smacked in the temple. The blows feel different tae bein punched or kicked, ye kin feel them daein damage under the skin, but the adrenalin is the best anaesthetic, and ah lash oot, stickin the boot against a shield
…

FUCKIN USELESS
.

It’s fuckin no fair … it’s no fuckin right … whaire’s ma shield? … whaire’s ma fuckin bat, the crappin cunts? … it’s fuckin no right
…

Ah’m punchin n kickin against the perspex, tryin tae brek through but it’s fuckin useless. Fuck this; ah turn back and run intae space n blooter a copper fae behind, a cunt whae’s stooried past us in pursuit ay a striker. He stumbles, lookin like he’s gaunny go doon, but keeps his footing and carries on after the gadge, completely ignoring us. Ah see one boy’s doon and gettin battered tae fuck by three polis. They’re bendin ower him, thrashing at him with their sticks. A lassie, about ages wi me, long, black hair, is screaming at them in appeal: ‘What are you doing!
’

One of the cops calls her a miner’s slag and pushes her. She stumbles and faws oan her back, n gits pilled away by this aulder boy, who takes a stick acroas the shoulder for his trouble. Every cunt’s screamin and shoutin n ah’m standin, paralysed between thought and action, just
jammed
,
and an aulder copper looks at me, glances at the younger polis, then barks right in ma face, ‘GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE NOW, OR YOU’LL GET FUCKIN KILLED!
’

The concern scares us mair than the threat; ah find masel movin away, forcing through the confused,
shrieking
crowds, tryin tae find my dad and Andy, or even Nicksy. It’s crazy everywhere ye turn; one huge, brawny gadge wi long biker’s hair n leathers is smashing the fuck oot ay a copper; even though the pig has a short shield and baton, the big gadge just overpowers and pummels the stupid cunt wi his huge sledgehammer fists. One gadge’s staggering around wi blood skooshin oot his heid, like he cannae see anything. Ah feel a sickenin thud acroas ma back n ma guts rising, but ah fight it and turn and see a panic-faced cop wi a stick n shield move away, as if ah’m a threat tae
him
. Everything is slo-mo now and ah’m pulsing wi anxiety aboot the auld boy, but at the same time revelling in the buzz, pumped up tae fuck. Thankfully the polis draw back, and the battered pickets reassemble and we move forward, eftir picking up stanes fae the side ay the field. Ah grabs a rock, reasoning that these radges are taking nae prisoners n ah fuckin need some sort ay weapon. But what ah really want right now is tae find ma dad
.

What the fuck …

Suddenly, these searing wails ay rage are rippin through the air, people sounding so agonised that for a second ah think the polis have sprayed ammonia or somethin intae our eyes; but it’s the scab lorries; they’re starting tae leave the plant, full ay the coke. Another push, but we’re repelled by the polis, and Scargill walks in front ay the polis lines, shoutin through the megaphone, but ye cannae make it oot, it’s like a British Rail customer announcement. The scab lorries recede tae diminishing jeers and boos as the fight just drains oot ay everybody. Ah feel something hard and horrible freeze solid in ma chest, and ah’m thinkin, game over, and ah keep lookin for ma faither
.

Please let him be awright proddy god pape god muslim god jew god buddhist god or any gods please let him be awright
…

Some ay the pickets head oot the field taewards the village wi their injured comrades, but others just
lie
oot in the sun, looking that casual, ye couldnae believe they’d been involved in a mass brawl just minutes ago. Ah’m no like that; ma teeth hammer thegither n ah’m shakin like ah’ve goat a small motor stuck inside us. For the first time, ah can feel where ah’ve been hit, wi hard throbs in ma heid, ma back, and ma airm, which hings limply by ma side
.

FUCKIN
…

Ah feel like ma dad looks: a worrier. Like he looks now, no in the younger pictures ay him. Ah once mind ay askin him aboot it, why he eywis seemed that worried these days
.

‘
Children,’ he’d replied
.

LET HIM BE OKAY!

Ah’m ready tae head back tae the village tae find the bus; ah supposed that the auld man and Andy would’ve gone there; but the next thing ah ken is that the polis riot squads are advancing taewards us, drumming oan thair short shields wi thair batons. Ah cannae believe it, cause it’s game over, the fuckin lorries are away! But they fuckin well charge right at us, we’re unarmed and heavily outnumbered, and ah’m thinkin:
these cunts really want us deid
, and the only thing tae dae is nash like fuck n scramble doon the embankment oantae the railway line. Every step jars ma fuckin back. Ah catch ma jaykit oan a fence and hear it tear. Oan the track beside us, thaire’s a chunky auld guy wi a rid face, whae’s limpin, and he gasps in this north ay England accent: ‘That’s … that’s … they’re tryin ter fookin murder us!
’

Whaire’s ma fuckin dad?

We cross the line and ah’m helpin the auld gadge climb up the other bank. His leg’s fucked, but ma back’s giein me gyp, n it’s a struggle cause ma airm’s totally fucked n aw. The boy’s rabbiting in ma ear, in shock. He sounded northern tae me, but tells me his name’s Ben n he’s actually a striking Notts miner. He took a bad whack oan his kneecap
.

My pain has been displaced by a sickness comin
fae
deep in ma belly. Cause fae the other side ay the track we’re witnessing this terrible carnage; the pickets that are left are bein clubbed like seals and lifted by the polis, some are game as fuck and still fightin back in spite ay it aw. A boy in a red lumberjack shirt, oan his knees, tendin tae his decked mate, gets smashed across the skull fae behind by a riot copper and collapses oan top ay his pal. It’s like an execution. At the overhead bridge a few pickets have grabbed stuff fae a scrapyard and are flingin it at the polis. Some boys have dragged a car fae the yard, and they pull it across the road and set it alight. This isnae about policing or containment, this is a war against civilians
.

War
.

Winners. Losers. Casualties
.

Ah leaves the Ben gadge n gits back tae the road and ah’m relieved tae see my faither. He’s standin wi this boy whae looks weird; it’s like he’s wearin Batman’s cowl. Ah git closer n realise it’s aw rid-black blood, completely covering his face tae the extent ah kin only see the whites ay his eyes n teeth. I’m shocked when ah tipple it’s Andy; his heid’s been stoved in, big time. The polis are still advancin and they half chase, half herd us back intae the village. We get oan the bus, n a lot ay the boys look well fucked. Ma dad has a cut hand. He says it was fae a broken bottle
thrown
flung by a picket that didnae clear the lines. Andy’s in a bad way and needs treatment, but a polis cunt in the escort tells us that anybody stoaping at a hoaspital is liable tae arrest and that we should jist go hame. The arrogant, hate-filled faces: so different tae the beaming coupons that greeted us oan the way in
.

The cunts set us up
.

We’ve nae reason tae disbelieve the copper, but ah want tae get oaf n see if Nicksy’s awright. ‘My mate,’ ah tells ma auld man, but he shakes his heid and goes, ‘No way. The driver’s shut the door n he’s no openin it for anything
.’

The bus starts movin, n Andy’s goat some boy’s shirt tied roond his heid tae try and staunch the bleedin. Ma dad’s sittin wi an airm roond him, makeshift bandage oan his hand as poor Andy mutters, ‘Never seen nowt like it, Davie … cannae believe it
…’

Ah’m sittin thaire, lower back nippin in the seat, wonderin how far up this goes; the Chief Constable, Home Secretary, Thatcher … whether they gied the orders or no, they wir complicit. Anti-union laws and big pay rises for the polis when everybody else in the public sector’s dosh and conditions are getting cut back … the cunts fuckin primed them for this
…

It’s like a morgue oan the bus as it slithers oantae the motorway. Eventually the bevvy being dispensed n consumed wi a vengence starts tae kick in, and the defiant chants ay ‘Victory to the Miners’ gather force and conviction. But it doesnae feel glorious tae me. It feels like we’ve been cheated, like coming back fae Hampden and the referee’s gied the Old Firm club a nonsense last-minute penalty. It’s really hot ootside, but the bus has been blowin cauld air and it’s freezing in here. Ah’m sitting wi ma heid burrowed intae the windae, watchin ma breath steam it up. Ah’m feeling really sair now, particularly my airm, n every inhalation is like a punch tae that fuckin spine
.

These boys at the back ay the bus start stampin thair feet n singin these Irish Republican ballads of defiance, then a couple of pro-IRA chants come into the mix. Soon they’re exclusively belting out Irish Republican ballads
.

Ma auld man’s sprang up oantae his feet, pointin at them in denunciation, his hand bleedin through the rag wrapped roond it. ‘STOAP SINGING THAT SHITE, YA DIRTY IRA TERRORIST BASTARDS! THAT’S NO A SOCIALIST SONG, N IT’S NO A TRADE UNIONIST SONG, YA FUCKIN FENIAN SCUMBAGS!
’

A skinny wee gadge gets up and starts shoutin back at him, ‘FUCK OFF, YA UVF TORY HUN BASTARD!
’

‘
AH’M NO A FUCKIN TORY … ya fuckin …’ Ma auld boy’s stormin doon tae the back ay the bus like a bull, n ah’m up in pursuit and grab ah hud ay his airm wi ma good yin. We’re the same height, but ah’m much punier and thank fuck Cammy’s up and helpin me restrain the auld radge. My faither and the cunts at the back are shoutin at each other, but they’re being urged tae calm doon, and me and Cammy are pullin him away, a spasm ay crippling pain comin fae ma back makin ma eyes water, as the bus wobbles oantae a slip road
.

Fuckin Weedgies, they cannae dae nowt without bringin thair fucked-up fitba and Ireland shite intae everything
…

We get him settled doon, n fair play, one ay the radges immediately comes up and apologises. It’s the skinny cunt, he’s goat practically nae chin and big, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry aboot that, big man, yir right, wrang song, wrang place
…’

My faither nods in acceptance as the gadge passes him a bottle ay Grouse. The auld boy takes a concilatory slug fae it, then at Beaver pus’s prompting, passes it tae me, but ah wave it away. Fucked if ah’m takin a drink ay anything oafay these cunts, let alaine that shite
.

‘
It’s awright, emotions runnin a wee bit high,’ ma faither goes, noddin tae Andy, whae looks doolally, like he’s in shock
.

Then they start talkin aboot the events ay the day, n soon thair airms ur roond each other’s shoodirs like they’re best mates. Ah’m feelin fuckin nauseated. If there’s one thing that’s even sicker than those sectarian cunts at each other’s throats, it’s when they start cosyin up thegither. Ah cannae sit here wi this fuckin back. Ootside ah sketches the road signs for Manchester, n no really kennin what the fuck ah’m daein, ah suppose
half
thinking aboot Nicksy, ah stand up. ‘Ah’m gettin oaf here, Dad
.’