The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  “Water pressure is low today, in fact it’s fucking non-existent,” said Sid with a wink.

  Detainees thronged the camp entrance on the promenade opposite the Creg Malin hotel. A line of soldiers was keeping the gathering away from the gates, but was making no effort to disperse them. Tony and Eric could hear the excited babble of voices as they strolled down Walpole Road towards the sea front. They were smoking and trying to appear nonchalant, but both were agitated. Tony’s heart was racing and he was unsure why. He couldn’t see the problem; even if Pat was captured, he wasn’t the type to say anything and Eric “associated” with a lot of people, so there was no particular reason to single him out. But his friend was worried and that was cause for concern. Eric’s mood had darkened after they passed Pat’s house. It was deserted, but a neighbour told them five or six guards had searched it thoroughly an hour or two before and taken away a suitcase. Eric had muttered, “So it’s true then,” and had not said a word since. They reached the edge of the crowd. Everybody was looking in the direction of the hotel. Tony tapped a spectator he vaguely recognized on the shoulder.

  “Any news?”

  The man turned round startled.

  “Tony, you old…, you surprised me. He’s in the hotel talking to Faulkner and the others. Supposed to be coming out any time now.”

  “Who is, Pat?”

  “Pat? What are you talking about? No, that MP fellow, under-something at the Home Office.”

  “Osbert Peake,” Eric cut in wearily.

  “Yeah, that’s the man. Here to see how we’re all being treated.”

  “I’d completely forgotten he was coming. Not that many of us here though.”

  “Not surprising if people like you forget, is it? They’ve sent some lads off to see if they can drum up a few more.”

  “Other things on my mind, matey, here now though.”

  His eyes widened and he smiled maliciously, the man edged away. There was a cry and the company surged forward, pushing against the guards who held their ground. With a whoop Eric plunged ahead, elbowing his way to the front. On the other side of the wire, the doors of the Creg Malin had opened and a small group of smartly dressed men were standing on the steps looking across at the demonstration. A Brigadier was pointing something out to a small bespectacled man wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat. He was nodding his head, another man with a briefcase at his feet appeared to be taking notes.

  “A bottle of C and S for anybody who knocks that bastard’s hat off.”

  There was a loud cheer. The ministerial delegation moved towards the gate. A banner was unfurled at the back of the demonstration, a large white sheet with the words, “Mosley give us justice,” daubed across it in black paint. As the gate swung open, prisoners screamed abuse and jostled with the soldiers.

  “Jew, Jew, we don’t want you here.”

  “Go home, we want justice, not visitors.”

  Tony hung back, wary of getting involved. His concerns, all-consuming only moments before, now seemed of no consequence, leaving only a sense of detachment.

  “We want justice, we want fair treatment.”

  The chanting grew louder and the official party hesitated. Hurried words were exchanged between the Brigadier and the young Lieutenant in charge of the guards, the detainees sensed opportunity and rushed forward to the fence. Stones were thrown, and the Member of Parliament ducked behind the soldiers. Surrounded by the pushing and shoving rabble, Tony found himself drawn in. He began chanting.

  “Justice, justice, justice.”

  The gates closed and were padlocked. The emissaries hurriedly retreated across the road to the sanctuary of the Creg Malin hotel. As they disappeared inside the large picture window in the front bay smashed sending a cascade of shattered glass showering onto the pavement. The prisoners were triumphant at their modest victory, jeering, shouting and shaking the wire.

  Their quarry gone the line of demonstrators hard on the wire relaxed and broke away, splintering into small groups, heads turning, looking around, talking excitedly amongst themselves. The banner was hastily folded up and hidden, but the guards just gazed impassively from the other side of fence. Tony spotted Eric, his face flushed and hair disheveled, deep in conversation with Bill Griffiths. He held back. He would learn soon enough what was going on. The disturbance had alerted the whole camp and prisoners alone and in groups were moving down the hill towards the promenade. Others were hanging out of the windows of the houses on the front or gathering on the steps of the terrace. Tony sat down and leaned back against the fence, the soft sand drifting around his boots. It was another beautiful evening, outside the camp everything was tranquil. The sun, still high in the pale azure sky, was slowly sinking behind the hazy aqueous veil masking the horizon. The placid sea looked unnaturally green.

  “This is the stuff of artists,” mused Tony, “our struggle here in this tawdry world seems to amount to nothing more than swirling flecks of dust marring a masterpiece.”

  An urgent shout from near the gate silenced the mob. It was a rallying cry – in the lull a soaring raven cawed, harried by a flock of gulls. Men leapt to their feet, moved forward, pressing again along the barbed wire. There was a babble of expectation and prisoners craned their necks for a better view. Tony was caught up in the flow. The Creg Malin appeared deserted, the tall stained-glass entrance doors were barred, and nobody was visible at any of the windows. Glinting shards of jagged glass protruded from the flaking frame of the vandalized bay, a snagged curtain fluttering in the rising breeze. Tony jumped up, straining to see, his hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him.

  “Hey, leave it out mate, will you.”

  An armed patrol could be seen in the distance marching towards the camp along Shore Road, there may have been civilians with them, Tony wasn’t sure.

  “What did you see? What’s ’appening?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t get a clear view. Saw some soldiers.”

  “What, reinforcements? They’re looking for a bloody fight.”

  “No, there weren’t enough of them to make any difference.”

  “Here do you mind mate, give me a leg up an’ I’ll see what I can see.”

  Tony bent down, cupping his hands together.

  “There you go, put some of your weight on those in front.”

  The man peered keenly through the wire.

  “It’s them, it’s the ones that escaped, they’ve been caught.”

  “Have they got all of them?”

  “Looks like it. They weren’t free for long were they?”

  “Lucky old Faulkner, this gets his chestnuts out of the fire.”

  “How do they look? Can you see them?”

  The clamour grew louder as the escapees and their captors drew nearer. The three prisoners, shuffling together in the centre of the party, had their hands tied behind their backs. All were dirty, their faces muddy and clothes torn, but demonstrators at the front, clinging to the wire, yelled out that they could see cuts and bruises.

  “They ain’t all there, there’s only three of them. They’ve been done over right and proper by the looks of it, poor bastards.”

  Martin Quinn was limping, his body bent double. Giles Halesoken had a vivid scratch that was clearly visible across his right cheek and one of the arms of his jacket was missing. Pat Kenneally appeared unbowed by the ordeal, holding his head high and grinning. Their escort, on patrol all night, was tired and on edge. They had discovered the three men hiding among rocks on a remote beach five miles from the camp and it had taken them several hours to force-march their reluctant prisoners back to Peel. Disconcerted by the rowdy reception they were uncertain what to do next. The nervous soldiers taunted and gestured at the demonstrators while their Sergeant reported to the Creg Malin for orders.

  “There’s no escape for you bastards, you know that don’t you? No escape.
”

  “You dumb animals, you’ll all pay.”

  “No escape, no escape.”

  The protestors’ mood was hostile, goaded into a fury by the insults. The mood darkened further as another detachment of soldiers approached from the town at double-time, their boots drumming on the asphalt, they un-shouldered their rifles and formed up outside the gates. Captain Faulkner and Osbert Peake MP appeared on the steps of the Creg Malin to renewed abuse.

  “Dispersing this bunch is going to be a problem, without using force. As I told you inside at this time in the evening, I have very few men in the camp, and those that are within the wire are heavily outnumbered and will keep well away from that crowd.”

  “Do what you have to man. This can’t go on for much longer. Remember it’s your responsibility to get things under control.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Anxious to reassert his authority, Faulkner barked out an order, the Sergeant ran back to his squad and the three captured men were dragged from the gate along Walpole Road. As they were about to disappear from view around the corner of the hotel, Pat Kenneally struggled free of his restraints, turned and shouted out in a broad Irish accent.

  “We were done over lads, we were all beaten up.”

  His escort pulled him away, but his words did their damage. There was an answering roar from the crowd and missiles soared over the wire and ricocheted off the walls of the Creg Malin. A small determined band surged through the narrow gap between the fence and the end of the terrace and chased the prisoner escort, taunting them through the mesh. Shouted appeals for the demonstrators to calm down and disperse, that nothing had happened to the three escapees, were drowned out by whistles and catcalls. Swept forward, Tony was helpless in the crush, discomfort stoking his anger and he screamed in frustration.

  Dusk was falling and the air shimmered in the dying light. The sky was stained with the cadaverous pinks and reds bleeding from a gash torn by the dipping sun. The sea mirror-calm flared yellow, magenta, and purple, the infernal glow mirrored in the windows of the Creg Malin and glinting off the newly laid barbed wire, un-ravaged by salt water.

  “Get more stones will you, organize some of the lads.”

  Eric was yelling in Tony’s ear. His face flushed and animated, he pointed up the hill.

  “There’s that wall at the back, that’s half fallen down. Bring everything here that you can carry an’ we’ll give them something to think about.”

  Forcing his way out of the fray, Eric ran off, leaping the steps into the nearest house three at a time. He reappeared in the doorway before Tony had a chance to move, a dustbin lid in his hand. With a rapid flick of his arm he sent it spinning through the air, over the wire, above the heads of the guards, to land clattering on the cobbles in front of the hotel. He watched it settle and then with a whoop vanished inside the house.

  “Yes sir,” hissed Tony as he gestured at a couple of men who were standing next to him. “Let’s get some ammunition. Grab that dustbin.”

  The ancient wall, its mortar perished, crumbled easily. The rough-edged lichen-covered bricks abraded scrabbling hands, choking dust lifting into the air. Below them in the gathering gloom they could just make out the convulsions of the excitable crowd and hear the shrill shouts and cries punctuating the hubbub of battle. The mayhem masked their approach as they dragged the half-filled bin back down the hill, then the perimeter lights flared into life, harshly illuminating the scene. Exposed they could see the prisoners massing on the front and others like them heading that way armed with makeshift weapons.

  “Bugger me, this is getting out of hand,” gasped one of the men hauling the bin as they stopped to catch their breath, “we’d better get a bloody move on.”

  Reaching the promenade they were engulfed in the mêlée, the bin dragged out of their hands and positioned close to the wire. A barrage of stones raked the Creg Malin. Every window on the floors facing the camp was smashed, shattered glass carpeting the road. A wooden lavatory seat sailed over the wire, hitting a soldier as he ran for the shelter of the hotel. He fell to his knees clutching his back, then scrambled unsteadily to his feet, skidding on the shards of glass, as he limped away. There were cheers. The other guards retreated out of range of the missiles to watch in safety, shielded by the falling darkness. Occasionally one would break ranks and retaliate, a stone arcing back over the wire, appearing from nowhere out of the black sky, sometimes harmlessly shattering into pieces on the cobbles, sometimes felling a protester. The screams of the injured, with bloodied heads and fractured limbs, were drowned out by the howling of the crowd and their broken bodies lay unremarked among the seething horde. The walking wounded meandered back from the wire to be treated on the open space behind the sea-front terrace where a bonfire had been set.

  Havoc teased a pattern out of disorder and as the night deepened a routine settled upon the chaos. Scavenging parties, intent on destruction, swept across the camp, dismantling gardens, walls, buildings, returning with stones, bricks, and bottles to feed the mutual desire of the crowd for violence. Sated the rioters would surge along the wire, unleash a furious barrage, then fall back out of range, to mill around in the shadows, waiting, their hunger growing.

  The commotion, raw and sustained, drew a vocal group of townspeople who gathered on the promenade beyond the Creg Malin. Soldiers tried to keep them away, but their anger spurred them forward.

  “Fascists out. Traitors out. You are not wanted here.”

  Two figures, flat caps pulled tight shielding their eyes, scarves covering their mouths, leapt on to the wire, clinging there screaming insults at the detainees, before darting away. Their mock bravado saddened Tony. They were boys, fearless until someone snarled back, then they scurried away into the darkness. Not like the men he was locked up with, hard brutal thugs, who would have beaten their abusers to pulp given the opportunity.

  Tony felt weary, disillusioned, he had to escape this misery – dig and dig and dig – was the only way. He stared through the wire, there was a lull, the demonstrators had temporarily dispersed and no one was close to him. He frowned and rubbed his eyes. In the shifting darkness at the extreme range of the perimeter lamps’ sickly light, armed soldiers were lining up. Transfixed, he watched as they raised their rifles.

  “Good God, they’re going to fire.”

  Tony didn’t cry out or dive for cover, but stood immobile. A small party of detainees was dragging a full dustbin towards the wire, shadowed by a grim-faced mob unaware guns were trained on them. Tony stepped back from the wire. He heard the order to fire, then the massive reverberations as one volley, then another, was loosed in rapid succession. Deaf to the shouts and screams Tony stood stock-still, hands covering his ears. Men fell to the ground around him and scrabbled panic-stricken in the dirt. Shocked to be uninjured, Tony believed everyone must be dead or seriously wounded, but as gun smoke wafted through the wire and the acrid smell of cordite pinched his nostrils, he watched dusty figures rise to their feet and run for cover.

  “Attention, attention…”

  Tony flinched. The disembodied, distorted voice continued.

  “… in exchange for an end to the rioting the minister has agreed to meet a delegation of detainees to hear your grievances. You have ten minutes to consider this offer, before it is withdrawn. I repeat you have ten minutes then all disturbances must cease. Then, and only then, can discussions take place.”

  The announcement was repeated in the same rounded tones, before ending with an audible click. Silence settled over the camp.

  “Tony, Tony.”

  He looked up, surprised, only vaguely aware of where he was. Eric and two others were crouched at the gates about thirty yards away and beckoning to him. It was clear what they wanted and Tony felt reluctant to get involved. He waved back at them, but didn’t move. Eric’s exasperated voice drifted over to him.

  “Get over here Tony, will
you, for Christ’s sake.”

  Bill Griffiths he knew, the other man, Des Page, was someone he had seen around the camp but had never been introduced to. He shook their hands.

  “The bloody delegation?”

  “You’ve been co-opted mate, consider it an honour.”

  “Oh, I do, believe me.”

  “Could be history in the making here.”

  “Dafter things have happened I suppose. What next? Do we wave?”

  “Here they come, they’ve seen us.”

  The Lieutenant was approaching from the Creg Malin, escorted by three armed soldiers. His uniform was freshly ironed and his scrubbed face glowed in the artificial light.

  “Are you the prisoner delegation?”

  Eric pushed his face against the wire and brusquely asked who wanted to know. Taken aback the Lieutenant blurted out his name.

  “Yes Davis, we are the official representatives of the British Union of Fascists’ Peveril Camp branch. Interned illegally at His Majesty’s pleasure. Take us to your boss.”

  “Hold on, I’ve been asked for your guarantees that there will be no more trouble. Do I have them?”

  Eric looked at Bill Griffiths and gestured with his hand.

  “You have our word…”

  Lieutenant Davis stared quizzically at them through the wire.

  “…that there will be no more trouble, while we’re talking to the minister.”

  “Thank-you. Unlock the gate.”

  Muttering Bill turned away from the wire and raised his eyebrows.

  “This must be how they behave in fucking public school.”

  A soldier stepped forward to unlock the heavy padlock and remove the chains. One slipped from his hands and rattled to the ground, he kicked it aside and opened the gate to allow the four men to pass through.

  Tony felt self-conscious, sensing the many eyes watching them as they crossed the rubble-strewn street and climbed the steps of the Creg Malin Hotel. The black and white chequered tiles in the entrance hall were littered with multi-coloured shards from the damaged stained glass windows in the doors. The fragments splintered underfoot as the delegates entered the empty hotel lobby. They waited in silence before a small obsequious man in a dark blue smoking jacket appeared from a side door and with a few hushed words directed them up a short flight of stairs. The dining room had a high ceiling with ornate stucco cornices and three elaborate plaster roses each supporting a crystal chandelier, only one of which was illuminated.