Born Under Punches

by Martyn Waites

  Nev, standing guard, averted his gaze. Although he was hardened to what was coming next, something about the way Tommy worked disturbed him. Not the muffled screams or the blood. It was the fact that Tommy insisted on whistling, or sometimes singing, Dean Martin songs as he got down to business. With no trace of a stutter.

  Now that, thought Nev, was really scary.

  Ten minutes later, in the car, Tommy was sitting behind the wheel looking flushed but relaxed and happy. Almost postcoital, Nev would have thought, had the word been in his vocabulary.

  ‘Ah,’ Tommy sighed, ‘that’s amore.’ His eyes glinted with malicious glee. He had got what he wanted.

  Nev grunted in reply.

  ‘Right,’ said Tommy, sprightly once more. ‘Fancy a trip to the seaside?’

  Rio sat on the seafront at Whitley Bay, a pastel and neon-lit palace of exclusivity, supposedly owned by a member of Duran Duran. Brand-new and notoriously hard to gain admittance to, punters had to show they fulfilled the correct criteria of age, attitude and aspiration before they were allowed in, because it wasn’t just a bar they were entering, but a lifestyle, a dream.

  Tony Woodhouse had no trouble getting in. The management even bought him free drinks in recognition of his achievements that afternoon. Consequently, he loved everything about the place. The décor, the atmosphere, the music. The girls.

  Poised and confident, stylish and sophisticated, they were there for more than just a Saturday-night pull. They were showing what they had, giving glimpses of where they were headed, expressing, but not flaunting, their upward mobility. The boys all loved this and responded accordingly, raising their game too.

  Tony was dressed in a double-breasted suit, the dark weave of the material shot through with a silver check that caught the light when he moved the right way. With his sleeves rolled up and his shirt buttoned to the neck, he knew he looked the business. He was with his old school friends from Coldwell, the mining town along the Northumberland coast. They couldn’t match Tony financially, being either down the pit, in office jobs or unemployed, but they could match him in their hopes and ambitions. That was why, dressed in their finest smart casual, they came back to Rio week after week. Because once inside it didn’t matter what they were the rest of the time. Once inside, they willingly surrendered to their dreams and allowed themselves to be held – like Tony – in Rio’s aspirational Miami Vice-like grip.

  Post-match had been a blur for Tony. He had conducted a short interview for Match of the Day while still on a high. The only thing he could remember about it was telling the interviewer he still had a long way to go, a lot of things to prove. Then out of St James’ Park and down the coast road to keep his weekly appointment with his old school mates. Although life seemed to be taking him in a different direction, that was no reason to stop seeing them. If the Match of the Day interviewer had asked him about that, he would have said that they were still his mates and they still had a laugh together. And that, Tony would have said, looking straight to camera, was the important thing.

  If he had been asked what he intended to do with the night he would have answered: Have a few pints with the lads, a few laughs, do a few lines and if I’m lucky pull some skirt. Well, maybe not the bit about doing some lines. Jimmy Hill wouldn’t be happy with that.

  They had bar-hopped along the seafront, ending up in Rio where they’ stood drinking beer, scoping the action, telling their stories, having a good time. The music was brilliant. Frankie’s ‘Two Tribes’ segueing into Jeffrey Osbourne’s ‘Stay with Me Tonight’, which in turn became ‘1984’, the Eurythmics needlessly reminding everyone what year it was. Tony, high on the booze, the drugs and the goal, had barely stopped grinning all night. He couldn’t have been happier. Time of me fuckin’ life, he would have told Match of the Day if they had still been listening.

  And then he saw her. Standing with a group of friends but, to him, she stood out immediately. Quite tall but given extra height by her spike heels, she was dressed completely in black. Short, flared skirt over tanned legs, tight vest top, short jacket. Her hair was long and dark and her figure curved in all the places he considered important. Make-up used only as and when needed. Tony couldn’t help staring. She stared back, their eyes locked and he was in lust.

  He looked at his friends, pointed at their glasses. Despite none of them being empty, they all nodded. He pushed his rolled-up jacket sleeves even further up his arms, tossed his gelled-back floppy fringe from his forehead, and walked – like the camera was still on him, the crowd still watching – a circuitous route to the bar. She stared right at him, watching him, letting him approach.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  She smiled back. It seemed brighter than neon. ‘Hi.’

  Tony, using his charm but playing it safe, offered to buy her a drink.

  She thought for a moment. ‘You can, but I’m with friends. We’re drinking in rounds.’

  Tony stepped up a gear, gave his dazzling smile. If smiles could win games, he thought, this one would get me a hat-trick. ‘No problem.’ He turned to the other girls. ‘What would you like, ladies?’

  The girls all giggled, made comments about his generosity and accepted his offer. The girl he had singled out rolled her eyes at such an obvious and tacky gesture, but she smiled when she did it.

  Brilliant, he thought. I’m in here.

  Tony distributed the drinks, manoeuvring the girl away from her friends, separating her from the main herd as a predator would.

  ‘What’s Love Got to Do with It?’ Great. He loved that one.

  ‘So what’s your name?’

  ‘Louise,’ she replied. ‘You?’

  Not wanting to appear too flash too soon, he gave her only his first name.

  Then the question-and-answer session started. Louise was eighteen, down at the coast with her friends for the night. Living in Gateshead, doing business studies at the tech.

  Tony told her he had his own flat and – he studied her face for her reaction; this was the bit he loved – he was a professional footballer.

  Her first reaction was predictable. She didn’t believe him.

  ‘Honestly.’ He gave her the winning smile again. ‘I play for Newcastle. I played today against Arsenal.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said sceptically. ‘What was the score?’

  ‘Two-one to us. Beardo got the first.’ His grin, if anything, widened. ‘I got the second. Then we got sloppy and they got one back. But it didn’t matter.’

  She screwed her eyes up, scrutinizing him closely. ‘Tony Woodsomething.’

  ‘Woodhouse. That’s me.’

  ‘Me dad and me brother like football,’ she said with polite indifference. ‘I’ll tell them I met you.’

  The smile began to fade from Tony’s face. Even if girls weren’t interested in football, they were always excited when they found out who he was.

  ‘What?’ she asked in response to his hurt expression.

  ‘Nothin’,’ mumbled Tony.

  ‘Did you expect me to ask for your autograph or something? Fall to the floor and demand a bonk?’

  Tony said nothing, just continued to look hurt.

  Louise burst out laughing. ‘You did! You did, didn’t you? You vain bastard!’

  Even through the bar’s darkness and neon, Tony could feel himself reddening. This wasn’t the way it usually turned out.

  ‘You think because you scored a goal and bought me a drink I should be impressed?’ Louise asked.

  Tony shrugged. ‘Well, you know …’

  She smiled. ‘I can be impressed.’ Her eyes dropped. Something came into them that wasn’t there before. ‘But you’ll have to try harder than that.’

  The look connected. Tony felt the stirrings of not only an erection but something else, something deeper flutter inside him. He looked back at her, taking her face in properly for the first time. Louise was beyond pretty. She was really beautiful.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Listen, why don’t we go somewhere else?�
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  Louise shrugged, eyes not leaving his. ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  He was about to ask her back to his place, but something stopped him. It didn’t feel right. Not with her. He wanted to get to know her better first.

  ‘Nightclub?’ he suggested ‘Casino? Indian? Whatever you like.’

  While Louise made a show of deciding, Tony glanced through the crowd, catching the approving glances and crude gestures of his friends. He returned their smiles, but not the gestures, hoping Louise hadn’t seen the action. As his eyes swept back towards her, he clocked someone and his heart made an immediate flip of sudden fear. Tommy Jobson had entered the bar.

  Tony grabbed Louise’s arm. ‘C’mon, we’ve got to leave right now.’

  Louise turned angrily towards him, trying to shake off his sudden grip. ‘What you doing? Get off.’

  ‘I’ve just remembered … the car … I’ll get a ticket if I don’t move it. Quick. C’mon.’ He grabbed her again.

  She pulled her arm away, anger in her eyes. ‘Tony, I haven’t even said goodbye to my friends yet. Or told them where I’m going.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.’ He looked straight at her, panic in his voice, fear in his eyes. ‘Please. We have to leave now.’

  Louise sighed. ‘Come on, then.’

  They said hasty goodbyes, sketched waves to their friends, and Tony dragged Louise towards the side exit.

  ‘You’d better have a fucking good explanation for dragging me round like this.’

  ‘Oh, I have,’ said Tony, dashing through the door. ‘I have.’

  Tommy Jobson had pulled the BMW up directly in front of the vulgar monstrosity that he considered Rio to be, the Chairman of the Board blasting from the sound system. ‘Sounds for Swingin’ Lovers’. Impossible to top. Nev, monolithic and monosyllabic, sat silently in the passenger seat.

  ‘Just wait here, Nev. This won’t take lu-lu-long.’

  Nev grunted his assent.

  Tommy got out of the car, walked towards the main doors of the bar, palmed a folded twenty to the doorman, walked straight in. The noise, heat and smell hit him. At least the women here looked like they’d made an effort, he thought. Not like the other place. Music’s still shit, though.

  Tommy scoped the room. This was the place, definitely. Every Saturday after a home game, Tony Woodhouse ended up in here. And it was time for that arrogant little shit to pay. One way or another.

  Tommy’s eyes locked on the target.

  Tony looked around. Tommy tried to hide behind some lagered-up lad, retain the element of surprise, but Tony had seen him.

  Tommy pushed through the crowded bar, displacing bodies and drinks, ignoring threats and names, shrugging off attempts to grab him. He reached the spot where Tony had stood, but he was too late. The bastard had flown.

  Tommy looked around, struggling to keep his welling anger contained. He saw the side exit, the fire door bar down and wide open, and pushed his way quickly towards it, through it, and out on the street, alone but for the usual Saturday-night drunks weaving their way around the pavement. No sign of Tony Woodhouse.

  ‘Fu-fu-fuck!’ shouted Tommy aloud and sighed in exasperation. Composing himself, he slowly made his way back to the car.

  He had other visits to make, other things to do with the night, other opportunities for fun. He would catch up with Tony Woodhouse eventually.

  And that would be worth seeing.

  Tony held Louise in his arms, moving his hands slowly over her body. When he strayed too far down or crossed some invisible line, he felt her move, twist away from his grip, shift to a less intrusive position. He didn’t mind, though. Holding her was enough.

  They were on the dancefloor of the Tuxedo Princess, a floating disco ship moored on the Tyne, moving slowly together to the last few songs of the night. Paul McCartney’s ‘No More Lonely Nights’ had given way to Jeffrey Osbourne’s ‘On the Wings of Love’, ending the session with the Cars’ ‘Drive’.

  After leaving Whitley Bay, Tony had driven as fast as he dared down the coast road back towards Newcastle, the shock of seeing Tommy Jobson cancelling out the effects of the alcohol. Louise was still seeking an explanation for their sudden departure from Rio.

  ‘Someone came in that I didn’t want to see,’ Tony explained.

  ‘Who?’

  Tony tried for lightness, didn’t quite pull it off. ‘Oh, just some girl I used to know. Best not to see her. It would have been messy.’ At least the last sentence was true. He looked at her, hoping to be believed. ‘I’m sorry, OK? It won’t happen again. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, shall we?’

  Louise didn’t answer, but Tony could tell from the look on her face that she wasn’t happy with the explanation. He decided to change the subject.

  ‘So,’ he said, giving her a fragile smile, ‘do you fancy a dance?’

  They had then made their way to the Tuxedo Princess, where they ate, drank and danced.

  The song finished, the lights went up and they found themselves looking at each other, eyes locked.

  ‘So,’ said Tony, ‘who’s going to drive you home tonight?’

  Louise smiled. ‘The cab driver, I should think.’

  ‘I could. Or I could drive us both back to mine.’

  Louise teased the corners of her lips into a smile. ‘What for?’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  Her smile deepened. ‘Tony, I’ve really enjoyed tonight – really – but I don’t sleep with someone as soon as I meet them. Plus, I’ve already got a boyfriend.’

  Tony’s head dropped. ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s not to say I don’t want to see you again. Because I do.’

  ‘What about your boyfriend?’

  The smile on her face teased and promised. ‘Let’s be friends first and take it from there, shall we?’

  Tony felt confused. Louise wasn’t following the script. This wasn’t the way it usually ended, but he felt quite excited by that fact. There was something different about her, something special. They could write a new script as they went along.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ She reached into her bag, scribbled a note, passed it over. ‘This is my number. Call me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  They made their way to the exit, queued at the rank. Louise was about to get into her cab when Tony put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know your surname.’

  ‘It’s Larkin. Louise Larkin.’ She got into the cab. ‘Call me.’

  And with that she was off, leaving Tony there alone, a gormless grin on his face.

  ‘I will,’ he said and sighed. ‘What a day,’ he said out loud and began walking towards his car.

  For the first time that day, he didn’t need the cameras or crowds to be with him.

  2. Now

  The Modern Age: A Prologue

  The modern age, as we know it, began on Monday 28 May 1984. This is not a date plucked at random for its Orwellian connotations, nor is it an officially recognized one. Yet it was on this day that our country changed for ever, the time bomb was primed, the countdown began. And where did this singular event occur? Orgreave coke works outside Rotherham, South Yorkshire.

  Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government had been returned to power for a second term by an apathetic landslide. People had voted for her because there was no credible alternative. Prior to the election, there had been discontented rumblings over Tory leadership: a distracting opportunity presented itself in the shape of a small conflict in the South Atlantic over the Falkland Islands, a jingoistic adventure which helped assure her a second term. Emboldened by this, she cast around for a suitable domestic target: she found the miners.

  The NUM, under the leadership of Arthur Scargill, brought the workforce out on strike in protest at the closure of profitable pits. The majority of the general public were behind this action.

  The government, for all t
heir tough talking, were wavering. They were signalling negotiation, reconciliation. Then came Orgreave.

  A scab labour force was in operation there; the NUM sent nearly three thousand pickets to stop it. The police, taken by surprise at the sheer number of men, did nothing. The protest was peaceful and productive. By and large, the picket line wasn’t crossed. The miners were jubilant. By demonstrating solidarity they scented a real chance of victory.

  The government, however, felt they had lost face. They wanted something done. They instructed the police to retaliate.

  The following day, the NUM area representatives handed out the picketing orders: Orgreave had only a couple of hundred men assigned to it. The majority were sent to other collieries. It was a middle-management political decision. There was nothing Scargill at the top or the striking miners at the bottom could do about it.

  Positions were reversed. Miners in their hundreds, police five thousand strong.

  They waited until the TV cameras had moved away then charged.

  Mounted police. Police dogs. Attacking indiscriminately. Anyone connected with the strike – male or female, young or old – was considered a legitimate target. Riot sticks were reintroduced for the first time in ten years. Their previous use had led to the death of an anti-Nazi demonstrator. People were truncheoned, trampled, bitten.

  The miners fought back with anything they could get their hands on. Bricks. Stones. The long-standing pacifism of the labour movement forcibly abandoned. The jubilation of the previous day forgotten. It was a bloody rout, culminating with the arrest of Arthur Scargill.

  Once released, Scargill wanted the forthcoming talks with the NCB to be conclusive: ‘I hope we will be able to lay the foundations of a settlement.’

  It wasn’t to happen. The government had seen what happened at Orgreave. Dissent quelled by force. Riot police and scab labour to keep production going. And, with the media collusion, no public outcry at the tactics.

  NCB chief Ian MacGregor was instructed not to co-operate. To sit out the strike. Starve the miners out if necessary.