Orgreave

Part I — The Miner

We pulled up at dawn, breath fogging the air, another day of shouting ourselves hoarse and holding the line. My lad had asked, the night before, if I’d be home for tea. I told him “Aye,” and lied without meaning to. At Orgreave the coking plant sat like a fortress, chimneys smearing the sky. We were thousands, packed shoulder to shoulder — mates from the pit, neighbours, men who’d swapped their last shift for these long weeks of not working and not giving in.

The first surge of noise came from the police line — shields lifting like a drawn curtain. Someone near me muttered, “Steady,” and I felt the word land in my chest. A stone clattered somewhere. Then mounted officers broke forward and the ground went from grit to thunder. You think you’ll stand your ground. You do, until hooves are coming and your legs betray you, carrying you sideways. I saw a lad go down, hands over his head, and I lunged to drag him up, my palms scraping on the tarmac. The air filled with curses, and the high, awful keening of panic you never admit to later.

I lost sight of my banner. Lost sight of my brother, too. A truncheon glanced my shoulder and lit up my arm. My voice went ragged with smoke and anger and the stupid, aching knowledge that we wouldn’t win anything today. Still, I shouted until my throat bled: “Hold! Hold!” Not for victory anymore — just for one another. When it…