The Wind Blows Stronger West (chapter 2)

II (946)

Some years previously, when the old man’s cheeks were separated from the bone by a
thin layer of fat, he had stepped off the cattle train at one of few underground stations
remaining dressed in torn overalls and a creased cap, holding himself with a rarely
seen purpose. Clutched to his body was a blue holdall now containing his most
treasured possessions. Among the odd old sock and tattered jacket one could have just
seen the glint of a pen and the black roll that contained the thin paper he would write
on. It was the only way he could write without immediately being censored. He didn’t
know how but everything that one typed on a scribores found its way to the man on
the billboard who’s disapproving look would force you to start again: lest you need
more encouragement.

He fell into line and after looking around the dimly lit cavern with wide eyes; he
dropped his gaze to his feet and shuffled towards what passed as a canteen. A mug of
lukewarm gruel was thrust into his hand and a tray with a small heap of rice into his
stomach. He glanced over both shoulders once, then a second time for good measure
and a third for comfort. In the brief privacy the huge room afforded him, he scribbled
some notes onto his paper and placed it quickly but carefully back into his bag.

From somewhere high above him a faint whistle sounded: the miners and walls
around him seemed to sigh as one. He joined the throng heading back for the cattle
train and as he shifted the weight of his holdall he asked himself why he was really
here. Was he here because he wanted to make a difference, or was he here out of a
duty he thought he had to these people to get their story heard in the cacophony of
shouts and sirens. As he mused he began to pick his feet up a little higher and hold
himself a little more erect, and with this new found sense of purpose he tripped on the
steps leading to the humid enclosures.
“Watch it, what do you think you’re doing?” demanded the burly man in front of him.
“S-s-sorry, I slipped,” He blurted out.
“I’ll knock your goddam teeth out if you do it again!”

Hearing this a man behind him put his hand on the young man’s shoulder with such
care as could only come with the gentlest features. He was one of those people who
you would never quite be able to forget but at the same time never quite be able to
remember. His hair was tinted with the grey dust from the mine and his eyes shone
like searchlights through the crowd, looking everyman in the eye, never dropping his
vigil.

“Easy now, there’s no need to knock the poor lad out. He said he was sorry.” His
voice radiated truth and trust. They were prodded and poked onto the trucks together
and during the next two hours to the surface the young man poured his words into this
new bastion of hope.

“You don’t look like the working type of guy”

“No, I suppose I don’t. I’m a surface reporter. I came down here because I really want
to find out what its like to be on the wrong side of the ground.”
“Better keep quiet about that then, there’ll be a guard round at the next stop to replace
the dead at the factory workshops. Meet me behind the station house when we get
off,” and with that he melted back into the crowded carriage.

The young man did what he was told and found him sitting on his helmet, smoking a
dirty looking cigarette.
“Undercover reporter –ey?”
“I can’t believe no one has done it before.”
“Don’t be naïve lad. Of course people have done it before, but it never gets out, see?”
“Well I’ll be the first to. I’ll make people know what happens below them, whether
they like it or not.”
“That’s just the point. People don’t want to know what’s happening. There’s quite
enough hardship up here without worrying about some people who they’ve never met,
and never will meet. If I were you, I’d take my advice and put it down to immaturity
and laugh about it in a few years time.” The young man was stunned to hear him talk
like this. Surely the whole world needed to know about what it was like down there,
and how these people where being treated.

When he got off the next day the gentle man of the previous day was waiting for him,
flanked by two faceless figures in shiny black armour. They started towards him. They
were moving so slowly, he had all day to turn around and run. With his tired blue bag
flung on his back he tumbled through the crowd, he was drunk with adrenaline. His
vision narrowed and all he could hear was his beating heart and thumping boots. A
booming voice rang out through the cavern and the throng parted all around him,
people pushed to get away as if he carried a terrible disease. Something made him
stop dead and turn around. As a caged animal does when it knows there is no way out
but by fighting. He looked at the man’s confiding smile and knew. He knew he had
been sold. Sold to the authority he was denying. He ran to meet the oncoming
truncheons and collapsed as a rib broke.
“You should have taken my advice,” the statement rattled through his mind as his eyes
shut, and the pain stopped.