saw that they were armed with police-type nightsticks. One of them was shouting: ‘Stay away from the gate! This is private property!’ Woody lifted his camera and took a picture.
But the people at the front were being pushed forward by those behind. Woody took Joanne’s arm and tried to steer her away from the focus of tension. However, it was difficult: the crowd was dense, now, and no one wanted to move out of the way. Against his will, Woody found himself edging closer to the factory gate and the guards with nightsticks. ‘This is not a good situation,’ he said to Joanne.
But she was flushed with excitement. ‘Those bastards can’t keep us back!’ she cried.
A man next to her shouted: ‘Right! Damn right!’
The crowd was still ten yards or more from the gate but, just the same, the guards unnecessarily began to push demonstrators away. Woody took a photograph.
Brian Hall had been yelling into his bullhorn about boss thugs and pointing an accusing finger at the factory police. Now he changed his tune and began to call for calm. ‘Move away from the gates, please, brothers,’ he said. ‘Move back, no rough stuff.’
Woody saw a woman pushed by a guard hard enough to make her stumble. She did not fall over, but she cried out, and the man with her said to the guard: ‘Hey, buddy, take it easy, will you?’
‘Are you trying to start something?’ the guard said challengingly.
The woman yelled: ‘Just stop shoving!’
‘Move back, move back!’ the guard shouted. He raised his nightstick. The woman screamed.
As the nightstick came down, Woody took a picture.
Joanne said: ‘The son of a bitch hit that woman!’ She stepped forward.
But most of the crowd began to move in the opposite direction, away from the factory. As they turned, the guards came after them, shoving, kicking, and lashing out with their truncheons.
Brian Hall said: ‘There is no need for violence! Factory police, step back! Do not use your clubs!’ Then his bullhorn was knocked out of his hands by a guard.
Some of the younger men fought back. Half a dozen real policemen moved into the crowd. They did nothing to restrain the factory police, but began to arrest anyone fighting back.
The guard who had started the fracas fell to the ground, and two demonstrators started kicking him.
Woody took a picture.
Joanne was screaming with fury. She threw herself at a guard and scratched his face. He put out a hand to shove her away. Accidentally or otherwise, the heel of his hand connected sharply with her nose. She fell back with blood coming from her nostrils. The guard raised his nightstick. Woody grabbed her by the waist and jerked her back. The stick missed her. ‘Come on!’ Woody yelled at her. ‘We have to get out of here!’
The blow to her face had deflated her fury, and she offered no resistance as he half pulled, half carried her away from the gates as fast as he could, his camera swinging on the strap around his neck. The crowd was panicking now, people falling over and others trampling them as everyone tried to flee.
Woody was taller than most and he managed to keep himself and Joanne upright. They fought their way through the crush, staying just ahead of the nightsticks. At last the crowd thinned out. Joanne detached herself from his grasp and they both began to run.
The noise of the fight receded behind them. They turned a couple of corners and, a minute later, found themselves on a deserted street of factories and warehouses, all closed on Sunday. They slowed to a walk, catching their breath. Joanne began to laugh. ‘That was so exciting!’ she said.
Woody could not share her enthusiasm. ‘It was nasty,’ he said. ‘And it could have got worse.’ He had rescued her, and he half hoped that might cause her to change her mind about dating him.
But she did not feel she owed him much. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said in a tone of disparagement. ‘Nobody died.’
‘Those guards deliberately provoked a riot!’
‘Of course they did! Peshkov wants to make union members look bad.’
‘Well, we know the truth.’ Woody tapped his camera. ‘And I can prove it.’
They walked half a mile, then Woody saw a cruising cab and hailed it. He gave the driver the address of the Rouzrokh family home.
Sitting in the back of the taxi, he took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I don’t want to bring you home to your father looking like this,’ he said. He unfolded the white cotton square and gently dabbed at the blood on her upper lip.
It was an intimate act, and he found it sexy, but she did not indulge him for long. After a second she said: ‘I’ve got it.’ She took the handkerchief from his grasp and cleaned herself up. ‘How’s that?’
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ he lied. He took the handkerchief back. Her mouth was wide, she had even, white teeth, and her lips were enchantingly full. He pretended there was something under her lower lip. He wiped it gently, then said: ‘Better.’
‘Thanks.’ She looked at him with an odd expression, half fond, half annoyed. She knew he had been lying about the blood on her chin, he guessed, and she was not sure whether to be cross with him or not.
The cab halted outside her house. ‘Don’t come in,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie to my parents about where I’ve been, and I don’t want you blabbing the
