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Friday evening, and the sun begins to set. The small village of Gornal steadily grows more and more empty as shoppers begin to shuffle their way back to their homes. They lock the doors.

The traders of Gornal village pull the shutters down over their shop fronts and begin the journey home through the Black Country rush hour traffic. Only a few shops keep their doors open and one or two are just opening. The shopkeepers greet each other with nervous smiles. The hour is nearly upon them.

As the last beams of sunlight caress the Gornal rooftops and drift gently behind the horizon, the village becomes desolate. The bus station is left void of life, along with the footpaths and car parks. The Darby and Joan club creeks ominously in the wind, almost as if the concrete and wood is bracing itself for the war that is about to take place.

The clock of the Zoar Street Church strikes six. The wind blows and carries the sound of laughter. Young voices, carried on the breeze, sweep into the village. The shopkeepers and food vendors take a deep breath. It has begun.

Within minutes, the village is transformed. The first army have arrived. From the hills that surround the village come wave after wave of young people. Some wearing hoodies, some wearing baseball caps. Girls, boys, even young men and women. They descend on the village in packs.

At first there are only a few, they loiter in the bus stops with calm expressions, awaiting their numbers. Then, as the church clock hits half past six, the bodies multiply!

Sixty, maybe seventy in number, driven from their normally good natured attitude by drink and peer pressure; they get cocky. Bottles are smashed and projectiles thrown. The youth have arrived in Gornal village and they will not be moved.

Suddenly, from out of the blue come two streaks of lightning. They tear down the hill towards the bus station and into the first wave of youth like dolphins into a shoal of fish. Immediately, a small group of youths break from the pack along Water Road, bags in hand, trailing spilt beer amid the sound of clanking bottles. Two PCSOs on bikes give chase and cut through the throng in hot pursuit.

The group, disorientated at first, soon focus their attack on a drunk as he staggers from the Red Lion. They taunt him. Throwing projectiles and drowning his already swimming mind in a tidal wave of expletives. He helplessly drags himself to the Chinese take away for refuge.

The PCSOs return, herding the group into a tight swarm, their attempts to communicate drowned by shouts and jeers. It is then that the cavalry arrive in the form of a riot van.

The group withdraws slightly as the van disembarks and the police advance, like an army of yellow clad paladins. Small groups detatch themselves from the swarm and make their way into the estate, shouting and heckling as they go, but the main group holds strong. They begin to retreat, slowly at first and as one entity.

The police return to their van and the bike officers move in for the kill. Some of the stragglers are pulled aside and raised voices are heard as details are taken. Complaints and shouts come from the group as the riot van follows them out of the village and up the hill. Eventually, the group moves off into the estates, broken but not defeated.

A short time later the police return to the village and regroup. They've won the battle. Only the youths took casualties, in the form of names taken. These few will not be seen next week, punished by legislation and maybe the restrictive power of the ASBO. Gornal village breathes a sigh of relief.

Tonight, the police are victorious. Next week they will bring reinforcements and in the end, justice will prevail. But how many people have to live in fear until then? Whilst parents sit watching TV, oblivious to the battle that rages outside their windows.

The war is not over. Will next week be the final battle or will the heralds announce what took place here? Gornal holds its breath. The parents remain oblivious.

THE GORNAL BARD

2:16pm Friday 11th April 2008

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