by David Peace
David Peace
GB84
For my father
Author’s Note
With the exception of those persons appearing as well-known personalities under their own names, albeit often in occult circumstance, all other characters are a fiction in a novel based upon a fact.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
Edwin Muir, ‘The Labyrinth’
The Argument
Electricity –
Harsh service station light. Friday 13 January, 1984 –
She puts a cigarette to her lips, a lighter to her cigarette.
A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate –
He waits.
She inhales, her eyes closed. She exhales, her eyes open.
He picks at the solid red sauce on the plastic ketchup bottle.
‘Early March,’ she says. ‘South Yorkshire.’
He rolls the solid red sauce into a soft bloody ball.
She stubs out the cigarette. She puts an envelope on the table.
He squashes the ball between his fingers and thumb –
Predicts the ruin of the State.
She stands up.
He shuts his eyes until she’s almost gone. The stink still here –
Power.
Martin
The dead brood under Britain. We whisper. We echo. The emanation of Giant Albion – Wake up, says Cath again. Wake up, Martin. I turn over. I look at her. They’re closing Cortonwood, she says. You’ll be out now. I sit up. I reach for my cigarettes. She moves packet out of my reach. I say, Pass them here. She throws them on bed. Expensive habit that, she says. Bloody Manvers. I don’t drive. Geoff Brine picks us up. I wouldn’t be here if he’d not rung – Click-click – Asked us if I wanted a lift into Thurcroft. Not way Cath’s been going on. But she’s gone into Sheffield to meet her mate. On way we stop for one in Rising Deer. Neither of us fancy Hotel. There’ll be enough talk later. They’ve begun by time we park up, get inside Welfare – We’ve fought sixty years to get these snap times, now they’re going to change them so coal will be coming up whole time – It’s packed. They put it to vote, show of hands. Three to one against. Let them sort it out themselves, says Geoff. But it’s all bollocks. We all know it is. Just a matter of time now. On way home we never mention Manvers. Just Sheffield bleeding Wednesday. Geoff stops car when we get to top of our road. I open door. It’s sleeting. I turn back to say ta. He’s staring at us. I shake my head. He nods – Eighteen weeks with no overtime. Fights every day. Rag-ups across area – It’s just a matter of time. Fucking Cortonwood. Monday morning. I’m on days. It’s quiet when we go in but there’s about forty blokes from Silverwood waiting for us when we come off. It’s about more than Manvers fucking snap times now. They’ve been into Barnsley for Area Council meeting. They’re stopping cars. I’ve got my window down. Don’t come tomorrow, they’re telling us. I say, I won’t. Don’t you worry – Stick your telly on when you get home, they shout. I say, Don’t worry. I will. Pete Cox from our Branch comes over to car when he sees it’s me. Few of us are going over to Manton tomorrow, he says. If you fancy it? I tell him, I’ll be there. Nice one, he says and bangs twice on roof of car. I put window up, switch on radio and drive straight home. Cath’s waiting for us, front door open – Television and radio both on: Jack Taylor stood outside Area HQ on Huddersfield Road, telling everyone how Yorkshire have voted to implement 1981 ballot – To stop them butchering our industry and our jobs. Our pits and our communities – All out from Friday over closure of Cortonwood and Bullcliffe Wood. Cortonwood has best coal in South Yorkshire. Least five more years’ worth, says Jack. No more running. That’s it then? asks Cath. I nod – That’s it, we’re out. Day 1. It’ll be National now. Fucking Mac-Gregor. Twenty pits and twenty thousand jobs over next twelve months. Arthur’s been right all along. There’s no talking to Cath though. I drive into Thurcroft. Mini-van’s already gone over to Manton, so I have a drive over with a couple of lads who were just hanging around like me. When we get there it’s solid. There’s talk of a run down to Creswell because that won’t be. Pete and some of older blokes say we best wait for tonight. See what score is. They’re going to set up some kind of Strike HQ at Silverwood. They’ll be telling us where to go. Where we’re needed and where we’re not. Lot of lads have been here since first thing so we have a pint and head back to Thurcroft. I run into Geoff. Have a bag of chips with him in car while Hotel opens. We have one in there, then go across to Welfare. There are that many tonight they’re having to stand out front in car park – Motion to back strike is proposed. Motion is seconded. Motion is backed 100 per cent – Folk head off to Hotel or Club. Lot of talk about ‘72 and ‘74. I’m having a piss in Club when this bloke says to me, It’ll be right then? I say, How do you mean? We’ll win? he says. Yeah, I tell him. What you worried about? Be summer soon, he says. I look at lad. I say, Do I know you? No, he says. You don’t. Day 3. Thousand pounds for every year of service. We’d have fifteen grand, Cath says. I say, And what’d that buy us? Peace and quiet, she says – And for how long? I ask her. Fifteen thousand pounds, Martin – I can’t be doing with it. I leave her to it. I drive into Thurcroft. I play darts and drink. Booze. Sup. There’s nothing else to do. They’re telling us to stay put. Let Nottingham
The First Week
Monday 5 – Sunday 11 March 1984
Terry Winters sat at the kitchen table of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. His three children were squabbling over their scrambled eggs. His wife was worrying about the washing and the weather. Terry ignored them. He took an index card from the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He read it. He closed his eyes. He repeated out loud what he had just read. He opened his eyes. He read the card again. He checked what he had said. He had been correct. He put the card into the left-hand pocket of his jacket. He took a second card from the right pocket. He read it. He closed his eyes. He repeated out loud what he had read. He opened his eyes. His children were taunting each other over their toast. His wife was still worrying about the washing and the weather. They ignored him. He read the card again. He had been correct again. He put the card into the left pocket. He took another card from his right pocket. He read it. Terry closed his eyes. Terry Winters was learning his lines.
*
Neil Fontaine stands outside the door to the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s. He listens to the telephones ring and the voices rise inside. He thinks about the coincidence of circumstances, the meeting of motives and the convergence of causes. Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite on the fourth floor of Claridge’s and listens to the corks pop and the glasses chink. He thinks about the start of wars and the end of eras. The timing of a meeting and the opening of an envelope –
The closing of a pit and the calling of a strike –
The lighting of a corridor. The shadow on a wall –
Fear and Misery in this New Reich.
Neil Fontaine stands outside the Jew’s suite. He listens to the toasts – Inside.
*
They had their breakfasts across the road from the County Hotel on Upper Woburn Place, Bloomsbury. Four tables of them. Full English. Terry Winters just drinking sweet tea. Dick after more toast. No one else speaking. Everyone hungover –
Everyone but the President. He was on the early train down from Sheffield.
They mopped their plates with the last of the bread. They put out their cigarettes. Drained their teas. Terry Winters paid the bill. They got four cabs down to Hobart House. Terry paid the drivers. They pushed through the press and the sleet. They went inside.
The President was waiting with Joan, Len and the news from South Yo
rkshire –
Solid.
They had their last cigarettes. Looked at their watches. They went upstairs –
The Mausoleum –
Room 16, Hobart House, Victoria:
Bright lights, smoke and mirrors –
The orange anti-terrorist curtains always drawn, the matching carpet and the wall-length mirrors, the tables round the edge of the room. In the middle –
No man’s land.
The Board at the top end; BACM and NACODS down the sides –
The National Union of Mineworkers at the foot of the table.
Fifty people here for the Coal Industry National Consultative Committee –
But there was no consultation today. Just provocation –
More provocation. Real provocation –
Fifty people watching the Chairman of the Board let his Deputy get to his feet.
The Mechanic hangs up. He closes up the garage. He picks up the dogs from his mother’s house in Wetherby. He puts the dogs in the back of the car. He takes the A1 down to Leeds. He pulls into the car park. He leaves the dogs in the back. He walks across to the transport café –
Paul Dixon is already here. He is sitting at a table facing the door and the car park.
The Mechanic sits down opposite Dixon.
‘Nice tan that, Dave,’ says Dixon. ‘Garage must be doing well.’
The Mechanic says, ‘Look like you could do with a fortnight in the sun yourself.’
‘Not all as fortunate as you, Dave,’ says Dixon.
The Mechanic shakes his head. He says, ‘I owe it all to you, Sergeant.’
‘I’m glad you appreciate the advantages of our special relationship,’ says Dixon.
The Mechanic smiles. He says, ‘That why they call it Special Branch, is it?’
Paul Dixon laughs. He offers the Mechanic a cigarette.
The Mechanic shakes his head again. He says, ‘Never know when you might have to quit, do you?’
‘How about a nice cup of Yorkshire tea then, Dave?’ asks Dixon.
The Mechanic smiles again. He says, ‘Coffee. Black.’
Paul Dixon goes to the counter. He orders. He pays. He brings over the tray.
The Mechanic has changed seats. He is facing the door. The car park.
‘Expecting company?’ asks Dixon.
The Mechanic shakes his head, ‘Just keeping an eye on the dogs, Sergeant.’
Paul Dixon sits down with his back to the door. The car park. He passes the Mechanic his coffee.
The Mechanic puts in four spoonfuls of sugar. He stirs. He stops. He looks up –
Dixon is watching him. The dogs barking in the car –
They want to go home. Out.
Terry Winters didn’t sleep. None of them did –
It was never dark. It was always light –
The bright lights on the train back North. The TV crews outside St James’s House. The fluorescent lighting in the foyer. In the lift. In the corridors. In the office –
Always light, never dark.
Terry phoned Theresa. Click-click. Told her he didn’t know when he’d be home. Then he got out the files. Got out his address book. His calculator –
He did his sums –
All night, again and again, over and over.
First thing Wednesday morning, Terry Winters was across in the Royal Victoria Hotel with the finance officers from each of the Union’s twenty separate areas and groupings. Terry made them all stand up before the meeting could begin. He made them search the room for hidden microphones and bugs. He made them frisk each other.
Then Terry Winters drew the curtains and locked the doors. Terry made them write down their questions in pencil and seal them in envelopes. He made them pass the envelopes forward.
Terry Winters sat at the head of the table and opened the envelopes one by one. Terry read their questions. He wrote the answers in pencil on the other side of their papers. He put the answers back in the envelopes. He resealed them with Sellotape. He passed them back down the table to the individual authors of each question –
The finance officers read the answers in silence, then returned them to be burnt.
Terry Winters stood up. Terry told them how it was –
The government would come after their money; hunt them through the courts.
He told them what had to be done to cover their tracks –
Nothing on paper; no phone calls; personal visits only, day or night –
He handed out sheets of codes and dates for them to memorize and destroy.
The finance officers thanked him, then returned to their areas.
Terry Winters went straight back to St James’s House. Straight back to work.
He worked all day. They all did –
Each of them in their offices.
People coming and going. Meetings here, meetings there. Deals made, deals done.
Breaking for the Nine o’Clock News, News at Ten, Newsnight –
Notebooks out, videos and cassettes recording:
‘I want to make it clear that we are not dealing with niceties here. We shall not be constitutionalized out of our jobs. Area by area we will decide and in my opinion it will have a domino effect.’
Cheers again. Applause –
Domino effect. Essential battles. Savage butchery.
Then it was back to work. All of them. All night –
Files, phones and calculators. Tea, coffee and aspirins –
The Communist Party and the Socialist Workers arguing in the corridors –
Tweeds and Denims at each other’s throats. Their eyes. Their ears –
Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony on loud upstairs in the office of the President –
All night, through the night, until the brakes of dawn.
Terry put his forehead against the window, the city illuminated beneath him.
Never dark –
You couldn’t sleep. You had to work –
Always light.
Head against the window, the sun coming up –
The troops were gathering on the street below him. The Red Guard in good voice:
SCAB, SCAB, SCAB –
The dawn chorus of the Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire.
Another cup of coffee. Another aspirin –
Terry Winters picked up his files. His calculator.
Terry locked the office. Terry walked down the corridor to the lift.
Terry went up to the tenth floor. To the Conference Room –
The National Executive Committee of the National Union of Mineworkers.
Terry took his seat at the right hand of the President. Terry listened –
Listened to Lancashire: ‘There is a monster. It’s now or never.’
Listened to Nottinghamshire: ‘If we’re scabs before we start, we’ll become scabs.’
Listened to Yorkshire: ‘We are on our way.’
For six hours Terry listened and so did the President.
Then the President stopped listening. The President stood up with two letters –
It was their turn to listen to him now.
The request from Yorkshire in one hand, the request from Scotland in the other –
The President talked about the secret December meetings between the Chairman and the Prime Minister. He talked about their secret plans to denationalize the coal industry. Their secret nuclear, electric dreams. Their secret hit lists –
Their open and savage schemes to butcher an industry. Their industry –
For then the President spoke of history and tradition. The history of the Miner. The tradition of the Miner. The legacies of their fathers and their fathers’ fathers –
The birthrights of their children and their children’s children –
The essential battles to come. The war that must be won.
The motion from South Wales was before them –
‘It is now the crunch time,’ said the President. ‘We are agreed we have to fight. We have an overtime
ban. It is only the tactics which are in question.’
They listened and then they voted –
They voted twenty-one to three to endorse the striking areas under Rule 41.
It was the only vote. The only vote that mattered –
The vote for war.
The President put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. The President whispered in his ear –
Terry Winters nodded. Terry picked up his files. His calculator.
He went back down to his office. He closed the door.
Terry walked over to the window. He put his forehead against the glass –
He listened to the cheers from the street below. Terry Winters closed his eyes.
*
Neil Fontaine receives the call. He fetches the Mercedes from the underground car park. He drives up to the front of Claridge’s. The doorman opens the back door –
The Jew gets into the car.
Neil Fontaine looks up into the rearview mirror. The Jew strokes his moustache. The Jew smiles. The Jew says, ‘Chequers, if you would please, Neil.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Zero notice,’ laughs the Jew. ‘So don’t spare the horses.’
Neil Fontaine nods. He puts his foot down.
The Jew picks up the car phone. The Jew starts dialling and chattering –
The Jew wants the world to know where he’s going.
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew in the mirror. The Jew plays with his moustache. The Jew sits forward. The Jew looks out of the windows. The Jew prattles into the phone. The Jew never shuts up until the Mercedes is in sight of the place –
Her place.
Neil Fontaine stops before the gates –
Before the guns.
Neil Fontaine winds down his window –
The car is surrounded.
Neil Fontaine says, ‘Mr Stephen Sweet to see the Prime Minister.’
The officer speaks into his radio.
Neil Fontaine glances up into the mirror. The Jew isn’t stroking his moustache. The Jew isn’t smiling. The Jew isn’t on the car phone –
