by David Peace
The Jew is sweating in his pinstripe suit.
The officer steps back from the car. The officer gestures at the gates –
The gates open.
Neil Fontaine starts the car.
‘I told you, Neil,’ laughs the Jew from the backseat. ‘I am expected.’
Neil Fontaine drives slowly up the gravel drive. He parks before the front door.
The Help is waiting. The Help opens the back door of the Mercedes for the Jew. The Help slams the door behind him.
The Prime Minister appears in blue. The Jew gushes. The Prime Minister swoons. They disappear inside, arm in arm.
‘You want a fucking picture?’ asks the Help. ‘Round the back.’
Neil Fontaine starts the car again. He parks in an empty garage. He sits in the car. He can smell exhaust fumes. He can hear peacocks screaming.
*
Terry Winters opened the front door of his three-bedroom home in the suburbs of Sheffield, South Yorkshire. His family were asleep upstairs. The lights off downstairs. Terry quietly closed the door. He stood his briefcase in the hall. He caught his face in the dark mirror: Terry Winters, Executive Officer of the National Union of Mineworkers; Terry Winters, the highest non-elected official in the National Union. Terry applauded himself in the shadows of South Yorkshire, in the suburbs of Sheffield –
In his house with the lights off but everybody home.
Martin
make up their own minds. Chadburn and Richardson had a rough time of it yesterday. Chadburn saying Notts will have a secret ballot with a recommendation from him to strike. But we all know what that fucking means. Day 4. Cath wipes her face. Cath dries her eyes. Cath looks at television. Cath says, She hates us. Day 5. Fucking hell. She’s getting on my nerves. She doesn’t want to use Hoover so she’s on her hands and knees with a dustpan and brush in front of television. She’s singing bloody hymns so I can’t hear Weekend World. There’s no Sunday dinner either. Frozen Cornish pasties and baked beans. Same as last night. When adverts come on she makes me switch it off for two minutes. I go out into back garden. It’s pissing down. I have a cigarette. We’d talked about having a patio this summer. A conservatory. I go back inside. Pasties are on table. Cath’s crying again upstairs. Phone’s ringing. I close my eyes – We suffocate. We drown – Day 8. Panel in Silverwood has twinned us with Bentinck, just south of Mansfield. Doesn’t matter what any bleeding High Court judge says. It’s a quid a shift and there’s a coach and some cars. I put my name down for nights. I play darts with Geoff all afternoon. Pete comes in about four o’clock and tells us coach will be out front at six. Geoff says he’s off home for his tea and his duffel coat. I don’t fancy going all way back to Hardwick for another set-to with Cath, so I have a bag of chips and a walk up Pit Lane. It’s quiet. Almost dark. Getting cold and all. I sit across from brickworks and eat my chips, staring up hill at colliery. Folk must think I’m crackers. Chips are wrapped in a photo of Scottish pickets and police at Bilston Glen. I smooth it out and read it. I think about phoning Cath, but what’s use? I stick paper in my pocket and go back down hill. I have a quick pint and a piss in Hotel, then go over Welfare and get on coach for Bentinck. Day 9. Middle of night. Pissing it down. Absolutely fucking freezing. Police won’t let us light brazier. Not local. Not tonight. Last couple of nights they’ve been from Lincoln and Skegness. Even shared a flask of soup with them. Not that they’d put that on television or in papers. Even manager was decent at first – Canteen. Cups of tea. Toilets. Knew that wouldn’t last – Wasn’t for us, they’d all be working. He knows that. We know that. Make me laugh – Quick enough to tell you how they’ll vote, how you can count on them. But you know half of them are heading straight round back to get in under fences on their bellies. How they are round here. Always have been. Even their Branch. Minute you left, they’d be backed up for five mile in their brand-new Fords. There are them that don’t even bother to lie to you. Just drive straight in. Won’t even talk to you. Then there’s them that fancy themselves. They stop. Give you a mouthful. Their cars get a bit of hammer in return. Least you know where you are with them – They’re cunts. But they’re honest cunts – Wish I’d gone back on coach now. Just standing about, taking it in turns to go and sit in cars, waiting for day picket to show up. Freezing to death. Then these lads from Dinnington and Kiveton pull up. They’ve killed one of ours, they say. He’s fucking dead. I say, You what? It’s right, they say. Where? Ollerton. We’re off there now. Hold up, says Geoff. We’ll follow you there – We take A6075 through Sherwood fucking Forest. Get there about half-two. It’s ugly – five hundred police, five hundred of us and counting – CB radios got cars coming in from all over as news spreads. Everyone with a different fucking story – He was hit by car; he was hit by a truncheon; he was hit by a brick – Women and kids from houses are all out in street hollering at us. Pit manager appealing for calm. Blokes from their Branch doing same – No one’s listening like. Then word comes down that colliery is closing for night. That Arthur’s coming. There’s cheering then. Three o’clock and Arthur gets up on roof of a car. He asks for two minutes’ silence – Mark of respect. Police are first off with their helmets – Say that for them. But there’s no cheering now. You took us from the mountains. Only silence. Day 14. I get my head down about five. You took us from the sea. I wake up at one for news. Leon Brittan promising all police in world to make sure anybody who wants to
The Second Week
Monday 12 – Sunday 18 March 1984
The Jew has his orders. Neil Fontaine has his.
Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew outside The Times building at ten o’clock sharp. He is on the steps in his leather flying-jacket with his camera and his tape-recorder –
‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he tells Neil Fontaine.
They do ninety up the M1 with the Jew on the car phone. He’s in a good mood. South Wales have voted overwhelmingly to reject the Union’s call to strike; Nottinghamshire have called for a pit-head ballot; the pickets are flying –
The Jew wants to be where the action is –
Two rooms reserved at the Royal Victoria Hotel, Sheffield –
In the Heartland –
A suite for the Jew upstairs, a single for Neil downstairs; fried kidneys and champagne for the Jew in his room, a burger and Coke for Neil at the bar –
Familiar faces, Union faces, in and out all night –
Other faces.
Neil Fontaine lies on his single bed in his single room with the single light on.
He can’t sleep. He never can. He has his own orders –
Other eyes and other ears.
The telephone rings three times at three o’clock.
Neil Fontaine brings the car round. The Jew is waiting in his leather flying-jacket. The Mercedes drives out of the city centre up through Rotherham and onto the A631. They cross the A1 into Nottinghamshire.
There is snow on the roads. The hedgerows. The fields –
The police van parked at the bus stop.
The Jew can’t sit still. He looks out of the left window, he looks out of the right –
‘I am her eyes and her ears,’ he tells Neil again.
They come to the Harworth Colliery on the Yorkshire– Nottinghamshire border; this the place where the Spencer Union was finally defeated in a last bloody battle –
It’s 1937 again.
Harworth’s men have voted to cross the Yorkshire picket line in military columns; there are one hundred and fifty policemen here to help them; five hundred of Doncaster’s hardest out to hinder them –
The men of Harworth turn back to their homes and their families –
First blood to Arthur’s Fliers.
The Jew is in a bad mood now. They park in a lay-by with the radio on:
‘The National Coal Board has applied to the High Court for an injunction to prevent Yorkshire miners picketing other areas.’
The Jew is in a worse mood. Livid. The Jew is on the car phone. Furious –
‘There’ll be a bloody general strike if the Chairman does this. Tell him from me, it’s absolute insanity. You will hand that red prick the entire labour movement on a plate. He saw it on TV, did he? He saw it on TV? Well, I’m bloody here in fucking Harworth and you can tell your Chairman from me, the answer isn’t the 1980 Employment Act. The answer is more fucking police. More fucking police with more fucking balls from their so-called senior officers. That’s your answer. Bloody dogs, too. More fucking dogs. And you tell him that’s what Stephen Sweet will tell the Prime Minister –
‘Because I am her eyes and her ears. Her fucking eyes and her ears out here!’
The Jew hangs up. The Jew sits back. The Jew sighs. The Jew shakes his head.
Neil Fontaine watches a minibus of miners go past –
Bare arse-cheeks pressed against the back windows.
‘The gloves are off now, Neil,’ shouts the Jew. ‘The gloves are bloody off!’
Jen looks fucking gorgeous under these lights. Her hair. Her tan. That blouse. That skirt. Frankie for the thousandth time. Fucking gorgeous. The Mechanic could sit here for the rest of his life. They put on Your Love Is King. She waves him over. He finishes his drink. Onto the dance floor of an empty club on a Tuesday night in March. He puts his arms around her. Holds her. The rest of his life.
*
It’s been a long Wednesday –
Harworth, Bilsthorpe, Bevercotes, Thoresby.
The police vans in convoys now, checkpoints at every junction –
The Jew takes the credit.
The Yorkshire pickets abandoning their coaches, marching through the fields –
The Jew back on the phone.
It’s been a long Wednesday and it isn’t over –
This is Ollerton.
The police had to march in the afternoon shift in columns.
Ten p.m. and the Jew is where the action is; the Jew is in the Plough –
Packed. Pickets waiting for the Nightshirt. Pissed.
The Jew is talking. Taking notes. Sending Neil to the bar to buy the drinks.
The barmaid says, ‘Must have some brass, your mate Biggles.’
‘Four pints of Mansfield’s and a gin and tonic,’ says Neil Fontaine.
‘You not having one?’
‘Given it up.’
‘Well,’ she laughs. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’
‘Keep the change,’ Neil tells her.
He’s halfway back with the drinks when the roar goes up outside –
The Nightshirt here.
Everyone heads for the door –
‘Neil!’ the Jew is shouting. ‘Come on, Neil. This is it!’
Neil Fontaine sees the Jew disappear through the door. He goes out after him –
Everyone running. Pint glasses breaking. Car doors slamming.
Neil Fontaine can’t see the Jew anywhere –
Fuck.
Neil Fontaine starts up the lane towards the pit, the pickets and the police –
Bricks and bottles, sticks and stones, flying through the air –
There’s a hand on Neil’s arm. There’s a voice in his ear: ‘Hello, hello, hello.’
Neil Fontaine turns round –
Paul Dixon is stood beside an old Allegro. He’s in his best new sweater, his jeans with a fresh crease and his polished size tens.
‘Paul?’
‘The fuck you doing here, Neil?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I knew you were going to say that,’ laughs Paul Dixon. ‘I just knew it.’
Neil Fontaine looks up the road. Everyone by the gates now. The Jew too.
Paul Dixon opens the door of the Allegro. He says, ‘Got a minute, have you?’
Neil Fontaine looks back up the road. He shrugs. He gets into the Allegro –
The car smells bad. The car feels dirty.
They sit and watch four coppers dragging a picket down the road by his hair.
‘So what are you doing here, Neil?’ Paul Dixon asks again.
‘Like I say –’
‘Don’t ask,’ winks Paul Dixon. ‘Well, I am asking.’
‘In what capacity?’
Paul Dixon opens his wallet. He taps his warrant card. ‘In this capacity.’
‘Don’t be silly, Sergeant.’
Paul Dixon closes his wallet. He looks out of the windscreen. Embarrassed –
Six coppers are handcuffing two pickets round a lamp-post.
‘All right,’ sighs Neil Fontaine. ‘I’m driving this Captain of Industry up and down the country so he can write little pieces on industrial relations for his mate at The Times. Happy now?’
‘I’d heard you were –’
Neil Fontaine turns to stare at Paul Dixon. He asks, ‘Were what?’
‘Nothing. I must have misheard.’
‘Yeah,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘You must have misheard.’
Paul Dixon looks out of his window again. Embarrassed again –
Local lads are setting about the pickets’ cars parked up and down the street.
‘So what brings you to a pretty place like this, Paul?’ asks Neil Fontaine.
‘National Reporting Centre. Liaison officer.’
‘Nice work,’ says Neil Fontaine.
‘If you can get it.’
‘And you got it,’ smiles Neil Fontaine.
‘Thanks to the Yorkshire Stalin, aye.’
‘Old King Coal to his friends,’ laughs Neil Fontaine.
Paul Dixon looks out of the windscreen again. He says, ‘Few of them about tonight.’
‘How about our old mate?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘The Mechanic still about, is he?’
Paul Dixon shakes his head. ‘Man’s in love. Married. Two dogs. Retired.’
‘That’s a shame,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Our Dave had his talents.’
Paul Dixon points through the windscreen. ‘How about your new friend?’
Fuck –
There are six men carrying another man back down the lane towards the pub –
The Jew has an arm.
Neil Fontaine opens the car door. He gets out.
Paul Dixon leans over the passenger seat. He says, ‘Stay free.’
Neil Fontaine slams the door.
*
Terry Winters had been home twenty minutes when the phone went. Theresa picked it up. She didn’t speak. She just listened and rolled her eyes. She handed it to Terry –
Click-click.
Terry Winters drove back to St James’s House.
Terry unlocked his office. Terry got out his calculator. Terry went upstairs.
The music was loud. Terry knocked once. The music stopped. Terry waited –
‘Come.’
Terry opened the door. Terry went inside.
The Tweed Jackets were sitting around the table. The President at the window –
His back to the room.
Terry Winters coughed. Terry said, ‘You wanted to see me.’
The President didn’t turn. He said, ‘They’re not moving fast enough, Comrade.’
‘I’ve told them,’ said Terry. ‘I –’
‘They’re in the pub talking about it when they should be on the phone doing it.’
Terry Winters nodded.
The President turned now. He said, ‘Twenty-four hours from now they will have outlawed this Union and every union in the country which believes they still have the right to strike to save their jobs, the right to picket to save their jobs. Every working man and woman in this country will have to rise as one to defeat this government. This Union will be in the vanguard of that battle, as it has been in every struggle, as it has been in every victory.’
Terry nodded.
The President stared at Terry. The President turned back to the window.
One of the Tweeds emptied his pipe into the glass ashtray with three sharp taps. He looked up at Terry. He said, ‘The President is counting on you, Comrade. We all are.’
Terry Winters nodded again.<
br />
‘So get rid of the fucking money.’
Terry nodded again.
Someone switched the Shostakovich back on.
Terry Winters went back downstairs. Terry knocked on Mike Sullivan’s door. Terry told him the President wanted them to go out to the Yorkshire Area Headquarters on Huddersfield Road in Barnsley. The President needed Terry and Mike to double-check. The President didn’t trust Yorkshire any more. He never had. Not since he’d left the place. The President didn’t trust anyone any more. The President was paranoid –
They all were.
The Tweeds made Terry and Mike change cars twice. The Denims had them take the long way round. They travelled the ten miles in an hour and in three different cars. They had two empty suitcases in the boot –
Theresa had taken them down from the loft.
Terry and Mike arrived in Barnsley unannounced. Terry and Mike went upstairs. Terry and Mike took over an office. Terry and Mike searched the room for microphones. Terry drew the curtains. Terry sent Mike out on a wild paper-chase. Terry called in the finance officer for the Yorkshire Area. Terry locked the door. Terry frisked Clive Cook. Terry made Clive put the radio on while they talked. Terry taught Clive his latest code. Terry told him to use it in all future contact. Then Terry put the two empty suitcases on the table and asked Clive about the eight million quid.
*
The Jew is in shock. He spent Thursday on the phone in his double bed at the Royal Victoria. He sent Neil out to buy an electric typewriter and every single newspaper he could find.
The Jew had met the dead man. They had both helped carry an injured miner back to the pub. The dead man was a picket, the injured man a scab. The dead man had tended to the cut above the scab’s eye. The dead man had called an ambulance from the pub. Then the dead man had gone back to the front –
The Jew has spots of blood on the lamb’s-wool collar of his leather flying-jacket.
‘Her eyes and her ears, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘I am her eyes and her ears.’
Neil Fontaine drives the Jew back over to Ollerton on Friday morning. The Jew wants to see the place in daylight. The Jew wants to take notes. Take some pictures –
