GB84

by David Peace

  Upturned cars, ripped-up pavements. Uprooted hedges, boarded-up windows.

  There are a lot of police vans and a lot of television crews and no pickets –

  There is a forty-eight-hour truce while the Nottinghamshire men have their vote.

  The Jew puts his arm around a woman in her ruined garden. He tells her how the pogroms drove his family out of Russia. He tells her how his family lost everything. He tells her how they started over again. He tells her how his father worked eighteen-hour days, seven days a week. He tells her how he himself was sent to Eton. He tells her how they bullied him –

  He tells her bullies never win –

  The Jew promises her that.

  Neil Fontaine drives the Jew back to his hotel suite.

  The Jew has some fresh orders for Neil Fontaine –

  The Jew wants Neil to hire a van. Neil Fontaine hires a van.

  The Jew gives Neil a shopping list. Neil Fontaine goes shopping.

  The Jew gives Neil an address:

  The Proteus Territorial Army Barracks, Ollerton.

  Neil Fontaine makes his delivery:

  500 bottles of whisky, 500 bottles of vodka, 1000 mixers and 4000 cans of lager.

  The Jew should have laid on some ladies –

  A thousand Met boys with nothing to do and nowhere to go on a Saturday night in the North of England; two thousand more at the Beckingham Camp in Newark; another thousand at the Prince William Barracks, Grantham –

  Three hours from now they’ll be wanking in circles –

  ‘These men are the backbone of this nation,’ the Jew tells Neil. ‘The backbone.’

  The Mechanic is screaming into the phone in a service station, southbound on the M6 –

  ‘Schaub? Julius fucking Schaub?’ he’s screaming. ‘You think I’d have gone anywhere fucking near this if I’d known that little cunt was going to be in on it?’

  ‘Relax,’ says the voice on the receiving end. ‘Relax –’

  ‘Relax?’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘You’re telling me to fucking relax? I got the wife in the fucking car, you fucking wanker. You think I’d have brought her along if I’d known fucking Schaub was going to be there?’

  ‘Someone dropped out,’ says the voice. ‘We needed –’

  ‘Wise fucking man.’

  ‘Let me finish,’ says the voice. ‘Someone dropped out. We needed a body at short notice. We called Vince. Vince called Julius. Julius was available.’

  ‘Schaub’s always fucking available,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Because no one wants to work with the fucking cunt.’

  ‘Please,’ sighs the voice. ‘We need you on this one.’

  ‘You should’ve fucking thought of that before you went and invited that fucking little pervert along then.’

  ‘We will make it up to you,’ says the voice.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘An even four for your troubles.’

  ‘I should fucking think so,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I should fucking think so.’

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this before, Neil?’ shouts the Jew from the backseat.

  Neil Fontaine shakes his head. He never has seen anything like this before –

  An entire county completely sealed off –

  All roads in and out of Mansfield and Nottinghamshire blocked with checkpoints; the motorway down to a single lane in each direction; tracker dogs in every field; helicopters and spotter planes overhead; three thousand police deployed –

  Every taxi and coach firm in Yorkshire and Derbyshire told not to accept fares from miners or face immediate arrest; every taxi and coach stopped just to make sure; every private car and van –

  The Dartford Tunnel closed. The borders with Scotland and Wales.

  Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes in sight of the Mansfield Headquarters of the Nottinghamshire NUM; the Jew waiting in the back by the car phone for the result –

  The sound of helicopters in the sky and the Attorney-General on the radio:

  ‘If it does involve a lot of extra police work, then so be it. It is not involving the government in the dispute.’

  The car phone rings. The Jew picks it up. The Jew listens –

  ‘Two hundred and seventy for a return?’ he says. ‘That’s seventy-five per cent. That’s fantastic news.’

  The Jew hangs up. The Jew dials South –

  ‘What did I tell you?’ says the Jew. ‘He’s already lost.’

  Martin

  work can. Threatening anybody who obstructs them with jail. I mooch about house all afternoon. Telly and crossword for company. My name’s down for nights again this week. Cath’s got more hours at shop. Never see each other. I go down into Thurcroft for about half-five. One in Hotel. One in Welfare. Folk start to meet up about seven-thirty. Now they’ve had their little vote and one of ours has died, it’s different. Up a notch. Don’t need a coach now either. Can see how it’s going to be from here on – Hardcore unless it’s a rally or something. No firm will hire us a coach anyway – None would get through either. Private cars and vans, that’s us. Fifteen to twenty per shift. Pete gives out pieces of paper with name of pit and best way there. Bloody Bentinck again. He gives us quid for shift and money for petrol. Me and three other lads are in with Geoff again tonight. Dayshift have told us police are all over shop. Krk-krk. Not messing about either. Numbers, names, and piss off back to where you come from. Told some lads to be down their local nick first thing with their driving licences. Lip and they’ll have your keys. We’ve got maps out in car. Don’t even bother with usual ways, ways Pete’s written. Fields and farms for us. Helicopters with big bloody searchlights overhead. Everyone but Geoff with their heads down – Hour later we give up on Bentinck. Like a fucking police state. Geoff calls Silverwood. Click-click. Tell us to try Harworth. But then a carload of lads from Markham pull up. Got a CB radio. Heading to Bilsthorpe – Know a good way up there. We follow them – Anything’s better than lying among crisp packets on floor of Geoff’s car. It’s gone half-nine by time we get there. Never seen so many fucking police. We park up on side of main road and join picket at entrance to pit lane. Some of scabs have already started showing up. They don’t hang about either. Leg it straight in. Can’t even see them for police half of time – Shove. Shout. Scab. Shove. Shout. Scab – There’s a song every now and again from us. Sneers and jeers from police. This goes on for a couple of hours – Shove. Shout. Scab. Shove. Shout. Scab – One point I’m right up against this copper. Won’t tell us where he’s from. Not from round here though. Tell from his accent. Things he says. They’ve had their vote, he tells me. They want to work. So why don’t you lot fuck off back to Yorkshire. About midnight, we do that. Day 17. Cath’s laid out my suit on bed. Ironed us a shirt. I watch end of breakfast telly. Have a couple of hours. You took us from the wild-fields. Get up. Put on my suit. Sit there till it’s time. Just thinking. We meet at Welfare at one. There’re about twenty cars and banners going. Everyone to be at South Kirkby cricket club for two. We have a pint then into cars. I go with Geoff again. Unbelievable scene at their cricket field: hundreds of buses and cars parked up; thousands and thousands of men in their Sunday best; banners from every lodge in Britain; other unions here and all. Hearse sets off from lad’s house. Five cars follow with family and friends. There’s a drummer up at head with Arthur, Jack Taylor and all big shots – our lads and all banners walking behind them. First banner is from lad’s own lodge, Ackton Hall. Procession goes for a mile up to All Saints’ Parish Church, village streets lined with women and kids. Three hundred of lad’s family and friends inside church. Everyone else outside in silence. Blokes with tears down their faces. Big blokes: Pete; Geoff; me. It’s hard – Two kids. No dad now – Follow them up to cemetery in Moorthorpe. Lad goes into ground for last time. We call in Robin Hood on way back. Long faces and short drinks. Lots of both. Big disputes develop a logic of their own, Pete is saying. It’ll be right. Back in Thurcroft, King Arthur’s on television in Hotel. Dead lad’s dad ha
d told him, Under no circumstances must we give up now. We must fight to save pits and jobs because that is what their son gave his life for. We all get right fucking smashed. Nothing to eat. I walk all way home. Pass out. You took us from the whale-roads. Wake up in my suit and I can’t stop fucking crying. Day 20. Cath’s on warpath again. Every time he comes on news, she switches it off. I tell her, You’re blaming wrong bloke. Blind,

  The Third Week

  Monday 19 – Sunday 25 March 1984

  They wake up in a four-poster bed in an olde hotel in the centre of Stratford-upon-Avon. They are hungover. It takes a minute to remember why they’re here. The Mechanic switches the radio on. 99 Luftballons. They have a shower. Eat breakfast in the room. They check out. Feel better. They take the A46 and the A422 into Worcester. Jen drives. They park outside the Pear Tree. They go inside. The Mechanic makes the phone call. Gets the address.

  They have a drink. A bite to eat.

  An hour later they stop at Diamond Detectives to pick up the key and the money. Vince Taylor isn’t about. Just his old secretary Joyce. Jen has never met Joyce before. Joyce gives them a cup of tea. Tries to get hold of Vince. She says Vince is a bit down in the dumps at the moment. Looks like she’s had enough herself The Mechanic asks her if there’s anything him and Jen can do. She shakes her head. Locks herself in the toilet for ten minutes.

  Vince isn’t going to show.

  They finish their tea. Make their excuses. Joyce gives them the key. The money. They take the A44 out to Leominster then the A49 straight up to Shrewsbury. Jen counts the money. They find the house. Two-up, two-down terrace near Sutton Road. They let themselves in. The Mechanic makes another phone call.

  They sit down. Stick the telly on. Wait –

  Bad weather. Bad dreams all night.

  The Yorkshire Area Executive had defied the High Court injunction on picketing and the pickets continued to fly. The Yorkshire Area had been found in contempt of court and the bailiffs dispatched –

  The Yorkshire Industrial Action Fund already exhausted.

  The President sent Terry Winters and Mike Sullivan back to Huddersfield Road again.

  This time they weren’t alone –

  Two thousand from the Yorkshire Coalfield had answered the President’s call; two thousand miners here to defend the battlements of King Arthur’s (former) Castle, ringing the black, stained bricks of the Yorkshire HQ –

  Four thousand eyes watching and waiting for the bailiffs.

  In an upstairs room Terry and Mike shredded papers.

  There were scuffles outside. The men attacked photographers and camera crews. The police stepped in. Punches were thrown. Arrests made.

  Clive Cook brought in more boxes. Terry and Mike shredded more papers.

  There was a sudden, huge cheer from the men outside –

  Terry and Mike went to the window.

  Clive came back with the last box. He said, ‘The Board’s abandoned the action.’

  The Tinkerbell doesn’t knock. They never do. He has his own key. Doesn’t introduce himself. Never do. Wise men. He has a good look at Jen, then takes his gear straight up to the little bedroom. The Mechanic sends Jen out to buy a pint of milk. He reads yesterday’s paper again. Jen comes back. It’s raining outside. She makes a pot. The Mechanic takes a cup up to the Tinkerbell. He’s sitting on the bed with his headphones on and his notebook out. The Mechanic taps him on the shoulder. The Tinkerbell jumps. The Mechanic hands him the mug. The Tinkerbell nods. The Mechanic goes back downstairs.

  Half-twelve, Jen goes out for fish and chips. The Mechanic sits and waits for The One o’Clock News. Jen comes back with the chips. The Mechanic sticks some on a plate for the Tinkerbell and takes them up. He’s still sitting on the bed with his headphones on. He nods. The Mechanic goes back downstairs to Jen. They eat lunch. Jen makes a fresh pot. The Mechanic does the dishes.

  Three o’clock, the Tinkerbell comes downstairs. He hands the Mechanic a piece of paper –

  The Mechanic reads it. Picks up the phone.

  Hour later, Julius Schaub arrives with Leslie in a red Ford Escort. Schaub’s grown his hair out since the Mechanic saw him last. Leslie looks exactly the same. The Mechanic doesn’t introduce them to Jen. Schaub keeps it shut. He’s been warned. He’s on his best behaviour. The Mechanic gives them their instructions. He takes Jen up to the little bedroom with him. The Tinkerbell is sitting on the bed with his headphones on. Notebook out. He turns to look at them. He shakes his head. They sit down on the bed next to him to wait –

  Bad weather. Bad dreams all night.

  Just after half-seven the Tinkerbell nudges the Mechanic. He taps his headphones. He puts his thumb up. The Mechanic and Jen go back downstairs. Wake up Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.

  They leave the house.

  Schaub and Leslie take the Escort. The Mechanic and Jen take the Rover.

  Both cars drive to Sutton Road. The Escort parks at one end of the street, the Rover at the other. Schaub gets out of his car. Leslie stays put behind the wheel. The Mechanic gets out the Rover. Jen stays where she is.

  The Mechanic takes the bag out of the boot. He walks along the street. He comes to the house. He goes up the drive. Schaub already has the back door open. They go inside. The Mechanic opens the bag. He hands Schaub a camera –

  Schaub takes the upstairs. The Mechanic the downstairs.

  The Mechanic goes through the kitchen into the living room and then the study. He searches drawers and bookshelves for twenty minutes.

  Schaub comes back downstairs into the study. He shakes his head.

  They leave the house. They close the back door. They go down the drive.

  The Mechanic walks back to the Escort with Schaub –

  Schaub gets into the front. The Mechanic the back.

  Leslie turns round –

  The Mechanic shakes his head.

  Schaub says, ‘She must have it on her.’

  ‘Like where?’ Leslie asks him.

  He pulls out a large white pair of women’s knickers from the inside of his jacket. He holds them up. He laughs and says, ‘Hide all sorts in these sexy things.’

  The Mechanic leans forward. He grabs Schaub by his hair. Pulls his head over the back of the seat –

  Whispers in Schaub’s ear, ‘I thought it was kids you liked. Your own.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ shouts Schaub. ‘Fuck off!’

  The Mechanic pushes him forward again. He leans over the seat with him –

  Bangs Schaub’s forehead once onto the top of the dashboard.

  ‘Fuck!’ screams Schaub. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

  ‘Take him back to the house,’ the Mechanic tells Leslie. ‘Wait for me there.’

  Leslie nods. He starts the car.

  The Mechanic gets out. He walks back down the street to the Rover. Gets in.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Jen.

  ‘Nothing,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Have to go out to the cottage.’

  Jen starts the car. They drive out to Four Crosses and turn off up to Llanymynech. They stop at a phone box. The Mechanic calls the number –

  Lets it ring. Ring and ring. No one answers.

  They find the cottage. They park.

  The Mechanic takes the bag off the backseat. He gets out –

  Jen waits in the car.

  The Mechanic walks up the path. He does the door. He goes inside. He searches the place. He goes back outside. He locks the lock. He walks down the path –

  Jen starts the car.

  The Mechanic puts the bag in the boot. He gets in. Shakes his head.

  They drive back to Shrewsbury. They park outside the terrace –

  The Escort isn’t here.

  They go inside. No Schaub. No Leslie. The Mechanic goes upstairs –

  The Tinkerbell is still sat on the bed. Headphones in his hand. He looks up –

  ‘What the fuck happened in there?’ he asks the Mechanic.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The ph
one’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t hear anything –’

  The Mechanic goes straight back down the stairs.

  Jen’s just put the kettle on. She says, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come on,’ the Mechanic tells her. ‘Quick!’

  They go back outside to the car. They drive back to Sutton Road –

  No Escort here either.

  They park at the end of the road –

  ‘Wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Jen.

  ‘You’re never going back in there?’ she says. ‘She could come –’

  The Mechanic gets out. Closes the door. He walks along the street. Comes to the house –

  The curtains are drawn. Lights on inside –

  Fuck.

  He goes up the drive. Round the back of the house. The door wide open –

  Fuck.

  He leans inside. Shouts out, ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

  There’s no answer.

  He steps inside the house. Dirty washing scattered all over the kitchen floor. Two handbags emptied on to the table. The telephone ripped from the wall.

  He goes into the living room then the study –

  No one.

  He goes upstairs. One of the railings in the banister is missing.

  He goes into the front bedroom –

  No one.

  Into the bathroom –

  No one.

  The back bedroom –

  Fuck –

  Wet towels on the floor. The bed stripped –

  Blood and semen on the mattress.

  The Jew hasn’t been to sleep for days. He’s too excited. Too busy –

  He’s just had his tour of the thirteenth floor of New Scotland Yard –

  The National Reporting Centre.

  Neil Fontaine opens the back door for the Jew. The Jew gets in.

  ‘Downing Street, if you would please, Neil.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  The Jew tells Neil of the twenty-four-hour operations and the banks of telephones, the walls of maps and the coloured pins –