by David Peace
Guilty monks, thought Terry. The lot of them.
Terry looked at his watch. The abbot would be waiting.
Terry went upstairs –
No Len on the door. Len was inside. Terry hung up his jacket. He knocked once. He went inside. The Conference Room was still stripped. The curtains drawn again. Terry mumbled his apologies. He took his seat at the right hand. He stared at his fellow friars –
Most didn’t know if it was light or dark outside. They’d been up here so long.
Paul stopped speaking. Paul sat down.
The President stood back up. The President said, ‘Comrades, as you are all aware, over the course of the next week this office will take over the control and the deployment of all picketing for the entire British Isles. It will also take full responsibility for ensuring the blockade on the movement of all coal or alternative fuel within the British Isles. All local requests for the support of our brothers and sisters within the trades union movement must also be made to this office. To provide the support the areas and branches require, the office will be staffed twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Yorkshire Area is preparing a list of volunteers to help us meet the necessary staffing demands. The question of internal security and the degree to which our communications have been compromised remain a problem. To that end, the Chief Executive has some practical, short-term measures that can be implemented with immediate benefits in our fight to preserve jobs and pits. Comrade –’
The President sat down again.
Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘Thank you, President. I have drawn up a code that will allow the areas and branches to contact us here at the Strike HQ using our existing telephone lines and numbers. I intend to reveal the code to you here and now, though I would ask you to write nothing down but rather to commit the details and instructions of what I am about to say to memory. On returning to your areas you are to brief the panels verbally and in turn instruct the panels to brief their local branches in the same manner. I repeat, nothing is to be written down. I shall now reveal to you the code –
‘Pickets will henceforth be referred to as apples. I repeat, apples –
‘Police are to be referred to as potatoes. Repeat, potatoes –
‘Henceforth, branches will be requested to supply X number of apples based upon Y number of potatoes at a given site. Likewise branches can request extra apples from HQ in response to superior numbers of potatoes. Our brothers and sisters in the NUR are henceforth to be known as mechanics –
‘I repeat, mechanics –
‘Members of the NUS are henceforth plumbers. Repeat …’
They turn off the main road. They drive through the industrial estate. They come to the fence. The gate. The old USAF sign –
There is a resprayed Escort parked up.
‘What would he be doing here?’ asks Joyce.
The Mechanic opens his door. He lets the dogs out. He says, ‘Waiting for me.’
They get out into the cold. The rain.
‘Where is he?’ she asks.
The Mechanic pushes open the gate. He says, ‘This way.’
They walk across the rough ground towards the airstrip. The old control tower.
Joyce cups her mouth in her hands. She shouts, ‘Vince! It’s me, Joyce!’
They keep walking.
‘Vince,’ she shouts again. ‘We just want to talk. That’s all. Come on –’
The dogs are barking. The Mechanic and Joyce stop walking –
Vince Taylor is coming down the steps of the control tower. He is pointing a double-barrelled shotgun at them –
‘Vince,’ the Mechanic says. ‘There’s no need for that.’
Vince walks towards them. He says, ‘Shut up. On your knees. Both of you.’
They kneel down on the ground –
It is wet. It is cold.
Vince points the shotgun at their chests. He says, ‘Hands on your heads.’
They place their hands on their heads –
It is raining and the dogs are barking.
Vince puts the barrel of the shotgun under his chin. He pulls the trigger.
There are roadblocks on the routes in and out of Sheffield. There are checkpoints on the streets of Sheffield city centre. There are private security guards here on the hotel doors. There are big miners down to protect and serve their big leaders in the dining room of the Royal Victoria Hotel. They put their hands on the Jew’s chest and ask him his business. The Jew laughs and tells them his business is business. He is here because he means to do business –
The Jew is wearing his leather flying-jacket.
Neil Fontaine asks them to take their hands off the Jew and to step to one side. The big miners take their hands off the Jew and step to one side. The Jew thanks them. The Jew goes from breakfast table to breakfast table introducing himself to the big leaders from Durham, Northumberland and Cumberland, from the Midlands, Lancashire and Derbyshire. He urges these moderate men, these weak and cowardly men, to become extreme men, to be strong and brave men today –
Thursday 12 April 1984 –
Today of all days.
The big leaders from the Midlands, Lancashire and Derbyshire smoke cigarette after cigarette, the big leaders from Durham, Northumberland and Cumberland drink cup after cup of tea. Then these moderate men, these weak and cowardly men, make their excuses and leave the Jew to sit alone among the breakfast tables with their full ashtrays and their empty cups –
The Jew is wearing his leather flying-jacket. The Jew means war now.
The Jew retreats upstairs to the temporary war room of his Sheffield suite –
He paces the carpet. He strikes the poses. He barks the orders –
The windows to open. The sun to shine in. The curtains to billow.
Neil Fontaine opens the windows to the sun, the wind and the world outside:
Three thousand striking miners ringing their National Headquarters. Two thousand policemen watching fruit and cans rain down on the Nottinghamshire leaders.
Neil Fontaine calls room service. The Jew wants wine with his lunch –
Their President ruling the Right’s demand for a national ballot out of order.
Neil Fontaine calls room service again. The Jew wants another bottle of wine –
Their National Executive proposing to reduce the 55 per cent majority required for strike action to a simple majority and to convene a Special Delegate Conference.
The Jew drinks bottle after bottle. The Jew lies on the double bed –
Their President leaning out of an upstairs window with a megaphone to tell the mob below, ‘We can win provided we show the resolution we did in 1972 and 1974.’
The curtains fall. The sun goes in. The hotel windows are closed –
‘Easy. Easy. Easy,’ chant the mob on the dark streets of Sheffield.
The Jew puts pillows over his head. The Jew shakes. The Jew sobs.
Neil Fontaine picks up another empty bottle. He rights another upturned table.
The Jew gets up. The Jew wobbles about amid the wreckage of his hotel suite. He is panting. He is drunk. He is morbid –
‘These are the dreadful hours, Neil. The dreadful hours of his shameful war –
‘He has his army, Neil. His Red Guard. The Shock Troops of Socialism –
‘But where are our soldiers, Neil? The soldiers who will fight this war with us, who will win this war for her –
‘Oh, she has placed so much faith in me, Neil. So very, very much –
‘And I have failed her, Neil. Failed her so very, very miserably –
‘She expects so much, Neil. So very, very much –
‘And I must deliver, Neil. Deliver her victory –
‘Victory, Neil. Victory –
‘I promised her victory, Neil. Promised her nothing less …’
The Jew falls back onto his bed. He is sobbing. He is drunk. He is moribund.
Neil Fontaine picks up the Jew’s bedding from the carpet. He draws the curta
ins. He puts a blanket over the Jew. He tucks him in –
‘Easy. Easy. Easy –’
He wishes him sweet dreams. He kisses him goodnight.
She’s still screaming. She’s still shaking. She’s still trying to wipe his blood from her clothes. From her hair. Her face. The dogs going mental in the back –
They’re on the A49 outside Ludlow. A Little Chef up ahead –
The Mechanic turns into the car park. He switches off the engine. He grabs her –
Joyce stares at him.
The Mechanic holds her by her shoulders. He says, ‘You got family?’
She chews her lips in her teeth.
The Mechanic squeezes her hard. He says, ‘Have you got any family, Joyce?’
She stares.
The Mechanic says, ‘Who?’
‘My son,’ she says.
‘How old is he?’
‘He’s nine.’
The Mechanic asks, ‘Where is he now?’
‘School.’
‘Where’s school?’
‘Worcester,’ she says.
The Mechanic looks at the dashboard clock. He says, ‘What time’s school finish?’
‘Quarter to four,’ she says.
‘Who picks him up?’
‘Me or his dad.’
‘His dad?’ the Mechanic asks. ‘Where’s his dad?’
‘It’s Vince,’ she says. ‘Vince is his dad.’
The Mechanic sits back. He watches a young couple come out of the Little Chef –
He watches them run from the rain, run for the cover of their car.
Joyce squeezes herself between her legs. She says, ‘What am I going to do?’
‘Go pick your car up,’ the Mechanic says. ‘The police will be waiting for you.’
‘They’ll have found him already?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘But I set fire to the office when we left.’
She starts to cry. She starts to shake again.
‘Just think of your boy,’ he tells her. ‘Think of him and you’ll get through this.’
She wipes her eyes with her hand. She nods. She says, ‘What shall I say?’
‘You haven’t seen Vince since last week. He’s been depressed about his marriage. You went into the office this morning. Vince wasn’t there. You tried to find him. There was no sign. You came back to the office. Fire.’
She starts to cry again. She says, ‘I’m covered in blood. They’ll never believe me. They’ll think I set fire to the office. Think I killed him.’
‘There’s no blood on you, love,’ the Mechanic says. ‘No blood on you.’
One day they won. The next day they lost –
The Judge said the President had not been acting in the best interests of the three hundred and fifty thousand beneficiaries of the Pension Fund. The Judge ruled the President was in breach of his legal duty. The Judge ordered the President to lift the embargo on overseas investments. The Judge threatened to dismiss the President from the management committee of the fund, if he did not comply with his orders.
Terry Winters hailed a cab outside the High Court. Five of them squeezed inside. The President on the backseat in the middle. Flaming. Furious. Terry looked at his watch. They weren’t going to make the four o’clock train. The President wiped his face with his handkerchief. He hated London. The South. Terry turned to look over the driver’s shoulder up the road. Nothing was moving. The President gently touched his hair. He said, ‘That’s British justice.’
Everybody nodded.
Terry Winters looked at his watch again. Terry Winters had to think of an excuse. The President straightened his tie. His collar was wet. Terry wound down the window. The radio in the car next to them was playing pop music loudly. The President reached across Terry and wound the window back up. He sat back in his seat, touched that hair. He said, ‘I’m disappointed, but not surprised.’
Everybody nodded.
Terry Winters put his briefcase on his knee. He opened it and searched through it. The President was watching him. Terry looked at his watch. He searched through his briefcase again. The President leant forward. He said, ‘What is it, Comrade?’
Everybody nodded.
Terry Winters looked at his watch again. Terry checked his case again. Terry said, ‘I think I must have left one of the files at the court. You’ll have to let me out.’
Everybody nodded.
Terry stopped the taxi. He got out. He gave Joan the fare and the tickets. He said, ‘Don’t worry about me. Don’t wait for me.’
Everybody nodded –
Everybody except Paul. Paul shook his head. Paul watched him go –
Disappear again.
*
He buys some dog food. A can opener. Bread. Water. He pulls over in a layby. He feeds the dogs. Lets them run in the field. He sits in the car with the door open. He eats the bread. Drinks the water. He takes out the three files. He reads them. Then burns them by the side of the road. He whistles. The dogs come. They jump into the back of the car. He puts the can opener in the glove compartment. He closes the door. Turns the key –
The Mechanic knows where Julius Schaub will be.
Martin
Guard. Provisional wing of Labour & Trade Union Movement – That’s us. Brought in three thousand police from across country. Krk-krk. Stuck them in army camps. Can’t stop us, though. Not today – No ballot. No sell-out – Time to see who’s bloody who. Banners. Placards. Jackets. Badges – Victory to Miners. Pete and me hop on top of a pair of giant bins so we can see them arrive. Tell when it’s Ottey or one of them lot. Cans and fruit start flying. They grab Ray by his collar. They shake their fists in his face. Henry pulls him away – Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scabs – Chants and sirens. Helicopters. Then word comes down from top – Ballot proposal from Leicestershire is out of order. Special Delegate Conference next Thursday – King Arthur comes out onto steps. Salutes all lads. Lads go mental. They pass him a megaphone. Can’t hear a word he says – Easy. Easy. Easy. Easy – Chants. No more sirens. Not today – No ballot. No sell-out – Arthur’s Red Guard. That’s me. I’ll support you ever more. Day 41. This is first time we’ve sat down, shared a meal in a week. You know that? I say, I’m sorry, love. I wish it wasn’t like this. It’s just, you know – No, I don’t know, Cath says. I put my knife and fork down, not hungry. I do know you’re living in cloud-cuckoo-land, she says. I do know that. Cath, please – Cuckoo-land, the lot of you. Bloody lot of you. Look – You think she’s going to give up, do you? They’ve been planning this for years, you’ve said so yourself. For years, Martin. I say, We can win. Like Arthur says, if we show same resolution, we – Listen to yourself, Martin. Arthur? You’ve never met the bloody bloke. You’re like some daft teenage lass with a crush on some bloody pop star or someone. I leave my plate. I stand up. I walk over to sofa. I put on television – Torvill and fucking Dean again. Cath comes in front of sofa. She switches off television. She says, I’m warning you. I’ll not stick around and watch you throw everything away again. Once was enough, thank you very much. I get up. I go into kitchen. I open back door. I go out into back garden. I stand in rain where conservatory was going to be. I have a cigarette. We fuelled your fears with our raven-wings – I open my eyes. I can hear phone ringing. I go back inside. I pick it up. Click-click. It’s Pete. Front door slams. Day 44. Sheffield – all day. Fucking worth it, this, though. Result we get. Feels like we’re bloody getting somewhere now. Feels like victory – Simple majority. No ballot – Sixty-nine to fifty-one. Notts told they’re officially out – officially scabs if they’re not. King Arthur taking charge of things himself. By scruff of neck. Fight to finish. To victory. Just like before. Time to celebrate. Not going to let her rain all over it either. We stop in Sheffield drinking. Miss coach back. Massive fight in pub next to station. Scab bastards. Chairs flying. Glasses. Police wading in. Krk-krk. Hide under pool table like in a fucking film or something. Taxi back to Thurcroft with Pete and Big Tom. Keep drinking – all on Pe
te’s tab. Welfare. Hotel. Club. Hotel. Welfare. Club. Walk home again. Clear my head. She’s put something against bedroom door. My gear in spare room. Thomas Cook brochure in about a million pieces on floor. She must have cancelled holiday. I sit down on carpet with my back to wall. Head on my knees. Good Friday tomorrow. Day 46. Lads are fucking seething. So much for so-called Triple bloody Alliance. Nobody wants to see other blokes put out of their jobs – But they’re taking piss as far as we’re concerned. ISTC begged – Fucking begged. Deal had been to send Scunthorpe fifteen thousand tons a week to keep their furnaces in good nick. To be moved by rail. Loaded only by British Steel drivers. From Cortonwood, Bull-cliffe Wood, Dinnington and us – To help them out. That was deal – Not to be bleeding working at over 50 bloody per cent. Fucking bollocks, that is. We tell Pete to tell Barnsley we don’t want them to have it – Bastards. But they’ve done their deal. Fucking pisses everyone right off. Day 47. Easter Sunday. I knock on bedroom door again. I say, We need to talk, love – Go away. Come on, Cath. We can’t go on like this – Go away. Please, love – Go away! she shouts. Can’t just lock yourself in there all day. Come on just – Go away,
The Seventh Week
