GB84

by David Peace

  ‘That’s good money,’ says Brendan Matthews.

  Neil Fontaine smiles. He says, ‘You want to give me a copy of your licence?’

  ‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Parish,’ laughs Brendan Matthews.

  Neil Fontaine and Brendan Matthews shake hands and say their goodbyes.

  Neil Fontaine leaves Gainsborough. He drives to Scunthorpe. To Anchor –

  To the furnaces. To the Queen Mary.

  Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. It’s stopped. He taps it. It’s started –

  Time slips, like a furnace.

  It stops again. It starts again.

  *

  Terry felt the tide had turned. The Mansfield rally had been a magnificent occasion –

  A triumph. A show of strength –

  Just as Terry had planned.

  Terry felt his own stock had risen. His own star back on the rise –

  Yesterday, Mansfield. Today, Paris. Tomorrow, the world –

  Just as Terry had planned.

  Theresa packed Terry an overnight bag. Shirt. Vest. Pants. Socks. Razor. Toothbrush. Towel. She stuck the kids in the back of the car. Half asleep. She drove him to the station. They kissed him goodbye. He got the Manchester train. Taxi to the airport. The President and Joan were at check-in. They didn’t acknowledge him. He didn’t acknowledge them. The President was calling himself Mr Smith. He was wearing a hat. Sunglasses. They were not to speak to each other until Paris –

  The flight took one hour.

  There was a big car waiting at Charles de Gaulle. The President took off his hat. His sunglasses. He sat in the back between Terry and Joan. Pierre from the MTUI sat in the front with the driver. They went straight to their big modern offices in East Paris. They met François and Jean-Marc. They had good coffee. They talked about the dispute. The prospects for peace. Then the President and Joan went off with Pierre and François for the meeting with their international comrades –

  The French, the Polish and the Australians.

  Terry was sent upstairs to meet with Claude. They discussed international law. They discussed international banking. They discussed legal strategies. They discussed financial strategies. They discussed law firms. They discussed private banks. They discussed clauses. They discussed routes. They discussed lawyers. They discussed accountants. They discussed fees. They discussed funds. They discussed perjury. They discussed penury. They discussed sequestration. They discussed bankruptcy –

  The meeting took two hours.

  There was another big car waiting to take them to a late lunch at Chartier. They sat at the long tables. The waiters wrote their orders on the paper table covers. The President had the chicken and chips. A salad. The house red.

  Terry Winters had the same.

  The President leant across the table. He touched Terry’s arm. He raised his glass. The President said, ‘There’ll be no more scab coal from Europe, Comrade.’

  Terry raised his glass.

  The President shouted, ‘Vive la Révolution!’

  The President loved Paris. Revolutionary City. Second only to sacred Leningrad. Holy City. The President loved the bread. The cheese. The good coffee. The red wine. The President carried Zola everywhere. Germinal.

  Terry had a copy too. He couldn’t get into it –

  Terry threw it across the hotel room. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t –

  The President and the fucking Frogs had bloody left Terry in town after lunch. The President and Joan had had their own plans for the rest of the day. The evening –

  Plans in which Comrade Terry had not been included.

  Terry sat up in his single bed. Terry could see the rooftops of Paris. The pigeons. He called Theresa. Click-click. The kids. He said he’d be home tonight. Terry hung up. He called Diane. She wasn’t there. Terry wished she was here. He went to the bathroom. He touched himself. He shaved. He washed. He went downstairs.

  Pierre and Francois joined the Union for breakfast. The President ate croissants. He drank hot chocolate. Terry asked for toast and a pot of tea. Then they checked out. Pierre and François drove them back to the MTUI offices. They had informal meetings. They made informal plans. They ate another late lunch together. Pierre drove out with them to Charles de Gaulle.

  The flight took one hour.

  They were back in Manchester for half-five. The President put on his hat again. His sunglasses. Len was there to meet them. They didn’t offer Terry a lift –

  They weren’t going his way.

  Terry said he’d see them in London. Terry took the train home. It was raining.

  *

  Today is the day. The first of many days. The start of the action. The start of many actions. Neil Fontaine parks behind the Law Courts. Fred Wallace sits in the back with his two mates and the Jew –

  Today is their day in court. Their first of many days.

  Fred is here to issue writs against his own Union, at both area and national level. Fred will first argue the strike in the Nottingham Area is not official. Fred will then argue the instruction to strike does not have to be obeyed. Fred will also threaten to issue further writs if the local branch elections are postponed –

  These are expensive arguments for little men in cheap suits –

  Frightened men.

  Neil Fontaine switches on the signal. He listens to the Jew rally his troops –

  ‘They stalk your streets while you work. Terrorize your women. Your children. They daub your houses in paint while you sleep. Break your windows. Slash your tyres. Kill your pets. They watch your windows to see when your lights go on. Force you to dress in the dark. Watch your doorways and drives to see who works and who strikes. How long before the arson starts? Before your women are assaulted? Your children? These are the same men who would have you thrown out of your own Union. The same men who are using your own subs which you have loyally paid – and continue to pay –

  ‘To intimidate you! You!

  ‘This is why you are here today. This is what you are here to stop –

  ‘Intimidation. Corruption.’

  Neil changes channels. He listens to the Home Secretary make the same speech. Listens to the Home Secretary announce the formation of special squads to counter the intimidation in the pit villages of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire –

  Intimidation squads.

  Transit van. Boiler suit. House to house in Nottingham. Bringing out the dead scared. Twenty Yorkshire men still lodging down here with the striking families. Picketing pits. Twenty men still staying with the families on Thorney Abbey Road. In their gardens –

  In tents. In caravans.

  The Mechanic sits in the Transit van. In his black boiler suit. He watches the pickets leave the tents. The caravans. Watches the pickets go into the Jolly Friar. Watches them leave the worse for wear. Watches the pickets buy their bags of chips. Watches them stumble back to Thorney Abbey Road. Watches them thank their hosts. Wish them goodnight. Head into the gardens –

  Their tents. Their caravans.

  It is gone midnight.

  The Mechanic and his team get out of their Transit. They go up the drive of number 52. Round the back. Into the garden. There is an orange tent pitched on the lawn. There are two pickets inside. They are asleep. The Mechanic picks up a child’s bicycle. The rest of his team pick up some garden tools. Garden ornaments. Garden furniture. The team look at their leader –

  The Mechanic nods.

  They throw the objects onto the top of the orange tent. The pickets inside wake up. The pickets shout. Moan. The pickets try to get out of the tent. Thrash around –

  The Mechanic and his team jump up and down on the tent. On the pickets inside. The pickets shout. The pickets scream –

  They cannot get out.

  The Mechanic nods again –

  His team drag the tent out of the back garden. They drag it round to the front. Down the drive. They throw the tent and the pickets into the back of the Transit –

  Ligh
ts going on up and down the street. Curtains opening. Faces at the windows.

  The Mechanic and his team get in the back. The Mechanic bangs on the partition. The Transit sets off. The pickets tangled up inside the tent. Poles and ropes everywhere –

  The pickets struggling to free themselves –

  The Mechanic and his team punch them. They kick them. Beat and batter them –

  The pickets shouting. The pickets screaming. Moaning and pleading.

  The van stops. The Mechanic opens the back doors. His team jump out —

  The Mechanic and his men drag the pickets out. The pickets wrapped in the tent –

  They fall onto the ground at the side of the road.

  The Mechanic and his men pull the orange tent off the pickets. They drag them round to the front of the van –

  The two pickets are in their twenties, dressed only in their underpants and socks –

  They are dirty, bloody and bruised –

  One of them has pissed himself.

  They blink into the headlights of the van.

  The Mechanic and his men step forward. They punch the pickets. Bridge of their noses. Kick them. Their balls. The Mechanic and his men put bags on their heads. Tight. Handcuff their hands behind their backs –

  Tighter –

  They march the pickets to the side of the road. Lie them face down in a ditch –

  They cover them with yellow Coal not Dole stickers.

  The Mechanic nods. His men get back into their Transit.

  The Mechanic stands by the side of the road. He looks at the two pickets face down in the ditch in their underpants and socks –

  Bags on their heads. Badges on their bodies. Handcuffed.

  The Mechanic takes two Polaroid photographs.

  It starts to rain.

  The Mechanic jumps down into the ditch. He takes off their handcuffs –

  Whispers in their ears, ‘Stay out of Nottingham.’

  Neil Fontaine takes the back roads. The lanes. He comes to the bridges. The roadblocks. He slows. He pulls over. He shows the necessary papers to the private security guards. Neil Fontaine comes into Flixborough. The Trent Wharves –

  It is a beautiful sight, glorious –

  The checkpoints. The helicopters. Stopping and searching –

  Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.

  The ships in the port. The wagons on the dock. Unloading and loading –

  Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week –

  Coal.

  Neil Fontaine parks the Mercedes. He walks across the car park.

  She is waiting for him. She exhales. She smiles. She says, ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘The drivers need helmets,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘The windscreens need grilles.’

  ‘Never change, do you?’ laughs Diane Morris. ‘Never satisfied, are you?’

  Martin

  Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push – Police ten deep. Holding – Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Everyone shouting – Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Few stones coming over. Hands up. Coats up. Shields up – Brick coming. Lorries go in – Folk go down. Folk go under. Folk get lost. I get pulled back. Fall back. I get pulled up. Picked up – It’s Keith. He shakes his head. We go back in. Five minutes later another lot of lorries come up road – Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push. Push – Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust – Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. Scab. More stones – Brick coming. Lorries inside. Gates shut. Lines break. Snatch squads of six coppers charge out. Piling in – Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust – Blue helmets. Visors down. Short shields. Round shields. Truncheons out – Hidings on both sides – Snatch squads taking as many prisoners as they can – Taking them hard – By their hair. By their throats. By their balls – Chaos. Bloody fucking chaos – Someone chucks a smoke-bomb. Fire-crackers. Thunder-flashes. Explosions. Red smoke everywhere – Then out come fucking horses. First time I’ve seen them up close. Six at a time. Visors down. Batons swinging – Kill you if they could – And they could. They fucking could – We run. We scatter – Half through wood. Half up hill – Into fields. Into open – Lads stopping to pick up sticks. Stones. Spars. Anything they can – I don’t stop. Horses don’t stop either – Straight into field after us. Open ground – Snatch squads behind horses. Transits behind snatch squads – Under blue skies. Across green fields – Fuck. I keep on running. Don’t stop till I get up near Asda – Till I hear them banging. Banging their truncheons on their shields as horses trot back and lorries leave – Leaving us to blood. To bodies. Burials. Under the ground. Day 85. My car today. I ask Pete for somewhere else. He looks at me. He shrugs. He opens envelope. He shakes his head. He holds it up. He shows it me – Orgreave. I tell him, It’s a waste of time. Fucking side-show. That’s what it is. He nods. He says, Fuck them. Try Bentinck. I say, Thanks, Pete. I go and get Keith and John. Lad called Stevie says he wants to come in with us. Set off. Get on M1. Radio on: Footloose. Everyone dead chuffed to be going somewhere else. Even if it’s back to bloody Bentinck. Wake me up before you go-go. Halfway down motorway it comes on radio Arthur’s been nicked up at Orgreave and pickets have invaded NCB HQ in London. Barricaded themselves in. Hung Free Arthur Scargill banners from windows. Mood in car changes. Radio goes off. Come to Junction 28 and it’s like police Transit van of year contest. Very helpful, they are – Try Junction 31, lads, they tell us. That’s where action is. Orgreave – They’ll let you go to Orgreave. No problem. They’ll even give you directions. Fucking escort – Make bloody sure you get there. There and only there – Nowhere else. I look at Keith. He shrugs. Stevie sticks his head between front seats. I want to go, says Stevie. Let’s go. I look at Keith again. He nods. I look at clock – Gone ten. Probably missed all drama. I go round junction. Set off back way we came. Come off at Junction 31. Take Retford Road. Head back to Orgreave. There for about eleven. Park by another pub called Plough. Place packed. Rammed. Have a pint. Talk all about Arthur. What they’ve done to our Arthur. Talk all about revenge. Payback. What we’re going to do to them. Word is lorries will be back between half-twelve and one o’clock. I look at my watch again. Time for another pint. And another. Dutch fucking courage. Gets to half-twelve and we head back out. Bright sunshine. Start up towards main entrance. Stormtroopers having none of that. Sieg Heil. Herd us all up to top field. Lot of lads are already up there. Not as many as yesterday. Most are sat about in sun. Shirts off. Packs of cards. Cans of cheap ale. Look like a load of tomatoes, that red. Be able to spot a scab by paleness of his skin. There’s a game of football going – Skins and shirts. Then game stops – Police boots march up road. Four abreast by us. Twenty deep down by gate – Lorries must be coming. Everyone pushes forward. Towards truncheons and shields. Full-length

  The Twelfth Week

  Monday 21 – Sunday 27 May 1984

  The Transits come at midnight. His team sit in the back. They drink. Listen to music: Under Cover of the Night. Loud. Deafening –

  Their Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team have their bags packed. Ready. Their tools. The paint. The Mechanic and his team go from street to street –

  House to house. Scab to scab –

  In the last street. The last house. The last scab. They tip paint over the scab’s dog. Put the empty cans through his windows. The lights go on –

  The Mechanic and his men shout. They run –

  The Transit picks them up.

  In the back. They drink. Laugh. Listen to music: Breaking the Law –

  The Transit stops. The Mechanic and his team have their bags. Their tools –

  They do the padlocks. Do the chains. Bentley Brothers – Hauliers.

  Through the yard. Tools out. The Mechanic and his men set about the trucks –

  The windscreens. The brake pipes. The tyres –

  Back to the Transit –

  More drink. More laughs. More music: Smash It Up –

  Transit stops. Bags. Tools. Pad
locks. Chains. NCB Property.

  Through the pit yard. Set about the offices. The windows. The doors. Anything –

  They smash it up –

  The Transit comes back for them as the sun rises. This tour finished.

  The Transit drops the Mechanic near his mother’s house.

  He picks up the dogs. Heads home. He has a shower. A drink. He lies on the bed. Their bed. He switches on the news. Switches it off again. He gets up. Into the lounge –

  He puts on a record. Sade. Turns it off again. He sits on the sofa in the dawn –

  The curtains shut. His eyes wide open –

  The money on the table. The Polaroid –

  He knows she’s hurting. Knows he is not therefor her. Knows –

  *

  The Chairman was ready to meet. The Chairman was not. The President ready to meet. The President not. Preconditions. No preconditions. Set agendas. No set agendas –

  The talks were on. The talks were off. The talks on. The talks off –

  The talks on again.

  Everyone went South with the President. Everyone but Terry –

  Terry left to wait by the phone. To wait for the call. The word.

  Terry did his homework. Two piles of big files on his desk. One pile of accounts. One pile of actions.

  The phone rang. Click-click. It was the President. The President for Terry –

  The talks were off again. The Chairman was a liar. Everyone was a liar –

  Terry was to chair the morning meeting. The President hung up.

  Terry gathered his files. His homework. He went upstairs –

  They were waiting for him. They were waiting for news –

  Terry had no news. No one told him anything –

  So Terry told them things they already knew –

  The Board in Derbyshire had sent out personal letters to every miner in the area but just sixty men had gone back; ten thousand still on strike. Lancashire had suspended one thousand members for crossing official picket lines. The President of Kent had been remanded in custody for nine days for breach of bail conditions.