GB84

by David Peace

  Mike Sullivan raised his hand. Mike asked, ‘Is it true a Nottinghamshire miner nailed himself to his own fucking floor in protest over the scabs at his pit?’

  The phone rang. Nigel picked it up –

  Click-click.

  ‘Tell them we’re in a meeting,’ said Terry.

  Everyone laughed. Everyone but Nigel. Nigel shook his head –

  It was the President. The President for Terry –

  The President wanted Terry. The President needed Terry –

  Now. In London –

  Terry dropped the phone. Dropped everything. Left Mike in charge –

  In charge of everything.

  Terry caught the first train down. First class –

  It was a big day. The talks were scheduled to happen –

  Huge. The Nottinghamshire High Court action was set to be heard too –

  Terry took a taxi to the hotel. Through the revolving doors. Up the stairs –

  Enormous. Terry knocked on the door. Terry walked into the hotel room. Everyone looked at Terry. Everyone but the President and Paul. Terry looked at Joan –

  Joan shook her head. Joan whispered, ‘Kent won’t lift the picket of Hobart House. The President won’t cross a picket line. The Board won’t change the venue –

  ‘The Prime Minister won’t let them.’

  Alice Keyes picked up the phone. Click-click. She put her hand over the phone. She said, ‘President. It’s Yorkshire.’

  The President took the phone from her. He said, ‘Comrade?’

  Terry looked round the hotel room. People came in and people went out again. Took away cups and saucers. Brought in papers and files.

  ‘They’re liars,’ shouted the President into the phone. ‘Liars! Tell them, no way.’

  The President hung up. The President gestured to Len Glover. Len came over. The President whispered in Len’s ear. Len walked over to Paul. Len whispered to Paul. Paul nodded. Paul got up. Paul left the room.

  Alice picked up the phone again. Click-click. Put her hand over the phone again. She said, ‘President. It’s Yorkshire again.’

  The President took the phone back. He said, ‘Comrade, I don’t care if their whole bloody plant goes up. They’re not having another single piece of coal from us. Not one. Not while they continue to ride roughshod over every agreement we come to.’

  Joan picked up the other phone. Click-click. Joan said, ‘President. Kent –’

  The President put down one phone. He picked up the other. He said, ‘Comrade?’

  The dogs in the back of the car. The Mechanic 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. The table facing the door and the car park.

  The Mechanic sits down opposite Dixon.

  ‘Nice work, Dave,’ says Dixon. ‘People are very pleased with you.’

  The Mechanic says, ‘Always nice to be appreciated, Sergeant.’

  Paul Dixon puts an envelope on the table. He pushes it over to the Mechanic.

  The Mechanic opens it. He smiles. ‘Very nice to be appreciated, Sergeant.’

  ‘Lot more where that came from,’ says Dixon. ‘Way things are going.’

  The Mechanic smiles again. He says, ‘Good. I need the money.’

  ‘Not planning to retire to the sun again, I hope?’ asks Dixon.

  The Mechanic looks up from the envelope –

  Paul Dixon is staring at him. The dogs barking in the car –

  ‘No,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Home is where the heart is.’

  Neil Fontaine lies in the dark with the curtains open. Neil Fontaine thinks about alchemy; the transmutation of base metal into gold –

  He looks at his watch. He taps it. It is five-thirty in the morning –

  The telephone rings.

  Neil Fontaine picks it up. He listens –

  ‘There’s been an explosion. Major slip in one of the furnaces.’

  Neil Fontaine hangs up. He looks at his watch again. Taps it. He makes two calls. Hangs up again. He takes his blazer from the wardrobe. Puts it on. He checks the windows. The corridor. He leaves the room –

  Leaves Jennifer sleeping in his bed, the living and the dead.

  He takes the stairs. Goes outside. He hails a cab to the garage. Gets the Mercedes. He drives to Claridge’s. Picks up the Jew.

  They head North. The fast lane. The Jew on the phone.

  Neil Fontaine comes off the M1 at Junction 33. Heads down Sheffield Parkway. He goes round Poplar Way. Onto Orgreave Road. Down Highfield Lane –

  They are here –

  Orgreave.

  They park. The Jew gets out of the Mercedes. His binoculars round his neck.

  Neil Fontaine leads the Jew to a concrete-roofed bus shelter. Neil Fontaine helps the Jew up. They stand on top of the bus shelter. The Jew looks through his binoculars. The Jew sweeps the landscape. The Jew can see Catcliffe and Treeton. Handsworth and Orgreave. The Jew can see the cornfields and the slag heaps. The fences and the trees. The Jew can see the River Rother and the Sheffield-Retford railway. The roadways and the motorway –

  The Jew can see a white Range Rover approaching.

  Neil Fontaine helps the Jew down. They walk over to meet the Range Rover.

  South Yorkshire Brass gets out. Handshakes. Smiles. Nods.

  The Jew leads the way. They inspect the apron where the convoys will line up. They walk across the road to the old chemical factory. This is the base of their operations. Their command post. They climb dirty stairs up to the third floor. The ladder to the roof. They walk out into the sunlight. The Jew hands the Brass his binoculars –

  The Brass surveys the scene. He lowers the binoculars. He bites his lip. He says, ‘What if they succeed? If we can’t keep the place open? Like Saltley?’

  The Jew looks at the Brass. He asks, ‘Do you want to be the next Derek Capper?’

  The Brass shakes his head.

  The Jew gestures at the empty fields. The Jew points at the road. The Jew says, ‘Look at this place. You can open it. You can close it. Your decision. Your discretion –

  ‘Just make sure you have enough men –

  ‘The right men, too. Real men. Hard men. Not dilettantes.’

  The Brass nods. The Brass says, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘She is counting on you,’ says the Jew. ‘The nation is.’

  The Brass shakes the Jew’s hand. He hands back the binoculars. He leaves.

  The Jew watches the white Range Rover through his binoculars. He lowers them. He is smiling. He is laughing. He turns to Neil –

  ‘Well done,’ says the Jew. ‘Well done indeed, Neil.’

  Here. He. Goes –

  The Mechanic through the automatic doors. Hits the alarms. Chaos –

  Up the supermarket aisles to the office. Through the office door –

  The secretary stands up. ‘No! Please God, no –’

  Punch to the security guard. He goes down –

  Slap for the secretary. Down and she’s out –

  Kick to the guard and he stays down –

  The Mechanic drags the manager across his desk by his hair –

  Puts his face to the safe and shouts, ‘Open it!’

  Manager hesitates. Hit with the handle of the pistol. The manager opens it –

  The Mechanic kicks his legs from under him. Manager falls flat on his face –

  ‘Stay that way,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘And live.’

  The Mechanic fills the bag. Just the cash. Takes the money and he runs –

  Down supermarket aisles. Through automatic doors. The chaos and he’s gone –

  Just. Like. That.

  There had been calls all night. There had been talks all night. There had been deals. Concessions. Favours. Kent lifted the picket. The word went out. The talks were back on. Calls were made. Plans. Strategies. Meetings about the meeting. Talks about the talks. Face to faces about the face to f
ace. Everyone was here –

  Everyone was going to be there –

  The entire National Executive. Their entire staff. Fifty people.

  The President addressed his troops. The President laid it out. The President said, ‘Listen to them; let them have their say. Then they will listen to us; let us have our say. But there can be no negotiation. Because there can be no closures. No redundancies –

  ‘So there is nothing to negotiate. Nothing!’

  Everyone cheered. Everyone applauded. Everyone followed the President –

  Ten cabs to Hobart House.

  Terry paid the drivers, all ten of them.

  They pushed through the press. They went inside. Straight upstairs –

  The Mausoleum.

  Room 16, Hobart House, Victoria:

  Bright lights, smoke and mirrors –

  The orange anti-terrorist curtains still 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; everyone else down at the bottom –

  Seventy people –

  Sixty-eight people sat in silence as they listened to the Chairman –

  To the Chairman tell them that everyone agreed it was the Board’s job to manage. Tell them that everyone agreed the Union had no plans to interfere in that job. That everyone agreed on how much coal had to be produced. Everyone agreed they could not continue to lose money. Agreed pits had to close for reasons of safety. Had to close for reasons of exhaustion. That everyone agreed pits had closed for reasons other than safety or exhaustion in the past –

  That pits always had done. That pits always would.

  Sixty-nine people sat in silence as they watched the President take his fingers from his ears and shake his head –

  Sixty-nine people listen to the President tell the Chairman that pits had always closed for reasons of safety. That pits had always closed for reasons of exhaustion –

  Always had. Always would –

  But pits had never closed for reasons other than safety or exhaustion –

  Never had. Never would –

  Not Polmaise. Not Snowdon. Not Herrington. Not Bullcliffe Wood –

  Not Cortonwood. Never –

  Ever. Ever. Ever –

  ‘Does everyone agree on that?’ the President asked the Chairman.

  The Chairman stood up. The Chairman said, ‘No comment.’

  It is a war of nerves. There have been casualties. Prisoners taken. Hostages to be freed –

  The dogs in the garden. The Mechanic opens the door. He goes into the lounge –

  He has company.

  Neil Fontaine is sat on the sofa in the dark with a brandy. Sade on low –

  A Polaroid on the glass table.

  Neil lights a cigarette. Inhales. Exhales. Neil holds up two fingers –

  ‘Fuck you,’ the Mechanic shouts. ‘Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.’

  ‘Finished?’ asks Neil.

  The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘I haven’t got her fucking diary.’

  ‘You haven’t looked, David,’ says Neil. ‘You haven’t even fucking looked.’

  ‘I don’t know where to fucking look and neither do you.’

  ‘Girl could be forgiven for thinking you don’t love her. Not like you say you do –’

  ‘Fuck you,’ the Mechanic screams. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’

  Neil finishes his drink. Neil stubs out his cigarette. Neil stands up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want her fucking back!’

  ‘You don’t have the diary,’ says Neil. ‘You won’t help me. I can’t help you.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the fucking diary!’

  ‘Just a question of silence, then,’ says Neil. ‘Yours? Or hers?’

  The Mechanic picks up his holdall. He puts it on the glass table. Opens it –

  ‘What’s in there?‘asks Neil. ‘Your heart?’

  The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds in cash.’

  ‘David, David, David,’ says Neil. ‘Would it were so simple –’

  ‘I love her,’ the Mechanic says. ‘Never say I don’t, Neil. She’s mine now –’

  ‘It’s not my decision,’ says Neil. ‘Not my choice.’

  It is a war of nerves. There have been casualties. There will be reparations. Ransoms to be paid –

  A price.

  Martin

  ones. Stones coming over. Lads getting hit. Folk shouting to pack it in with stones. I pull my T-shirt over my head, like that’s going to fucking help. I get swept right down to front. Then carried back again – Like a fucking horrible sea. Helmets flying up. Truncheons. Sticks. Stones. Broken bones. Blokes go down. Boots all over them. Then lorries are in and everyone falls back. I start to walk away. To look for Keith or John. Everyone else making their way off road when – Shit. Fucking horses charge – I head for wood. They won’t follow us in here, I think. They fucking do. Wood’s only about fifty bloody metre wide and all. I come out other side and there’s a wall of a thousand fucking coppers with their truncheons out – Fuck me. I turn back – Horses still coming. I try to get up a tree. They’re swinging with their batons. Hitting anyone they can get. I jump down. Run. Horses still coming. Bastards on foot with shields and truncheons behind them. Batons drawn and ready. I come out other side of long grass. Brambles. I’m at embankment. I jump down. Land badly. My ankle fucking kills. End up on railway. Bloke tearing down line towards us – Shit. Train’s fucking coming –I scramble off line. Look up banking. Hundred fucking coppers banging their shields. Beckoning for us to come back up and have a go – Cunts. Fucking cunts – Train goes past. I cross line. Head up other way. Get to Rotherham Road. Lot of lads here – Split heads. Cracked ribs. Broken limbs. Bloody – Mates nicked. Beaten. Lost. Everyone fucking angry. Fucking furious. Things bastards have done to them. Completely unprovoked. Lads you’ve never met before telling you to get back down there. Give them what they’re fucking asking for. Fucking hiding they’ve got coming – To pick up bricks. Fence poles. Milk bottles. To make a trap – Few blokes get some wire and string it between these telegraph poles. They come up to where I am. Tell us to go down lane. Throw stones at bastard pigs. Then leg it back up here. I go down with about fifty or sixty other blokes I don’t know from Adam. I stand there in front of shields. Truncheons. I throw stones. Ranks break. Out come horses again. Eight of them – We run. Fucking run – Wire gets one of riders. Bang! Down he goes – Hard. Onto road – Everyone turns back. Hundred lads heading down on him – Hundred of their lot coming back up for him. I can see his fucking face beneath his visor – White in terror. Thought of his own death. Here on this road. In this place – And I wish him dead. I do. I wish him and all his kind dead. Every last bloody one of them. Dead – But he gets up. He runs. He gets away. Escapes – I watch him get up. I watch him run. I watch him get away. Escape – Taste of salt in his mouth. Taste of salt in mine – Fear. Fucking fear – I spit. I spit and I spit. My stomach knotted – Lads have got a fucking Portakabin from somewhere now. Put a match to it – Smoke everywhere. Next news they’ve got one of telegraph poles – Running down hill towards police lines with it. Like a fucking battering-ram – Not enough of them though. Thing drops to ground – Starts to roll away. Police go for it – Get hold of it. Rest of them all banging on their fucking shields again – Applauding their mates as all lorries leave again. Loaded – Day 87. Orgreave. Fucking Orgreave. Here we go. Here we go. Here we go – Here I go down. Here I go under. Here I get lost – I get kiss of life and a fractured fucking skull. Day 89. They keep us in for ob-servation. Daft bastard fell off a ladder, that’s what Pete tells doctors. Fell off a ladder and down stairs. They send us home after twenty-four hours. Bag of bandages. Load of pills. Plenty of rest. Doctor’s orders – Rest. Sleep. Rest. Sleep – I lie here in our big bed. In our room. Our house. I lie here and I watch shadows on our ceiling. O
n our walls. Our bedroom door – It’s been three months. Three fucking months – Lifted. Threatened. Beaten. Hospitalized. Broke in every fucking sense – I lie here and I listen to rain on our windows. To her tears – I turn over. I look at her – Her hopes. Her fears – All our hopes. All our fears – I close my eyes. Tight – Under the ground, we brood. We hwisprian. We onscillan. Under the ground, we scream – I open my eyes. Wide – She’s not finished with us. Not finished with any of us.

  The Thirteenth Week

  Monday 28 May – Sunday 3 June 1984

  These were bad days. The deliberate and inevitable failure of the talks. The predictable and inevitable success of the Board and their stooges in the High Court –

  The High Court had overruled the President. The Court had overruled the NEC. The Court had instructed the Nottinghamshire Area to hold their Union elections now. The Court had upheld the Nottinghamshire miners’ right to work. The Court had ruled there was no basis to call the strike in Nottingham official –

  Bad days, worse weeks –

  The Court also held the Union liable for all costs from the Pension Fund case. Terry had not mentioned this to the President. Terry was waiting for the right moment –

  Now was not the time –

  The Board had just called the President on the phone. Click-click. Their Deputy Director of Industrial Relations. He’d gone on about the Queen Mary furnace at Scunthorpe –

  The threat to life. The threat to limb.

  He’d begged the President for more tonnage out of Orgreave. He’d pleaded with the President to help them relieve this potential pressure point –

  The President put down the phone. He stared at the faces round the table in the Conference Room. He repeated the Deputy Director’s last three words –

  ‘Potential pressure point.’

  The President smiled. Everybody smiled. He nodded. Everybody nodded –

  The President turned to Alice and Joan. He said, ‘Get me Barnsley.’

  *

  Neil Fontaine stands on the dock in the rain. He looks through the showers at the ships and the lorries. He watches the ships unload. The foreign words on their sides. The foreign flags on their masts. The foreign seamen on their decks. He watches the lorries load up. The stickers across their sides. The grilles on their windscreens. The drivers in their motorcycle helmets.