by David Peace
He looks at his watch. He taps it. It is two in the morning –
Today the Jew will get his reward. The Prime Minister has promised.
Today the Jew will meet the President of the United States of America –
The Prime Minister has promised. This will be his reward –
The London Economic Summit. The D-Day celebrations –
With the world watching –
The Prime Minister has promised (and she always keeps her promises).
The telephone rings –
Neil Fontaine gets up. He picks up the phone. He listens. He hangs up –
Jennifer sits up in the bed. Jennifer says, ‘Forgive me, Neil. Take me back. Kill him –’
Skull. Candle. Clock. Mirror. Neil Fontaine moves across the floor to the bed. Carpet. Towels. Sheets. Light across the wallpaper. He holds her. Curtains. Fixtures. Fittings. Shadows across their bones. He kisses her. Hands. Hair. Loves her –
There are always moments like this.
He dresses. He leaves. He takes the fast lane North –
He has his other promises to keep. Orders to give. Instructions. Hand-delivered –
Now is not the time, the day or the hour –
The world watching.
But the time, the day and the hour will come –
The world not watching.
Neil Fontaine comes off the motorway at half-past seven. He parks the Mercedes. He walks through the gathering pickets to the old chemical factory. He goes through the police lines into the command post. He has his binoculars. The envelope.
The South Yorkshire Brass looks up. He says, ‘Christ, what now?’
Neil Fontaine smiles. He hands him the envelope –
The Brass opens it. He takes out the letter. He reads it. He shakes his head –
‘Patience,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Patience.’
Neil Fontaine leaves him to it. He goes up to the roof. He raises the binoculars. He sees the horse-boxes. The kennels. The Transits. The PSUs –
He hears the hooves. The barking. The tyres. The boots –
Fresh from Creswell.
Radios crackle. Signals are given. Arms linked –
Ready.
The pickets move down the road to the field –
The lorries are coming.
Neil Fontaine watches them speed along the top road. Watches the pickets push. The police line hold. The lorries inside.
Neil Fontaine puts down the binoculars. He turns to leave –
‘We’ll support you. We’ll support you. We’ll support you ever more (ever more) –’
Neil Fontaine raises the binoculars again –
‘We’ll. Support. You. E-ver. More!’
The President of the National Union of Mineworkers is coming down the road. Grey trousers. Black anorak. Baseball cap –
Neil Fontaine has him in his sights again.
All the President’s men clap. They cheer –
Salute their Communist Caesar.
Neil Fontaine smiles –
For those about to die.
*
Diane got out of bed. Diane found her knickers in the sheets. Diane put them back on. Her bra. Her tights. Her petticoat. Her blouse. Her skirt. Her jacket.
Terry sat up. He looked at his watch. He had an hour before the train to London. Theresa and the kids thought he was already there. Gone down last night. For the march –
The first major Commons debate. The lobby of Parliament –
The Home Match with the Met.
Terry had booked the coaches. Made the arrangements. Paid the prices –
London. Wakefield. Orgreave.
‘That’s all he thinks I’m good for,’ Terry said. ‘Booking bloody buses.’
Diane came back over to the bed. She sat down on the edge. She kissed his cheek.
Terry said, ‘When will I see you again?’
Diane put her hand beneath the sheet. She held his cock. She smiled.
Terry lay back. He closed his eyes. He said, ‘When?’
Diane went under the covers. She kissed his cock. She sucked it.
Terry said, ‘I’ve got a lot of money, you know? We could just –’
She reached up. She put her finger to his lips.
*
The Jew calls Neil Fontaine at the Victoria Hotel again. It is the very middle of the night. The Jew is lonely. The Jew is bored. The Jew is depressed. The Jew is drunk –
He has been mixing his drinks; equal parts bravado and dread.
The Jew boasts about the success of the Derbyshire High Court action. Brags that the Nottinghamshire elections will rout the Militants –
Bravado.
But the Jew worries that it will all have been in vain. Fears the Board and the Wets will seek to use the Employment Acts –
Dread.
The Jew tells Neil Fontaine the Board are due to meet the Union again. Today. This time in Edinburgh. As far away as they can get. The Jew knows he’s been cut out. After all he’s done. The Jew senses a cave-in. A climb-down –
Beer and sandwiches at Number 10.
The Jew talks about Cabinet leaks. Talks about Wets. He says they are scared. Scared by the sight of ten thousand miners marching through the streets of London –
By the headlines in the Daily fucking Mirror –
The leaks about government intervention in the railway pay dispute.
They will betray her. These neophytes. These proselytes.
But the Jew is ready –
Ready to defend her. To save her. To send her victorious –
Victorious.
The Jew wants Neil back down in London –
ASAP.
Neil Fontaine opens his eyes. He tells the Jew he’ll see him on Monday. Not before.
The Jew sulks.
Neil asks the Jew about the President of the United States. The Summit. D-Day.
The Jew gushes. Neil Fontaine yawns –
He hangs up on the Jew. He checks out. He gets the car. He goes for a drive –
A job to do.
Neil Fontaine turns into the car park of the café. David Johnson is already here. Two big dogs in the back of his car.
Neil Fontaine signals for him to follow.
David Johnson starts his car. The dogs in the back –
The two cars head South.
Neil Fontaine winds down the window. Puts on the radio –
Ronnie goes home; the GLC Jobs Festival; England beating Brazil in Rio.
Neil Fontaine switches off the radio. Winds up the window –
Two cars. South.
Junction 14. Newport Pagnell. Milton Keynes –
Two cars.
Slip-roads. Side-roads. Back roads –
A cul-de-sac.
Nice houses. Detached houses. Barratt houses –
Safe houses for the unsafe.
Neil Fontaine parks in the drive. David Johnson parks on the road. Neil Fontaine gets out. He locks his door. David Johnson gets out. Locks his –
The dogs in the back –
David Johnson follows Neil Fontaine up the drive. He follows him inside –
They stand in the hall. The holdalls in their hands. The handguns in their belts.
The air smells old. The codes for Belfast and Derry are written above the phone.
David Johnson says, ‘Where is she? Where’s Jen?’
Neil Fontaine swallows. Neil Fontaine closes his eyes –
There are skulls. Mountains of skulls. There are candles. Boxes of candles –
‘Your silence? Or hers?’ asks Neil Fontaine. ‘It’s your choice, David.’
Peter
about collapse of talks now. Looked like it’d go all way to winter – Thatcher on TV talking no surrender; Heathfield saying it was stalemate; Board wanting to hold its own bleeding ballot – That’s why they’d scuppered talks, said Tom. Fucking planned it that way – They’ll go back to High Court now, said Derek. Mark my words – Everyone nodded. Every
one knew – He’s going to want one last push before they do, I said. Derek nodded. Derek said, Lads won’t like it. But if he says go, they’ll go – Last fucking time then, said Johnny. Last fucking time I go there – Everyone nodded again. But everyone knew – National Executive were in session in Sheffield. They were set to end all dispensations – No secret meetings. No secret deals. No sell-out – Not that we gave a shit; we ran South bloody Yorkshire. No one else, Johnny was shouting over chat. And that goes for more than just steel – Everyone nodded. But everyone knew where we were going – Orgreave. I looked round Welfare. Lads knew what it was going to say before I even opened frigging envelope. There were sixty-odd of us. Every one of them nodding. Big Tom came in. He said, Few thousand already up Handsworth end. It’s on radio. So off we set – Half-five. Didn’t take us long to find out what was happening. Lads were waiting for us at fence. Thought they were CID because this one bloke had a walkie-talkie. Krk-krk. Keith and Sammy were ready to give him a thump. Turned out he was from Doncaster area. He got out his map. Got on his walkie-talkie. Idea was we were to occupy frigging plant – He didn’t know how, like – But that was plan. Being local, we told him best way was to march ourselves round back of old tip and over top. Drop down right into plant. So that’s what we did – Bloody look on faces of security guards and coppers that were there – Shit themselves. Krk-krk. Just this one bloke who fancied his chances. Said he was going to set his dog on us. We told him to piss off. But he only went and let dog loose, didn’t he? Big one and all. Dog come running at us. This one lad Steve, one of ours – he just stuck up his foot. Kicked dog in head. Dog went down. Dog was dead. Fucking killed it – Just like that. But we were in – Inside fucking plant – and for that one sweet bloody moment we were here and they were there – and we were winning. Winning. We had fucking plant. We were holding them on tip, too. Dust going up. Folk black as pitch. Bobbies head to toe in stuff. Krk-krk. Dawn coming up with it – Beautiful one it was, too. Right hot one – But that was end of it. No fucking clue what to do next. Doncaster lads went for pump house. All wagons that were there. Rest of them ready to go toe-to-toe with boys in fucking blue – but they’d fucked off to get their riot gear. Krk-krk. Back in a bit with big sticks and their kits – Bits of wood, all we had. Like waiting to get kicked and nicked – Big push or a few hundred more and we’d have had them. Had them bastards. No messing. Shut plant – Won day. Then and only then, like – But there was no support. No big push – No sense waiting to be clobbered or collared either. So we walked. Headed back up Treeton Lane onto Orgreave Road – First lorries coming off Parkway and past us as we went. I looked at my watch again: eight-fifteen – Massive roar. Big noise went up – First lorries were in. It had started again – Lads had heard they were using dogs to mop folk up. Stragglers left back in villages – Lads wanted to join main body up Handsworth end. It was where Our Arthur was – Our Leader. Our King – Safety in numbers. That’s what they wanted – What police wanted, too. They marched us south down onto Highfield Lane – Police cordon across road. They broke to let us through. Told us to join thousands they’d penned in up at Handsworth end of lane – What a sight that was. Thousands of us – They’d laid on buses from all over: Kent, Notts, Wales, Durham, Newcastle, Scotland – Parked them up in centre of Sheffield. Then they’d all walked out to Orgreave – Thousands and thousands of us. Like Saltley Revisited – Everyone marching out here. Traffic at a standstill – Police were a sight themselves, mind. Thousands of them and all. Got their own buses, too – Fifteen different forces, they reckoned – Big black sea of
The Fifteenth Week
Monday 11 – Sunday 17 June 1984
Operation Vengeance. Imported from Ulster. Updated for Yorkshire. Computer recording equipment activated by voice-imprint, the speaking of selected words, the coincidence of individual listed or unlisted telephone numbers, and the combinations of telephone numbers and/or area codes. Recordings filed and cross-referenced with terminal surveillance records on all employees of the National Union of Mineworkers, their families, friends and known sympathizers. This included, but was not limited to, the home phone numbers of all members of the National Union of Mineworkers; the home and office phone numbers of the owners of all vehicles logged in noteworthy circumstances in the Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire coalfields; all public telephones in the Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire coalfields. Information cross-referenced with data from the Department of Health and Social Security, the Inland Revenue and the Union, company and personal bank accounts of the above via two hundred and fifty terminals nationwide. The movement of all persons and assets could be further tracked by GCHQ Cheltenham in tandem with NSA C-group network via the Morwenstow and Menwith Hill stations –
Operation Vengeance. Imported from Ulster. Updated for Yorkshire –
By Malcolm Morris –
‘– picked them until they bled –’
Malcolm Gordon Morris, forty, government fairy –
Tinkerbell.
‘–told her, leave them bloody scabs alone. Would she? Would she –’
For the collection of words –
The air full of them. Everywhere. Heard but not seen –
Expressions. Assertions. Declarations. Statements. Utterances. Asseverations Designations. Locutions. Affirmations. Pledges. Promises. Guarantees Assurances. Commitments. Reports. News. Information. Accounts. Intelligence. Advice. Tidings. Greetings. Phrases. Secrets. Passwords. Catchwords. Watchwords. Shibboleths. Signals. Calls. Signs. Countersigns Codes. Commands. Orders. Announcements. Enunciation. Proclamations Pronouncements. Judgements. Rows. Polemics. Quarrels. Feuds. Altercations. Contentions. Debates. Arguments. Shouts. Questions. Answers. Responses. Facts. Figures. Messages. Interactions. Interplay. Intercourse. Transmissions. Connections. Contacts. Intercommunications. Communications. Interchange. Notifications. Telling. Discussion. Articulation. Rhetoric. Vocalization. Dialogue. Discourse. Speech. Comment. Remark. Observation. Opinion. Critique. Wisecrack. Prattle. Conference. Confabulations. Chatter. Rumours. Gossip. Hearsay. Tattle. Scandal. Suggestions. Hints. Undertones. Murmurs. Grumbles. Mumbles. Whimpers. Lies. Cries. Whispers. Talk –
‘– sent up the horses, brained us, knocked shit out of us, to disperse us, he said –’
Talk. All talk. Nothing but talk –
Language. The air full of it. Everywhere –
‘– ruptured blood vessels in his chest which caused a massive accumulation of –’
Words and –
‘– blood around his heart –’
Death.
Terry was out of the talks again. Terry took another aspirin. Fuck them –
One day in. The next day out. In. Out. In. Out. Piss Terry all about. Fuck them –
Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them –
It was a waste of petrol anyway. Terry knew that –
Terry had seen the so-called shopping list: the settlement of the pay dispute; early retirement; a shorter working week; extra holidays –
The President thought the Chairman was on the ropes. Terry didn’t –
Terry had just finished reading the interview with the Chairman in today’s Times. The Chairman had described the President as a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde character.
A waste of petrol. A waste of breath. Terry could read their minds –
The Board were winning the legal actions; they were getting men back in Derbyshire day by day; the scabs unseating the pro-strike delegates in the Nottinghamshire branch elections. The government were further cutting off benefits one by one; they were saying they had coal enough until the New Year –
Repeatedly.
A waste of petrol. A waste of breath. A waste of time. It was up to Terry –
Terry Winters would save the day. Terry packed his briefcase. His papers and his pens. His facts and his figures. He locked up his office. He checked the door –
Fuck them all.
There was a Denim in the lift. He said, ‘Missed you on the march,
Comrade.’
Terry put his finger to his lips. He whispered, ‘Union business, Comrade.’
The Denim looked at Terry. The Denim raised his eyebrows.
Terry tapped the end of his nose. He winked at him (glad it wasn’t a Tweed) –
Fuck him. Fuck them all.
Terry got his car. He drove out to Huddersfield Road. He’d left it too long –
Clive had kept phoning. Kept leaving messages. Never using the code.
Terry parked outside the headquarters of the Yorkshire NUM. Terry went inside. Terry went upstairs. Terry knocked on the door of the Yorkshire Area Finance Officer. Terry didn’t wait. Terry went straight in –
Clive Cook looked up. Clive shook his head. He said, ‘Fuck –’
Terry put his finger to his lips again. He said, ‘Walls have ears, Comrade.’
Clive shook his head. He got his coat. He followed Terry down the stairs –
Clive and Terry went for a walk. They found a bench in the sun.
Clive said, ‘Me and Gareth have been talking. We’re worried …’
‘What about?’
Clive sighed. He said, ‘The money. What do you think we’re worried about?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Terry. ‘The strike? The hardship? The legal issues …’
Clive said, ‘People are beginning to ask questions.’
‘And that’s exactly why we’ve done what we’ve done,’ said Terry.
Clive said, ‘These are our own people asking the questions. Not just Bill Reed.’
‘Let them ask.’
Clive held out his hands. Clive said, ‘So what do we tell them?’
‘You tell them to ask me,’ said Terry. ‘That’s what you tell them.’
‘The President knows what we’re doing?’ asked Clive. ‘Supports us?’
Terry leant into his face. He said, ‘Who got Bill Reed off your back, Comrade?’
‘But who put him on my back in the first –’
Terry poked Clive in his chest. Terry said, ‘Who? Who was it, Comrade?’
Clive Cook closed his eyes. Clive Cook nodded.
Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘The battle hasn’t even begun yet, Comrade.’
