by David Peace
Malcolm opened the box. Two cassettes inside –
He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the stereo. Side A.
Malcolm unwrapped his bandages. Took the cotton wool out of his ears –
He lowered the volume. He adjusted the tone. He pressed play –
The Eve of the War started. Four minutes later The Eve of the War stopped –
There were other noises on the tape now –
Other noises from other rooms. Other rooms, other sounds –
The wheels turning. The wheels within wheels –
The sound of a door opening. The sound of footsteps coming –
Malcolm pressed stop. Forward. Stop –
Silence. Just the silence. Pregnant –
Two bloody wet cotton-wool balls in his hands, Malcolm pressed play –
Screams. Just her screams –
Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Malcolm played it all back –
Over and over and over –
Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play. Again and again and again.
Peter
preferable when it’s costing them an arm and leg? Because he’s worried that any settlement now would breakdown again when stocks were still low. That’s why. So I say we take his warning as a piece of bloody good advice. I say we push for a return right now. Keep overtime ban on. Mend some fences. Build our bridges back with Nottingham. Triple Alliance. Rest of movement. Clear some debts. Then, Bang! Hit bastards hard, right before Christmas. They won’t be able to last long then, I’m telling you. I sat back down. David Rainer nodded. He said, Not up to us, though, is it, Pete? So who is it up to then? asked Johnny – But there were no answer to that. Because we all knew bloody answer. That was why. Martin Daly came round ours tonight. Thought they’d put you in Middlewood, I said. He didn’t laugh. He shook his head. He said, You don’t know half of it – Fair enough, I said. How’s your Cath? Not bad, he said. What about you? Looks like it hurts – Only when I breathe, I said. He laughed. He shook his head again. He said, Bloody state of us, eh? I said, Not just us, lad – Right there, he said. Pint going to hurt, is it? Not if you’re buying. He laughed again. He stood up. He said, Best get our straitjackets on then, hadn’t we? Ended up in Hotel. I could tell Martin weren’t keen. Talk at tables was what you’d expect – They go on about uneconomic pits and then they spend sixty-five million quid a week on police, compensation costs to industry, alternative power and lost income tax. Sixty-five million fucking quid. Every week. That’s nigh on ten million fucking quid a day. It’s been over a hundred days. Hundred days at ten million quid a day. Never spent a bloody penny round here before. Think about it, said Billy. Ten million quid a day for a hundred days. Fucking hell, she must really hate us. Really fucking hate us – I was nodding. Everybody was – That fucking letter, Danny said. Wish I’d never opened bloody thing. Should’ve fucking burnt it like Keith did. Dear Colleague, Your future is in danger. Everybody will lose – and lose disastrously. Your savings will disappear. The industry will be butchered. Twenty or thirty pits in danger of never reopening, Join your associates who have already returned to work. Sincerely, Ian MacGregor. Your future is in danger? Little Mick nodded. Who does that Yankee bastard think he is? I’m sat there reading that fucking thing with a black eye and two fucking broken ribs. I know my future is in fucking danger – In fucking danger from him and her and their fucking boot-boys – That’s who my future’s in fucking danger from – I was nodding. Everybody was – You saw photo on front of Miner? That bloke were an army sergeant driving that police van during London march – Khaki shirt. Sergeant stripes. Badges. Insignia. The lot – Clear as fucking day. I’m telling you, that weren’t first time, either. That were never just police at Orgreave. Never. Not in a month of fucking Sundays. Not a number on any of them, were there? I know I didn’t bloody see one. Army, that’s who they were. Fucking troops. Light relief after Northern Ireland. Light relief. 1926 all over again – I was nodding. Nodding and watching Martin at bar. Bar and dartboard. Bloke at table got out his photocopy of Ridley Plan. Revenge, he said. That’s what this is. Revenge – I nodded. Everybody nodded – I’d had enough, though. I stood up. I went outside. I needed some fucking air. Our Jackie had left a sandwich out for us when I got back – Two slices of Mighty White. Margarine. Packet of cheese and onion crisps – Bloody crisp sandwiches again. I ate it and went up. Mary was asleep. I checked alarm clock. Put on my pyjamas. Got into bed. Lay there looking up at ceiling. It was midnight. Had to be bloody up again in an hour and a half. Didn’t want to sleep, though. Ruined even that, hadn’t they? I couldn’t remember a single bloody dream I’d had before strike. Now I couldn’t close my eyes for more than five minute fore I had them open again – Shitting bricks. Sweating like a bastard – Total darkness. I can touch my nose with my finger and still not see my finger. Hear hammering on metal in distance. Or was it here? Near. Here with smell of wood. Mice. Then hammering stops. Mice are gone. There’s a different noise. Different
The Nineteenth Week
Monday 9 – Sunday 15 July 1984
Christopher, Timothy and Louise were about to break up for their summer holidays. Theresa Winters thought the children should go down to Bath to stay with her mum and dad, at least for a couple of weeks. Terry thought Theresa should go too. Theresa was hurt. How would she be able to help him if she went down to Bath? How would she be able to support the strike? Help the women’s action groups? Did he not appreciate the cuttings she took from the papers, the videos she made from the news? Did he not want her to assist the welfare groups? Did he not want her to attend the Women Against Pit Closures Conference at Northern College next Sunday? Theresa had stopped washing the frying pan and the grill. She was staring at her husband. Her hands wet. Christopher, Timothy and Louise had stopped eating their cereal. They were staring at their dad. Their mouths open. Terry Winters looked down at his newspaper. He pushed his glasses up his nose. His mouth moved –
‘I’m sorry,’ he told them. He stood up. He left them –
Terry Winters went to work.
Terry spent most of the day organizing the hand-delivery of confidential envelopes to the finance officers on each executive committee of each separate area. These envelopes contained individual sets of instructions; the individual sets of instructions to his latest master plan –
His greatest masterstroke –
Instructions to authorize with immediate effect the payment in full to all non-elected employees of the Union (Regional and National) their entire salary for fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend the collection of rents on any properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to transfer the deeds and titles of properties owned by the Union (Regional and National) to the tenants of the properties concerned for the duration of fiscal 1984/85. Instructions to suspend repayments to the Union (Regional and National) of loans made by the Union (Regional and National) to employees for the duration of fiscal 1984/85 –
Each instruction a masterstroke –
Each instruction divesting the Union of its assets at national and regional level, pre-empting the possible sequestration of funds while simultaneously ensuring the loyalty of its employees in its darkest of hours –
The darkest, darkest of hours yet to come.
Clive Cook called Terry back within an hour. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive used the telephone in his office at Huddersfield Road to call Terry at St James’s House. Click-click. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would. Clive failed to use the codes. Just like he always did. Just like Terry knew he would –
Just like Bill Reed had said Clive would.
Terry listened to Clive’s questions. Then Terry said, ‘Just fucking do it, Clive.’
Terry hung up. Terry stood by the phone. Terry picked it up again –
Click-click.
Terry hung up again. Terry walked backwards down the stairs. Terry went out.
/> Terry called Diane back from a phone box in the station. He’d dreaded this call. He’d gone over it tens of times in his head. Hundreds. He knew it had to be said –
Had to be done.
Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He dialled their room. Listened to it ring –
Listened to Diane say, ‘It’s all very 007 is this, Mr Chief Executive Officer.’
‘These are very dangerous times,’ said Terry. ‘I can’t see you any more.’
‘What?’
‘I am under surveillance. I am being tailed and I am being bugged.’
‘What are you –’
‘If they found out about us, they could use you against me. Against the Union.’
‘What are you talking about, Terry?’
‘They’ve bugged our offices,’ he said. ‘Our houses. All our phones –’
‘What on earth does that have to do with us? Our relationship?’
‘It can’t go on,’ said Terry. ‘I can’t see you any more. It’s over.’
*
These are the hours Neil knew had to come –
The recondite hours.
He wants to be believed. Not to be deceived. His messages received –
The Jew naked on the carpet of his suite. The Jew shouting, ‘There is no crisis.’
He clutches his cock in both hands. He quotes Hayek –
‘Crucial truths,’ whispers the Jew. ‘Crucial battles, Neil.’
Neil Fontaine drags the Jew into the bathroom. He throws him into the cold bath –
Neil watches the Jew thrash –
His white limbs and his red chest.
He listens to the Jew scream –
His right fingernails scratching at his left breast, tearing it open.
Neil changes the water. He runs the hot tap. He fetches the Jew’s rubber duck –
The Jew soaks among the suds until he is clean and sober again –
His wounds almost healed.
It is here that the phrase comes to him. He often thinks about that war in the bath. It was where the Jew first came in –
The Jew’s grande entrée –
She had been surrounded then by apostates and apologists, cowards and caitiffs. Milksops to a man. The Jew had ridden a coach and horses through that dastardly pack.
The Jew had walked straight up to her and introduced himself with the words, ‘The British public wants you to stick it to Johnny Dago, ma’am.’
The Jew had been right too. The Iron Lady had conquered the Tin-Pot General. The Jew would be right this time too. The Iron Lady would vanquish King Coal –
It was time again to break out the coach and horses.
This the hour Neil knew had to come –
The occult hour.
He wants to be admitted. Not to be rejected. His membership accepted.
The Jew drips bloody water across the carpet of his suite. The Jew says to Neil, ‘The enemy within.’
*
All hands on deck. The Dock Strike was national. Notts strikers had occupied the Mansfield committee rooms, preventing the Area Council meeting to mandate their representatives to oppose the introduction of the new disciplinary rule at this week’s Extraordinary Annual Conference. The talks between the Union and the Board had resumed in Edinburgh. The Troika had taken with them a written draft of an agreement on which they would be prepared to settle.
These were the days. The best days yet –
The President had left Terry Winters in charge at Strike HQ –
‘To hold the fort,’ he had told him.
Terry stayed at the office all night. He had had the staff enlarge photocopies of the draft agreement. He had them pinned to the Conference Room walls. He stared at them. He watched TV. Ceefax. Oracle. He paced the carpet –
He waited for the telephone call.
His eyes began to close. He sat down in the President’s chair. He –
– is sat in a tall chair made of gold in a dim room made of dull walls. He wears a white cassock with a purple shawl. His head is shaved, his hands bejewelled. The room begins to turn. The chair falls. Terry –
Opened his eyes, his face white with shock, his breath black with –
‘Comrade,’ said the Tweed again. ‘Telephone.’
Terry stood up. Terry rubbed his face. Terry took the phone. Terry said, ‘Hello?’
‘Rise and shine, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said the voice of Paul Hargreaves.
Terry rubbed his face again. Terry looked up. Terry looked around –
There were four Tweeds standing over the President’s desk.
Terry said into the phone, ‘What news, Comrade General Secretary?’
‘Cautious optimism,’ said Paul. ‘That’s the phrase for today.’
‘Let us hope it bears fruition‚’ said Terry. ‘Our members are counting on you.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Paul. ‘Thank you very much. The President and the Vice-President have asked if you would prepare a draft agenda for the pre-conference NEC meeting tomorrow. There is every chance we will be back in Sheffield by six.’
Terry nodded. Terry said into the phone, ‘You can rely on me, Comrade.’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Paul. ‘Because the President would also like you to prepare an additional item for the agenda on the possible legal challenges from the Nottinghamshire action against Rule 51.’
‘I can tell you now,’ said Terry. ‘If and when the scabs get the High Court decision they want, we could well be in contempt even holding a conference, let alone debating the rule itself.’
‘But will they come after us?’ asked Paul. ‘And can we withstand it if they do?’
Terry looked back up at the Tweeds. Terry looked down at the phone. Terry said, ‘They will come after us as soon as they can, that’s certain. But we have taken the appropriate and necessary measures. We are ready for them.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Paul again. ‘The President will be heartened by your words.’
‘Good luck, Comrade General Secretary,’ said Terry. ‘We are counting on you!’
‘Goodbye, Comrade Chief Executive,’ said Paul Hargreaves.
Terry Winters put down the phone –
There was clapping from the doorway to the Conference Room.
The Tweeds turned round. Terry looked up –
‘Fuck ‘em all,’ shouted Bill Reed. ‘And fuck you all, Comrades.’
*
The Norton Park Hotel, Edinburgh. The talks had failed. The Chairman blamed semantics over the third category of pit closures. The President blamed the third hand –
‘The third ear more like,’ laughed Cole.
Malcolm Morris pressed rewind. He pressed stop. Play –
‘– paragraph 3c is a demonstration of positive negotiations –’
‘– we just added one word, that’s all –’
‘– there is not much between us –’
‘– just added one word, that’s all –’
‘– but beneficial is not acceptable –’
‘– then you will have to think of another word –’
‘– someone better go get us a bloody thesaurus then –’
‘– just one word, that’s all –’
‘– we could not sell that to the lads –’
‘– I am too old for victories –’
‘– you have the Prime Minister’s ear, Mr Chairman –’
‘– just one word –’
‘– we have to find a formula that takes us beyond March 6 –’
‘– it’s in your hands –’
‘– all the guidelines and safeguards protect you – not us –’
‘– one word –’
‘– we have stopped running and we cannot be chased any further –’
‘– it’s now up to you.’
Malcolm pressed stop. Rewind again. Eject.
‘Love is a battlefield,’ laughed Cole again.
Malcolm labelled each cassette. Each sp
ool Put the copies into separate boxes. The boxes into the express-delivery pouches. The spools into the briefcase –
He closed the door behind them. They took the stairs –
Heartache to heartache. Room to room. Wall to wall –
Behind private walls in private rooms, the private heartaches of public demons –
Malcolm and Cole had their headphones back on. Tapes turning again –
‘Whatever we do to them, whatever action we take, they’ve still got a job.’
‘We won’t work with scabs.’
‘We’ll have no fucking choice.’
‘Lads won’t have it.’
‘Lads won’t have a job, then.’
‘It’s unacceptable.’
‘It’s unacceptable but it’s now the bloody policy of the fucking Coal Board. They’ve set us a trap and we’ve walked into it. Doesn’t matter what we say or do now. Means we’ve lost Nottingham for good –’
‘Means we’ve lost full stop, President.’
‘Does it heck mean we’ve lost.’
‘See sense, man. Course it bloody does. Nottingham will keep working. Nottingham will keep producing fucking coal. We can’t call strike official in Nottingham. We can’t order them to respect picket lines. Can’t take action against them if they don’t. And now, if we do take away their membership, Board will still let them work –’
‘They’re scabs.’
‘Aye, they’re scabs and they’ll always be scabs – so they’ll keep working no matter how long we stay out. In a word, we’re fucked now.’
‘It’s time to settle, President. Settle now and keep this Union together –’
‘He’s right –’
