GB84

by David Peace

‘Would you like Neil to go with you?’ asks the Jew.

  Carl Baker looks at Neil Fontaine. He shakes his head. He says, ‘No, thanks.’

  The Jew smiles. He nods. He stands up to let Carl Baker out.

  Carl Baker puts his sunglasses back on. He goes downstairs for a shit –

  ‘That’s his fourth today,’ says the man from the Mail.

  The Jew turns to the man from the Mail. He says, ‘Well done, Mark.’

  Mark from the Mail laughs. He says, ‘My pleasure. Now, about the –’

  The Jew raises his hand. He says, ‘Neil will take care of the details.’

  Neil Fontaine hands Mark from the Mail a piece of paper and a pen.

  Mark from the Mail looks down at the notepaper. He looks up at Neil Fontaine.

  ‘Your name, branch, sort code and account number, please,’ says Neil Fontaine.

  Mark from the Mail nods. He writes quickly. He hands the note back to Neil.

  Carl Baker comes back upstairs. He sits back down. He takes off his sunglasses.

  ‘You really are a hero to me,’ says the Jew. ‘And not just to me and the thousands of terrified miners who want to work and are too intimidated to leave their families and their houses, but you’ll also become a hero to millions of ordinary people throughout this country and around the world who are sick and fed up of the bully-boys and the Black Shirts, the Socialists and the skinheads –

  ‘Have you ever seen On the Waterfront with Marlon Brando?’ asks the Jew.

  Carl Baker shakes his head. He says, ‘I don’t think that I –’

  ‘See it,’ says the Jew. ‘See it, because it’s you.’

  Carl Baker looks at the Jew. Carl Baker looks confused.

  The Jew takes out his chequebook. He says, ‘How much do you need, Carl?’

  Carl Baker looks at Mark from the Mail. Carl Baker says, ‘He knows my name –’

  ‘Soon everyone will know your name,’ winks the Jew.

  Carl Baker puts his sunglasses back on. Carl Baker clutches his stomach.

  ‘People are crying out to hear a name like yours, Carl,’ says the Jew.

  *

  They had breakfast across the road from the County. There was only the one table today. Terry was going to the High Court later. The Troika back to the Rubens for more talks. Dick and Paul just played with their food. They had to be at the Rubens Hotel in an hour. There was supposed to be confidence going into these talks. The Dock Strike was solid. There was obvious panic in Downing Street and Fleet Street. There was no rise in the rate of men returning to work. This was supposed to bring confidence. But there was none. The friends Terry Winters had on the inside of Hobart House (and there were many these days), these friends from the other side suggested the Board would withdraw the March 6 closure programme –

  Not for nothing, though.

  But the Union had only nothing to give. Nothing further they could take, either. The EAC had made that clear. Crystal. Their hands were tied. Dick and Paul stood up. Terry paid the bill.

  Dick and Paul had gone when Terry came out of the café. Terry hailed a cab. Terry got in the taxi. Terry asked the driver to take him to court. The driver smiled and dropped him at the High Court.

  Terry sat in the public gallery of the Crypts. He listened to Sir Robert Megarry declare their new disciplinary rule 51 unlawful. Null and void. Terry left the High Court. He ate a ploughman’s lunch in the pub across the road. He bought an Evening Standard –

  There was no news. They were still talking –

  Thirteen hours they talked. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth for thirteen hours. Thirteen hours. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth for thirteen hours –

  Terry in the bar. Terry on the bog. Terry on the phone. Terry on his knees –

  Back and forth for thirteen hours. Then they stopped.

  It was midnight when they got back to the County. The press and television tried to follow them inside. Doors were slammed in their faces. The Troika took off their jackets. They collapsed in the armchairs –

  There was silence.

  Paul went to the toilet. Joan asked for some tea and sandwiches to be brought up –

  ‘Fuck cups of tea,’ said Dick. ‘I’ve drunk enough bloody cups to last me all year. I want a proper fucking drink.’

  The President had his head right back. His eyes closed –

  It was a long march home from here –

  There was the wet trail of a tear from his eye to his ear.

  *

  The nightmares are recurrent. Neil Fontaine dreams of skulls. Many, many skulls. Skulls and candles. He wakes in their room at the County. The light is still on. He sits on the edge of their bed. The notebook is in his hand. He picks apart the months. Puts the pieces back together his way. He stops writing. The notebook to one side. He stands up. He opens the dawn curtain.

  Jennifer thrashes in their bed. She screams his name in her sleep –

  There are only moments like these now –

  Neil Fontaine stands at the window. The real light and the electric –

  The summer angry. The enemies within –

  A scar across the country.

  Peter

  Keith, his cousin Sean and his mate who was staying with them. We were hitting Nottingham every day now – Linby. Moor Green. Every pit we could – Dayshift. Afters – Often as we could. Many as we could – Annesley a lot. Best way there was straight down M1. Junction 27 – No roadblocks today, either. Few spotter cars on hard shoulder. Krk-krk. Plainclothes mob on bridges with their cameras and stuff. That was all – Think they just wanted to see how many of us they were dealing with after Orgreave. Take down names and car registrations – Keith said he’d started getting silent phone-calls first thing of a morning. Reckoned it was just to see if he was in. Sean’s mate Liam said, That’s what they do with IRA in Northern Ireland. To keep tabs on them. If they don’t see a face about for a bit, they know something’s up. Big job coming – I put on radio for rest of way. Two Tribes – Must have heard that bloody song ten times a day now for weeks. Ought to make it bloody National Anthem, said Sean. It was early when we got to pit. Load of coppers, though. Krk-krk. White shirts, too. Fucking Met. Scum. Bloody lot of them. Arrogant scum and all – Do this. Do that. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Fair few lads were arriving now. Maltby mob. Dinnington. More of our lads. Big Knob drove up to where we were stood around in cowfield. Got his notebook out ready. Head darting about like a bloody pigeon. Right, he said to us. Where are you men from? I told him. I said, We’re from Yorkshire. Are you indeed? he said. Indeed we are, I said. Right then, he said. Get back in your vehicles and fuck off back to Yorkshire. I said, That’s not very nice language, Inspector. No, he said. And if you don’t move, you’ll hear more of it in Lincoln Jail. That was when it started up. Like a bloody dance. Us quite prepared to play it to death – Him threatening us with this, that and other. This time, though, Keith had only gone behind bastard’s back and taken fucking keys out of his car. Chucked them over hedge into next field. Mad bastard. I thought we best be off now. I said, Right, Inspector, you’ve made a good point there. We’ll get on our way now. Big Knob couldn’t keep smug bloody look off his face. Right proud he was. Probably thought they were going to give him Queen’s Medal for Bravery or something. Us lot just trying not to laugh – Keep a straight face. Not give game away – Me, Keith and other two headed back to our car. Rest of lads did same. I made sure we all drove off past him. And there he was, going through his pockets. Keith wound down passenger window. He said to him, What’s up with thee? Never you mind, shouted Knob. Keith said, Not lost your keys, have you? Think police would set a better example than that, said their Sean – Everybody laughing. Laughing all way back to Thurcroft – All way back to another fucking letter from bloody Board on us mats. Must have had some fucking time and brass to spare, that bloke. That fat fucking Yankee bastard – This was a dangerous time. Talks were over. Board busy telling us how pit faces were
in danger of collapse. Telling us how coal stocks would last well into next year. Telling us how sixty thousand were still working. Telling us how we needed a ballot. Telling us in their personal letters. Telling us in their telephone calls. In their home visits. Their vendettas. Their lies. Derek said, Lads are itching for more mass pickets – Shirebrook give them taste back last week, said Tom. Panel were nodding. Johnny said, Get rusty if they don’t – Few of mine are saying they’ll only turn out if it’s a mass picket, I said. David Rainer nodded. He said, Barnsley are hearing same – How many are going out on a usual day, David? asked Johnny. David looked at his notes. He shook his head. He said, Under four thou’ – And how many of them make it to target? said Derek. David sighed. He said, About half on a good day – What about if it’s a mass picket? How many turn out then? asked Johnny. David said, There were ten thou’ at Orgreave, easy – Not counting coppers’ narks, I said. Folk nodding. Johnny said, More mass pickets it is, then – Babbington. Creswell. Them types of pits, said Tom. Derek said, Lads will be happy. Just itching for another crack – Babbington it was. This where strike was for today

  The Twenty-first Week

  Monday 23 – Sunday 29 July 1984

  The winds rattled the wires up here. The chatter distorted. The conversations displaced. The voices disembodied. The guards scared the ghosts in here –

  Diane put a cigarette to her lips, a lighter to her cigarette.

  Malcolm Morris waited.

  She inhaled, her eyes closed. She exhaled, her eyes open.

  On Menwith Hill, he waited.

  ‘Don’t let it happen again,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever let it happen again, Malcolm.’

  Malcolm nodded.

  She stubbed out the cigarette. She put a hand to his ear. She kissed his forehead.

  Malcolm Morris shut his eyes until she’d almost gone. Her smell still here –

  The Free World.

  All at sea again. The Dock Strike had collapsed. Negotiations with the Board suspended. Mrs Thatcher and her Cabinet back on the attack. The miners now Britain’s enemy within. The President a Yorkshire Galtieri –

  There was a war on, declared The Times.

  Terry Winters had his head pressed against the glass of the window in his office, exhausted. Terry and Theresa had driven Christopher, Timothy and Louise down to Bath yesterday. They had stopped for lunch with her mum and dad. They had said goodbye to the children. Then Terry and Theresa had driven back to Sheffield. He had kept the radio on all the way home. He had dropped Theresa off at the end of the drive. Then he had gone back to work. Terry hadn’t seen his wife since then. Terry had slept downstairs last night. Theresa had already gone when he got up –

  The Women Against Pit Closures Conference.

  He opened his eyes. He looked up at the bright blue Sheffield sky –

  Always light, never dark.

  He turned back to his desk. To the piles of files. The mountains of –

  The telephone was ringing.

  Terry picked it up. Click-click. Terry said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Guess who?’

  Terry swallowed. Terry said, ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘Where else would you be?’ she laughed. ‘With your wife?’

  Terry sat down. Terry stood up again. Terry said, ‘I told you, we’re finished.’

  ‘We’re not finished,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve not even begun.’

  Terry said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s our anniversary on Tuesday.’

  Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘I was just thinking about that first night, sitting here alone, brushing my hair –’

  Terry’s mouth opened. Terry swallowed again.

  ‘I’m still holding my hairbrush, Terry. I’m still thinking about you –’

  Terry’s mouth –

  ‘I want you –’

  Terry –

  ‘Don’t make me use the handle again, Terry. Please don’t make me –’

  Terry sat down under the portrait of the President –

  ‘Please don’t make me –’

  The walls began to turn. The chair began to fall –

  ‘Please –’

  Terry said, ‘Where are you?’

  *

  Back to base. Back to Sheffield. To drink more instant coffee. To smoke more duty-free cigarettes. To stare at rows and rows of huge reels turning. To stare at the strips and strips of gaffer tape turning on those reels. To stare at the names and the places turning on that gaffer tape –

  10F CON.RM #1–4

  10F GENTS –

  9F LADIES –

  8F PRES. off #1–4

  8F PRES. OFF O/L #1–4

  7F TW OFF #1–2

  The names and the places, the tapes and the reels recording it all –

  Every single resonance and reverberation of every single sound in every

  single room on every single floor of every single building the Union used –

  St James’s House. The University. The Royal Victoria. Hallam Towers –

  To be numbered, dated and copied. Transcribed and collated. Analysed, interpreted and debated –

  In pitch. In tone. In note –

  This beautiful, ugly noise. This heathen cathedral of sound –

  Renovated and repainted for Yorkshire, but conceived and borne of Ulster –

  By Malcolm Gordon Morris, government fairy, the original Tinkerbell, then thirty:

  May 1974, Ulster – the Ulster Workers’ Council Strikes combined mainland industrial action techniques with homegrown paramilitary intimidation to bring the Province to a standstill. The telephone-intercept system known as Pusher (Programmable Ultra and Super-High-Frequency Reception) was failing to provide the necessary information as key figures rightly assumed their phones were being tapped and so spoke only in codes in the privacy of their own guarded homes. Malcolm Gordon Morris, government fairy, the original Tinkerbell, then just thirty, bounced microwaves off the windows of their offices and their homes to monitor the vibrations of the glass in order to reproduce and record the conversations taking place within –

  In pitch. In tone. In note –

  Those beautiful, ugly noises. Those heathen cathedrals –

  The timbres in which Malcolm lived and lost himself. Hid and hurt himself.

  Malcolm unwrapped his bandages. He took the cotton wool from his ears –

  He picked up the headphones. He switched channels –

  Hallam Hotel Room 308 #6 –

  Doors would slam. Beds creak. Headboards would bang. Walls shake –

  He put on the headphones. He closed his eyes. He turned up the volume –

  ‘– I want you, Terry. I have you, Terry –’

  He listened to their words –

  ‘– Now fuck me, Terry. Fuck me –’

  Blood in his ears. Headphones against the wall Malcolm screamed –

  ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’

  *

  Neil Fontaine sits before the dawn in the Mercedes in the car park of Woolley Edge service station. He is here to watch. He is here to wait –

  This is what Neil Fontaine does –

  Before the dawns he parks in the dark in service station car parks.

  This is what he has always done –

  He parks. He watches. He waits for –

  Possibilities.

  The Celica arrives at half-past seven. Five minutes later the Sierra pulls in –

  Neil Fontaine watches –

  Don Colby and his best mate Derek Williams get out of the brand-new Celica. They walk over to the new Sierra. They are wearing low hats and dark glasses. They have a shopping list. Don gets into the Sierra. Derek waits by the boot. He is nervous. Unstrung –

  The clock in the dashboard of the Mercedes ticks. Neil Fontaine waits –

  Don Colby gets back out of the S
ierra. Don has a pile of documents in his arms.

  The Sierra reverses out of the parking space. The Sierra leaves at speed.

  Don Colby and his best mate Derek Williams get back in the brand-new Celica.

  Five minutes later the Celica leaves Woolley Edge services –

  At speed.

  Neil Fontaine gets out of the Mercedes. He walks across the car park to the phone. He makes two calls –

  Neil Fontaine tells the first voice: ‘Presents were exchanged as planned.’

  He hangs up.

  Neil Fontaine tells the Jew: ‘This time for real.’

  Jerry Witherspoon was smoking a cigar at his table. He was waiting today.

  Not Roger.

  Malcolm Morris sat down.

  Jerry smiled. He said, ‘And how are we today, Malcolm?’

  ‘I don’t have the tapes,’ said Malcolm. ‘If that’s what this is about?’

  Jerry stubbed out his cigar. He leant forward. He smiled. He said, ‘We know.’

  ‘Good,’ said Malcolm. ‘I just wanted to get that out of the way.’

  Jerry smiled again. He said again, ‘We know.’

  ‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Witherspoon?’

  Jerry sat back. He said, ‘Roger and I would like to borrow your eyes and ears.’

  ‘I’m afraid the price has gone up.’

  Jerry said, ‘Whatever you feel is fair, Malcolm. They are your eyes and ears.’

  ‘Who?’

  Jerry lifted up his napkin. He pushed an envelope across the table. ‘Him.’

  Malcolm opened the envelope. He stared at the photograph inside –

  He looked back up at Jerry Witherspoon.

  Jerry nodded. Jerry said, ‘Love will always let you down, Malcolm. Always.’

  Peter

  – Nowhere else. Not Hobart House. Not St James’s House. Not Shirebrook. Not today – Today it was here. Here in Babbington – Here and only here. Here where camera crews were. Here where aggro was. Here where strike was. Here – South Nottinghamshire. Our own enemy within – Mass picket at last. Lads on both sides of road. Here – and I wished I wasn’t. Here – I was at back with Ken when it all wheeled round. Put us down at front – Listen to voice. Massive shove, massive – Voice saying, Follow me. Had them halfway across road, traffic stopped – Follow me. More police running up to shove us back, clear way for snatch squad – Scabs just walking and driving in. Like nothing was going on – Like nothing was wrong. Bounders. Traitors. Bastards. Scab. Scab. Scab – They went in hard, snatch squad. Fucking hard on this one lad – Five on to one. Trail of blood told you where they’d taken him. Must have given them taste for it too, because they were all going in hard now. Hard after anyone they could – Hard until they got their seventy arrests or however many it was they were after today. Mission accomplished – That was it, then. That was strike over for today – Be somewhere else tomorrow. Not here – Hobart House. St James’s House. Creswell – Not Babbington. Not tomorrow – Tomorrow it’d be somewhere cameras were. Where aggro would be. That was where strike would be – Not here. Not tomorrow – Been out twenty week now. Twenty bloody week. Fucking hell. Our Jackie made Sunday lunch today. Been a while since we’d had one. Proper one, like. Not sort of thing you said when you went down Welfare, either. Blokes looked at your dinner medals to see what you’d had. One too many roasts down you and folk would think you were scabbing or out robbing – And they’d sooner you were out robbing. Better that than other – Some of older blokes buying us drinks again today. They were glad of company and we were glad of pint. Listen to their stories of 1926 and who’d done what then; who’d scabbed and who’d not. Richest folk in village nowadays, pensioners and some of them on dole. I was in toilets when Keith came in. He said, Seen anything of Martin? Not since start of month, I said. Keith nodded. Keith said, No one’s seen him – I might have a drive up there then, I said. Keith shook his head. He said, There’s no one about – What about his Cath? I asked him. Keith shook his head again. He said, Jacked her job in, I heard. Fucking hell, I said. You don’t think they’ve flit? I don’t know, Keith said. Thought you might. Why? I asked – Not seen hide nor hair of him, I said. Or her – Maybe they’ve just gone away for a bit. Holiday or something? said Keith. I looked at him. I said, They take Scotch Mist, do they? Lunn Poly? No, he said. I doubt they do. I said, These are dangerous times, Keith. Be careful what you say. Be careful what you think. There were a few festivals on down in London. Yorkshire Area were laying on coaches. Demand was such that we’d had to stick on a few more. Mary and lot of lasses were off in fancy dress as usual. Should have seen bloody state of them. Boost to morale, though, so they said. Loaded up our buckets and badges, our begging bowls and flat caps and off we set. Ironic really, it must have been only time it had bloody rained all month. Been glorious weather. Now it was pissing it down. Pissing it down all fucking day and all. I was stood at Jubilee Gardens. Must have been a hundred bloody buckets. Every branch here, plus mob from GLC. Only good thing that happened all day was when this one coloured lad come past. He stops. He looks at all buckets. He takes out his wage packet from his pocket. He opens it up and pulls out two pound notes. I thought, That’s decent of you. But then he only goes and sticks the two quid back in his pocket and drops his whole bloody wage packet into our bucket – His whole week’s wages. Bar two pound – It made me think, that did. There were no coloured people in Thurcroft and there were them that were right glad about that. I wished they’d been here to see that – But I was same; grew up thinking that blacks had a chip on their shoulder and that Irish were all bloody nutters. I didn’t think that now, I tell