GB84

by David Peace

  Neil Fontaine waits for them in a comfortable chair in the lobby of the Westbury while the Jew tries to keep Carl Baker patient.

  ‘They certainly deserved their champagne,’ the Jew is telling him.

  Carl Baker shakes his head. He says, ‘I could do with a glass or ten myself.’

  ‘And you will have one, Carl,’ says the Jew. ‘As many as you want. Later.’

  Carl Baker nods. He looks at his watch again –

  The Jew has organized a lunchtime press conference for Grey Fox in the upstairs room of a pub near the High Court. Here Grey Fox will reveal himself to be none other than mild-mannered father-of-two Carl Baker from the Bevercotes pit. He will announce the launch of the Carl Baker Fund for Democracy. Then Carl will travel to the BBC and speak on The World This Weekend, after which the Mail on Sunday will accompany Carl on yet another tour of the pits and the villages of the British coalfields –

  Carl Baker looks at his watch again. He says, ‘I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘And you won’t be,’ says the Jew. ‘You won’t be.’

  Carl Baker nods. He says, ‘I think I need to use the bathroom again.’

  The Jew and Neil Fontaine watch Carl Baker walk across the lobby in his tight pale denim jeans and his tight pale cotton jacket. He is going greyer by the minute. He has also grown a moustache since he first met the Jew. The Jew is flattered –

  But Neil Fontaine is worried. He is not sure this is the right man. He tells the Jew, ‘Fred Wallace called, sir.’

  ‘And has the John Wayne of Pye Hill assembled his posse?’

  Neil Fontaine says, ‘They are all saddled up, sir.’

  ‘Excellent news,’ says the Jew. ‘Will you make the necessary arrangements?’

  Neil Fontaine says, ‘Certainly, sir.’

  The lift doors open. Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie step out. The ladies are laughing; their men carrying the suitcases.

  The Jew stands up. The Jew says, ‘Good morning. And how are we all today?’

  The Working Miners and their wives all nod and smile.

  ‘Good, good, good,’ says the Jew. ‘Now where has our friend Carl got to?’

  Neil Fontaine stands up. He goes down to the Gents’ –

  Carl Baker is washing his face in the sink. He looks up at Neil –

  His skin is grey. His eyes red. His tongue forked –

  Neil Fontaine staggers back. Back from the sink. Back from the mirror.

  Carl Baker dries his face with a paper towel. He says, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘They’re waiting for you upstairs,’ says Neil.

  Carl Baker puts the wet paper towel in the basket with the other wet paper towels. He follows Neil Fontaine back up the stairs and across the lobby. He says hello to Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie –

  He smells of sick.

  ‘Right then,’ says the Jew. ‘To the pub.’

  Neil Fontaine holds open the doors for the Jew and his friends and their families. He hails a taxi for Don and Louise, Derek and Jackie. He gives the driver the name of the pub near the court. He hands him the fare in advance. He shuts the door of the cab –

  The Jew and Carl wave them bye-bye.

  Neil Fontaine holds open the back door of the Mercedes. Carl gets into the back. Neil Fontaine waits for the Jew to get in –

  The Jew stops. He looks at Neil. He says, ‘You don’t look at all well, Neil.’

  Neil Fontaine says, ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ asks the Jew. ‘How are you sleeping these days?’

  Peter

  him or something, him waving shotgun around like a bloody madman. I told him, Put gun away fore someone gets hurt, Frank – You want some and all, do you, Pete? he shouted down from window. I said, Don’t be daft. It’s not a bloody film, is it? This is real life – Fuck off, you and whole bloody lot of you – Fair enough, I said. I’ve tried. I walked back down path to pavement. I could hear them all over in next street. It sounded like they were giving Paul’s car some hammer. I didn’t blame them. You couldn’t. Next news police van was coming down road. Krk-krk. Lads all walking back this way now. Police obviously didn’t fancy their chances. But when I turned round I could see a load more vans coming down into village. Krk-krk. Be putting on riot gear in back – Lads started running. Me and all – I thought, Fucking hell, and I said to Keith, It’s starting again – Never bloody ends, he said. Never bloody ends – Panel again. David Rainer nodded. He said, It’s right. Tomorrow. Gascoigne Wood – There’ll be civil war, said Johnny. Civil fucking war, that’s what there’ll be. I said, What you think we got now? Not a fucking picnic, is it? Johnny shook his head. He said, It’ll be nothing compared to what’s coming – He’s right, said Tom. Will look like a bloody picnic next to this, I tell you – So what we going to do? asked Derek. What bloody hell we going to do about it? Does anyone know who he is? Tom asked. Johnny nodded. Johnny said, Name’s Brian Green. Fucking electrician. I said, Has anyone from Kellingley or Barnsley spoken to him? Johnny said, He’s a scab, Pete. First fucking scab in Yorkshire. What’s point? Not until tomorrow, said David Rainer. Not until tomorrow, he’s not – It was another one of them mornings when lads didn’t need telling. Not after last week. I went up with Tony Stones, Mick Marsh and Lester. Gascoigne Wood. Just as dawn came up. That many pickets, there were tailbacks. Easy four thousand by eight o’clock. Easy. Most anybody had seen since Orgreave. Police out in force, of course. Krk-krk. Thousand of them. One. Fucking. Thousand – All for one bloke. One. Fucking. Bloke. Five thousand folk on both side, gathered in a fucking pit lane, first thing of a morning, all because one bloody bloke wanted to sell his fucking soul. Take their scab shilling. I hoped he choked on it. Hoped he fucking choked. But you looked at all them coppers on all that overtime and you knew it was more than any bloody shilling and all. I stood there trying to work it out. How much it must have been costing them to get this one scabby bastard into that one pit to sit on his arse for eight hour. Say this for coppers, they’re always quick enough to tell you how much they’re on. How King Arthur had done more for police pay than any Home Secretary. Everyone knew they didn’t get out of bed down South for less than a hundred quid a shift these days. There were a thousand of them easy, so that were a hundred grand straight off then. Just on police pay. Like Billy in Welfare said, She must really hate us. Really fucking hate us – And then shout went up. I got on my toes to get a good look at him. I couldn’t see much, though – Raining fucking bricks as usual. Heavy weather – Just this blue taxi coming roaring up pit lane. Ninety mile an hour – Mass push. Lot of fucking scrapping. Helmets going up. Smoke coming off fields where lads had lit some bales – They got him in, though. They always did – Mick Marsh said there were two of them in back and all today. Lester bet other one was just a pig – Ten quid said so. Why they called him Lester – But how could you tell? Both scabs were sat in back of taxi with their jackets over their heads – Like real men. Them jackets would be on their heads for rest of their lives now – Fucking pressure they must have put on him, though. That first one. Felt for him in a way. Not that it was something you’d ever say, like – But who’d want to be him? That bastard. Only scab in Yorkshire. First scab in Yorkshire – What a thing to tell your kids. Your grandkids – There was Home Front. Then there was your own doorstep – And this was our own doorstep all right: Silverwood – Home of our Panel. Fucking war zone, what it was now. Like pictures of bloody Belfast or

  The Twenty-fourth Week

  Monday 13 – Sunday 19 August 1984

  The wind rattled the wire. The question distorted. The torture displaced. The pain disembodied. The guard back to haunt the ghost –

  Malcolm heard her inhale. Malcolm heard her exhale. Malcolm opened his eyes.

  Diane said, ‘They took your warrant card?’

  Malcolm swallowed. Malcolm nodded.

  She stubbed out the cigarette. She put a hand on his wounds. She kissed his ears.

  Malcolm flinched. Malcolm
cried.

  Diane stood up. Diane said, ‘Run, Malcolm. Hide.’

  Malcolm closed his eyes until she’d gone. Her smell always the same now –

  Disinfectant.

  Theresa Winters had gone down to Bath to stay with her parents and the children. Theresa had said she would stay there until Terry apologized for all the things he had done. For all the things he had said –

  The stupid things.

  Terry dried his eyes. Terry said, ‘I blame myself.’

  The President stood up in front of the huge portrait of himself. He walked round to where Terry was sitting. He handed Terry a tissue. He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder –

  Terry looked up at the President. Terry said, ‘Please don’t blame Gareth.’

  ‘I don’t blame either of you, Comrade,’ said the President. ‘How could I?’

  Terry blew his nose. Terry waited –

  The sequestrators had seized seven hundred thousand pounds from South Wales. It would be held until the NUM leaders purged their contempt –

  Terry’s plans had failed.

  ‘How could anyone,’ continued the President, ‘how could anyone possibly have foreseen the extent to which this government would manipulate the country’s legal system in order to conspire against and crush the attempts of any trade unionist to save their job? How could you have foreseen that? You tried your best, Comrade –’

  Terry sniffed. Terry nodded –

  ‘But your best was not good enough,’ said the President. ‘Next time, Comrade?’

  ‘Next time,’ said Terry. ‘Next time my best will be more than good enough.’

  The President sat down in front of his portrait. He said, ‘Then you are forgiven.’

  Terry stood up. Terry said, ‘Thank you, President. Thank you.’

  The President did not look up from his desk.

  Len held open the door for Terry. Terry walked backwards out of the room –

  Terry went upstairs. He sat on his chair and looked around the Conference Room. Terry saw Bill Reed. Bill Reed winked. Terry looked away. Terry saw Samantha Green. Samantha was the Union’s new solicitor. Terry smiled. Samantha looked away –

  The President entered. Everyone rose –

  The President was still fuming about the former Grey Fox –

  ‘Least he’s from Nottinghamshire,’ shouted the President. ‘Not a collier either, bloody blacksmith or something. Only done that for five year too. But I will say again, here and now, I don’t want a single hair of his head touched.’

  Everybody nodded.

  ‘Not one hair,’ said the President. ‘But these other two –’

  ‘Don Colby and Derek Williams,’ said Paul.

  ‘– these two are from Yorkshire. Bloody faceworkers at Manton –’

  ‘Nottingham in all but name,’ said Paul.

  ‘They’re Yorkshiremen,’ said the President. ‘They should know better.’

  Everybody nodded again.

  The President looked over at Samantha Green. He said, ‘Love –’

  ‘There are, in total, eleven orders now facing the Yorkshire Area,’ she said. ‘These scabs want a declaration from Justice Warner that the strike is not official in Yorkshire without a ballot. In some respects it’s similar in nature to the actions brought against North Wales and the Midlands. Their lawyers are to argue that the 1983 Inverness Conference decision calling for action against any proposed pit closures was discretionary – not mandatory – and that this supersedes the 1981 vote, which, they argue, is too remote anyway. They have had help though –’

  ‘Inside help and all,’ said the President. ‘Lot of it too –’

  Everybody stopped nodding. Everybody looked back up the table.

  ‘They have copies of the National and Yorkshire rulebooks. They have copies of the agendas and minutes for the past five area conferences, for the National and Area executive committees, and for the Yorkshire Strike Co-ordinating Committee. Not just minutes, actual verbatim reports.’

  Terry Winters glanced across the table at Bill Reed. Bill Reed said, ‘Who?’

  ‘Huddersfield Road,’ said the President.

  Bill Reed said, ‘I warned you.’

  ‘Aye, you warned us,’ said Dick. ‘But you didn’t give us a name, did you?’

  Bill Reed smiled. Bill said, ‘You want it on a silver plate, do you, Comrade?’

  ‘I wanted more than gossip and rumour, aye,’ said Dick.

  Bill shook his head. He said again, ‘I warned you, Comrade. I warned you.’

  ‘Enough of this bloody bickering,’ said the President.

  Bill Reed tapped the table. Bill said, ‘Here, here.’

  The President looked at Bill Reed. The President looked around the whole room. The President said, ‘Now is the time for action, Comrades. Action.’

  Everybody nodded once again. Everybody clapped.

  Terry Winters glanced back across the table at Bill Reed. Bill winked.

  Terry Winters looked away. Terry looked over at Samantha Green –

  Samantha was staring at Bill Reed –

  Bill winked again.

  ‘To your posts,’ said the President. ‘Be vigilant! Be valiant! Be victorious!’

  Everyone applauded. Briefly. Then everyone ran for cover –

  The Chairman wanted the President prosecuted for criminal conspiracy.

  Terry took the lift back down. Terry stood between the Denims and the Tweeds. The Denims had their tobacco tins in their hands. The Tweeds their pouches –

  ‘Fuck you, Stalin. Bugger you, Trotsky,’ all the way down and out –

  Terry walked through the lunchtime shoppers. Made his way across the precinct. He went into Boots. He wandered around the pharmacy. He looked at the pills and the medicines. He bought two hundred aspirins. Deodorant and mouthwash. He paid by cash. He went into W. H. Smith. He wandered around the newspapers and the magazines. He looked at the contents and the headlines. Reagan had joked about bombing Russia in five minutes. He bought every paper with a jobs section. Writing paper and envelopes. He went into Marks & Spencer. He wandered around the Men’s Department. He looked at the shirts and the suits. He picked up a pair of socks –

  ‘Not getting cold feet are we, Comrade?’ asked Bill Reed.

  Malcolm drove home to Harrogate. Fast. He left the car parked in the middle of the road. Doors open. He ran into the house. The lounge. He tore the cassettes off the shelves –

  The War of the Worlds into his pocket –

  The telephone ringing. Malcolm picked it up. Listened –

  ‘Having a bit of a clear out, are we?’ asked Roger Vaughan.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Not forgotten already, have we?’

  ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘Your eyes and ears, Malcolm,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and ears.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘We had a deal,’ said Roger. ‘Your eyes and your ears are ours now.’

  Roll up. Roll up. The police have had to close part of Northgate. There are diversions. The Jew has brought the carnival to the streets of Newark. TV trucks and cars full of cameramen choke the town centre of Newark. The carnival has come to see the cash –

  To smell it. To touch it –

  The Jew stands downstairs in the reception area at the front of Robinson & Harris. He tips the contents of an oversized post-bag across the reception desk and hands the envelopes to the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News –

  ‘Read them and weep, Adolf,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Read them and weep.’

  Behind him stand Don and Derek; Don wearing his new Nottingham Forest shirt; Derek his new leather jacket –

  ‘“Dear Don and Derek,”’ reads the Jew. ‘“You are real heroes to me and all the other miners at our pit. We are only on strike because we are too scared of his Red Guard and South Yorkshire Hit Squad and what they would do to our wives and kids if we were to go into work. We think you are the bravest men
in this country. We have not got much money, as you know, but here is over one hundred pounds that we want you to have. We hope you will win soon, so we can all return to work. Sorry we can’t sign our real names, but we know you know why. Your friends and your fans.”’

  Pens scribble, cameras flash –

  ‘And this one,’ says the Jew. ‘This one from a pensioner in Brighton who says, “Thank God that this country still has men like Mr Colby and Mr Williams to fight not only for their own and their mates’ rights, but also for all the members of the public who are decent and hard-working like them, and who support them wholeheartedly –”’

  ‘How much have the lads got so far, then?’ ask the press.

  Piers Harris steps forward. He says, ‘To date, since the launch of the Ballot Fund, we have received over five hundred letters a day and a total of more than twenty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ shrieks the Jew. ‘It just keeps flooding in. Pouring in. Pound notes from pensioners and schoolchildren, cheques for a hundred or for a thousand pounds from individuals and businesses.’

  ‘How do you feel about all this, Don?’ ask the press.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ says Don. ‘Just fantastic.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘It is fantastic.’

  ‘Remember,’ says the Jew. ‘Their own homes are under twenty-four-hour guard. They are accompanied everywhere by members of the Special Branch. They are both heavily overdrawn and their mortgages have not been paid. Heaven forbid they should lose, this action could cost each man more than one hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘How do you feel about that, Derek?’ ask the press.

  ‘It would have been worth every penny,’ says Derek. ‘Every penny.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Don. ‘Every penny.’

  ‘But they’re not going to lose,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Not with this kind of support from ordinary members of the Great British Public –