GB84

by David Peace

  ‘The people of Great Britain won’t let them lose!’

  ‘What do you think of Carl Baker, the ex-Grey Fox?’ ask the press.

  Don and Derek look at the Jew. The Jew nods at Don and Derek –

  ‘He has a lot of courage and integrity,’ says Don. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Derek. ‘A lot of courage and integrity.’

  ‘OK, that’s all folks,’ shouts the Jew. ‘Show’s over for now.’

  Neil Fontaine watches the gentlemen of the press and the Independent Television News leave the offices of Robinson & Harris. He watches them run back to their trucks and their cars with their headlines for their deadlines.

  The telephone rings. The secretary says, ‘Mr Sweet, it’s Carl Baker for you.’

  The Jew looks at Neil Fontaine. The Jew draws a finger across his throat.

  Neil Fontaine takes the phone from the girl –

  ‘Hello, Carl,’ says Neil Fontaine. ‘Mr Sweet is busy. Can I take a message?’

  Malcolm showed the receptionist at the County his new warrant card and the receptionist showed Malcolm the register. Malcolm asked for Room 707 and the receptionist gave him a key attached to a long wooden stick.

  Malcolm took the lift. He walked down the corridor past the bathrooms –

  The rooms were empty. The rooms were quiet –

  A black man pushed a vacuum cleaner down the corridor.

  Malcolm came to Room 707. He unlocked the door. He stepped inside –

  It smelt stale.

  Malcolm hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle of the door. He closed the door. Locked it. He took off his shoes. Placed them on the double bed. He walked across the room. Drew the curtains. He took a gauze mask from his trouser pocket. Put it on. He took off his trousers. Placed them on the bed. He took off his jacket. Placed it on the bed.

  Malcolm lay down on the floor between the bed and the door –

  He turned his head to the left. His ear to the floor –

  Malcolm closed his eyes. He controlled his breathing beneath the mask –

  He listened –

  No one home down below.

  Malcolm breathed out through the mask. He opened his eyes –

  Not today.

  Malcolm took his shoes off the bed. Placed them by the door. He took his trousers and jacket off the bed. Hung them on the back of the door. He took the pillows, the blankets and the sheets off the bed. Folded them up and placed them inside the wardrobe. He lifted up the double bed. Placed it on its side. He picked up his case. Put it on the dressing table. He opened it. Took out a Stanley knife. He cut a large square out of the thicker carpet under where the bed had stood. Placed the square of carpet to one side. He cut a smaller square out of the underlay. Placed it to one side. He put the Stanley knife back in his briefcase. Took out a small brush. He dusted the floorboards clean. Put the brush back in his briefcase. He took out the stethoscope and the micro-recorder, the micro-tapes and the microphones. Malcolm laid them out. He set them up. He tested and adjusted them. He went back to the briefcase. Took out the envelope –

  The photograph.

  Malcolm Morris pinned the photograph to the wall of Room 707, the County Hotel, and lay on the floor and stared up into that face –

  The ghosts without. The ghosts within –

  The face of Neil Fontaine.

  Peter

  Beirut – Barricades across roads. Trees. Scrap cars. Tyres. Supermarket trolleys – David Rainer stood up with more bad news. He said, Board are saying seventeen went in today – Is that scabs or coppers in disguise? asked Johnny. Folk were nodding. I said, Know which pits, do we? Allerton-Bywater and Gascoigne Wood up there. Askern, Brodsworth, Hatfield and Markham Main in Doncaster area. Just Silverwood here, David read from his list. Folk were shaking their heads. Tom said, Thought Donny were solid? All part of their plan, said Derek. Board and police know them lads flying from those pits are hardcore. They’ve pushed them pits first so as to keep local lads busy – Lot of them blokes are stuck out in middle of nowhere, too, said Tom. Easy to get at them – Pressure they put on them is immense, said David. Folk were nodding again. I said, Talking to them. It’s only way to help them – Help them? Johnny laughed. They’re fucking scabs, Pete. How many more times? They’re as good as dead to us – Be blackout curtains over Welfare’s windows soon. That bad. I looked up – Built like a brick shithouse, he was. Not been down here before. Never been on a picket, either. Lads said he just sat about house or went up reservoir with his dog. His wife worked. Packing factory in Rotherham. Not as bad off as some, then. Two teenage kids at school, mind – But here he was. First thing after breakfast – Tears down both cheeks. Dog on a lead – Aye-up, Chris, I said. What’s up with you, lad? It’s about her, he said. Who? He pointed at his dog on lead. He said, Her – What about her? I said. I can’t keep her. Can’t feed her. RSPCA won’t bloody take her – I looked at pair of them. I shook my head. I said, I don’t know what – Thought you might know someone, he said. Bloody good dog, she is – I can see that, I said. But what – Don’t want to just let her loose, he said. She wouldn’t go, either. I know she wouldn’t. Daft thing’d get hit by a car or something. I took her up reservoir last night. Had a bag with me. Few stones. Bit of rope. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it – Chris, Chris, listen to me, I told him. If you came on picket with us, you’d get a quid a day. Bill Blakey’s will sell you a bag of bones for a quid. He looked up. He wiped his nose. He said, You don’t want her, then? I bloody don’t, I said. But I want you to come picketing. That way you can keep her. He wiped his nose again. He said, But I seen it on telly, Pete. It’s not for me. I said, Looks worse than it is on TV. Nine time out of ten, nothing ever happens. Die of boredom most days. He shook his head. He said, That how you lost your teeth then, is it? Chris, I said, you’d be biggest bloody bloke there. He looked at dog. He said, I know that. That’s why I don’t want to go – I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, I said. Not when I were with you. He looked up at me again, then back down at dog. He said, Just a quid? Unless there’s anything left over from petrol and there will be, I said. Big bastard like you in car. He sighed. He said, I’ll see you Monday then. I nodded. I said, I’ll be waiting – Armthorpe. Askern. Bentley. Brodsworth. Easington. Hatfield. Silverwood. Wearmouth – Waiting for war to come to us – Her war. My war – Teeth woke me up again. Bloody hurt, they did. I didn’t want to get out of my bed, though. Fucking week we’d had. Hardly been in house. I couldn’t think last time I sat down for a meal with Mary and our Jackie – Mary was folding washing when I came downstairs. Jackie had gone to get us a paper. I made us all a pot. Jackie came back. Read bits of paper. Best news of week was Wednesday beating Forest three-fucking-one – Take that, you scabby fucking bastards, I thought – Mary said, What you grinning at? Nothing. She said, I saw Martin’s wife yesterday. Cath Daly? I said. Where was that then? In town, she said. Centre of Rotherham. In precinct, wasn’t it? Our Jackie looked up from her tea. She nodded. Did you speak to her? Just how’s it going, Mary said. Usual – What did she say? Nothing – Mention Martin, did she? No – Keith thought they might have moved, you know? Mary shook her head. She said, What does he know about anything? I said, Might go up there after dinner – I got car out. Drove up to Hardwick. Parked outside their house. No sign of life. I knocked on

  The Twenty-fifth Week

  Monday 20 – Sunday 26 August 1984

  The President sent Terry Winters and Mike Sullivan back to Huddersfield Road again. The President wanted them to find out what-the-bloody-hell-was-going-on-over-there. The President didn’t trust Huddersfield Road at all now. Not one inch. None of them. The President was really, really fucking paranoid now –

  They all were (they all said so). Everyone –

  Dick and Paul. Joan and Len. The Tweeds and the Denims. Everyone –

  Clive Cook was waiting on the front steps outside the Yorkshire Headquarters. Clive said, ‘Good morning, Comrades.’

 
‘Is it fuck,’ said Mike Sullivan.

  ‘You weren’t expecting us, were you, Comrade?’ asked Terry.

  Clive Cook looked at Terry. Clive said, ‘Should I have been?’

  Terry and Mike Sullivan went through the arched doorway. Clive followed them. On the stairs, Clive asked, ‘Is there anything I can help you with, Comrades?’

  ‘You can show us where you keep your area minutes and agendas,’ said Mike.

  Clive shook his head. He said, ‘They are all locked in the Area President’s office.’

  ‘And you don’t have a key, I suppose?’ asked Terry.

  Clive shook his head again. He said, ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Who does?’ asked Mike.

  Clive stopped a step below Terry and Mike. He said, ‘What is this, Comrades?’

  ‘You have a mole in this building,’ said Terry.

  Mike nodded. He said, ‘An enemy within.’

  ‘So what are you two?’ asked Clive. ‘The Sheffield Inquisition?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Terry Winters. ‘That’s exactly what we are. Now find us the keys.’

  Clive Cook walked back down the stairs. Clive Cook produced the keys –

  Terry and Mike set to work; Clive Cook watched them –

  Tear up plans. Budgets. Rewrite reports. Minutes –

  Then Terry sent Mike out on another paper-chase and called Clive Cook closer. Terry ran his hands over Clive’s chest. Across his back. Up and down his legs –

  Terry pulled him closer still and said, ‘I hope you’re being a good boy, Clive.’

  Clive put his arms around Terry. Clive put his head against Terry’s chest –

  Clive held on to Terry until he heard the footsteps –

  The footsteps in the dark corridor.

  Terry Winters got back to the office first. There would be no one here today. They’d still all be up at Gascoigne Wood. The Denims too. There to greet Brian Green –

  The first Yorkshire scab –

  The Home Front had opened up.

  Terry had a long list of phone-calls to return. His old friend Jimmy at NACODS. The Daily bloody Mirror. Nearly every finance officer in the whole fucking Union. Terry took another three aspirins. He sat down under the large portrait of the President. He waited for the phone to ring. For her to call –

  Please, please, please –

  At five o’clock it rang.

  Terry picked up the phone. Click-click. He said, ‘Chief Executive speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Chief Executive,’ she said. ‘Hope you missed me.’

  Terry dropped the phone –

  He did the stairs and the streets in five minutes. The drive in ten –

  He ran through the hotel. Up the stairs. Through her door –

  Terry dropped his pants –

  Beds creaked. Headboards banged. Walls shook. Mouths cursed –

  ‘My best was not good enough,’ shouted Terry. ‘Not fucking good enough!’

  Diane reached over to touch him. To hold him –

  Terry turned away. Terry said, ‘I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him!’

  ‘And I know, I know, I know you do,’ said Diane.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ shouted Terry. ‘You’ve no idea. No one has!’

  ‘Just tell me what you want,’ she said. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you to do it.’

  ‘Tell you what I want?’ repeated Terry. ‘You really want to fucking know?’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I want to know. I want to help you.’

  Terry stood up. He held Diane’s face in his right hand. He looked into it. He said, ‘I want this strike to end. I want my marriage to end. I want to run away with you.’

  ‘But where would we go?’ she asked. ‘How would we live?’

  Terry said, ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got money –’

  Diane put her finger to his lips. She led him back to the bed. She sat him down. She said, ‘Last week in Doncaster, I met a man who said he wanted to help –’

  ‘Help who?’ asked Terry. ‘Help you?’

  Diane smiled. She said, ‘The Union, silly. I really think you need to meet him.’

  *

  The Jew has had Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn down to Claridge’s for the night again. The Jew is keeping his options open. The Jew has some big plans for Fred and Jimmy. The Jew introduced Fred and Jimmy to Piers Harris and Tom Ball over breakfast this morning. Neil Fontaine drives the Jew, Fred, Jimmy, Piers and Tom to Hobart House. Don and Derek are waiting for them. The Jew has a conference room reserved and ready. The Jew leaves them to it. The Jew goes upstairs. The Jew knocks on the double-doors –

  The Chairman of the Board.

  Neil Fontaine closes the doors behind the Jew. He waits in the corridor outside.

  The Jew coughs. The Jew says, ‘It is a simple plan.’

  The Chairman is listening –

  ‘The emphasis now needs to be moved towards substantial, prearranged returns to work on the first shift of each Monday,’ argues the Jew. ‘At selected pits known only to ourselves and the police. Each area director agrees then to target just one pit per week, each with a set date for a mass return. This in turn allows us to release an ever-increasing weekly figure of the number of men going back to work. Reach fifty-one per cent and it’s over and they know it.’

  The Chairman is still listening –

  ‘The situation in Yorkshire is quite different,’ continues the Jew. ‘The emphasis here should, for the time being, remain on isolated returnees. Their damage to local Union resources and morale are incalculable. The Union will be unable to picket pits outside Yorkshire, or at docks or power stations. Police resources can, therefore, also be concentrated on the areas we choose –’

  The Chairman likes what he’s hearing –

  ‘The Back to Work campaign will be supported by Tom’s campaign of local and national adverts, as well as our own continued legal campaign. These disparate campaigns and their various finances can now be brought under the single umbrella of the National Working Miners’ Committee, which will be formally launched later this week. This will, at last, herald the birth of our union within a union. However, I’m afraid to say we will have to cut loose our Grey Fox, though Mr Colby and Mr Williams remain firmly on board and on course for a most helpful result.’

  The Chairman claps. The Chairman likes what he’s heard –

  ‘Thank you, Stephen. Thank you,’ says the Chairman. ‘Unlike our adversary in the North, I am not a believer in overstatement. However, I have now a decided feeling that we have crossed a watershed. Until July I always felt as though we were sailing into a quite strong breeze. For the last few days there has been a period of calm. Now, after all these weeks, I can finally feel the wind on my back.’

  The Jew leads the applause. The Jew says, ‘Bravo, bravo.’

  Neil Fontaine waits in the corridor outside. He watches men in suits storm out –

  He watches them scowl and sulk. Them pace and then slam their office doors –

  Them clean out their desks. Them write their letters of resignation –

  Them screw them up. Them throw them at their bins –

  But the men in suits always miss.

  Neil Fontaine knows how they feel. The Jew has invited all his new friends and their families down to Colditz this weekend. They are to be awed by the affluence. Astonished by the abundance. The Jew will take them for spins in his private helicopter. Tours of the grounds in his golf buggy. Rides on his electric lawnmower. Punts on the lake. Billiards on his tables. Darts on the boards he has bought especially for their visit. He will let their kids play with his horses and his ponies, his dogs and his hawks, while their mothers and fathers eat and drink as much and as often as they like. Then they will sleep in his four-poster beds, wash in his porcelain sinks, and shit in his porcelain bogs, laughing behind his back at the outfits he wears and the things he says and does –

  Neil Fontaine wishes the Jew wouldn’t invite them.

  He hates
these working miners and their fucking families –

  He hates this whole bloody strike and every cunt in it.

  Neil Fontaine screws up his own letter of resignation. He throws it at a bin –

  He misses by a mile.

  It will be the death of him, thinks Neil Fontaine. This bloody strike –

  The death of everyone.

  *

  Terry Winters parked in the Doncaster station car park. Terry locked up and left the car. He stood in front of the main station building. Diane picked him up at two o’clock. Diane drove them over the Don into Bentley and up the York Road. She parked outside a row of old terrace houses. They walked along the street to the little shop on the corner. It was an off-licence and newsagent’s. Diane opened the door. Terry followed her inside. Behind the counter stood an Asian family. Diane pointed towards the middle-aged father of four. Diane said, ‘Terry Winters, meet Mohammed Abdul Divan.’

  Malcolm didn’t hear them any more because Malcolm didn’t dream. He didn’t dream because he didn’t sleep –

  He lay on the floor between the bed and the door. His head to the left. His ear to the floor. He watched the night march across the carpet and the floorboards. Up the four walls. The sunlight become shadow. He lay on the floor between the bed and the door and wished it was not so –

  That light never became shadow.

  Malcolm stood up. He took out the double-cassette box of The War of the Worlds. He opened the box. The two cassettes inside –

  He took out the first cassette. Tape 1. He put it in the recorder. Side B –

  He pressed fast-forward. Stop. He adjusted the tone. He lowered the volume –

  Pressed play and played it all back –

  ‘– in again, if you don’t fucking tell me where it fucking is –’

  ‘– please. I can’t breathe –’

  ‘– just tell us where it is then, you old fucking slag –’

  ‘– told you, it’s not –’

  ‘– come on, or you’re going to make me –’

  ‘– stop it, don’t –’