by David Peace
‘– the planned attacks and the unplanned violence –’
He details the intimidation of Don Colby and Derek Williams and their families –
‘– paint stripper. Heavy wooden staves. Rivet guns. Death threats. Vehicles driven at speed at these men and their families –
‘– the raw and naked intimidation –
‘– the working miners are in the front line of the fight for freedom. Every working miner, every day, as he leaves his home to go to work, faces the possibility that his wife and his children will be abused, threatened, or even attacked while he is at work. These men are not scabs. These men are lions –’
The Prime Minister agrees. The Prime Minister applauds –
‘The best of British.’
The Prime Minister appreciates everything the Jew has done –
Everything he is doing –
But something is wrong. The Jew can sense it –
The Prime Minister looks out of the window. She shakes her head.
The Jew is on the edge of the backseat. The Jew touches the arm of her suit –
He says, ‘If there is anything more I can do. Anything at all. Please tell me.’
The Prime Minister nods. She turns to the Jew. Unburdens herself –
The Chairman is the cause of her concern. He no longer has her confidence –
The Prime Minister likes men she can set her watch by –
Serious. Steadfast. Strong. Systematic –
‘Men like you,’ she says. ‘Men like you, Sweet Stephen.’
The Prime Minister worries about NACODS; that the Deputies’ day will dawn. The Prime Minister worries the Chairman fails to see the seriousness of the situation –
‘The fate of this government is in his hands.’
‘I will do anything you ask,’ promises the Jew. ‘Anything.’
The Prime Minister suggests the Jew actively involve himself in this problem. The Prime Minister suggests the Jew approach the Great Financier for the best solution. The Prime Minister suggests the Jew ask certain people to name their price –
‘Everybody has one,’ she says. ‘Everybody.’
The Prime Minister suggests the Jew pay the price. The Jew agrees.
Neil Fontaine opens the back door for the Prime Minister –
The Prime Minister gets out of the back of the black Mercedes.
Neil Fontaine has an umbrella waiting. He walks her to her Daimler. The Prime Minister rests her hand upon his arm. She says, ‘Thank you, Neil.’
*
Five writs had been served upon five leaders of the National Union of Mineworkers. Five writs served for contempt of court. Five writs served on the floor of the Labour Party Conference. The process photographed for the front page of the Daily Express –
There were bound to be recriminations. There were recriminations –
There was also anticipation –
Excitement.
The President went from fringe meeting to meeting. From ovation to ovation –
Branches and palms beneath his feet. Straw and clothes spread upon the floor –
The President rode his donkey up and down the Golden Mile –
Here to banish the money-changers. The dealers in doves –
Here to accept his fate. His imprisonment. His crucifixion. His martyrdom –
‘– they have come today for the National Union of Mineworkers. But we are going to resist with all the power we can muster and if that means we have to suffer, either being fined or sent to jail, then that is something we will have to accept. Because I want to make it clear that if the offence I have committed is contempt, I plead guilty. Because the only crime I have committed is to fight for my class and my members –
‘I am not someone who wishes to go to Pentonville Prison, but I want to make it absolutely clear that if the choice facing me is to be committed by the High Court to spend a prison term in Pentonville or any other jail for standing by this trade union and our class or, alternatively, having to live with the imprisonment of one’s own mind for betraying one’s class, then there’s no choice as far as I am concerned –
‘We have come too far and we have suffered too much for there to be any compromise with either the judiciary or the government –
‘I stand by my class and by my union – and if that means prison, so be it.’
The President bowed his head. The President raised his fist –
He was the Resurrection and the Light.
The whole room rose as one. Clapped their hands as one. Stamped their feet –
The President stepped back from the podium. The President left the platform.
The President parted the sea. The President walked on the water –
He worked his way through the crowd –
The shakes of the hand. The pats on the back –
Terry Winters waited by the door for the President. Now was Terry’s chance –
He took his hand out of his pocket. He stepped forward out of the crowd –
‘President,’ said Terry. ‘I’d like to introduce Mohammed Abdul Divan.’
The President looked at Terry. The President looked at Mr Divan.
Mohammed Abdul Divan put his hand out. He said, ‘I am here to help.’
The President took the outstretched hand. The President shook it.
Martin
him what the bloody hell he’s playing at. Fat fucking chance of that though – Police have got his whole bloody street sealed off. Krk-krk. Two cars at end of his drive. Tit-heads at his door. Boards over all his windows. Scab sprayed over all boards – Neighbours say wife and kids have gone into hiding – New names. New addresses – He leaves house on a mor-ning with a hood over his head, they say. I stand there on pavement outside his house. I shake my head. I still can’t fucking believe it. You stupid fucking cunt, I think and shake my head again. But I’m raging inside. Raging. I shout at his house, You know what you’ve fucking started now, don’t you? But it just sits there. Boarded up and blind. But fuck it and fuck him – He’s fucking dead. Dead to me. Dead to us all – I go home. I open door. I put on light – It doesn’t work. They’ve cut us off again – Notice on mat in hall along with another letter from Board and another from TSB. I kick them out of road and walk in. I shut door. I stand in hall – No furniture. No food. No gas. No electricity. No wife. Nothing – Not even a bloody exit. Nothing. No way out. No one – I go up stairs. I lie down on floor. I pull some clothes over us. I close my eyes and I pray. Pray I wake up one day and they’re all dead – Banks. Electricity Board. DHSS. Coppers. MacGregor. King. Heseltine. Lawson. Ridley. Havers. Walker. Brittan. Tebbit. Thatcher – Dead, fucking lot of them. Them or me. Dead – It is dark. There are whispers. There are echoes – Cwithan. Scriccettan. Things fall apart – Day 211. War. That’s what it is now – Pete always said it was civil war. But there’s nothing fucking civil about it – It’s a one-man war. Lads want that one man dead and all. Fucking strung up – Things he’s done. Things he’s caused. Things he’s brought to village. Things pigs have dished out on his behalf – Nippers nicked. Blokes beaten. Folk frightened. Knuckle that Keith, Chris and me got. Boot that others took – Things he’s brought to village. Things he’s caused. Thing he’s done – Shame. Shame. Shame – Every day he works. Shame and fucking siege – Fucking siege. That’s what it is. A fucking siege – For one scab. One bloody fucking scab. No one else. Just him – He’s going to have to pay price for what he’s done. Price is revenge – Revenge. That’s what folk want – Revenge. What everybody wants – Picket. Non-picket. Miner. Non-miner. Man. Woman. Young. Old – Revenge. For what he’s done. Every single person in village wants it – Revenge. They’re going to fucking get it and all. One way or other – Pete has petitioned Panel for a mass picket. Panel are taking their bloody time. Lads are impatient – Few of them were over at Silverwood and ambushed a few coppers. Pigs will want their pound of flesh for that and all. But it made lads feel better. Less fucking helpless at any
rate – They won’t wait much longer, though. Pete knows that. Panel do, too – Then yesterday another fucking scab only goes and joins Geoff the Mega Scab. That’s it now. Panel will have to give go-ahead for mass picket – There’s going to be one anyway. Come what may – I get down to Welfare for half-four in morning. Feelings are running high. Folk pat us on back. Folk ask after Keith. Folk ask after Chris. That’s why I’m here. That’s why most folk are here – Ladies from Action Group. Pensioners. Everybody – Pete’s wife is handing out whistles to all lasses. Make some noise, that lot will – Everybody’ll know we are here. Know why we’re here – Pete has his plan. Pete lays it out. Lads listen – Past two days scabs have come in Brampton way. From by me – Few start on again about how scabs are not even from village. Outsiders – Foreigners. Just like me – Pete shuts them up. Pete tells us all where to go. Picket is to be all along Woodhouse Green to junction by post office. By police station – Pigs have had sense to shut place up, though. Not that it stops them getting dogs out for us – And that’s what we get. Dogs barking and usual chorus of Morning, wankers! Least we’re team-handed today – Lads here from Maltby. Dinnington – Thousand of us facing thousand of them. Them and their dogs at six in morning – Then lasses with their whistles start up. Hear them for miles – Means only one thing. Kick-off – Bus on its way. Bertie the Scab Bus – Ten cop
The Thirty-second Week
Monday 8 – Sunday 14 October 1984
It is the last night of the Conference. It has been a good conference, too. The Home Secretary has attacked their president. The Minister has had a good go, too –
They all had. Even ministers the Jew did not care for.
The talk was of police that did not buckle. Governments that did not crack –
Governments that would not let the working miners down –
Of heroes and villains. Last battles and lost causes. Winners and losers.
There had been standing ovations for the Widow Tarns from Shirebrook –
For Bolsover Bill, Creswell Chris and Warsop Wendy –
For Don Colby and Derek Williams. For Fred Wallace and Jimmy Hearn.
Tomorrow the Prime Minister will close the Conference with her own speech. Business will return to London. Normal service resumed. But there is still tonight –
The last night of the Conference is the night the Jew likes best –
The night to boast. The night to gloat –
The Union was fined two hundred thousand pounds for contempt yesterday. Its president one thousand pounds, personally. Its president who had stood on the steps of his Sheffield redoubt and committed further contempt –
The Jew knows they’ll never pay. The Jew knows what this’ll mean –
V.I.C.T.O.R.Y.
So this night belongs to him. It is his night. His night to prance. His night to preen –
The Jew faces the mirror in his suite at the Grand. He fiddles with his bow-tie –
‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the sweetest of them all?’
Neil Fontaine takes the white tuxedo with the gold epaulettes out of the wardrobe. He walks over to the mirror. He helps the Jew into the jacket.
‘How do I look, Neil?’ asks the Jew. ‘Be honest now.’
‘Distinguished, sir.’ replies Neil Fontaine. ‘Very distinguished.’
The Jew smiles. The Jew is happy. The Jew is in love.
Neil Fontaine holds open the doors of the suite for the Jew and then locks them. Tonight Neil Fontaine will watch over the Jew. But from a safe, discreet distance.
So Neil Fontaine waits as the Jew wades down the stairs into the happy hordes –
The boring backbenchers. The courteous constituents. The jaded journalists –
All waiting on a wink or a word from the well connected or the wealthy.
The Jew is straight to the Minister. The Jew shakes his hand. The Jew slaps his back –
The Jew congratulates the Minister on his speeches and his stance. The Jew leaves –
‘I must say the waiters get more forward with each passing year,’ says the Minister.
The Jew doesn’t hear. The Jew is a busy bee. The Jew is already out the door –
Next door. To the Metropole. The Starlight Room.
The Jew alights on Edward du Cann. Sir Robin. The Chief Whip and his wife. The Chairman of the Conservative Party –
The Jew shares sentences with them all –
Heads back. Mouths open. Teeth shining. Tongues pointing. Eyes dead. Cold.
The Jew spots Denis in his evening dress. Denis points at the Jew’s white tuxedo –
‘Anyone order a kebab?’ shouts Denis to the laughter of the Starlight Room –
And the Jew laughs too, long and loud (well, what else would he do?) –
Denis slaps the Jew on the back. Denis digs the Jew in the ribs –
After all, Denis is only pulling the Jew’s leg. Only pulling his leg, you know?
Denis invites the Jew back to the Grand. To drink champers with Lord Mac.
The Jew and Denis leave the Starlight Room arm in arm. Back to the Grand –
The Jew just loves the Grand. The Jew simply adores the Grand –
Between the two piers, the Great and the Good, the Wicked and the Wise –
Home to Napoleon III and the Duke of Windsor; JFK and Ronald Reagan.
The Prime Minister is upstairs working on her speech for tomorrow –
The Jew would love to help. Denis feels the Jew has done quite enough of that –
Now is the time to drink. Denis steers the Jew into Lord Mac’s suite.
Neil Fontaine stands outside the suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel and listens to the corks pop and the glasses chink. More bottles open and more toasts raised. Neil Fontaine stands outside the suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel and waits –
This is what he does. This is what he’s always done –
Neil Fontaine watches and Neil Fontaine waits –
He watches the doors open and close. He waits for the people to come and go –
For Room Service to fetch and carry at the beck and call of the high and mighty –
For the Young Conservatives to stagger and stumble up and down the corridor –
Down their trousers and up their skirts. Up and down the darkening corridor –
He watches and he waits for security to sweep through the floor on the hour –
Every hour. Every floor. Every hour. Every floor. But not this hour. Not this floor –
Neil Fontaine looks at his watch. He taps it. He waits. It is half-past two –
The lights in the corridor flicker. The shadows on the wall lengthen.
Neil Fontaine opens the door to the suite. Neil picks the Jew off the floor –
His bow-tie loose, a bottle in his hand, the Jew asks, ‘Where next then, Neil?’
‘I think a short stroll along the seafront before the sack, sir,’ suggests Neil.
The Jew nods. The Jew tries to focus. The Jew falls against the corridor wall –
Neil Fontaine helps the Jew to his feet and back down the stairs to the lobby –
The Jew hails the heavy drinkers still up in the lobby and the lounges and leaves.
Neil Fontaine guides the Jew across the pavements and onto the Promenade.
The night is not cold. The night is not dark –
The moon is bright upon the beach.
The Jew stares out to sea. The Jew sways. The Jew steadies himself upon the rail –
There are tears in his eyes. Tears upon his cheeks. Upon his fingers –
The Jew wipes his face. The Jew sniffs. The Jew sighs. The Jew turns to Neil –
‘They hate me, Neil,’ says the Jew. ‘I know they do. They wish –’
A thunderous noise behind them. A terrible rumble beneath them –
‘What the bloody hell was that?’ asks the Jew. ‘An earthquake?’
Neil Fontaine stares out at the black sea. Neil Fontaine closes his tired e
yes –
‘No,’ he whispers. ‘It was a bomb, sir.’
The Mechanic looks at his watch again. He puts the dogs in the back of the Ford. He drives to the phone box. He parks. He gets out of the car. He waits outside the phone box. He looks at his watch again –
The phone rings at 3 a.m.
The Mechanic steps into the phone box. He picks up the phone. He listens –
To Irish voices. Drunk and victorious. Grateful but broke –
Fuck.
Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Talk. Nothing but fucking talk. Terry Winters locked the front door. Terry went down the drive with his suitcase in his hand just as Theresa and their three children came up the drive with their suitcases in their hands. Terry Winters stopped. Terry put down his suitcase. He opened his mouth. Theresa Winters didn’t stop. Theresa put her key in the lock. She opened the front door –
There were two taxis at the end of their drive.
Christopher, Timothy and Louise stood on the front step and stared at their father. Terry Winters smiled. Terry waved. Christopher, Timothy and Louise waved back. Theresa Winters came back out. Theresa shepherded her children in off the step. She stared at her husband. Terry Winters smiled. Terry waved –
Theresa Winters slammed the front door in his face.
There was only one taxi at the end of the drive now –
The driver put his hand on the horn. The driver held it there.
*
The Jew opens his mouth. The Jew shits his pants. The Jew runs for his life –
Runs back across the road towards the Grand Hotel –
The front of the hotel collapsing before them in an avalanche –
Floor by floor. Room by room. Brick by brick –
In a slow, hesitant avalanche.
Neil catches the Jew. Neil grabs him. Neil holds him –
‘No, sir,’ he shouts. ‘There is nothing you can do.’
The Jew rages at Neil. The Jew howls at the night. The Jew screams at the hotel –
The sound of a fire alarm ringing and ringing and ringing –
The masonry falling floor by floor. Room by room. Brick by brick –
