by David Peace
Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety quid –
‘Fuck is that?’ pigs ask him. ‘Your wages for a year?’
‘No,’ the Mechanic says. It’s what you lot paid me to act as a scab for day. That’s what it is.’
Boss pig slams the door shut. He says, ‘Fuck off. Fuck off.’
The Mechanic shakes his head. ‘No. You fuck off and make your call.’
The two scabs stare up at the Mechanic through the slits in their hoods –
The tears in their eyes.
‘Tell you this,’ the Mechanic says to them. ‘I’d rather be a scab than a pig any day of fucking week.’
The scabs bow their heads in their hoods. Their hoods heavy –
Their tears on the floor.
Terry Winters opened his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling. He remembered where he was. Terry got out of bed. He opened the window on to the balcony. He stepped outside –
It was warm. It was beautiful.
The balcony opened out on to the Green Square. Terry could see the Red Castle. The mosques and their minarets. The Medina and the markets –
Terry could smell the Mediterranean. Terry was amazed. Terry was excited.
Terry went back inside. Terry took his underpants off the window ledge. Terry dressed. Terry opened his door –
His guide was sitting on a chair in the corridor. His guide smiled. His guide said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
Terry smiled back. Terry asked, ‘Good morning?’
His guide nodded. His guide smiled again. His guide said again, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
‘Sabah alkheer,’ repeated Terry.
His guide laughed. His guide shook Terry’s hand. His guide said, ‘Breakfast?’
‘Please,’ said Terry. ‘Lead on.’
‘This way,’ said his guide. ‘Mister Mohammed is waiting.’
Terry followed his guide down the corridor and stairs to an elegant dining room. Mohammed was sitting on the terrace with coffee and an Arabic newspaper.
Terry sat down. Terry said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
Mohammed laughed. Mohammed said, ‘Sabah alkheer.’
Terry looked up at the blue sky. The white buildings. The flowers on the terrace. The guides at the next table. Terry said, ‘This is not what I had imagined.’
The waiter brought over fresh coffee. He served Terry orange juice and croissants.
Mohammed smiled. Mohammed said, ‘What had you imagined, Comrade?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Terry. ‘But not this. Not paradise on Earth.’
Mohammed laughed again. Mohammed spoke to the guides on the next table –
The guides laughed. They raised their Pyrex glasses. They said, ‘To paradise.’
‘You have seen nothing yet, my friend,’ said Mohammed. ‘Just wait.’
Terry Winters couldn’t wait. Terry sensed he had found something special here. He wolfed down his orange juice and croissants. He asked for guidebooks and for maps –
Terry Winters wanted to know everything there was to know about Libya.
Mohammed smiled. He called Salem. Salem joined them for their tour –
The Jamahiriya Museum. The Red Castle. The Marcus Aurelius Arch –
The Al-Nagha Mosque. The Ahmed Pash Mosque. The Medina –
‘If people back home could see me now,’ said Terry every five minutes –
‘Terry Winters – our man in Tripoli,’ he laughed. ‘They’d never believe it.’
Mohammed and Salem nodded. Mohammed and Salem smiled.
They took Terry for lunch near Green Square. The restaurant served spaghetti –
Terry wasn’t interested. Terry wanted what the locals wanted.
Mohammed and Salem took Terry for a local lunch near the Medina.
Terry ate fasoulia. Terry ate kouskesy. Terry ate lahm mashouy.
‘Delicious,’ declared Terry Winters. ‘The best meal I’ve ever eaten.’
Mohammed and Salem laughed. Mohammed and Salem put their thumbs up.
Terry pointed at the big portrait of Muammar al-Gadhafi on the restaurant wall. Terry said to Salem, ‘I’d like to shake your leader by his hand. Congratulate him.’
Salem stopped smiling. Salem shook his head –
Mohammed didn’t. Mohammed nodded. Mohammed put his thumb up –
Mohammed said, ‘Why ever not?’
Salem shrugged. Salem dropped Terry and Mohammed back at the Al-Kabir.
Terry went upstairs for a rest. Terry lay on his bed. Terry closed his eyes.
*
NACODS have called off their strike in return for modifications to the colliery review procedure and an agreement to pay deputies. The High Court has ordered the sequestration of NUM assets after their failure to pay the £200,000 contempt fine –
These are fine days for the Jew; these days he was never meant to see.
Neil Fontaine has been picking up Northern men with Southern tastes at pre-arranged times in pre-arranged places. He has driven these Northern men to West London hotels. He has stood guard outside the locked doors of their hotel rooms as the Jew has opened his briefcase and chequebook for these Northern men with their Southern tastes –
‘Everybody has their price,’ the Jew has repeated all week. ‘Everybody.’
The Jew has held long meetings with the Great Financier and some of his friends. He has met with Piers and Tom Ball. Don Colby and his mate Derek. Even Fred Wallace. Their finances are secure. Their strategies remain solid. Their legal actions will continue. There are even new moves afoot. Fresh friendships to form –
‘Everybody needs a friend,’ the Jew has said more than once. ‘Even me.’
These are very good days for the Jew; good days in a bad and ungrateful place –
The knives still out in Hobart House. Knives as dull as the stains on their suits. The suits in which they whine and scheme against the Jew. The suits in which they plot. The suits in which they run and tell their tales to the Minister of the bad things the Jew has said and done. The Jew is not worried. The Jew does not care –
The Jew is immortal –
The events of the past few weeks have taught the Jew that, if nothing else –
‘– in the boardrooms and the lounges. The executive suites and dining rooms. These are where our battles are now, Neil. These are where the dragons must be slain. Upstairs as well as downstairs –’
Neil switches off. He stares at the silent TV screens. Just the teletext on –
‘– these talking-shop tacticians are as dangerous as any flying Red Guard –’
The telephone rings on the Jew’s desk.
‘– no more talks. An end to talks. The time for talking –’
Neil Fontaine picks up the phone. ‘Mr Sweet’s office. How may we help you?’
Neil Fontaine listens. Neil says, ‘One moment, sir.’
Neil Fontaine puts the call on hold. Neil says, ‘The Minister for you, sir.’
The Jew rolls his eyes. The Jew hates the Minister. Loathes the man –
The Jew knows the Prime Minister does too. Hates him. Loathes him –
But one never knows when one might need a goat in the case of an escape –
The Jew picks up the phone. The Jew says, ‘Peter? What a pleasant surprise –’
Neil Fontaine switches back off. He stares at the silent TV screens again.
The Jew stands up. The Jew opens his mouth. The Jew shrieks, ‘Tripoli?’
The Jew looks across the desk at Neil. He shouts, ‘Get me The Times, Neil!’
Neil Fontaine picks up the other phone. The Hot Line. Neil Fontaine dials –
These good days, these days the Jew was never meant to see, have just got better.
*
Terry Winters dreamed Arabian dreams of sword swallowers and the hand of Fatima. Veiled brides for seven brothers. Black and hairy cunts in hearts of bleeding swastikas. Mint tea and Persian tulips. Minarets and muezzins –
Mohammed was calling him. Mohammed was banging on his door
.
Terry opened his eyes. The room was dark. Terry got up and opened the door.
Mohammed said, ‘Are you ready, Comrade?’
‘Ready for what?’ asked Terry.
‘The dinner with the Libyan trade unions,’ said Mohammed. ‘Why you’re here.’
Terry nodded. Terry remembered. Terry washed. Terry dressed.
Mohammed and Terry took a taxi to a large hotel on the seafront.
Terry Winters was the guest of honour. Mohammed Divan was his translator.
Terry and Mohammed were shown into the Banqueting Hall. Terry was welcomed with a white spotlight and loud applause. Terry blinked. Terry bowed. Terry waved. Terry was led through the tables. Terry was seated in the top chair on the top table –
Under the painted eyes of an elevated portrait of the Colonel.
Terry was served grilled seafood and olive salads. Terry asked for extra kouskesy.
The various members of various unions made various speeches as Terry dined. The speeches had been translated into English and typed out for Terry to follow as he feasted. The speeches spoke of solidarity. Shoulder to shoulder. Arab and European. Then it was Terry’s turn. Terry stood up. Terry spoke without notes –
Terry spoke of the strike. The eighteen months since the overtime ban had begun. He spoke of their reasons. The threat to their jobs, their pits and their communities. He spoke of the government. The use of the police and the law. He spoke of the brutality. The arrests. The beatings. The kidnap. The torture. The sieges. He spoke of the suffering. The poverty of his people. The hunger of their children. He asked the trade unions of Libya to support their struggle by any means necessary; by banning the recently increased exports of oil to Britain for use in oil-fired power stations; by boycotting the renewed attempts by a hypocritical British government to better trade links with Libya; by blacking all trade and training with the National Coal Board; by giving the National Union of Mineworkers as much money as they could spare –
‘– so that the Fascism of the present governments of the United States and the United Kingdom may soon be replaced by revolutionary Socialism. That Internationalism may replace Imperialism. That the paradise you have built here may one day be the paradise that all nations may build and hold as dear as you hold this –
‘Friends. Comrades. Brother Arabs. I salute you,’ said Terry. ‘And I thank you.’
There was loud applause again. There was the white spotlight. Terry blinked. Terry bowed. Terry waved goodbye as he was led through the tables to the front door.
Terry and Mohammed stepped out of the hotel. Terry and Mohammed stopped –
Dozens of military vehicles had encircled the front grounds of the seafront hotel. Soldiers stared at Terry and Mohammed. Helicopters flew overhead in the night sky –
Salem jumped down from a jeep. Salem said, ‘You wanted to meet the Leader?’
Terry looked at the jeeps. The personnel carriers. The guns. Terry nodded.
‘Well, the Leader of the Revolution wants to meet you too,’ said Salem. ‘Get in.’
*
Dixon pulls up opposite the pig shop. He opens the passenger door –
The Mechanic crosses the road. He gets into the Montego.
‘Not very fucking smart that, David,’ says Paul Dixon. ‘Not very smart at all.’
‘Put a fucking leash on them, then,’ the Mechanic says. ‘What I do with my dogs.’
‘You’re supposed to do me a favour,’ says Dixon. ‘Then I do you one.’
‘Exactly,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘So you owe me a favour.’
Dixon turns. He grabs the Mechanic’s face. He pushes it against the side window and says, ‘Fuck you, Johnson. Fuck you. I could nick you like that –’
Dixon clicks his fingers in the Mechanic’s face –
‘Waltz you through the fucking courts. Watch them throw away the key.’
The Mechanic closes his eyes. He nods –
Dixon lets go of him. He sits back behind the wheel and says, ‘Now fuck off.’
‘You what?’ the Mechanic says. ‘You said –’
‘Them shotguns made you fucking deaf, have they?’ says Dixon. ‘Fuck off.’
‘You’ve got a name and address,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want it. I need it.’ ‘Fuck off,’ repeats Dixon. ‘We’re through. You’re a fucking liability, you are.’
‘You promised me her name and address,’ the Mechanic says.
Dixon turns to the Mechanic. He points a .38 up at him. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
The Mechanic stares down at the gun. The Mechanic nods –
He hates the police. Pigs. Fucking hates them. Cunts –
The Mechanic opens the passenger door. The Mechanic gets out –
The Mechanic slams the door on Paul Dixon, Special Branch.
Terry and Mohammed flew through the Libyan night in the back of Salem’s military jeep. The convoy of vehicles had long left behind the narrow alleys and the wide boulevards of Tripoli for the desert and the dark. Terry had watched Tripoli disappear in the dust and noise of the caravan. Now Terry stared up at the bright stars in the black sky. Terry Winters had never seen so many stars in his whole life. It was incredible. He had never seen any stars in the sky above Sheffield –
‘If people back home saw me here now,’ said Terry. ‘They’d never believe it.’
Mohammed leant forward and spoke first with Salem, then he sat back. Mohammed said, ‘Comrade, Libyan TV would like to film your meeting with the Leader, but Salem thinks it might cause embarrassment for your Union and yourself, if for any reason it was to be shown in the West.’
Terry shook his head. Terry said, ‘Embarrassment? I don’t see why.’
‘Then they can film the meeting?’ asked Mohammed. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I am not ashamed to be here,’ exclaimed Terry Winters. ‘I am honoured.’
Mohammed smiled. Mohammed leant forward and spoke with Salem again. Salem turned round to speak to Terry. Salem said, ‘If that is what you wish, Comrade.’
‘One thing,’ said Terry. ‘Please teach me the correct way to greet the Leader.’
Salem looked at Mohammed. Mohammed grabbed Terry by each shoulder. Mohammed whirled Terry round to face him –
Mohammed kissed Terry once on each cheek. Hard –
‘Now you try,’ said Mohammed.
Terry held Mohammed by his shoulders. Terry kissed Mohammed hard.
Salem clapped. Salem pointed out of the windscreen. Salem said, ‘Almost there.’
Terry strained to see ahead. Terry could see nothing. Nothing but desert and dark. Then the escort of jeeps and personnel carriers swept out of the desert and the dark and through the gates of a hidden fortress cloaked in walls of shadow –
Through the gates past rows of black tents and through another set of gates in another wall of shadows past more rows of black tents and through another set of gates in yet another wall of shadows to the biggest, blackest of the Bedouin tents –
The jeep stopped in the sand.
Salem opened the doors. Terry and Mohammed got out –
Salem went to speak with soldiers dressed in black fatigues.
It was cold out here and Terry wished he had brought his coat.
Salem came back over to the jeep. Salem said, ‘Follow me.’
Terry and Mohammed followed Salem inside the big, black Bedouin tent. Through dim doorways in black walls past bright rooms through more dim doorways in other black walls to a bigger, brighter room –
Salem stopped here. Salem turned to them and said, ‘Please wait.’
Terry and Mohammed waited among the cushions and the carpets. Terry stared at the walls and the floor. The shadows and the light. Terry waited for Salem –
For Salem and Colonel Muammar al-Gadhafi –
The Leader of the Revolution.
Salem came back inside. Men with guns followed him. Men with cameras –
The men stood to either side of the doorway with the
ir guns and cameras –
Their guns and cameras trained on Terry. Pointed at Terry. Rolling –
Three. Two. One and, Action –
Colonel Muammar al-Gadhafi entered the room. He went over to Terry Winters. The Colonel put out his hand. Terry Winters shook the Colonel’s hand –
Terry Winters embraced the Colonel. Terry Winters kissed the Colonel –
The Colonel gestured to the cushions. The Colonel called for mint tea.
Terry sat down beside the Colonel. Terry drank mint tea with the Colonel.
The Colonel smiled at Terry Winters. The Colonel spoke to Terry Winters –
Salem translated. Terry listened. The cameras rolled again –
The Colonel had agreed to meet Terry. The Colonel was pleased to meet Terry. The Colonel was always pleased to meet fellow trade unionists. The Colonel had agreed to listen to Terry. The Colonel was pleased to listen to Terry. The Colonel was always pleased to listen to fellow trade unionists –
The Colonel stopped speaking. Salem stopped translating. Terry started speaking –
Salem started translating again. The Colonel listened –
Terry spoke of the strike. The threat to their jobs. Their pits. Their communities. The use of the police and the law. The brutality. The arrests. The beatings. The kidnap. The torture. The sieges. The suffering. The poverty. The hunger. The struggle –
Terry spoke of the hopes for his visit. That the trade unions of Libya support their struggle by any means necessary. That exports of oil to Britain for use in oil-fired power stations be banned. That attempts to improve British trade links with Libya be boycotted. That all trade and training with the National Coal Board be blacked. That the people of Libya and the Leader of their Revolution support the members of the National Union of Mineworkers and its president in their revolutionary struggle to defeat the Fascism of the Thatcher government. By any means necessary –
Terry Winters stopped speaking. Salem stopped translating.
The Colonel stood up. Terry stood up.
The Colonel gave Terry Winters three copies of his Little Green Book.
Terry thanked the Colonel many times. Terry shook his hand again. Many times.
The Colonel left the room. Terry and Mohammed left the fort with Salem.
