GB84

by David Peace

  The Forty-fourth Week

  Monday 31 December 1984 – Sunday 6 January 1985

  The Jew hates even New Year. The Jew hates holidays. Full stop. The Jew hates all rest. Neil Fontaine hates New Year too. Holidays and all the rest now. But Neil needs time –

  Time to make things right. Time to pay it all back.

  The Jew asks Neil to drive him to Nottingham for New Year’s Eve. The Jew has organized a countdown party for the Board and his new toy, his embryonic new union. The Jew asks Neil to take this time to review the home security of the working miners. The Jew fears there might yet be one last wave of attacks and retribution to come –

  For the Jew understands that scores are there to be settled –

  Crimes punished. Justice exacted. Vengeance wrought –

  Neil Fontaine jumps at the chance. The chances and the ghosts.

  Neil leaves the Jew to his plots and his plans. His speeches and schemes.

  Neil drives further North. There are speed restrictions on the M1 –

  Snow and sleet. Fog and frost. Rain and ruin.

  Neil Fontaine visits Wood Street police station, Wakefield, and Millgarth, Leeds. There are people who know him here. There are people who owe him here –

  People consumed by this bloody strike. People consumed by this fucking war.

  He chooses his questions carefully. He asks his questions ambiguously.

  He hears horror stories about dead coppers. Hears rumours about missing men –

  Philip Taylor. Adam Young. Detective Sergeant Paul Dixon –

  David Johnson, a.k.a. the Mechanic.

  Neil Fontaine drives further North again. He parks, watches and he waits again –

  Parks, watches and he waits outside the home of Paul Dixon, Special Branch.

  But Paul Dixon’s not coming home for New Year’s Eve. Not this New Year’s Eve. His daughter stands on her tiptoes at the window and looks out over the tops of the Christmas cards at the man in the Mercedes who is not her daddy –

  Her mother pulls her away from the glass by her sleeve and she shouts and scolds.

  Paul Dixon is not coming home.

  There was no one on the desk when Malcolm walked out of the County. He rang the bell but no one came. He left his key with the long wooden handle on the register. He cut through Endsleigh Square onto Gower Street. He took a taxi to the station and the train to Birmingham New Street. No one on the gate when he came out of the station.

  He walked down to the Rotunda. He looked for the pubs he had known –

  The Mulberry Bush. The Tavern in the Town –

  They were gone.

  He called a private hire cab from a card in a phone box. The cab drove him out to Handsworth. It dropped him off and left him on the street. He walked among the blacks and the whites, the yellows and the browns, and he remembered different times in different colours –

  ‘You want business, do you, love?’ she asked –

  She was not so young. Not so black –

  Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hand, French or full?’ she asked. ‘Five, ten or thirty?’

  Malcolm nodded again. Malcolm said, ‘Full.’

  ‘You got a car, have you, love?’ she asked.

  Malcolm shook his head. Malcolm said, ‘No.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘Back to mine it is, then.’

  Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Just round the corner,’ she said. ‘This way –’

  Malcolm followed her round the back to the steps above a launderette.

  ‘Give us the thirty quid, then,’ she said by the door.

  Malcolm gave her the money and she opened the door –

  ‘Age before beauty,’ she said.

  The flat was dark. The electricity off.

  ‘Go through to the front,’ she said. ‘There’s light from the street.’

  Malcolm went through to the front. To the light from the street –

  Day and light. Light and shadow. Shadow and night –

  ‘Put this on,’ she said and handed him a condom.

  Malcolm unbuttoned his coat and trousers. Pulled down his pants. Put it on.

  ‘Which way do you want it?’ she asked. ‘Religious or heathen?’

  Malcolm nodded. Malcolm said, ‘Heathen.’

  ‘Thought you would,’ she said and took down her panties. Bent right over –

  The wounds still weeping.

  Malcolm walked with the dawn out to the old coke depot at Saltley Gate –

  The Winter Palace, 1972.

  Malcolm climbed up onto the roof of the municipal lavatory –

  Close the Gates! Close the Gates! Close the Gates!

  He listened as he looked to the horizon. The lost and empty horizon –

  It was cold and almost time.

  Malcolm climbed down from the roof. He stepped inside the toilets –

  He removed his bandages. His dressings. He made the call.

  Neil Fontaine makes his excuses. He leaves the Jew hungover in his Nottingham hotel. Neil Fontaine drives North again. First to Leeds. Then onto the York Road. Neil Fontaine turns off before Tadcaster. Neil Fontaine comes to the village of Towton –

  Neil Fontaine knows this might be a set-up –

  That is what they do. Set things up. This is what he does –

  He parks at the end of the road. He watches the unlit bungalow –

  He waits in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac. This is what Neil Fontaine does –

  In the middle of the night he parks in the dark at the end of all roads –

  The noises in his head. The holes in his heart. The pits in his belly –

  This is what he has always done. Park, watch and wait –

  But tonight the traps are empty. Tonight the bait just rotting on their teeth.

  Neil Fontaine gets out of the car. Neil Fontaine makes his way over the fields. Neil Fontaine watches the back of the bungalow. Neil Fontaine waits for night again –

  For the bungalow to fall dark. The bungalow to fall silent.

  He climbs the fence. He drops into the garden. He watches and he waits –

  The two dead crows lie upon the lawn, untouched –

  The bungalow dark. The bungalow silent.

  He crosses the lawn. He works on the French windows. He opens them –

  Neil Fontaine enters the bungalow –

  The place dark. The place silent.

  He goes from room to room. Empty room to empty room –

  The place stripped bare but for curtains and carpets, a sofa and a table.

  David Johnson is not coming home either –

  The trail cold. Dark and silent. The end dead –

  Here in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac.

  Neil Fontaine sits in the dark and the silence on David Johnson’s sofa –

  He lights a cigarette. He inhales. He exhales –

  Two steel knives on the glass table –

  The severed head of their former wife between them.

  *

  The President had come out from behind his desk. The President had come out fighting. The President had spent his New Year on the picket lines. The President had spent New Year’s Day itself on the picket line outside Thorpe Marsh power station, near Doncaster. The President had smiled for the solitary camera crew from Germany –

  ‘The only difference between now and March 1984’, the President had told them, ‘is that we are more convinced and more confident of winning now than we were then.’

  Then the Germans had gone home and left the President and Len alone –

  Just the President and Len with their flasks and their mugs out in the cold.

  No massed guard of pickets beside them. No halting the power supply –

  No champagne breakfast in bed in Room 308 of the Hallam Towers Hotel

  Terry made Diane keep the TV off; there was always something or someone on. The Leader or the Fat Man. A Militant or a Moderate. A
Denim or a Tweed. A Minister or a Suit from the Board. From studio to studio, they went. From TV-AM to Newsnight –

  In circles, they went. In circles, they talked.

  It was distracting and Terry Winters needed to stay focused on the job at hand –

  There were meetings planned for all this week, in preparation for next week; everyone knew next Monday would bring the end of the Christmas truce –

  Hostilities would be resumed.

  Terry left Diane in bed. For now. Terry got dressed. For now –

  Terry travelled down to Birmingham. Terry took his seat at the table –

  The Knights of the Hard-Left Table.

  ‘This coming Monday will mark the beginning of a new phase,’ declared Paul. ‘The Board will concentrate all their energies on stepping up the back-to-work movement. Upon gaining their magical fifty per cent –’

  Fifty per cent. Fifty per cent. Fifty per cent –

  The mantra for the remaining months, maybe weeks or possibly only days ahead –

  Fifty per cent spelt death for the Union and glory for the Board.

  ‘These scabs and their NWMC have succeeded in cutting off our arms and legs,’ continued Paul. ‘Their legal actions together with our own–’

  ‘Incompetence?’ suggested Dick.

  Paul looked over at Terry. Paul shook his head. Paul said, ‘Or intrigue –’

  ‘That’s a very serious accusation, Comrade,’ shouted Bill Reed. ‘Very serious.’

  Paul nodded. Paul said, ‘These are very serious times –’

  ‘Depressing times, too,’ said Terry. ‘Our members and their families are starving. Our members and their families are freezing. Our members and their families are crying out for new initiatives and leadership. But here we all sit, with our toasted sandwiches and our central heating, and squabble among ourselves, debating rule changes to a rulebook that won’t have a bloody union to rule over, if we don’t all face up to the reality of the situation, and fast –’

  ‘The reality of the situation?’ laughed Paul. ‘You’d know about reality then, would you, Comrade?’

  ‘I know this strike has cost over two and a half billion pounds,’ shouted Terry. ‘That this government will spend however many billions it takes in order to beat us –

  ‘That’s reality,’ said Terry. ‘I know that.’

  Paul shook his head. Paul sighed. Paul held up his palms. Paul sat down.

  Bill Reed squeezed the end of his nose between two of his fingers and said, ‘WE. ARE. ALL. BEING. MANIPULATED. AND. DESTROYED –

  ‘DESTROY –

  ‘DESTROY!’

  ‘But by whom?’ asked the President. ‘That’s the question.’

  *

  It has just gone midnight. Neil Fontaine washes his hands again in the sink of the private bathroom of the Jew’s office at Hobart House. He washes them again and again. He dries them and goes back into the office.

  The Jew is standing by the phones with his tins full of pins. The Jew is waiting for the word from the area directors. The Jew and the directors have high hopes for high numbers today. There have been adverts in all the newspapers. New bribes on the table. Under the table, too. Tax-free incentives. Interest-free loans. Cash advances –

  Safety in numbers. High numbers. High hopes.

  The Chairman has even called from Palm Beach to wish them luck –

  They will need it. In his heart of hearts, the Jew knows they will.

  The Jew stands by the phone with his tins of pins and waits for the word –

  But in his heart of hearts, the Jew knows it won’t come. Not this morning. Not yet.

  The directors will blame the weather. They’ll say next Monday will be better –

  The Jew will be disappointed. But in his heart of hearts, the Jew won’t care.

  The Jew stares at the remaining clusters of red pins on his map. The Jew smiles. The Jew likes symmetry. Precision. In his heart of hearts. The six points of a star –

  ‘March the sixth,’ the Jew tells Neil. ‘That will be the last day of this dispute.’

  Peter

  them popping into soup kitchen for their breakfasts on their way home. There was snow on ground and sun out now. Mood still seemed positive and I felt guilty about way I’d been over New Year. Maybe it’d be all right. But then I opened my eyes and I looked about us – Folk waiting for a word down Welfare. Folk queuing out door for electricity payments – Lads pushing their barrows through village to riddle through snow on top of spoil. Police on every corner. Either spitting or smiling at women with their babies – Place looked like a late fucking Christmas card from hell. A bloody, fucking hell – I got in car. I switched on engine. Let it turn a bit. Got it going – Went down Panel. People had something to look forward to before Christmas, said Derek. There was a sense of purpose and a sense of community. Knowledge that people were there to help. There were supporters coming up from London. From down South. From abroad. Now people just see strike with no end in sight. Except defeat – Heathfield coming out like that and saying there’d be no power cuts, said Tom. That were a disaster, that. Like saying we’ll have to be out another year, that is – If that’s what it takes, said Johnny. That’s what it takes – Johnny, I said, with best will in world, folk can’t do it – Not another year. Derek nodded. This kind of talk’s premature, said David Rainer. Talking like we’ve lost – Talking realistically, said Tom. That’s what we’re doing. Derek nodded again. He said, If there are no power cuts, our whole strategy’s buggered – Buggered anyway, I said. There’s been no support whatsoever. Just talk. Not one single leaflet. Not one fucking march. After all that was said at Congress in September – No brass. No support. Nothing – That’s trade union movement for you. History repeating itself, said Johnny. That’s what it is. David Rainer shook his head. He said, Been out longer than in 1926 now – Result will be same though, said Tom. Beaten and divided – Beaten and divided, said Derek. That’s what it’ll be. Mark my words – There was this portable television we had in Welfare. Little black-and-white one, on its last legs, it was. It was in good company and all. Folk would just sit there all bloody day and watch it. Just waiting for some news. I dreaded it when I came back from Panel and I had nothing for them. Half of them knew more than me anyway. They all had a different paper and would sit there and compare notes. There was not much else to do. Just wait for news and talk – Talk, talk, talk. That’s all I’d bloody done for past ten months – Talk and listen. But folk had enough of it all now, I could tell. Local folk – Lot of their goodwill was fading now we were into January. Police presence wasn’t as heavy in village itself. Like folk had forgotten what had happened. I’d hear people moaning about amount of stuff miners’ kids had got for Christmas. Like it were kids’ fault – Hear them moaning about miners and their families having too much to eat and drink. To smoke – How they weren’t as bad off as they made out. How they liked being on strike – It got our Mary right mad. Nearly got her sacked from factory – This supervisor was going on about how she’d seen all Christmas parties on telly for kiddies with all raffles and stuff. How miners had never had it so good and why was it only miners that folk ever felt sorry for? – No one had done anything for her and her family. Not when her husband was out during steel strike – Mary had had a right go. Told her she knew nothing. That she had no idea how hard up folk were. That it was the kindness and generosity of others that had given them kiddies a Christmas. People from down South and people from abroad. Not round here. How miners had supported the steelworkers. How they had made sacrifices for them. But where were steelworkers now? That was what Mary wanted to know – Woman had backed off when she saw how worked up Mary was – But it wasn’t just her. There was moaning all over now – Feeling it had gone on too long. People wanted to get back to normal – Pensioners. Shopkeepers. Local businesses – Painters and decorators. Builders and garages – Each one of them had been undercut by miners looking for a bit of cash in hand. Folk

  The Forty-fi
fth Week

  Monday 7 – Sunday 13 January 1985

  The Right Honourable Member of Parliament had come back for more in the underground car park. In the shadows at the back, where the lights did not quite reach –

  His mouth moved again. His fingers pointed. He asked Malcolm more questions –

  Malcolm still could not answer. Malcolm still could not hear –

  But Malcolm had more tapes –

  From the shadows at the back, where the lights did not reach –

  They would find more answers here. They would hear more tapes –

  More recordings of the Dead.

  Today was the day. Yet another of the days. These endless fucking end days –

  Another NEC meeting. Another showdown between the Militants and Moderates. There would be an attempt to expel Nottingham. There would be a move to restructure and reorganize the remaining areas. The Militants would then command the majority on the Executive. The Militants would then have the initiative. The Militants would then control the course of the dispute –